by Tarah Scott
She blinked harder, her breath coming in heavy spurts, and looked at the empty space beside her on the bed. She raised a hand, unable to endure any longer the shaft of sunlight that dove in a relentless stream through the window and directly across her line of sight. Turning her head aside, she groped at her bodice to find the chemise she had worn under her dress was in one piece. She hazarded a glance at the foot of the bed and saw that the nightgown that had been laid out for the wedding night lay crumpled in a corner of the bed.
What had happened last night? The arrival at Brahan Seer, the wedding, the reception, her memory faltered—Kiernan, he had come to the bridal chamber, they drank brandy together. Phoebe scrambled back so that the sunlight no longer fell over her, and she looked about the room. There, on the chair, lay her dress, no doubt a mess that would need ironing, but still intact.
She had desired no groom, the memory of Adam’s death still too recent, the horror of his blood on her hands, too fresh to want the touch of a man. Yet, she had managed, nonetheless, to give herself over far more gladly than was seemly, and no groom had been needed! Heat flooded her cheeks. The memory of Kiernan’s grasp tightening as he gave her the kiss that made them man and wife came to mind. No! She had not wanted him. Yet, again, came the recollection of his tall frame, blue eyes stark against swarthy skin, and black hair that had gone uncut. The muscled flesh of his legs visible between his kilt and boots. Phoebe balled a hand into a fist and hit the pillow on the side of the bed as hard as she could.
“Oh, Adam,” she cried, “I am no friend. To the bitter end, I am no friend.”
She threw herself on the pillow and cried.
It was ten o’clock before Phoebe made an appearance downstairs. She had considered staying in bed—the pounding in her head caused by the overindulgence of brandy last night enough to keep her buried beneath the covers—but she realized waiting would only make facing her husband and his family all the more difficult. To her relief, none of the MacGregors she wished to avoid were in the great hall.
“Marcus has gone to the village,” Winnie told her as she directed her in a chair at the kitchen table. “Anabele,” Winnie called to one of the maids, “fetch a cup of tea for Lady Ashlund.”
Phoebe placed a hand over the housekeeper's, “You're an angel, Winnie, and, please, Phoebe will do.”
The housekeeper grinned. “Aye,” she said and seated herself at the table. “Elise is about somewhere in the keep.”
Phoebe nodded.
Winnie hesitated. “Your husband, well,” she gave Phoebe a sheepish look, “he isn't here.”
A rush of relief flooded Phoebe, then she wondered where he was “Where is he?”
“Up north is all I know. He doesn't confide in me.”
Neither does he confide in his wife, Phoebe thought. Then her heart sank. So here she was, married to a man who was quite possibly a traitor. Was this how her mother had felt?
Phoebe had noticed the interested looks she'd gotten from the women as she sat with Winnie, but the girl who just left had stared unabashedly.
"Have I done something?" Phoebe asked Winnie.
The housekeeper laughed. "They're curious."
She should have known. "Curious as to how the marquess kidnapped me?"
"Aye. His antics surprised even Marcus this time. Kiernan is an unusual man."
Phoebe had to agree.
"He's the most English of the MacGregors, which makes him too proper at times."
"Too proper?" A tremor rippled through her stomach at recollection of the night Kiernan had caught her in his bedchambers. He'd been anything but proper.
"Aye," Winnie said. "But he loves a good joke and just can't help getting himself into trouble." She grinned. "You're proof of that."
Phoebe had to admit to being more than a little curious. "Am I the worst trouble he's gotten into?"
"I would say so, but he doesn't seem to mind one bit." Phoebe's cheeks warmed and Winnie laughed again. "I imagine you gave him a dose of his own medicine."
If that were true, she wouldn't be in the Highlands married to him.
"But ye needn't worry," Winnie went on. "I'm sure he will settle down now that he's married."
Settle down? Wasn't that what he expected of her? He said she would have the freedom to do as she pleased, but he also wanted children. Kiernan's sons would be magnificent. The face of a dark haired, blue-eyed boy arose in her mind.
"And he's a Highlander through and through," Winnie said. "He understands his duty."
"Duty?" Phoebe repeated.
"Aye, he learned first hand as a young boy when they watched Marcus' cousin hang for attempted murder."
The vision evaporated. "The duke has a cousin who was hanged for murder?" Phoebe blurted.
Winnie nodded. "The son of his laird raped a girl in the village and David demanded he be brought before the magistrate. The earl denied his son was guilty, so David tried forcing him to go. Of course, the earl then called in the magistrate and accused David of trying to kill the viscount. Marcus was ready to lead a revolt, but his father forbade it. There was enough blood being shed by the feud between us and the Campbells. Cameron knew the king wasn't in the mood for another MacGregor war."
"If he was innocent, surely something could have been done," Phoebe said.
"He may not have been innocent by their standards."
Phoebe recalled Kiernan's words the day they rode into Brahan Seer. “This is untamed country, far outside the reach of traditional law. The nineteenth century won’t ride to our rescue any quicker than the Queen's men will.”
Had England failed her Scottish subjects in this case?
"Either way," Winnie said, "by the time Cameron got wind of it, David was all but hung. Marcus took Kiernan with him and they said goodbye to David."
Phoebe started. "The duke forced his son to watch?"
"Kiernan was young, but you can rest assured he won't forget the price MacGregors pay."
"No," Phoebe murmured. "He won’t forget."
