To Love and Protect

by Tammy Jo Burns

  He entered the lobby of the building to find men milling about. Of course, there would be meetings and hearings on different matters being held today. Mack moved to a shadowed corner where he could watch the proceedings. He wasn’t one to have his back to people. It was not wise for one in his position. Not after having had several assassination attempts on his life, one very nearly succeeding.

  At the other end of the lobby, the doors opened and Percevel entered with his entourage of people. They crossed the lobby and people could be heard hailing greetings to him. A man entered, looking about nervously. Mack perked up and began to cross the lobby. Something about the man seemed off. All of a sudden, the atmosphere seemed charged with energy.

  “Prime Minister,” the man called. Percevel turned, a smile on his face from something one of the other men had been telling him. A loud pop echoed in the lobby, and Mack only had seconds to react. He jumped towards the man, not even getting out a warning, and then just as quickly fell to the floor. Another pop sounded and then a flurry of activity broke out.

  Mack wheezed, and tried to stand, but seemed unable to catch his breath. He lifted his head and watched Percevel’s eyes glass over as blood spread across the man’s chest. Then the Prime Minister fell to the floor. His assassin stood by the door, unmoving, guns still in hand. Mack’s side ached fiercely. He placed a hand against it and attempted a deep breath. Instead he ended up coughing uncontrollably. He lifted his hand and saw blood smeared on it.

  “Help,” he tried to yell, but it came out more of a weak whisper. Mack lifted his head, but the men were blurring. He tried to push himself up, but dizziness washed over him. He squinted his eyes and thought he recognized a familiar face. “Gabe,” he called two times before the man in question looked over.

  “Mack?”

  Mack let his head fall back on the marble floor and waited for oblivion to come over him.

  “Mack!” The voice sounded a long way off. He felt something push firmly against his side. “I need help over here!”

  “Don’t let Grandmother see me like this.”

  “Grandmother is the least of your worries, old man.”

  Mack smirked followed by a grimace of pain, then the darkness blessedly rolled in on him.

  ***

  Four Weeks Later

  “What is it?” Stuart McKenzie barked at the sound of a tepid knock on his office door.

  “Pardon the interruption, sir, but the young woman is here.”

  “Tell her the same thing as always.”

  “But sir, it has been almost a year. Can’t you just…”

  “No, I can’t, Mr. Preston.” Mack’s silvery eyes met the younger man’s without blinking.

  “Yes, sir.” The timid man backed out of the director’s office. He turned to the beautiful blonde that patiently sat in a chair near his desk. She had sat in that same chair once a week for the last year, wanting to speak to Director McKenzie. Every time, she left disgruntled because he could not be bothered to speak to her. “Miss Graham,” Mr. Preston began.

  “Let me guess, Mr. Preston. Director McKenzie is too busy to once again speak to me in regards to my missing father. I shall see you next week.”

  Mr. Preston watched the woman as she stood, turned, and regally left the office. There were times when he felt the man he worked for was truly an arse, and this was one of those times. He was a ruthless, Scottish brute, and it came out most specifically when dealing with his job as Director of the War Office. The secretary shot a look at the closed door and then returned to his desk. He began shuffling through the mail when a courier entered the room, breathless.

  “I have an urgent message for Director McKenzie sent from Lord Bathurst.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “I’ve been told to put it directly in his hands, no one else’s.”

  “Director, you have a missive.”

  “Send him in.”

  “Mr. Preston. How is his attitude today?” A strikingly handsome man, that favored the director quite a bit, entered the office.

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” Preston bowed low. Upon exiting the office, and hearing he was in the presence of a duke, the courier dropped a quick, respectful bow then left to complete his duties. “As surly as ever,” Mr. Preston answered his question.

  “I heard that,” a voice called from the inner-office. “You all speak of me as if I can’t hear a bloody word you say, but I can.”

  “Preston, can you get us some coffee?”

  “Of course, Your…” At that moment a string of curses and things being slammed and thrown about could be heard coming from the director’s office.

  “Go on, I’ll brave the bear.”

  The Duke of Hawkescliffe made his way into Director McKenzie’s office. Papers were strewn everywhere and some were still fluttering to the floor. Several heavy objects lay on the floor, including a broken lamp.

  “You better have that cleaned up before someone sets fire to this building using your office.”

  “Bugger off, Gabe.”

  “Now, is that any way to address a duke?”

  “Pardon me. Bugger off, Your Grace.”

  “That’s better. Now, brother dear, what has you in such a tizzy this morning?”

  “Where shall I start? Let’s see, there is the fact that every Monday morning at the same exact time, Sir Graham’s daughter sits in my secretary’s office demanding to see me. She does this because she wants to know where her father is. Does she not realize we are in the midst of war? That we are trying to save the old man’s life?”

  “Have you told her this?”

  “I shouldna have to! She should know this,” Mack growled, his Scottish brogue becoming even more pronounced.

  “Sometimes women…”

  “Need to stay out of matters they have no understanding of! And now the bloody Americans have decided to declare war on us.”

  “What?”

