by Tarah Scott
Phoebe shot to her feet. “Even Heddy wouldn't lower herself to such debased actions.”
“Lower herself?” Kiernan laughed, although the sound held none of his characteristic humor. “Heddy, I have seen—”
“By heavens," she burst out. "I am not Heddy.”
“No?” he murmured. When she gave a frustrated growl, he rose. “Well then—" He yanked her against him.
His mouth crashed down on hers and she froze. One arm slipped around her waist while the other cupped her neck. She gasped, but he hugged her closer. His tongue invaded her mouth, the taste of him, shocking and intoxicating. His arm tightened, but the kiss, the thrust of his tongue, softened to a feathery touch. He shuddered, and her heart leapt into a furious rhythm.
His mouth moved slowly against her lips. She became aware of the hard bulge pressing against her abdomen and clutched at his shoulders. Heat streaked from the unexpected throb in her breasts to her stomach, then lower. He abruptly tore his mouth from hers and buried his face in her neck. Phoebe swayed. His low laugh washed warm across her ear and she shivered.
“You temptress,” he breathed. “I understand what Regan sees in you.”
“Just because I borrowed Heddy's coach doesn't mean I am her,” she said through a gulp of air.
Kiernan straightened away from her and stared down at her, eyes intense. “I wonder if Regan would believe me if I swore I didn’t know you're his lover." His gaze slid down her body, and she couldn't find the will to turn away as his eyes lifted again to her face. "You make testing the theory tempting. In fact—"
His fingers tightened on her arms and she realized he intended to test the theory that instant.
Her head swam. A mental picture rose of Kiernan's large hands on her naked breasts, his mouth—Phoebe managed the presence of mind to tug free of his grasp. “I-I care nothing for what Lord Stoneleigh believes.”
Kiernan tweaked a lock of her hair. “I think you do, sweetheart.”
She feared her knees would buckle. By heavens, she had to get away from the man. Despite the shakiness in her legs, Phoebe crossed to the window and stared out at the road leading to the trees in the distance. “What have you done with the prisoners?”
“Prisoners?” The lazy drawl had returned to his voice.
Phoebe turned. “You freed them, didn't you?” But he had said as much a moment ago. He'd been in a rage when Robbie threatened to shoot her, then he had let them go. Why? “You have made yourself a conspirator to an assassination attempt,” she said.
“I had hoped Regan would meet us here," he said, "but I can't wait any longer. I must press north. Connor will be here to see you early this morning. If he says you can ride, we'll travel together.”
How was she going to escape him and get word to Alistair of the plan to assassinate the duchess? Phoebe closed her eyes and rubbed her temples.
“Are you ill, Heddy?”
“There's a good chance I will be.”
“Shall I fetch the chamber pot?”
“Only if you wish me to brain you with it.” She looked at him. “Don't you understand what this means?”
“That you are ill, or that you wish to do me bodily harm?”
“Lord Stoneleigh isn't coming—because I am not Hester.”
“If that is true, when I return, you and I will get better acquainted.”
Her pulse quickened. “It is imperative I return home.”
“And I must continue north,” he replied.
Why force her to go with him? At this point, his attempt to play cupid was dashed. Had he come to doubt she was Heddy? Surely he wasn't serious about getting better acquainted? He'd said he'd planned to secure an introduction at Drucilla’s soirée.
“What is so pressing that you must return to Edinburgh, Heddy?”
She shook her head. “Not Edinburgh, England.”
“England, then?”
“What awaits you in the north?” she said. “You don't strike me as a man displaced from his home.”
“My home is nowhere near the duchess.”
“I see.” Phoebe nodded. “Kidnapping women, stalking robbers in the night, dabbling in murder conspiracies, it is you who suffers a nasty case of ennui.”
“But you have solved that problem, my dear,” he replied.
“Lord Stoneleigh won't appreciate you kidnapping me,” she shot back in desperation. By now her uncle must know she was missing. If he was on following her as he had been she’d eloped with Brandon, Kiernan MacGregor was likely to receive a bullet through his heart.
