A sly smirk contorted his lips, revealing a row of brownish-black rotting teeth. “Do ye think I acted alone? Nae, I would be looking closer to me home, if I be ye.”
Chapter 26
As night claimed the last vestige of daylight, Yancy led the fatigued company across Craiglocky’s drawbridge. The thunder of over two hundred and fifty hoofbeats reverberating atop the wooden panels roused those in the baileys and keep.
Excited clan members surged from doorways and lean-tos. Holding lanterns and rush torches, they soon flooded the courtyard with light, and people eager for news of Isobel.
Yancy dismounted, and after handing Skye’s reins to a stable boy, he stretched, easing the stiffness the lengthy hours in the saddle caused. “See he’s rubbed down well, and given an extra portion of grain. He has earned it.”
Skye pressed his nose to Yancy’s chest and issued a low nicker.
“I’m grateful to be back too.” He patted the horse’s wither. “Well done, old friend.”
Skye responded with another gentle whicker.
“Sir, might I wait until I hear the news of Miss Isobel? Did Laird McTavish find her? Did he bring her home?” Eyes round and anxious, the boy shifted from foot to foot, his gaze repeatedly flitting to the mounted riders.
The lad’s devotion to his lady earned Yancy’s admiration.
“Yes, he did.” He stifled a yawn. “I haven’t met a braver, more intelligent woman in my life.”
“Aye, that she be.” The whelp puffed his scrawny chest out, a grin splitting his freckled face. “She be of the clan McTavish.”
“And you have every right to be proud.” Yancy handed the lad a coin. He hadn’t thought the youth’s eyes could grow larger, but the astonished, saucer-like gaze gawking at him proved him wrong.
Yancy maneuvered his way through the throng. He needed a moment with Isobel before she fled into the house and escaped into her family’s care.
He grimaced. Fled? Escaped? What, had she become his quarry? No, though he had every intention of snaring her.
“There be Miss Isobel.” At the front of the crowd, an eager man holding a curly-haired toddler pointed to the new arrivals.
“Where?”
“I dinna see the lass.”
“She be sittin’ behind Dugall.”
The horde spotted her, and a roar loud enough to shake the stars from the sky rose heavenward.
“Isobel?” Lady Ferguson’s soft cry carried across the night air.
Sandwiched between Lady Sethwick and Miss Seonaid, Lady Ferguson hovered at the top of the gatehouse stairs. To her left stood Miss Farnsworth and Ross, in addition to Warrick and Bretheridge beside their wives. A rotund, elderly maid who kept dabbing at her eyes with her apron, and the McTavishs, save Gregor, had positioned themselves on Lady Ferguson’s right.
A passel of dogs lumbered, en masse, down the steps, a monstrous gray boarhound in the lead, loping straight at Isobel.
Lady Ferguson and her daughters rushed into the crowd as Sir Hugh, Harcourt, and Ewan dismounted. The rest of those assembled on the steps hastily followed.
The crowd shushed and respectfully parted to let the women pass. Their pallor and tautness of their frames spoke of the anguish they endured in Isobel’s absence. Several onlookers sniffled, and more than one clansman’s eyes held a suspicious dampness.
Sir Hugh engulfed his wife in a bear-like hug then pulled Miss Seonaid into his arms.
Sethwick encircled Yvette in an embrace no less fierce.
A wave of envy washed Yancy. He would give up his earldom to know that kind of love with Isobel. Yet, she’d spurned him once again.
He would have the why of it this time. He deserved to know her reasons at least. No woman—nude as a water nymph and in bed with a man she obviously found attractive—when discovered by her father and brothers, would refuse to marry the man without damned good cause.
Yancy would hear the excuse from her lips before hauling MacHardy to Newgate to stand trial.
Lady Ferguson rose on her tiptoes and kissed her husband’s cheek then disengaged herself. Her eyes shiny, she approached Dugall holding his stallion’s halter. She gave him a swift hug. “Thank you, son, for bringing your sister home safely.”
Though she had lived at Craiglocky almost three decades, her musical voice held traces of her French heritage.
