Highland Temptation

by Jennifer Haymore

  “Nay. I’m coming.”

  Colin didn’t argue further. They finished saddling the horses in silence and mounted. Colin realized they must look a sight—a pair of Highlanders in kilts riding like the hounds of hell were nipping at their heels as they skirted the London traffic and headed toward Holborn. He’d forgotten a hat, so his hair flowed out behind him, and his weapons strapped at his sides were in plain view. People dodged from his path with little squeals of fear, but he was intent, his focus pure and clear.

  Get to Red Lyon Alley. Save Emilia.

  —

  Emilia’s father didn’t give her much time. “Look at the squalor I’ve been forced to live in because of your lies,” he told her. “You must go to the authorities today. Now. My name must be cleared as soon as possible.”

  How did he believe she could do this? She still wasn’t sure. But she had to try, for John’s sake. She whispered, “I’ll do it. I’ll try.”

  He gave a sharp nod, then tilted his head at her. “You’re a bit overdressed, but that’s all right. Let them think you dressed to impress them. But take off that ridiculous crown. You look like some kind of pagan heathen.”

  She looked down at her clothing, at the pelisse that covered her beautiful dress, her fingertips moving to the diamonds at her neck, then to the tiny flowers ringing her head. She wouldn’t be marrying Colin today. Perhaps someday. But not today.

  If she didn’t acquiesce, her father would hurt her. That gleam was in his eyes—the one he got before he whipped her. He wanted to hurt her but was abstaining in hopes of getting what he wanted. If she made him believe she was going to try her best to get him exonerated from all suspicion, then maybe somehow she’d find a way to escape. At least she’d be out of this awful room, and that was a start.

  She took off the heather headpiece and laid it on the table in front of them. It was a single lovely, fresh spot of beauty in this foul place.

  Her father rose abruptly, went to the cabinet by the stove, and took out a chipped cup, which he filled with brandy from the table. She expected him to drink it, but he slid it across to her. “Drink.”

  “I…don’t…No, thank you.”

  “It’ll bring you the courage to do what needs to be done. I’m not asking, I’m ordering you to drink it. Go on.”

  She brought the cup to her mouth and took a swallow. The brandy burned on the way down, creating a fiery trail through her chest.

  “We’re going to the Duke of Trent first,” her father announced.

  She stifled a gasp. The Duke of Trent was Lady Esme’s brother, McLeod’s brother-in-law. “Why him?”

  “Because he is the one who’s organizing the case against me and spearheading the search for me and my colleagues. Therefore, he’s the first one you must convince of my innocence.”

  She’d never been introduced to the Duke of Trent, but by all accounts, the man was formidable. He was a very powerful duke—perhaps the most powerful in England—deeply involved in the politics of the kingdom and known for his fairness and goodness in all his dealings.

  “We’ll drive first to Trent House in Mayfair—I have reason to believe the duke is at home today. We will drop you at a reasonable distance from the house and you’ll walk the rest of the way. My associate, Charlie Frank, will escort you and stay by your side at every turn. You’ll introduce him as your manservant and request he stay with you while you make your confession. Meanwhile, he’ll be ensuring you don’t go against your word. If you do, he’s been instructed to take the proper steps.”

  Emilia swallowed hard and nodded. She didn’t want to ask what the “proper steps” were. Whatever, they wouldn’t be good for her. Or for John. She knew that much. And if she told the duke that Charlie Frank was a cohort of her father, then he’d apprehend Frank and she might be safe, but John definitely wouldn’t be.

  She had to do this. And she had to do it right.

  “You will not inform Trent that you’ve spoken to me,” her father continued. “Instead, you will fall on your sword, so to speak. You’ll tell him this entire ordeal was the result of a besotted girl who sought to wreak vengeance upon a father who refused to comply with her silly whim to marry a Highlander. You will explain how you and the Scot came up with this elaborate, ridiculous scheme, implicating me and my closest friends in treason so that you could marry without recourse. But today, the day of your marriage, you’ve finally come to your senses. You’re overwhelmed by guilt at what you’ve done. You love your dear father and don’t want there to be any more suffering as a result of your wicked lies.”

