Advancing into the castle’s study, Yancy flexed his left hand and finished tugging on his riding glove. He’d never liked this room. Even with several candles lit, the stone-walled chamber resembled a bloody medieval tomb. “You just caught me. A small riding party is off for a morning jaunt across the moors.”
Seated behind his hulking desk, Sethwick, a quill in his hand, scratched away on foolscap. He didn’t look up.
“Yes, Yancy. Give me one moment, if you will.”
“Certainly.” Yancy tossed his hat onto one of the worn deep back leather chairs before the desk.
Sethwick affixed his signature, and after setting the feather aside, sprinkled sand atop the wet ink. With a satisfied sigh, he relaxed against the high-back chair. “That’s done. I don’t know about you, but I find corresponding with my solicitor about as exciting as licking hot coals.”
Wandering to inspect a display of pole weapons, Yancy chuckled. “That bad?”
“Well, perhaps that is doing it up a bit brown. Nonetheless, it’s not my favorite task.” Sethwick scratched his nose and edged his lips upward a fraction. “Alasdair mentioned you planned an outing, which is why I summoned you.”
Yancy cast him a cursory glance over his shoulder then selected a Lochaber axe sporting an ugly eighteen-inch blade. Holding the weapon parallel to the floor, he lunged.
And almost fell over.
One eyebrow elevated, Sethwick leaned forward and rested his elbows atop his desk, his fingers interlaced. “Yesterday, I mentioned I had information that I thought would be of particular interest to you.”
Yancy swung the Lochaber in a small arc. He stumbled a pair of steps to the right. The axe was heavy and damn awkward to wield.
“Ramsbury, will you stop playing with that blasted thing and listen?”
Frustration edged Sethwick’s tone, giving Yancy pause. He laid the weapon aside.
“Forgive me. I assume your news is troublesome?” Arms and ankles crossed, he rested his hip against an elongated table and gave Sethwick his full attention.
“That’s what I don’t know. Something’s off, to be sure. As I’m certain you’ve learned by now, Blackhall, McGrath, and Clauston clansmen have been lurking about. Some of them have been seen in Craigcutty conspiring with the Scottish tinkers, and my border patrols have found evidence of unauthorized camping on my lands.”
Instantly alert, Yancy uncrossed his ankles. “I assume these vagrants are not the Highland travellers?”
“Extremely improbable. The gypsies know they’ve an open invitation, and they make their encampment near the river. Their involvement with those clans is most irregular. I’m not sure what to make of it.”
That piece of information also perplexed Yancy. There had to be a connection neither he nor Sethwick were aware of.
Shaking the sand from the letter, Sethwick folded the paper then sealed it with wax. Setting the missive aside, he stood. A massive boarhound appeared from behind the desk as well. “My informants tell me MacHardy may be attempting to incite the discontented clans to rebellion.”
Yancy stiffened and leveled Sethwick an intent stare. Even MacHardy wasn’t that rash. Such an act would be suicide. “Pure foolhardiness if that’s his intent. Prinny will squash him, and any who attempt a revolt, as easily as an ant beneath his royal heel.”
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Sethwick came round his desk, his expression somber.
The dog trailed him, and eager for a pet, pushed his huge head into his master’s palm. Sethwick complied and scratched the hound’s head.
“Don’t know why you bother with horses when you’ve those beasts galloping here and there.” Yancy flipped his fingers at the dog then surveyed the mantel clock. Twenty past eight. Time to be on his way.
He quite anticipated spending the morning with Isobel. She was the most stunning and intelligent woman he’d ever encountered, and he found himself in a constant state of arousal—mentally and physically—in her presence. As if to confirm his thought, his male member pulsed.
“The Highland clans have suffered a great deal.”
Sethwick’s comment doused Yancy’s amorous contemplations.
“First”—Sethwick continued to pet the dog—“they were forcibly recruited to fight in the war, and then they endured the crop failures of a couple of years ago.”
“And now, they’re unhappy with the price of wool and weavers’ wages.” Yancy pulled on his earlobe, grinning as a bit of dog drool plopped onto one of Sethwick’s Hessians.