“So my money isn't enough, then?” Kiernan said.
Phoebe narrowed her eyes. Perhaps he deserved the bullet.
*****
Baron Ty Arlington closed the door to his mother's bedchambers as he entered. She sat on the settee overlooking the small garden in their Carlisle home, and looked up. The smile on her face faltered.
He strode to her, his fury barely held in check. "Where is Phoebe, mother?"
"W-what? How should I know?"
"She's been missing four days. Don't toy with me. I'll wring your beautiful neck, then make sure your precious Clive hangs for your murder."
Her eyes widened. "Ty, I don't know what you mean by Clive—"
"I am well aware you've been spreading your legs for him these last three months," Ty snarled. "Unlike your husband, I am no fool. What did you do with my cousin?"
"We—I—did it for you," she sobbed
Blood roared through his ears. "Did what?"
"You know she won't marry you," his mother rushed on. "We must gain control of her inheritance. If she is dead—"
Ty seized his mother's arm and dragged her to within an inch of his face. "If she dies before I marry her, we won't get a damned thing. There's a stipulation in her mother's will that if Phoebe dies before marrying, her money goes to a distant cousin."
His mother gasped.
"That's right," he said. "Lady Wallington didn't trust us."
"Us? But we never hurt her."
"Only because she had the good grace to die of a fever first." He gave his mother a violent shake that jarred dark curls loose from their pins. "What did you do?"
"Phoebe isn't dead," she got out between sobs, then began to cry harder.
Rage flashed in a blinding light through his brain before her words penetrated. Ty shoved her back onto the couch and she fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it in front of her face. She hesitated.
"Take it," he ordered.
She took the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "You can be so cruel," she said through a dramatic hiccup.
"Like mother like son."
Her head snapped up and her eyes locked onto his.
"Where is she?" he demanded.
"I don't know. Clive said there were two men with her who protected her from him and his men."
"His men? Bloody hell, do you realize I could hang if he tells a single soul what I have planned?"
"Clive would never tell anyone."
"He's a damned coachman. Once he tires of fucking you, he'll find a wealthier woman who's just as bored as you are."
"Ty."
Ty sat down beside her. "Listen carefully, you are to leave Phoebe to me."
"Clive can help."
"No one can help. Now calm yourself. If your husband sees you, he'll demand to know why you've been crying.”
“He would take it for a touch of melancholia.”
Ty gave a disgusted snort. “Twelve years of marriage and he doesn't know you at all.”
"He sees what he wants to see."
There was a rap on the door, then it opened and a young maid entered, a tray of tea in hand. She stopped. "Forgive me, my lady." She gave a small curtsy. "I didn't realize you had company."
"Never mind," Ty said. "Bring the tray."
The girl cast a nervous glance at Lady Albery, but did as instructed. She set the tray on the sideboard. Ty rose and approache
d as she poured the second cup.
She paused and looked up at him. “M-m’lord?” she asked in a whisper.
Ty placed a hand over her fingers, steadying her as she finished filling the cup. "No need to be afraid,” he said softly.
“Y-yes, m’lord,” the maid stammered, then set the pot down and made a hasty exit.
“Really, Ty,” his mother said once they were alone again, “must you have every maid that passes through these doors?”
Ty carried the two cups of tea to the table in front of the settee, and sat down beside her. "Don't meddle in any of my affairs—especially Phoebe. Do you understand?"
"Surely you can find a better prospect than her?"
“Few heiresses are willing to wed a mere baron,” he replied. "And even if I were to find an heiress, few can boast fifteen thousand pounds a year.”
And even fewer had no one left in the world to protect them.
*****
Two towers came into view atop the mountainside to the west. Cool morning air rippled across Phoebe's cloak, tickling her arms. She cast a furtive glance at Kiernan MacGregor. He rode to her left with Mather to her right. Kiernan sat straight in the saddle, his body moving in a fluid motion with the horse, which gave testament to the countless hours he must have spent riding.