Across the distance, Dugall’s gaze locked with Yancy’s. “I canna take the credit, Mother. Lord Ramsbury rescued our Isobel.”
The whispers of the crowd drifted throughout the courtyard, a low buzz of praise and questions.
“Non, he did?” Lady Ferguson turned as Yancy reached her side and graced him with a radiant smile. “You have my deepest and most sincere appreciation, my lord.”
“Please believe me, my lady, when I tell you that bringing your daughter home safely has been my greatest pleasure.” Bowing over her hand, he brought his gaze even with Isobel’s. “I’ve never been more compelled, nor have I ever done anything as worthy, in my entire life.”
“Isobel, do let Lord Ramsbury assist you from the saddle, and then give your mother a hug.” Lady Ferguson opened her arms wide. She glanced to Yancy. “Such a fright I’ve had. And trust me, Lord Ramsbury, with this family, there is always something afoot.”
She released a tinkling laugh.
Yancy advanced until he stood directly beside Isobel. “Swing your leg over, and then put your hands on my shoulders. I shall lift you to the ground.”
Weariness etched her features, and she stared at him for an extended moment. A haunted glint lingered deep within her beautiful eyes. Inclining her head, she complied without protest or speaking.
His hands at her waist, Yancy whispered in her ear as he lowered her from the horse. “We shall have that promised conversation. I shan’t depart until we do.”
Isobel stiffened and clutched his shoulders, her fingers biting into his flesh through his coat. Her eyes bored into his. Desperation and something deeper lurked there. Her adorable chin jutted upward. “I told you. I’ve nothing to say.”
“Oh, I think you have plenty to say, and I am going to find out exactly why you’ve treated me as a leper for months now.”
“Why won’t you leave me be?” Defeat darkened her expression and sorrow weighted her words.
Yancy squeezed her waist. “I cannot, Isobel.”
Her mother and the rest of her family swooped in with tears and murmured words of comfort and joy.
Yancy stepped aside. Devil it. So much for a few quiet moments with her.
Surrounded by her family, she smiled through her tears. Her eyes met his over Seonaid’s shoulder. A shuttered mien settled on Isobel’s face, and she shifted her attention to Lady Ferguson. “Mother, please tell me how Gregor fares. I’ve been terribly worried.”
“He is sitting up, chéri, and his appetite has returned.” Her mother propelled her in the gatehouse’s direction. “The doctor expects him to make a full recovery.”
Before disappearing underneath the arched entrance, Isobel tossed a glance over her shoulder. The woundedness in her gaze lanced Yancy, rapier sharp. Pure gibberish, all her proclamations of indifference. She was no more immune to him than he to her.
Sethwick, Harcourt, and Sir Hugh approached.
Yancy pulled his attention from the gatehouse and the intriguing woman within.
“I shall have them locked in the dungeon until you’re ready to set out for London.” Sethwick motioned to MacHardy and his entourage. His keen gaze roved the bailey. “Do you want me to send a contingent of my men as escorts or will you send a courier to White Hall requesting English soldiers journey here?”
Sethwick remained reserved and none too pleased with him. Perhaps Sethwick’s latter suggestion was borne more of his desire to see Y
ancy remain at Craiglocky and make an honest woman of his sister than a desire to be helpful.
Nevertheless, Yancy rather liked the idea.
The trip to London would take at least three days, another to gather the soldiers, and then three more to return to Craiglocky. He would have another week, possibly a mite more to win Isobel’s favor.
God shaped the entire world and all of creation in seven days. In comparison, Yancy’s feat of winning a wife should be simple as buttering bread.
If wishes were horses.
A blast of damp air heralded another approaching gale. Yancy rested his hands on his hips and made a slow, thorough sweep of the bailey with his gaze. A trio of speckled hens cackled and fluffed their feathers before scurrying to their coop for the night.
Most of the clan members had retreated into their homes after Isobel disappeared inside the keep. A few lingered outdoors, chatting. Others went about completing their evening tasks. A pair of swarthy-skinned grooms led several horses to the stables, while Sethwick’s kinsmen corralled MacHardy and his riffraff.