  Emilia took a long drink of brandy, this time almost savoring the burn. If she was going to lie to the Duke of Trent with a straight face…Well, she was beginning to agree with her father: She needed the brandy.

  She took another swallow, draining the cup of every last drop.

  Chapter 25

  Following Aila’s directions, the major and Colin easily found Red Lyon Alley. It was in a slum, just as depressing a place as Aila and Esme had described, the stench of the sheep pens Aila had told them about permeating the air.

  They left their horses at a hitching post on the corner and paid a pauper boy a crown now with promise of a crown when they returned, if he kept the horses safe—likely more money than the lad had seen in his entire life. The narrow street was fairly quiet, with no horses or carriages driving past, and only the occasional pedestrian walking by, head down, not wanting to interfere in anyone’s business, probably because most business conducted in this area was of the unsavory variety.

  They approached the façade of the tenement Aila had described. It was a narrow building, three stories high, with many of its windows blackened or boarded.

  “Abandoned?” the major asked in a low voice.

  “Looks like it,” Colin said.

  The major withdrew one of his pistols, and Colin did the same. They went to the front door, which had a gaping hole in place of a handle, and pushed it open. It squealed on rusty hinges, making Colin wince.

  The corridor was dark—almost too dark to make out much of anything, putting them at a major disadvantage. They had three stories to search, and the door’s loud outcry had probably made their presence known to every soul within the building.

  The major pointed ahead, and they walked forward, finding four doors along the corridor, all of which were shut tight and either jammed or locked. There was a grimy, small window at the end of the corridor, and as they progressed farther into the building, the light increased enough for them to see a bit.

  “Look,” murmured Colin, gesturing toward their feet, where there was clear evidence of footprints in the thick dust. The footprints tracked to a narrow set of stairs that led up into darkness. Squinting, the major went first. Colin knew the major was trying just as hard as he was to remain quiet, but the stairs creaked and groaned under their weight.

  Suddenly, he heard a flurry of movement behind them. Someone growled words he didn’t understand. Colin shouted to the major, “Go! Go!” and they broke into a run, both of them sprinting up the stairs.

  It was too late.

  A gun went off, and pain exploded through the left side of Colin’s body. He pitched forward with the force of the bullet, then back, losing his balance on the stairway. He tumbled backward down the stairs. The major called out, trying to grab him to stop his fall, but it was too late.

  Down and down he went, head over heels, into the lap of the enemy.

  —

  Emilia’s father started when they heard the gunshot, his body jerking as if he himself had been shot. Then he flew into action, jumping to his feet, grabbing his gun with one hand and Emilia’s arm with the other, spitting out, “Bloody hell.”

  “What…what…?” Emilia stuttered, a dozen different scenarios tumbling through her mind. That could have been John…had he been trying to escape? Or had the Knights found them somehow? If so, who’d been shooting at whom?

  “Come, Emilia. Now.” Her father dragged her out
the door of the room just as another crack of a gunshot rent the air, making her yelp in fear.

  As soon as they exited the room, a man turned the corner of the landing, his features slowly coming together in the dimly lit corridor until Emilia recognized him. It was Major Campbell.

  She didn’t have time to feel relief. Instantly, her father pressed the barrel of the gun to her head. “Stop right there,” he growled. “Or I’ll shoot her.”

  The major stopped, his eyes dark blue jewels in the dim light. His gaze scanned over her then rested coolly on her father. “Set her free, Pinfield.”

  “How stupid do you think I am?” her father sneered. “You let us go, or I will kill her. You wouldn’t want that, would you, Major? I know how you cannot countenance seeing a lady injured. You wouldn’t want to be the cause of it—I know you wouldn’t.”

  There were muffled sounds of a scuffle downstairs, and Emilia clenched her fists. That had to be Colin down there. She wanted, more than anything, to run to him, to help him. But if she moved, her father would shoot her. He dug the muzzle of the gun against her temple, and Emilia flinched. “Now drop your weapon, Major.”