Sethwick straightened his waistcoat and gave a curt nod. He pointed to the floor. “Lie down, Arig.”
The hound dropped to the floor, head between his paws, his brown-eyed gaze affixed adoringly on his master.
Damn, the clans’ situation became more complex by the minute. “MacHardy mightn’t have to work very hard to agitate the disgruntled Scots.”
“Aye, that’s what has me worried.”
Cocking his head, Yancy noted the lines of uneasiness sharpening the angles of Sethwick’s face. “And, I’m to soothe these malcontents. Your confidence is most flattering. Who do you think I am, Tranquillitas?”
Releasing a short bark of laughter, Sethwick slapped Yancy on the shoulder.
“A Roman Goddess you are not, my friend, but I’ve every confidence in your diplomacy skills. For now, I think it best everyone stay near the keep and only leave in armed groups. I shall inform the staff immediately. The others riding with you today are armed as well?”
He perused Yancy’s sword.
Yancy patted the blade at his side. “Naturally.”
“Excellent.” Sethwick returned to his desk, and after retrieving the letter, tucked the missive into an inside coat pocket. “I am of a mind to keep our activities as normal as possible, although I’ll be leery and on guard. Venture no farther than the loch or the forest’s border. No sign of intruders have been found that close to the keep.”
He gestured to the mullioned windows. “I’ve assigned another score of men to scout my lands and to keep their ears open in the village. They’re to report anything they see or hear.”
“Most wise.” Yancy eyed the dog, now noisily grooming himself, slobber flying every-which-way in the process. “I hope to meet with the troublesome clan leaders by the end of the week. I sent messengers requesting an audience yesterday. I suppose a great deal depends on MacHardy.”
Yancy didn’t doubt the belligerent churl would resist an attempt to assemble a council of chieftains and lairds. For two decades he’d been a pebble in England’s shoe——no, more like a festering barb in the arse.
“Isobel rides this morning?”
The question caught Yancy off guard. “Yes, although, I suspect you knew that already.”
He searched Sethwick’s face, only detecting innocent regard registered there. Yet, Yancy swore something more ominous lay buried in his friend’s gaze. Ah, this was about yesterday’s mishap in the stable.
Unfamiliar warmth stole up Yancy’s neck.
Hell, now he colored like a schoolgirl caught with a lad’s hand up her skirts. A choking urge to tug at his neckcloth overwhelmed him.
“My sister is not one of your London light-skirts.” Sethwick fingered the inkwell’s carved-glass stopper. “Isobel is naïve and rather green when it comes to men, despite her intellectual brilliance.”
He met Yancy’s unflinching gaze. “Don’t trifle with her affections.”
“You think so little of me, you warn me off your sister?” Ire and betrayal battled for supremacy. “By God, do you know how ruddy insulting that is?”
Yancy snatched his hat from the chair before marching to the door. His hand on the handle, he turned to Sethwick. “My intentions toward your sister have always been, and will continue to be, wholly honorable.”
&
nbsp; “That may well be, but Isobel’s enamored with you, although I suspect she’s not delighted with her feckless emotions—if she’s aware of her feelings.” A sarcastic smirk twisted Sethwick’s mouth. “You do rather confuse the ladies.”
Enamored?
Yancy hid a delighted grin, more determined to redouble his efforts to win Isobel’s approval and her hand.
His features less severe, Sethwick joined him at the door. “You’ve never shown the slightest interest in marriage, Yancy. All I’m asking is that you not encourage Isobel. You’ll break her heart if you do.”
Yancy had no one but himself to blame for Sethwick’s estimation of him. He hadn’t directed so much as a sniff in an honorable woman’s direction before. His friend’s concerns were well-founded, except Sethwick didn’t know about Yancy’s change of plans.
A hint might prove helpful to gauge his reaction.
Yancy fingered the brim of his hat. “Tell me, old friend, which is your greater concern? That your sister might harbor sincere regard for me, or that I might have a genuine, enduring interest in her?”
