by L. L. Muir
She peeked at him with guilt on her face.
He might have laughed had he not been quite so gratified. In fact, neither of them smiled for a pace, and they stared so intently at each other that they missed their next cue. When next they stood at rest again, she narrowed her eyes and spoke quietly while they watched the others.
“Did I hear you rightly? Did you actually confess to being some manner of thief?”
“Aye. I did, lass. So feel free to seek out the authorities as soon as the tune ends. But know this—the only thing I mean to steal this night is yer heart.”
She sighed. “I had hoped to hear something more original from someone…not English.”
“Not English?” He growled and plucked up her hand, to take her into the center again.
She was laughing by the time they met on the opposite side. “Did you just growl at me, sir?”
He shook his head. “It was a fine compliment, aye? To call me not English. So nay, it wasnae a growl so much as it was a purr.”
When the music came to an end, they were both laughing. The other couples in the square smiled cheerfully while they all applauded the musicians. But Mercy’s laughter cut off abruptly and Connor turned to see what the matter was.
He followed her sober gaze to find Norleigh stalking across the dance floor in their direction.
“Please, Lord Gray,” she whispered quickly. “Do not ruin my plans. Pretend you were in earnest, and that you truly care about my heart. And if so, beg an excuse and leave me.”
“Leave ye to him?” Was she mad? “I thought ye wanted rescued from his advances.”
“No. I was just nervous.” She looked into his eyes with an intensity he’d never felt personally before. “Please, go now. I am glad we had our dance, but…”
“Mercy…” His voice held warning a’ plenty, but her head tilted at a stubborn angle and he knew she would not relent.
He had hoped to dally long enough that the blackguard would overhear their conversation and her plans would be jeopardized. But Norleigh had been waylaid by a pair of older gentlemen bending his ear.
Connor turned back and grinned. “Ye see? Ye are mine for a precious moment more. Just let me pretend it is for always.” He closed his eyes and savored the seconds.
She pulled on his sleeve. “I beg you. Go.”
He grasped at one last straw. “Ye’ll owe me a boon. It is a great sin ye ask me to commit by leaving ye in that man’s reach.”
Her eyes widened with panic, as he knew they would.
“If I do what ye ask, I’ll need a little something to balance the scales.”
Norleigh freed himself and was on the move again. Mercy painted a smile on her face. “Yes.”
He cocked his head. “Ye dinna wish to hear it first?”
“You’ll ask for a kiss, I’m sure. Now go. Bow and go!”
He choked back his rebellious nature and did as she asked, though the bow was likely more dramatic than necessary. He was also tempted to warn Norleigh with a stern frown, but for once, he would keep his word. Besides, an enemy forewarned was an enemy forearmed. And he should know that better than most.
Hadn’t Cumberland’s troops found a way to defend against the foolproof Highland Charge before the Battle of Culloden? And not only stopped it, but taken advantage?
No. Norleigh would have no warnings from him. And by the look on the man’s face—infatuated with his new devotee—he suspected nothing on the lass’ part either.
His dilemma required whiskey, so he set off in search of that resourceful chap who had located the real thing. For he would need a splash of the stuff on his brain if he were to puzzle out a way to keep his word to Mercy Kellaway while still saving her from a hellish future. And all this he would need to do while ducking four bulldogs and a certain Scottish witch who might summon him away before he could find his bloody drink!
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“The exertion of the dance has flushed your face, my dear,” Norleigh said as he scooped up Mercy’s hand and took possession of it between both of his. “Instead of another quadrille, I think we should move on to our more leisure plans for this evening. A slow stroll out to the arboretum, where we can get to know each other in a quieter setting perhaps?” He lifted a brow. “You did promise.”
“Of course, my lord. But if you’ll excuse me, I would like to freshen myself in Lady Dalham’s retiring room. I won’t be long.” She freed her hand and curtsied, hoping to walk away before he had a chance to protest. But he stepped to the side to delay her.
“Meet me on the lower terrace,” he said, then stepped out of her way as if her compliance was expected.
She swallowed the temptation to speak her mind—an exercise in control she’d been taught from an early age—but she was astounded how strong had become her urge to rebel. As soon as they were married, however, she wouldn’t be suppressing any of those urges again.
Upstairs, in the room allotted for the women to escape from male attention, she asked for a pen, ink, and paper. She checked the time on the clock over the mantle, made her best estimates, and penned a note for Lord Gray.
She took her time, hoping to irritate Norleigh just a little, and accepted a glass of sherry from Lady Dalham, who seemed content to spend the rest of the evening in her own boudoir with fatigued friends and an even more exhausted-looking maid.
She left strict instructions with a footman posted outside the room, then made her way down the back stairs, determined to avoid any more confrontations with Connor. Indeed, she felt her resistance to him weakening as time wore on, and she was determined that what happened in the orchard would not be repeated. After all, she was soon to be married to someone else. It would only cause her more heartache later if she were to fall in love with the man…
Any further than she already had.
No!
She couldn’t afford to entertain such thoughts, so she shook them out of her head as she descended. She glanced up as she reached the first landing, but no one took notice, so she continued down to the next floor and found a convenient door onto the lower balcony where Norleigh paced back and forth, glancing at the outer steps where he obviously expected to see her first. His expression frightened her, he seemed so angry.