  The major uncocked his weapon and slowly lowered it to the floor.

  “The one at your belt, too. And your sword.”

  The major withdrew the second gun and the sword—it wasn’t a sword, it was a dirk, but she supposed her father wouldn’t know that—and laid those on the floor as well.

  “Kick them to me,” her father said. The major complied, and Emilia knew that he still had one weapon, at least—the small sgian dubh that all the Knights kept tucked in their stockings.

  And then, without provocation, her father, the evil Viscount Pinfield, did the unthinkable. He withdrew the gun from Emilia’s temple, pointed it at Major Campbell, and, without hesitating, pulled the trigger.

  Emilia screamed. The major went down like a sack of flour, crumpling to the floor with a thud. She didn’t have time to see where her father had shot him, because he dropped his gun and grabbed one of the major’s, then yanked at her arm, dragging her down the corridor, away from the major. He quickly opened the door at the far end, which led to a set of stairs—the front stairs, hidden by doors, she realized. He pushed her into the stairwell, and she tripped, nearly tumbling down the steep, narrow staircase while he muttered, “Go. Hurry, damn you. Go, go!”

  She managed to reach the bottom of the stairs without falling. Two doors flanked the landing. Her father unbolted one of them, then pulled her into the street. “Hurry the hell up, Emilia, or I’ll shoot you, I swear I will,” he gritted out, digging the barrel of the gun into the small of her back.

  She stumbled along down the foul-smelling street, sobbing, gasping for air, a part of her dying inside, knowing she was leaving John, Colin, and the major behind.

  Her father made her take a left turn, then another one. They went into a mews that contained a long line of stables, and the viscount stopped at one of the doors, scrambling through his ring of keys to find the proper one. Finally, he pushed it into the lock and thrust open the door. “Get in.”

  But just as he began to shove her into the dark interior of the stable, a large body slammed into him from behind. Her father didn’t let go of her, but he only had hold of her skirt, and as he went down, he took the fabric with him. Emilia surged back, and her skirt tore with a drawn-out rrrrip of noise.

  Her father fell to the dirt with a grunt, his gun skittering away, his heavy body sending up a cloud of dust as it connected with the ground.

  Emilia gasped, so terrified she could hardly discern what was happening. It came to her slowly, in fits and starts. A man was on her father, his right fist pummeling her father’s face and chest over and over again. The man wore a kilt. His shoulders were broad. His hair was dark and long, curling to his shoulders. He was wearing the uniform of a Scottish military officer—the dress coat he meant to wear to his wedding.

  Colin. It was Colin. His left hand was tucked against his side, and there was a dark stain on his coat. She sank to her knees, suddenly too weak to stand.

  Colin had spent much of his life in combat situations while her father was soft and spoiled, and that became obvious right away. As much as he’d waved the gun about earlier, now that he didn’t have one, he essentially held his hands up in defeat, cowering under Colin’s powerful blows.

  Finally, Emilia found her senses. She rose unsteadily and staggered to Colin, laying her hand on his shoulder and feeling that his jacket was warm and damp. Blood. “Colin?”

  He didn’t respond, just grimly kept laying blows onto her father’s face.

  “Colin, stop!” she bellowed.

  It took him a moment to register her words, but then he did stop. He looked up at her, frowning. “He’s done,” she said. “Look at him.”

  Colin turned back to gaze down at her father. The viscount’s breath was coming out in great heaving gasps, his gray-blue eyes were wide with terror, and blood streamed from his mouth and nose.

  “Let the authorities deal with him,” she said quietly. She hated her father, it was true, but she couldn’t stomach the thought of Colin killing him.

  Colin sucked in a breath, but then he nodded and stood awkwardly, clutching his arm to his side. Only then did she see the ragged hole in his coat and the blood seeping around the edges of the fabric, just below his left shoulder.

  “I was shot.” His voice was odd and wheezy, and alarm shot through her as he blinked hard, evidently trying to focus upon her. “You must…get the gun. I…love you…mo leannan.”

