by Fiona Neal
His gaze fastened on them, but he moved away. “Are you ready?”
Hiding her disappointment, she arched an eyebrow. “Lead the way.”
He took her arm, guiding her out of the room and down the corridor. Opening a carved door, he ushered her in.
“This is magnificent!” Her voice echoed into the vaulted ceiling of the splendid music room. A harpsichord stood like a sentinel in the middle of the room; a harp, its companion.
“This was my sister’s favorite room.” A look of sadness dimmed the green light in his eyes. “She played the harp.”
Deirdre felt the urge to embrace him, but she refrained. Instead, she sat at the harpsichord and began a Bach fugue, feeling his palms on her shoulders as he stood behind her. A frisson of excitement trembled through her, and she increased the tempo even faster as her fingers flew over the keys until she finished.
He withdrew his touch. She stood, turning toward him.
“You play very well. I had no idea you had such talent.” He pulled her to him.
“I am glad you enjoyed it.”
She had many surprises to share with him, but now was no time for discussion. Not when his eyes begged for an invitation. So, true to his angry promise, he insisted on her asking him? Didn’t he know a verbal request indicated but one way to entreat? Besides, she had asked him last night, but he refrained. No doubt, he wanted to be sure she had no connection with The Flame. Well, by the time she finished with him, he would forget all his noble resolve.
Her gaze never leaving his, her hands slipped up his chest, and her fingers burrowed beneath his queued hair, caressing the back of his neck.
“Deirdre,” he murmured as his eyes grew dark with passion, and he inclined his lips toward hers.
Suddenly, the door swung open, and Deirdre jerked away.
“Damnation,” Ian cursed softly.
“I beg your pardon.” Strathaven smiled mischievously. “I heard the music, and I wanted to see who was playing.”
“Lord Strathaven, I thought you would be abed all day.” Deirdre walked toward him.
“I grew bored and longed for the sight of your lovely face, my lady.” He bowed.
Ian shot him a baleful stare. “More likely your stomach demanded food, and you came down to inspect the sideboard.”
Mocking pain, Strathaven put his hand over his heart. “You cut me to the quick, dear cousin. Besides, if nourishment was all I craved, I’d have rung for a servant to deliver it to me.”
Deirdre laughed. “Your acting talents should be plied on the London stage, Lord Strathaven.”
“As should your musical ones, fair lady, for I know it was you I heard.” Winking, he bowed and kissed her hand. “Ian is notoriously tone deaf. Bullfrogs sing with more melody.”
Deirdre glanced at her husband. “Perhaps he has other talents that will compensate for his lack of musical ability.”
Strathaven looked at her in surprise as Ian glared at her. She had gone too far. Their friend must not guess their marriage remained unconsummated.
Trying to repair the damage, she slipped her arm around her husband’s middle. “I was just about to sample some of those delights when you entered Lord Strathaven.” She looked up at Ian.
The look of outrage in his eyes told her she had definitely overstepped the mark, but he did not disengage.
Strathaven burst into gales of laughter. “Then I shall leave to it. I need my breakfast.” Still chuckling, he made his exist.
“Did you have to make those remarks?” Ian asked. “You know I want our business to remain between us.”
“You mean lack of business, my dear.” She smiled at him, slipping her hands beneath his coat.
“Really, Deirdre, Strathaven is not dull-witted.”
“Nay, he is not.” She began a slow massage of his shoulders. “But he has a wonderful sense of humor, which is an example you should follow.”
“You think me dour?”
“I prefer to say your rectitude is as stiff as starch.”
“No other woman has ever told me that.”
“I thought you told me there had not been too many other women,” she whispered into his ear, pressing her body close.
Exhaling an audible breath, he turned from her, striding off a few paces. “Enough of that, woman!” he exclaimed. “You know what I want from you.”
“I have sworn on the Bible that I do not know any man called The Flame.”