“Have I truly left you waiting so long?” She tried to appear innocent and worried at the same time.
It did the trick, and his face cleared. “I would wait a lifetime for this night,” he purred and hurried to take her hand again. But instead of an innocent kiss on the back of it, he pulled her close and pressed his wide mouth onto hers. She gasped and pulled back, but pretended like his passion had surprised her, not repulsed her.
Damn that Scotsman! Had he never kissed her, she might not be so disappointed in the kisses she would be forced to endure for days, maybe weeks to come.
“My lord. Forgive me. I cannot seem to catch my breath.”
He grinned. “Come. We must hurry before Lord Gray comes searching for you. The man clearly can’t understand when the game is lost.” He pulled her back into the house.
“I thought we were going to the arboretum, my lord.”
“Call me Rupert,” he said. “And the arboretum is already occupied. I’ve discovered a better place to play.”
“But… But I had hoped to see the orange trees,” she said with a hint of complaint she hoped he would want to rectify. “You promised.”
A promise kept was how he’d tried to control the situation. She had hoped it would work on him as well, but he showed no signs of stopping. And if she didn’t find a way to halt their progress through the house, she would be ruined with nothing to show for it. And Norleigh would have committed another sin against her family.
He turned down a dim hall and she planted her feet, determined not to take another step toward her destruction.
“Lord Norleigh. Rupert! I—”
He yanked her off balance and kept moving, giving her no choice but to scramble to keep her feet beneath her or be dragged.
“My lord! Stop this instant!” And she said it loud enough so that any servant within hearing would know that something was wrong.
“Do not bother calling out, Mercy. No one will hear you now.” He faced her, stepped close, and slapped his hand over her mouth before she thought to scream. And like a heavy sack of potatoes, he picked her up, by the waist and held her against his side while he elbowed a wide door open and started down a flight of stairs. At the bottom, he pushed her away from him and closed the door. By the time she recovered her balance, he had a hold on her wrist again and was pulling her through the cellars.
She strained against him and screamed in the direction of the stairs with all her might. Her voice broke and she screamed again.
Norleigh stopped, swung her around to face him, and raised an arm to strike her. And though she heard the blow, she lost consciousness before she felt much.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The dining room—a quarter of the size of the ballroom—had been rearranged to accommodate gaming tables. Along one wall was the table that held libations of all sorts at the near end, and at the far end, food. And while Connor had hoped to enjoy a full belly and a satisfied palette during his sojourn into mortality, the liquor called loudest to him.
An added bonus to his choice of refreshment was the fact that he could see a good portion of the ballroom while he imbibed, so when Miss Kellaway returned, he would be able to see her clearly. The important thing was that Norleigh had gone in the opposite direction, so, for the time being, he was on a break.
He took up his second glass of whiskey, since the first one hadn’t brought him any inspiration, and only then did he give any attention to the gaming tables. Unfortunately, the same four English bulldogs were paying attention to him.
“Son of a bloody—” He didn’t finish the sentiment thanks to a sharp look from a grey owl of a woman who held her cards mere inches from her face. Judging by her tetchiness, he assumed the stakes were high, though there were no coins on the table.
The contents of his glass were gone in two gulps, and though he had no time to savor it, he thought it more important to get the bracing stuff inside him before the four interfering lords could take it away.
It turned out his instincts had been right yet again because, as the clock began to strike midnight, Lords Northwick, Ashmoore, and Harcourt, along with Stanley, Duke of Snot, surrounded him and ushered him back the way he’d come—like a boy being sent to bed.
He barely had time to toss the glass back to the servants manning the bar.
Together, the lot of them stopped at the edge where the wine-colored carpet of the dining hall gave way to the smooth dance floor. There, they watched for Norleigh and the lass to return.
Connor shrugged out from under a heavy hand on his shoulder, not caring whose hand it was. “The lass demanded I leave her to ‘im,” he confessed.
The Duke of Snot made a derisive noise and rolled his eyes.
“I’ll not explain myself to the likes of ye, Yer Grace.”
“No explanations are necessary,” said Northwick, good-naturedly, but Connor took no solace in his words.
The starkly handsome duke poked Connor’s left shoulder. “But action is.”
Harcourt leaned close to his right ear. “I suggest you lure her into a carriage, take her to Gretna Green, and keep her out of Norleigh’s reach. There’s a good Scot.”
“Oh?” Connor turned to face that one, believing him to be the least dangerous of the four. “I’ll have ye know, I already invited the lass to Greta Green. But she declined. So it’s yer turn to give it a go, aye?”
Inwardly, he winced at his choice of words. And he winced again at the idea of anyone but him taking that sweet lass before an altar or a Scottish anvil—even Harcourt, an obviously better man than Norleigh was not worthy of her.
But then again, who was?
Harcourt shook his head, unusually sober. “England needs us,” he said as if he truly believed it. “War will come again, and soon. And when it does, the four of us will be essential.”