With that pithy remark, he turned his back, biting his tongue to keep from laughing at Sethwick’s sagging jaw and the dumbfounded expression on his face.
Yancy’s grin widened.
He’d flummoxed Craiglocky’s laird, no easy feat.
Several moments later, he stood atop the gatehouse stairs. He checked his watch for the third time in the past five minutes. Eight forty-five.
Where was Isobel?
Snapping the watch closed, he returned the timepiece to his waistcoat. Impatient to ride, he whacked his hat against his thigh.
The rest of their party, except for Harcourt, already sat mounted, every man armed with short swords and dirks. A bow and quiver lay strapped to Miss Farnsworth’s back, and a dagger nestled in one of her half-boots.
Trained in weaponry, she expressed a desire to target practice on their excursion today. More complex and capable than Yancy had first imagined, Miss Farnsworth might very well be the key to settling this whole clan unrest.
Harcourt, lounging at the base of the stairs, yawned widely then blinked as if to focus his sleepy gaze.
“Not used to being separated from your mattress and pillow this early in the day, Harcourt?” Yancy couldn’t refrain from needling him. He’d seen the pert upstairs maid slip from the duke’s chamber early this morning.
Harcourt stopped fussing with his coat sleeves.
“I’m following your advice, old chap.” A sly smile quirked his lips before he emitted another yawn. “I’ve found the locals most obliging when it comes to offering unfettered . . . er, distractions.”
Yancy made an impolite noise. “You’d best not let Sethwick hear of it. He doesn’t approve of dalliances with the staff under his roof.”
Walking their horses about the bailey, the others murmured quietly amongst themselves. Gregor had accepted the invitation to ride too.
Miss Farnsworth had returned to the bailey, having rushed to her room to change after finding a split seam in the skirt of the gray and black riding habit she had been wearing.
Now, attired in Pomona green trimmed in black velvet, her hair tucked into a hat tilted at a jaunty angle upon her head, and a panel of plaid wrapped from her shoulders to waist, she epitomized the gently-bred Scotswoman.
A green feather stood at attention on the right side band, and a finely meshed veil covered her face. She sat regally upon her mount, patiently waiting for Isobel and chatting with Alasdair.
In all the years Yancy had been a guest at Craiglocky, he’d never seen Isobel in a riding habit; had never seen her ride, for that matter.
By God, did she ride astride?
Countesses did not ride astride.
Ross kept sending hopeful glances in the entry’s direction. Too bad the gloomy sod hadn’t declined Yancy’s forced invitation. The Scot probably hoped to woo Isobel today. He would find himself hard-pressed to get anywhere near her if Yancy had his way.
A basket had been tied to Alasdair’s saddle and balanced behind him. He’d seen to a picnic lunch for their outing.
Yancy hadn’t planned on being gone that long, but he didn’t object. A picnic gave him more time with Isobel. Showing an interest in her hobby might garner him a jot of favor. Truth to tell, her discoveries genuinely interested him.
One of his prized possessions included his grandfather’s collection of odd artifacts from sojourns to exotic places. Grandfather Whatleypoot had been a peculiar old buzzard. He’d traveled extensively and had enjoyed life to the fullest up until the day he died after tumbling off a camel.
Yancy retraced his steps.
Fairchild met him at Craiglocky’s entrance. “May I be of assistance?”
“Would you please send a footman to Miss Isobel’s bedchamber and inquire how much longer she might be?” Yancy glanced over his shoulder.
Harcourt had mounted his horse and joined the others.
Yancy returned his attention to the butler. “Please tell her everyone is waiting.”
“At once, sir.” Fairchild reentered the castle.
A niggling suspicion pricked Yancy’s mind.
She wouldn’t dare.
Adaira, Lady Clarendon—the incorrigible sister—would have. But Isobel was the demure Ferguson daughter, the one who knew how to behave with decorum and sophistication matching her beauty. The sister who would grace the London assemblies and upper salons with the perfected poise expected of his countess.
By Hades, she wouldn’t openly defy him or her brother.