Yancy rubbed his bristled jaw. A bath and shave topped his list of priorities. “Isobel said someone at the keep helped the Blackwalls.”
“The devil, you say?” Sethwick’s black brows swooped downward in outrage. He sent a stern glance about the courtyard.
A scowl creased Sir Hugh’s craggy features, as he too surveyed the square. “Did she have any idea who?”
Yancy shook his head. “No, at least she didn’t say if she did, but we hadn’t an opportunity to discuss it.”
They’d been too busy fleeing for their lives. “Isobel did mention she saw two travellers with the curs who abducted her. And I met a tinker in the forest, outside Dounnich House.”
Sethwick’s gaze shot to his. “The woman and children rescued from the Blackhalls were also travellers, Balcomb Faas’s children.”
“Yes, he’s the man I sent to find you.” Yancy rubbed his nape, the muscles stiff from the couple of hours he’d spent sleeping on the cottage’s uncomfortable floor. “I believe someone in that tribe is our connection.”
Nodding slowly, Sethwick narrowed his gaze at the gypsies gathered near the stables. “I shall question the travellers in the morning. Right now, all I want is a hot bath, something decent to eat, and to spend some time with my wife and son.”
“I’ll second that. Not the wife and son.” Harcourt, silent until now, shuddered theatrically. “But the food and bath sound marvelous. I wouldn’t say no to a finger’s worth or two of Scotch or cognac and a bracing cup of coffee either.”
Finger’s worth or two?
Yancy would need an entire bottle to get a wink of sleep tonight. Visions of Isobel naked in his arms had tantalized him the entire day. His loins contracted. Again. Riding had been like sitting on a pouch of granite that repeatedly pounded his nether regions.
Maybe he’d make that a cold bath, or better yet, he would strip naked and soak in the loch until his swollen flesh hung puckered and limp.
Harcourt, his eye more discolored than earlier, yawned.
Yancy gestured at the bruise. “You must tell me how you came by that. It’s a beauty. Some hamfisted behemoth must have caught you off guard.”
Sethwick and Sir Hugh let loose with hearty guffaws.
Harcourt dredged up a feral scowl and attempted to straighten his hopelessly wrinkled coat. “I shall tell you—when a woman sits in Parliament.”
Giving them another irritated glare, he marched to the keep, Sethwick and Sir Hugh chuckling at his retreating form.
Yancy pulled his ear. “You must tell me what is so amusing about Harcourt’s, er, unfortunate visage.”
Sethwick shook his head, an outlandish grin on his face. “No, the story is his to tell.”
“If His Grace ever be getting over the humiliation.” Sir Hugh’s shoulder quivered with mirth once more.
Sethwick’s men ushered MacHardy and his cohorts past.
“Think he knows who the collaborator here is?” Yancy jerked his thumb at the sneering Scot.
Sethwick turned and examined MacHardy before his gaze rested on a few gypsies scurrying into the stables. “I would bet on it.”
Eyes heavy from lack of sleep, and bone-tired, Yancy accompanied Sethwick and Sir Hugh to the gatehouse.
“Welcome home, sirs.” Usually stoic, a beaming Fairchild greeted them enthusiastically at the door. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering baths and dinner trays for you.”
He directed his attention to Yancy. “Lord Ramsbury, two correspondences arrived for you during your absence. I had them placed in your chamber.”
“Thank you.” Prinny no doubt, squawking about Yancy’s resignation. Too blasted bad. The Regent would to have to find another War Secretary. Yancy had an heir to beget.
An hour later, having bathed and eaten a hearty meal in his bedchamber, he sat before the roaring fire nursing his third glass of Scotch since dinner.
Clothed in an emerald brocade banyan trimmed at the collar and wrists in black velvet, he stretched his legs before him and wiggled his toes, grateful to be free of his boots. He let his eyelids flutter shut, dual mantels of fatigue and liquor jumbling his mind.
He cracked an eye open, taking in the turned down bed.