A tremor rippled through her. The memory of his kiss rose to the surface as it had a hundred times in the three hours since they'd left the inn. Kiernan wasn't the first man she'd kissed, but he was the first highwayman she'd kissed and—her stomach twisted—the first man she'd suspected of being a traitor. That, however, didn't stop her heart from fluttering with the memory.
For the thousandth time, she cursed her curiosity. Had she stayed in bed last night instead of following Alan Hay, she would halfway back to Edinburgh, where she could warn Alistair of the plan to assassinate the duchess. She would also be far away from Kiernan MacGregor. Though had she not followed Alan Hay, she wouldn’t know about his plan. Either way, her fate had been sealed the moment Kiernan MacGregor appeared in her coach doorway…or perhaps it was his fate that had been sealed. Her attention snagged on the way his trousers hugged his muscled thigh. Phoebe snapped her attention forward.
“Is something wrong, Heddy?”
She shifted her gaze to him.
He was regarding her. “I didn't think to bring a chamber pot with me.”
She scowled. “I have no use for a chamber pot here.”
Mischief lit his eyes. “Not even to brain me with?”
The brute was enjoying himself far too much. She turned her gaze to the castle, now in full view as they crested the hill.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
Phoebe noted the dozen armed men arrayed along the battlements. “This is the nineteenth century, why so many guards?”
Kiernan motioned with his head to the forest that surrounded them. “This is untamed country, far beyond the reach of traditional law. The nineteenth century won’t ride to our rescue any quicker than the Queen's men will.”
She pointed past Mather to the sparkling lake that stretched out in the valley to the east. “What lake is that?”
“Loch Katrine.”
"It's beautiful," she said.
They lapsed into silence. As they rode through the castle gate, three ruddy-faced children shot across the courtyard. Three women walking toward the castle slowed, their attention on Phoebe. She gave a cordial nod and they continued on. No one looked thin or underfed. What shielded these people from the catastrophe that had devastated Alan Hay and his people?
They halted and Mather dismounted. Kiernan slid from the saddle and tossed his reins to Mather. “If you would, Mather,” he said, and came around her horse.
Mather cast her a nervous glance that reminded Phoebe of when she'd told him she wanted help in writing a letter to Kiernan's father. Surely the rogue's father couldn’t be at the castle? Kiernan halted beside her and she looked down at him.
“When will I meet your father?”
He grinned. “He isn't here.”
Of course not. The kidnapper wasn’t about to be so easily caught. “Where is he?”
“In the south.”
Kiernan clasped her waist and lifted her from the horse. He set her down so close that she caught the familiar scent of sandalwood.
His gaze dropped. “That’s a fine dress you’re wearing, Heddy.”
Phoebe looked down to find her breasts nearly spilling over her bodice. She scowled and pulled her cloak more closely about her. "I would have preferred my own dress."
"I think that one suits you just fine.”
She was sure he did think that. In fact, she had a suspicion he was responsible for the fact that the seamstress hadn't been able to finish her gown before they left.
He released her and turned to a man who had stopped behind him. "Johnson, how are you?”
“Well enough.” Johnson nodded. “Daniel wants to see ye.”
“Where is he?”
“The library. Harris is training the new steward and had business with Daniel.”
“Excellent.” Kiernan turned back to Phoebe. “Shall we?” He offered an arm.
Phoebe rolled her eyes and started toward the castle without taking the proffered arm. “How long do you plan on keeping me prisoner?” she asked.
Kiernan fell into step alongside her. “Are you so anxious to be rid of me?”
“Beware your choice of words, sir.”
He laughed. “I sent word to Regan. I expect he'll be here soon.”
“Don't you find it odd he hasn't yet arrived? Has it occurred to you I might be telling the truth?”
“It's my guess that my original message didn't reach him.” Kiernan gave her a serious look. “He is likely frantic with worry. You are, after all, missing.”
Phoebe looked sharply at him.
They had reached a side door of the castle and Kiernan opened it. “After you,” he said, waving her through.