He turned to her, nailing her gaze. “So you have.”
“But you still doubt me.” She shrugged nonchalantly, deliberately allowing the bodice of her dress to dip lower.
“I—”
“Have not quite made up your calculating mind,” she finished for him and smiled, batting her eyelashes.
“Let us continue with the tour, Deirdre.”
“Anything your heart desires, my lord.”
* * * *
The next day Ian and Strathaven leaned against the wall in the fencing room, their sweat-dampened lawn shirts sticking to their chests. Energies spent from the strenuous match, they paused in their exercise, hanging their swords on the stone wall of the undercroft.
“You’ve not lost your touch, Rory.” Ian wiped the perspiration from his upper lip on the cuff of his shirt.
“Neither have you,” Strathaven chuckled, mopping his forehead with a large handkerchief.
“It is best for me to keep in practice. I may soon be called upon to protect my wife.”
One in back of the other, they walked up the narrow stone steps to the ground floor.
“How did your braw lass take the news when you told her, Ian?”
Ian remained silent.
“Well?” Strathaven prompted.
Ian avoided his friend’s gaze as they stepped into the sunny courtyard.
“Ian! She still knows nothing?”
“That is correct.”
“Good God, man! Are you mad? She could wander out at any time. These hills abound in caves perfect for brigands to lie in wait.”
“I was about to tell her, but she became ill.”
“She fared hale, hearty, and from what I could see, hot and eager yesterday.”
“I did not want to bring on a relapse.”
“Excuses, Ian.” Strathaven’s gray eyes narrowed. “Why are you procrastinating?”
“The right time never seemed to present itself. I promise to inform her soon.”
“Do it, Ian, before you live to regret it.” Strathaven’s face reflected an inconsolable sorrow. “You have no idea what torture there is in causing the death of a loved one.”
Ian frowned. “I think I do, Rory.”
“Sorry, I do not know how I could have been so tactless.”
“Because you were thinking about Isobel,” Ian explained. She had been Rory’s betrothed—the woman he loved.
“I was.” Strathaven nodded gravely.
Ian looked him straight in the eyes. “Her death was not your fault. The smallpox killed her, Rory, not you.”
“I infected her.”
“You did that unwittingly. You didn’t know you were ill at the time.”
“The results are the same. She is dead and I am alone.”
Suddenly, a servant hurried across the cobblestones of the courtyard. “My lords,” he said and bowed. “A missive has come from Strathaven Manor.” He handed the letter to Rory.
Ian’s cousin broke open the seal. As he read the message, the muscles in Rory’s face became taut.
“What is amiss?” Ian asked.
“My grandmother has taken ill.” Pain shadowed Strathaven’s face.
Ian also loved the old woman who was also his great aunt by marriage. Somewhat of a recluse, she rarely left Strathaven.
“I must go immediately, Ian.”
“I know. I’d offer to go with you, but I cannot leave my wife while she is in danger.”
“It is your honeymoon. Besides, there is little you can do for Gram. I’ll leave within the hour.”
* * * *
Since Ian decided to practice his putting, Deirdre took the opportunity to search his study, wondering where he had hidden her jewels. Unfortunately, her quest proved unsuccessful. Likely, she would have to beg for them. Well, she would do what was necessary to gain possession.
The other part of her plan, exchanging them for cash, posed a greater challenge. She needed to devise a way to smuggle them out of the castle and to a place where they could be sold without anyone connecting her to the sale.
Perhaps Ian and she would be invited to a ball in Glasgow or Edinburgh. Then she would use that excuse to take the jewels to the city. Surely, Ian would not deny her access to the jewelry—unless he refused because of the danger from The Flame.
What argument would she use to counter his claim? Well, they had successfully taken the jewelry from Skye with no mishap. Aye! She would point out that little piece of logic. Her husband could not refute that fact.