No. Too much effort to walk that far.
Maybe he would sleep right here. His gaze lit upon the short stack of missives placed atop the cumbersome night table. None bore the Regent’s telltale gold-trimmed, beribboned stationery. Who had written then? Was something afoot at Bronwedon Towers or Yancy’s house in Mayfair?
He yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. The letters could wait. He’d deal with them in the morning. If the matter had been urgent, a messenger would have been sent.
Yancy took a hearty sip of the spirit despite being a trifle disguised already. He’d eaten little for days and had indulged in a generous glass prior to dining and several more since. His thoughts kept turning to Isobel, a revolving cadence of frustration, adoration, and confusion.
The letters drew his consideration once more.
His curiosity wouldn’t let him ignore the confounded things. Heaving a sigh, he rose. The room wavered for a dizzying moment.
“I’m half-sprung.” He chuckled and after a mocking salute with his nearly empty glass, finished the Scotch.
Turquoise eyes swirled to the forefront of his mind as he crossed the Axminster carpet patterned in rich shades of brown and beige.
“Better plan on drinking the whole damned bottle.”
Julia Cambrill’s sultry, doe-like eyes suddenly plowed into his brain, much like a runaway carriage tumbling off a cliff. And about as welcome. The familiar humiliation thoughts of Julia usually brought failed to rear its ugly head. She couldn’t compare to Isobel in either appearance or in his affections.
Without a jot of regret, Yancy shoved her image aside.
He picked up the two letters atop and squinted to read the words, deuced difficult to do when foxed. The first was from Bronwedon’s steward. A quick perusal revealed the man had at last acquired a villa in Spain Yancy had visited and become enamored of while on his grand tour years before.
The second bore Cecily’s spiraling strokes. He held the paper between his thumb and forefinger as if pinching a long-dead rodent’s tail. He eyed the letter with distaste. Cecily correspondences seldom bore good news.
Damned curiosity.
He cracked the seal and scanned the short missive. “Bleeding hell.”
Evidently, Matilda and the vicar’s pimply-faced son had been dallying. Caught coupling in the conservatory by none other than Lady Clutterbuck—one of the haut ton’s most notorious gossips—a frantic Cecily begged Yancy to bestow a substantial dowry on Matilda to entice the cur to marry the chit.
Ramsbury, you’ve always shown Matilda the greatest kindness and respect, much like that of an adored older brother.
Please, if you can find it in your heart to bestow a generous dowry on her, so that she might marry and escape the scandal to some small degree, I shall be forever grateful, as I know would Matilda.
Yancy snorted.
Doing it up a bit brown, aren’t you, Cecily, especially with that adored older brother balderdash?
She’d been shoving her niece beneath his nose for years, hoping Yancy would marry the chit. He had long suspected the girl wasn’t Cecily’s niece at all, but rather her illegitimate daughter. They bore too great a resemblance to one another.
Nonetheless, he would do as Cecily asked in a heartbeat if it meant he wouldn’t have Matilda underfoot. She undressed him with her eyes whenever he chanced to be in the same room as she.
Most discomfiting since he hadn’t regarded her as anything more than a bothersome child. She’d probably seduced the poor sot— had his trousers circling his ankles and his cock in her palm before he knew what she was about.
Now, if he could only rid himself of Cecily’s troublesome presence. If he married, he could banish his stepmother to the dower house or send her on an extended holiday to the continent.
Yawning, he tossed the letter onto the bed, and after stretching, sauntered back to the fireplace’s warmth. Yancy poured the last of the Scotch—scarcely more than a swallow. He took one, quick swig, downing the amber liquid.
He glared at the empty bottle.
Won’t do at all.
A swift glance at the mantel clock had him donning his trousers. Likely everyone was abed at half past midnight. However, venturing below stairs, his long shanks bared for all to see, was beyond the pale, even for him.
After tucking his feet into a pair of slippers, he nabbed a candleholder and marched to the door. Sethwick’s study boasted a sizable assortment of first-rate spirits.
Virtue and Valor: Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Page 20