  “Yes,” he flung the paper across the desk to his half-brother. “I am in charge of fighting not just one bloody war, but two! We have a new Prime Minister, thanks to that idiot Bellingham, who decided to assassinate Percevel. And I have a new person to answer to since Prinny put Liverpool in as Prime Minister.”

  “And let’s not forget the assassination attempts.”

  “There is that,” Mack acknowledged.

  “You have been very lucky, thus far. How much longer do you think your luck will hold out? This last time was a near thing.”

  “Another year or two?” Mack shrugged, chuckling, but holding his side.

  “Don’t joke about this.”

  “Look, Gabe, I know you are here because your wife and our Grandmother worries about me, but there is no need.”

  “No need? How many assassination attempts have you avoided in the last year and a half?” Silence greeted Hawkescliffe. “That’s right. There have been too many to count.”

  “The man responsible is dead. And the last injury I sustained was in an attempt to save someone’s life, if you will remember.”

  “I remember, but Mack you can’t keep avoiding the fact that someone wants you dead. And when they don’t, you live your life recklessly, throwing yourself in danger’s path. You are the director. You have agents to do that.”

  “I’m not avoiding the fact. I fully acknowledge it, but I will not go into hiding like some coward. Do you understand? Sometimes my agents need my assistance. And do you mean to tell me that if you had been close enough to try and save the Percevel you wouldn’t have done the same damn thing?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying and you know it. Now, sit down.”

  “Why?”

  “Liverpool is the one that sent me here today, not Mikala or Grandmother.”

  “Liverpool?”

  “Yes. He and Bathurst believe you have pushed yourself too hard and should take some time off.”

  “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

  “Yes, brother, you did. You only took a week off aft
er being shot. That’s not enough time to heal.”

  “Of course it is,” he growled.

  “Then why is it when no one is looking, you are holding your side?”

  “Habit,” he said, dropping his hand.

  “You are the stubbornest damn Scotsman I know. Can you even concentrate on your job with the pain you’re in?”

  “We’re in the middle of a war, two wars now. This isn’t a bloody tea party we’re having. Everyone has to make sacrifices. I have and will continue to work through the pain. Tell them it isn’t going to happen.”

  “I don’t think you understand, Mack. You are not being given a choice. This is an order.”

  “You agree with them don’t you?”

  “Mack, I don’t want to lose my last brother. I want my children to grow up and know their uncle. Besides, Grandmother has threatened to come and sit with you.”

  “She wouldn’t dare.”

  “We both know she would. Yes, you are irreplaceable, but you need to heal, completely,” the Duke of Hawkescliffe emphasized.

  “No one is pushing me out of my office.”

  “It has already been done. For the next month, you will be restricted from setting foot on the premises. Roger Presley will be stepping in for you during those weeks. I suggest you take the time to rest and let your body strengthen and heal. Then, maybe you will be in a better frame of mind and not so belligerent to everyone who comes within ten feet of you.”

  “Get out,” Mack growled.

  “Mack, you will see it is for the best.”

  “I said, get the bloody hell out of my office!” He roared, as he stood and braced his hands on his desk.

  “We’ll talk once you’ve had time to calm down. Presley will be by later this afternoon to be debriefed.”

  “He can go get himself…”

  “Now, now,” Gabe cajoled. “Once you have had the opportunity to think further on this, you will see this is in your best interest.” Gabe shut the door just as a heavy paperweight crashed into the wall. “Mr. Preston, I would not go in there for the a few hours. It is going to take him some time to recover from this.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Preston looked at the door to the director’s office and felt pity for him. He was a proud man, and it was going to be difficult for him to step down, even temporarily.

  ***

  Cassiopeia Graham stepped out of the hired hack and paid the driver. She had followed this same protocol for the last year, to no avail. She entered the small house she had lived in with her father for the last decade. Her father needed to live in London so that he would have access to the parts he needed for his inventions. So, when her mother passed away, there was nothing left to keep them attached to the seaside village she had grown up in.

  “Any word on your papa, Missy Cassie?”

  “No, Chang,” she answered, dejection coloring her voice.

  “There, there, Missy Cassie,” he patted her arm affectionately, “all will be fine. I bring you tea.”

  “Thank you, Chang,” she gave the old man a smile and tugged her gloves off. She laid them and her reticule on the hall tree, and then hung up her pelisse. It was mid-June and the weather had turned extremely warm. The house was small and cozy. There were three bedrooms, a parlor, a study, and a kitchen. In the back was a detached building where her father worked on his inventions. Cassie strode to the study and sat down at the desk.

  She crossed her arms on the desk and laid her head on them. Where could he be? Why wouldn’t Director McKenzie at least let her know that her father was well? She had been haunting his office for almost a year now. Surely he could see how worried she was about her father? No, he doesn’t know how worried she is because he has refused to see her every single time she has been to his office.