  Then, as if in slow motion, he sank to his knees and then keeled over onto his side.

  “Colin!” she cried out, trying to break his fall, but he was heavy and she didn’t do a very good job of it. She leaned down toward his face—wanting, needing to hear the steady sounds of his breath, but just then she heard movement. She glanced up to see her father trying—and failing, for the moment—to stand. He was staring at something on the ground, and she saw it, too. The gun. She jumped to her feet and lunged past him, beating him to it by a mile.

  She grabbed the gun—she’d never hefted a pistol before, and it was heavier than she expected. Raising it with two hands, she aimed it at her father. “Don’t you move,” she hissed. Still on his knees, he froze. Then he lowered himself back to the ground, moaning.

  “Stay there,” she told him. “Don’t move.”

  He didn’t move, nor did he look at her. He just stared at the ground, his heavy breathing punctuated by moans, blood dripping from his mouth and nose onto the dirt.

  They stood there, at an impasse, for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes. She finally moved back to Colin, and as she kept her shaky aim on her father, she spoke to Colin, asking him to wake up and telling him she loved him. The only thing that didn’t make her sink into complete despair was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

  It was John who found her, and he brought along what turned out to be a trio of constables. “Lady Emilia!” John cried when he was still at the other end of the mews. “There they are!” The men all hurried toward them, two of them grabbing her father by the arms and lifting him while the other coaxed the gun from Emilia. As soon as she was sure they had subdued her father, she fell to her knees beside Colin. Swiping away her tears with the back of her arm, she told the group, “He’s been shot. He’s hurt. We need to get him to a surgeon. And the major, too…”

  “They’ve already found the major, my lady,” John told her. “He was shot in the leg. They’re taking him to the surgery at St. Bartholomew’s.”

  Emilia dashed more tears from her cheeks, too focused on Colin to see where the men took her father or how they procured the cart, but soon enough, her father was gone, Colin was placed in the back of the cart, and they were moving down the street. Emilia knelt beside Colin, cradling his head so it wouldn’t get knocked around by the cart’s movement over the uneven pavement.

  He was still unconscious, and now th
at she could look more closely, she saw blood seeping sluggishly around the hole in his arm. Her medical knowledge was nearly nonexistent, but something told her she should try to stop the bleeding. How? she thought wildly. Gently, she pressed her palm to his shoulder as if to plug the hole. He grimaced and twitched under her hand but didn’t wake.

  Her skirt trailed almost to the rear edge of the cart, it was so terribly torn. And suddenly, she had an idea. Using her free hand, she tugged the rest of it free, realizing that it was only held together at this point by a few stitches. Folding the large swath of silk, she then wrapped it tightly around Colin’s shoulder, gently manipulating his arm and body to get it around him, hoping that she wasn’t making his injury worse. When that was finished, she pressed her palm over the wound again, praying that this would help him.

  It felt like they were in the back of the cart forever. Emilia had no idea how much time had passed, but finally they came to a halt in a wide courtyard surrounded on three sides by large, several-storied rectangular buildings.

  “Where are we?” she called as John slid out, followed by a constable.

  “St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, my lady,” the constable said. “Some of the best surgeons in the country work here. They’ll be able to help your fellow there.”

  Someone brought out a cot, and Colin was hefted onto it and carried inside the closest building. Emilia hurried along behind until her path was blocked by a young man, who looked from her raggedly torn skirt exposing her petticoat to her face, his cheeks pinking. “I’m sorry, miss. This is the surgery. Ladies aren’t allowed.”

  “But…” She gazed past him to where the men carrying Colin’s cot rounded a corner. “But…he’s…he’s my husband,” she lied.

  The young man’s face creased in sympathy. “I’m sorry, miss. I’ll take you somewhere to wait, and I’ll go check on him. I’ll let you know as soon as there’s news.”

  “Thank you.” She clenched her fists to stay calm as the man, who introduced himself as Mr. Searle, found her an empty office and promised to return soon.