Would she?
Curse it, the Isobel of the past twenty-four hours would, especially if intent on a secret meeting with a lover.
He’d underestimated her. Foolish of him, given her keen mind. A muscle ticked below his right eye, and he slapped his hat atop his head, swiveling on his heel.
She had upped the stakes.
He ran down the steps. Without sparing a word to the other riders, he vaulted onto Skye. Trotting the blue roan gelding the short distance to the stables, Yancy fabricated multiple ways he would chastise Isobel if she’d disregarded him.
“M’lord, can I help ye?” The bandy-legged stable master approached, rubbing his hands on a soiled cloth.
Yancy perused the stalls, searching for a nameless horse, or rather its taffy-haired owner. Impatient to be off, he swung his attention to the groom. “It’s Jocky, isn’t it?”
“Aye, sir. Ye be needin’ somethin’?” Jocky stuffed the tattered rag into his waistband.
Shifting in his saddle, Yancy wedged his hat firmer onto his head. “Did Miss Isobel leave already?”
She had better hope the crusty old groom said no.
Jocky released a grave chuckle, his eyes crinkling into a dozen weathered folds at the corners. “Aye. The young miss be eager to find more arrowheads and dead rock things.”
“Fossils?”
“Aye. She be headed to the caves today, she said.”
“Alone?”
The servant gave a cautious nod, his gap-toothed smile fading. Apprehension replaced the merry twinkle in his faded eyes. “Be there a problem, m’lord? Miss Isobel said ye’d be followin’ in a wee bit.”
His throat worked nervously as he peered up at Yancy.
This wasn’t the groom’s fault. Yancy ought to have asked Sethwick to speak to the staff sooner.
“Jocky, until further notice, no one is to leave the keep unescorted, most especially not the women.”
“Yes, sir.” Jocky’s gaze sank to the straw-littered floor. “I be sorry, yer lordship. I dinna ken.”
Yancy offered a conciliatory smile. “It’s not your fault. I should have sent word yesterday.”
He clenched Skye’s reins so
tightly, his leather gloves pinched his fingers. Isobel had no idea the danger she’d put herself in.
Sensing his master’s agitation, the roan sidestepped and snorted.
“Shh, we’ll be away soon, my friend.” Yancy bent and rubbed the gelding’s neck. With a final pat, he straightened. “How long ago did she leave?”
His wrinkled face creased with worry, Jocky lifted a scrawny shoulder. “An hour. Maybe less.”
Reining Skye around, Yancy clamped his jaw until his back teeth ached. Isobel had lied to him, and there would be consequences. He cantered to the others, and as he drew near, they looked up expectantly.
Other than raising an eyebrow questioningly, Harcourt, for once, had the good sense to remain silent.
“Nae lass?” Gregor peered behind Yancy then twisted in his saddle to inspect the castle entry. His gaze swung to his twin, and he rubbed his chin, a pensive gleam in his eyes. “Och, I guess she’s flown.”
“Aye.” Alasdair’s gaze focused on the dense crop of trees standing at attention well beyond the drawbridge. “I kent she might. She be prickly as thistle of late.”
“You might have warned me, McTavish. Where are these fossils of hers?” Clicking his tongue, Yancy kneed Skye’s sides and called over his shoulder. “We need to find her before she encounters the trespassers Sethwick said are lurking about.”
Chapter 12
Isobel picked her way across a mound of slate-colored rocks littering a portion of the cave’s entrance. Huge lichen and liverwort-covered boulders blocked the other, which made seeing inside and accessing the cavern difficult.
Mountain aven, their smooth white blossom and jonquil yellow centers long since spent, huddled between the stones and atop the yawning opening. Their verdant leaves contrasted with the dull gray world surrounding the intrepid evergreen, and proved slippery as ice when stepped upon.
The cave, partially hidden below a craggy overhang, appeared deceptively easy to access until she neared the entrance. Uncertainty nudged her. She hadn’t attempted to enter this cavern before. What if some wild animal had made the hollow its den?
Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Page 9