  Cassiopeia, or Cassie as she was known to her family, had been raised to be a free thinker. Her father was known for his inventions. Her mother had studied the sciences, most especially astronomy, thus how Cassie’s name came to be. Cassie’s interest lay in the written word. She had been supplementing her income by writing political articles under the name C.E. Jones. The name came from a combination of her name, Cassiopeia Elizabeth, and her mother’s maiden name, Jones. All correspondence between herself and the publisher of the paper was through mail or one of the newsboys, so her identity remained anonymous.

  When she was not writing political pieces, she threw herself into writing what really interested her—stories about dangerous, brooding heroes, and the women that fell in love with them. She lifted her head, sniffed, and dabbed at her eyes. She pulled her manuscript close to her and read back over the last few pages she had written.

  “Here you go, Missy Cassie,” the little Chinese man said, as he laid down the tray on her desk. “What happens next in story? Is Lord Bartleby the bad man?”

  “No, Chang, Lord Bartleby can’t be the bad man, he’s the hero.”

  “But he so mean.”

  “He has a past he is trying to work through.”

  “The women, they swoon when they read this.”

  “Do you think, Chang?”

  “Yes. Your mama be so proud.”

  “Thank you, Chang.”

  “You write two hours, then I come get you for your lesson.”

  “Yes, Chang.” Cassie poured herself a cup of tea, took a sip, and began furtively working on her novel.

  True to his word, Chang arrived two hours later. She begged for more time, but he remained firm. Cassie went to her room and changed into the light Oriental pant suit she wore for their sparring sessions. Once she had changed clothes she met Chang in the small garden. Together they went through their stretches, then they began sparring with one another, using an ancient oriental practice that had been passed down through Chang’s forefathers to him. Chang did not hold anything back because Cassie was a woman. Both of Cassie’s parents had felt it important that their daughter be taught how to protect herself. Cassie shifted her hip and swept her foot, causing Chang to flip and land on his back.

  “Chang, are you all right?”

  “I think I taught Missy Cassie too well,” the man laughed.

  Cassie laughed as well before sitting on the ground next to the older man. “Papa is all right, isn’t he, Chang?”

  “Your papa could take care of himself very well. These not good times we live in. Too much fighting. Sir Graham is smart man. Wanted by many people. He is fine. He too valuable alive.”

  “I hope you’re right, Chang.”

  “Of course I’m right,” he said, and patted her leg. “Now, help an old man up,” he teased her until a smile spread across her face.

  ***

  Mack entered his quiet little house late that evening. After spending hours training Roger Presley on all that he needed to know, Mack had reluctantly left the office. He had gathered up several stacks of papers and stuffed them in his case. Unable to let go of the nervous energy he felt, he stopped at Gentleman Jackson’s. Even that had not gone as he had hoped. The fighting master had refused to let him spar with anyone, claiming him to not be fully healed for that type of activity after demanding to inspect his healing wound.

  Frustrated with everyone, he had ended up at White’s for a short while, sitting quietly in a dark corner as he drank. The golden liquid helped abate his anger somewhat. Had Liverpool lost faith in his ability to run the office? He had been back at work the week after Percevel’s assassination, even though the doctor had insisted he was a fool to do so. He thought back on the argument, a roguish smile turning up the corners of his lips.

  “I have a bloody war to fight!”

  “Someone else can fight the war for you,” Dr. McGregor calmly replied.

  “You don’t understand…”

  “No, you don’t understand. If you do not take some days to heal, then you are not going to get better. You are lucky that rib stopped the bullet. If it hadn’t you could very well be visiting with St. Peter. As it is, you have a broken rib and a damaged lung. I d
on’t know how else to say it, but your body needs rest.”

  “A week is all I can give you.”

  “Damn stubborn Scot.”

  That conversation had occurred three weeks ago. In that time, they had buried a prime minister, another had been appointed, and the upstart colonists thought to wage war against their mother country. And who could forget the assassination attempt on Prinny last year? Had it only been a year ago, he mused introspectively. Time rushed past at an amazing rate of speed and he could do nothing to slow it down. Forty loomed ever closer, causing him to catch his breath at times.

  Now, Mack sat in the comfortable leather chair in his study and lifted his booted legs onto the ottoman. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He welcomed the silence as it soothed his soul. He was glad that when he moved to London all those years ago, that he invested in this house rather than taking rooms at one of the hotels in London. He missed the Highlands of Scotland, but doubted he could ever go back there. Laird McKenzie would not welcome him, and his mother belonged with her husband, as it should be.

  “Sir, I didn’t hear you come in. Would you like something to eat?” John Bartlett, his man servant asked. John did everything for Mack, except keeping the house clean. For that, he had a woman come in once a week.

  “I slipped in a few minutes ago, John. It seems I will be underfoot for a while.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “I have been relieved of my position.”

  “But you are the Director of the War Office.”

  “Not anymore. It seems people are concerned about my health. I say I’m too ornery to die.”

  “Too true, sir. Well, what do you plan to do?”

  “Either prove to everyone I am as healthy as an ox, or prove Presley is inept.”

  “And how do you plan to do that.”

  “The hell if I know, John,” Mack sighed, holding his aching, bandage-wrapped side.