She stepped inside and found herself in a large eating hall. Phoebe stood, transfixed by the variety of weapons mounted along the length of the wall on the far side of the room.
“An arsenal,” she breathed.
“Not quite,” Kiernan said. “Just a few relics we’ve collected over the years.”
Phoebe recalled her father's mention of Arthur Thistlewood’s claim that he could amass fifteen thousand armed men within half an hour. The weapons that covered the wall in front of her were a far cry from fifteen thousand, but if Kiernan MacGregor flouted this small arsenal to the world, how many more weapons had he hidden in the bowels of this castle? Who was Kiernan MacGregor, and why hadn't she heard of so powerful a man? But he'd given her the answer; Brahan Seer was far beyond the reach of traditional law.
“Come along.” Kiernan cupped her elbow and led her toward the kitchen.
They stepped through the doorway into the busy room and a woman Phoebe guessed to be in her seventies looked up from a table in the middle of the room where she sat shelling peas.
“So, ye decided to grace us with your presence?” she said in voice clear for a woman of her advanced years.
“Aye, m’lady.” Kiernan swept a low bow. “I have returned to the nest.”
“Who's that with you?”
He winked at Phoebe. “A friend of Regan’s.”
“Does she have a name or is she like the others?”
Phoebe shot him a questioning look—though she well knew what the others must have been like. Lord Stoneleigh was a well-known rake.
Kiernan shrugged and said, “No, Winnie, she is nothing like the others.”
“Well,” Winnie said, “what is it?”
“What is what?” he asked.
The old woman gave him an exasperated look and Phoebe had the distinct impression her own frustrating experience with this man wasn't unique.
“Her name,” Winnie said. “What is it?”
“My apologies,” he said. “Hester Ballingham, may I present Winnie MacGre
gor.”
Phoebe angled her head. “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Allow me to make a proper introduction. My name is Phoebe Wallington.”
Winnie studied her for a moment, then looked questioningly at Kiernan.
“I told you she wasn't like the others.” Before Phoebe could respond, he said to Winnie, “Heddy will be staying with us until Regan arrives."
"Sally," Winnie called, and a woman kneading bread at the counter turned and wiped her hands as she approached.
"We have a guest," Winnie said when the woman stopped beside her. "See to the guest room on the second floor."
The woman looked at Phoebe. "Would you like a bath, my lady?"
"I would, indeed," Phoebe said, "and Phoebe will do. I am no lady." She cast him a Kiernan a glance, but he stared at the peas Winnie was shelling, his expression akin to that of a man who had struck gold.
CHAPTER SIX
Phoebe startled awake to the sound of footsteps running past her bedchamber door. She threw back the covers and jumped to her feet, reaching the door in three paces. She yanked it open in time to see two women, arms laden with blankets, disappear down the corridor. Phoebe dressed and hurried to the great hall. The room was filled with women racing in with more blankets and tossing them onto an already full table. She dodged a young girl who dashed up the stairs, then headed toward a woman who was pulling blankets from the table and piling them into the arms of another woman.
“What's happened?” Phoebe demanded.
“A fire in the village,” the woman replied tersely.
“My God,” Phoebe exclaimed as the woman with the blankets whirled and headed for the postern door. “Is anyone injured?”
“Two men and a child, but Winnie is tending them.”
“The blankets,” Phoebe said, “they are for the fire?”
“Aye.”
“I’ll help."
“Take these blankets to the village.” The woman grabbed several blankets and shoved them into Phoebe's arms as three other women scooped up armfuls. “Go with them.” She waved Phoebe toward the women who were already hurrying toward the door.
The instant she stepped outside, Phoebe gasped at sight of the red glow in the sky. Thick, dark billows of smoke trailed a haze across the moon. She kept pace with the women across the courtyard. Even before they reached the gate, the smell of smoke assaulted her nostrils and the shouts of men filled her ears. The women hurried through the gate and down the hill at a near run. Phoebe's heart pounded harder at sight of the bucket brigade that led from the well in the middle of the square to the two burning cottages sixty feet away.