Feeling proud of her idea, she glanced out the window. The sun kissed the lilacs and a robin chirped his song to the sky. The spring day beckoned, and Deirdre succumbed to its charm. The idea of a ride over the moors proved irresistible. Anticipating that pleasure, she left the study and headed to her chambers to change into her riding habit.
* * * *
Ian cursed softly under his breath, watching his feathery just skim past the hole in the putting green. His golf game had begun to suffer lately. True, he had not practiced for some time, but he was also worried—most notably about the plot surrounding Deirdre.
He plodded toward his feathery and putted it in. His caddy stooped to pick it up. “Do you want to continue, my lord?”
“Nay, Donald. Let us head back,” Ian answered, trudging toward the steep steps leading from the castle to the loch.
Suddenly, Padraig hurried down of the flight of stairs. “My lord, her ladyship is on her way to the stable,” the valet gasped out. “You told me to alert you if she attempted to venture forth. I believe she intends to ride abroad with Connor.”
Ian took the steps three at the time. He sped through the curtain wall and across the courtyard to the stable.
Ian saw her in the distance. She and the boy were standing near their mounts. Running furiously, he cursed his stupidity as the breeze tore at the full sleeves of his shirt and whipped at his queued hair.
She and Connor would have made vulnerable targets if they had succeeded in riding beyond the walls of the castle. Her yellow riding habit could be seen for miles!
* * * *
“My lady,” Connor alerted her, “his lordship is hurrying this way.”
Deirdre turned. Catching sight of Ian, she waved, puzzled at his sudden appearance.
“My lord,” she commented, “I thought you would be golfing all morning.”
“My lady,” he gasped out, winded. “I wish a private word with you. It is important.”
His anxious gaze concerned her. Suddenly, panic mauled her, and she clutched his arms. “Has my uncle taken ill?”
“Nay,” he replied, shaking his head.
But the taut muscles of Ian’s face affirmed her apprehension. Something was wrong, but he did not wish to discuss it in the boy’s presence.
“Connor, please put up the horses,” Deirdre requested. “I shall give you your lessons after tea.”
“Aye, my lady,” the boy agreed, bowed, and led the horses into the barn.
Ian and Deirdre walked across the inner bailey and passed through the portal of the square keep—the oldest part of the castle. The scuff of their footsteps on the rough ancient flags echoed ominously off the stone walls. Her heart pounded, and her stomach churned with queasiness as they trekked to their quarters in the west tower, the newest wing of the building, and entered through Ian’s suite.
He walked to the small table near the hearth and reached for the decanter of claret. “Would you care for some wine?”
“Will I need fortification?”
His guarded glance proved more eloquent than words, and Deirdre’s heart began to drum furiously. “Aye, I should like some thank you, Ian.”
“Please have a seat.” He held out his hand toward one of the sapphire velvet armchairs by the hearth.
Deirdre complied, eyeing the massive canopied bedstead hung with royal blue velvet, a bed to which she remained, still a stranger. Her mouth dry, she watched him stride toward her on powerful legs, and she accepted the libation.
He drained his glass then took her hand. “Deirdre, there is no easy way to say this.” He paused, inhaling a deep breath. “The Jacobites plan to abduct and hold you for a ransom of thirty thousand pounds.”
Her crystal glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the hearth tiles and splashing the wine.
Chapter Thirteen
Ian pulled her from the chair into his arms. Though she found shelter in his embrace, her uncontrollable trembling persisted. The age-old custom of hostage taking terrified Deirdre, and now she was the quarry of the kidnappers.
“Why do they want me?” She pulled back, meeting his gaze. “Neither my uncle nor I have any quarrel with the Jacobites. Our branch of the MacLeods has not raised their swords in over a hundred years.”
Because the clan had lost so many men at Worchester in 1651, the other Highland chiefs excused them from service until their population increased.
“They know your uncle and I could pay the sum. The amount is likely symbolic because it tallies to the price the king has put on Charles Stewart’s head.”