Bile churned in Connor’s stomach in the face of such vanity. Once upon a time, he’d also believed that a single man might make the difference in battle. And he’d paid for it with a hundred thousand days of regrets.
He shook off the haze of the drink and leveled his gaze at the naturally cheerful man. “Sounds to me like a poor excuse not to marry.”
Harcourt wagged his brows. “Any excuse is a fine excuse…” He caught himself. “Except for lonely Scottish lords who have nothing better to do with the rest of their days than go wife-hunting in England.”
“Is that what ye think I’ve come for?” Connor put his fists on his hips and took a deep breath, prepared to tell the dogs a tale that would bend their very minds, but once again, Ashmoore grabbed his shoulder in a punishing grip and forced him to face the ballroom. Again, they looked for the lass and the villain, but they were still missing.
The brooding lord nodded. “Something is amiss.”
Connor turned to his harassers. “If ye wouldn’t have distracted me…” He cursed them under his breath and pulled out of their containment. “I’m going to see what she’s about. But if I hear the words, there’s a good Scot, I’ll be back to bloody the lot of ye.”
He turned abruptly and found himself face to face with a footman who held out a salver with a note upon it.
“Lord Gray? I was to deliver this to you promptly at midnight, but I couldn’t see you straight away.
Connor pounced on the note and tore it open.
Lord Gray. I beg you to bring your friends and come straight away to see the orange trees in the arboretum. It is particularly magical with the stars shining through the window panes.
Your true friend, Miss Kellaway.
In spite of his own need to bid the four lords to go to the devil, Connor was infinitely grateful they were with him at that moment.
“Where is this arboretum?” His shaking voice gave away his alarm. But none of them mocked him. Instead, they hurried out onto the terrace with their hands keeping him steady. The cool air helped clear his head and he looked where they pointed.
Harcourt gestured with his chin. “Too many people out there.”
“He has excellent eyes,” Northwick said quietly.
Harcourt turned to a pair of old women sitting in fan chairs at the edge of the terrace. “Ladies? Have you by chance seen Lord Norleigh?”
They shook their heads, then one lifted a finger. “Not the type of man you would expect to be an optimist, I daresay.”
Ashmoore gave the woman his complete attention. “Why do you say that, madam?”
“He was the last one to come in out of the rain today. Said he’d been so sure the storm would pass, but he was wrong, was he not? Dripping like a drown rat.” She chuckled and went back to murmuring with her friend.
“Dear Lord!” Connor grabbed the hair at the sides of his head. “Norleigh must have been out as long as we were. He could have been in the orchard, listening. He would have jumped at the chance to report I wasn’t the real Lord Miles Gray, and…”
Ashmoore’s hand was more gentle for once. “And what else might he have heard?”
“That Mercy meant to be compromised, so she could get her revenge…as his wife.”
“All right,” Northwick barked. “We need to split up. We’re looking for secluded places. Somewhere no one would expect to be interrupted. We meet back here in ten minutes. Whoever doesn’t return, we’ll know which direction to come looking. I’ll go north. Ash go west. Stanley south, and Harcourt east.”
Connor grabbed the man’s shoulders. “Tell me where to look!”
“You take the house. Break into every bedroom if you must. Ten minutes.” He shrugged off Connor’s grip and they all scattered to the four winds.
Completely sober now, Connor dove back through the terrace doors. He hurried through the ballroom with his head down and no apologies. Once he was in the entrance hall, he looked up the
stairs. What he imagined turned his stomach and his whiskey threatened to come up.
He wouldn’t have expected privacy in a bedroom, not with so many guests assigned to each.
He shook his head. The house was massive. So many quiet, dark places…
Then he remembered where he had recently been completely alone for hours. Hardly romantic, but isolated, to be sure. And if Norleigh had been involved with his house-arrest, he might have known where Connor had been held.
He was halfway to the basement kitchens before his feet touched a stair.
~
If Connor had learned anything from watching movies over the shoulders of bored young visitors to Culloden’s battlefield, he’d learned not to go barreling down into dark cellars where some fiend might be lying in wait for him. So he took a more James Bond approach and scurried along the walls like a wary rodent—swiftly though stealthy—as he listened for any noise above the beating of his own heart.
Luckily, a steady gas lamp burned high above the stairs, and another burned in the main chamber below. Though the light was meagre, it was enough to get him by, and enough to see that the place was deserted. No doubt all the food stores had been depleted along with the wine, or would be soon, before the flock of hungry mouths moved on to Lady Russell’s estate in the morning.
Farther down the hallway, and deeper into shadow, a wee bit of moisture made the stone floor damp, and the edge of one of his boots scraped loudly before he could stop it.
He froze in place and listened. He imagined someone watching and waiting for him to move again. Then waited a bit longer still.
Nothing.
He didn’t dare call out, determined to give Norleigh no warning, but that meant checking every nook and cranny without a light to hand. So he sent a swift and brief prayer to God that the lass would make some sort of noise, because he had no sense, one way or another, that Mercy Kellaway was nearby. In fact, he was sick with fear that he searched in vain, that Norleigh was much more clever than Connor imagined, and that the poor lass was fighting for her life somewhere in the house above him, where he was supposed to be looking!