She swallowed hard. “How do you know this, Ian?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Your uncle told me. He learned the information from Colonel Crawford at Fort William.”
“So that was why he forbade me to venture out alone.” Her panic grew with each beat of her already slamming heart as she realized what could have happened when she rode out alone. “He should have told me at once.”
“Aye, he should have.” Ian disengaged, and she sat. Returning to the table, he poured another glass of claret and offered it to her. She accepted, taking a large swallow.
“How long have you known about this?” Her gaze riveted on his.
“Since before we wed.”
“Is that why you proceeded to marry me even though you had misgivings?”
“It was one of the reasons.”
Deirdre had wanted him to confess another reason, one that spoke of affection and passion. Silly fool! Ian was a calculating man. Everything he did had a well-reasoned purpose.
She closed her eyes against the pain of disappointment, fighting the tears that threatened. He had married her out of noblesse oblige, and her excellent dowry sweetened the bitter pill. His kisses, his caresses had been nothing but amusement for him. Perhaps he used them as a means to loosen her tongue and gull the truth from her.
The rejection stung deeply, filling her soul with bitter gall because despite everything, she still desired him. “I see,” she whispered, looking up at him. “That explains many things.” She stood.
“There is something more, Deirdre.”
She could not endure more, and her whole body tensed, waiting for the final blow.
“We believe The Flame is involved in the kidnapping plot.”
She huffed in exasperation. “That is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard! You’ve frightened me for no reason.”
“Why are you so sure it is ridiculous?” His jaw turned to granite, and his eyes burned like those of an inquisitor. “Have you some privileged information?”
“I am merely using my powers of deduction. If he wanted to kidnap me, he would have made an attempt the night he returned the jewels to your aunt. I was in the manor house, walking in the corridors. Obviously, he knew his way around and which rooms we were occupying. I, for one, believe The Flame cares about helping people, not crusading for causes.”
“It is one thing to crawl down a dark hall and return jewels, and quite another to abduct a screaming woman, who would alert the sentries. Bu
t one has to ask how he got past the guards in the first place.” He took hold of her shoulders, his gaze penetrating her soul.
Sick of his accusations, her temper exploded. “Are you inferring I helped him?” She jerked out of his grasp.
“Those are your words, not mine!” he snarled back.
“Do you deny you entertained the thought?”
He stared at her. “Do you deny helping the man?”
Again she relied on semantics to extricate herself from difficulty. With a surge of triumph she shouted, “I emphatically deny helping the man. I swore it on a Bible once. What must I do to convince you? One moment you tell me I am in danger. Then, on the next breath, you accuse me of colluding with The Flame. Make up your mind, Ian.”
Remorse softened the glare in his eyes to a soft glow. “I am sorry, Deirdre. I had no wish to upset you.”
“This Flame business is an obsession with you.”
“Can you blame me? It was a highwayman who killed…” He turned and strode away, clenching his fists by his side.
She walked behind him. “I am sorry, Ian. I forgot about your sister.”
He faced her. “Perhaps, I am obsessed, but the rogue infuriates me. He tweaks our noses right under our own roofs! He has to be a noble. He was likely one of the wedding guests. How he must have laughed, knowing that our guards were standing watch outside while he remained inside all the time.”
“Excuse me, Ian, but I have heard enough. I was willing to believe this kidnapping theory before, but now that you have mentioned The Flame, the whole scheme loses its credibility.” She turned to walk off.
“Nay, Deirdre, wait.” Walking to his desk, he withdrew a letter from a cubbyhole, returning to hand it to her. It is from Colonel Crawford to your uncle.”
She read the missive and her knees shook so that Deirdre felt compelled to sit. Seeing the message forced her to realize the truth of the kidnapping.
“Now do you believe me?”
She looked up, searching his face. “Aye, I do.” Her dry throat produced a strangled whisper. “But there is no mention of The Flame here?”