What better reason to commit treason than knowing that one's country won't defend you? Wasn't that what had happened to her father? He had given his life in service of his country, and had been betrayed by the very people who appointed him protector. Phoebe was startled by the unexpected memory of the duke's words when Kiernan came to the library the day she had told him of her father. “Your future wife was just telling me of her father's involvement with Arthur Thistlewood. You wouldn't remember, you were a boy then, but Thistlewood was found guilty of high treason and hanged in 1820."
Was it so strange that he remembered Arthur Thistlewood with such clarity after all these years? Perhaps not. The days after the Cato Street Conspiracy, the populace had demanded Arthur Thistlewood and his cohorts' heads—and had gotten them. The duke had shown surprise when Kiernan commented that Phoebe knew something of assassinations—that, she thought, should have given the duke pause, but he hadn't missed a beat, damn him. Neither had Kiernan, she realized. She'd forgotten, but when Kiernan asked what her father had to do with Arthur Thistlewood, and she answered that he was one of the men accused of taking part in the assassination attempt, recognition had flickered in his eyes.
Had he made the connection between Phoebe Wallington and Mason Wallington? If so, why not say something? But the answer was too obvious. Her heart beat faster. Kiernan recognized the name. Just as the duke did, she realized with a start. When Phoebe told him her name, he'd been surprised. He'd passed his surprise off as having known a murderer with the name Wallington, but that had been a lie. Both father and son knew who her father was.
"Forgive me, Winnie," Phoebe said, "but would you mind terribly if I excused myself? I’m rather tired.”
“I'm not surprised,” she clucked. “Go on up to your room and I’ll have Anabele bring some lunch.”
“Cold chicken and perhaps some bread would be nice, or anything of that sort.” Anything that would withstand a long ride.
The housekeeper smiled.
“She’ll be up directly.”
Phoebe went first to the library. As hoped, she quickly located a map of the Highlands. She shoved the map under her arm and checked the corridor. Seeing it was empty, she hurried to the room she'd shared with Kiernan last night. She had only just arrived when a knock sounded at the door.
Phoebe put the map into the armoire, then called, “Come in.” The door opened and Anabele entered carrying a tray of food. “Good morning, Anabele. Set the tray there, please.”
The girl deposited the tray on the secretary.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said.
The girl turned to leave, but halted and said, "What's this?"
Phoebe turned as she scooped up something off the floor.
Anabele turned, a sheath of folded paper in hand. "It has your name on it, my lady." The maid hurried to Phoebe and gave her the note.
"Thank you," Phoebe said, and she left.
Phoebe unfolded the note and caught sight of Kiernan's signature at the bottom.
Phoebe,
Forgive me for leaving the day after our wedding. Unfortunately, I have business that can't wait. I will return in two or three days. I promise to make this up to you.
Your husband,
Kiernan
Phoebe stared at the words your husband and cursed the flutter in her stomach. In five years as a spy, she hadn't gotten into one speck of trouble. Inside of a fortnight of meeting Kiernan MacGregor, she'd become entangled with traitors and murderers, and was married to a man who was likely the ringleader. A sudden desire to cry rushed to the surface. She swiped at the moisture in the corner of one eye. Kiernan was off taking care of his business. She intended to do the same.
Phoebe refolded the note, crossed to the door and quietly bolted the door, then retrieved the map from the armoire and sat back down at the desk. The map had no index She began searching for the Dornoth Firth, the port John Stafford had referenced in his journal, the port Alistair preferred when he left Scotland for France.
She moved her gaze along the southeastern coast and reached for a biscuit. “Firth of Clyde,” she repeated. Loch after loch passed beneath her gaze, and she grew frustrated as her eye traveled up the full length of the east coast and along the north. Then she found it. “Dornoth Firth!” she exclaimed. And there was Tain, south of the channel.
Phoebe searched far to the south. She groped for the tea cup and, finding it, lifted it to her lips. She followed the clan names down the map; Menzies, Campbell, Macnab, MacGregor. She took another sip of tea and calculated the ride to be two days. Longer than she'd hoped, which gave her concern over traveling the mountainous terrain alone. She would have to hire an escort for at least part of the way, and a quick look told her Perth was a large enough city to procure a reputable escort. If she left her escort in Inverness, the trip from there to Tain was only a few hours.
She glanced at the clock on the desk. Eleven thirty. Late in the day to begin such a journey, but should she wait, her new relatives would likely descend upon her. She lifted the lid that covered the plate on her tray. Cold chicken, just as she’d requested. Perfect for a long trip and, as expected, enough for three meals. Phoebe couldn’t help a smile. Winnie was a good soul.
Within twenty minutes, Phoebe had retrieved the tower percussion pistol she'd hidden in her trunk, and had bundled the remaining food, then hid each in the pockets of her dress. After another quick study of the map, she completed her ensemble with a voluminous cloak. Phoebe took a deep breath and opened the door. Through the winding corridors of Brahan Seer, she headed for the seldom traveled front entrance. There, she slipped out and strolled across the courtyard, praying none of her new relatives would appear.
As she had done the last time she’d been at Brahan Seer, Phoebe walked down the hill, but skirted the fringes of the village. Winnie said the duke was in the village, and Phoebe held her breath until she reached the stables and found them unattended. She located blanket, saddle and tack, and within fifteen minutes, had saddled a gelding. Phoebe stopped even as she lifted a booted foot into the stirrup. Her husband was gone, he wouldn't miss her, but the duke and duchess were sure to sound the alarm upon discovering her absence.
Phoebe looked down the length of the stables. Opposite the stalls was a door, slightly ajar. She hurried to the tack room and slowly pushed the door open. As hoped, the stable master’s office. Inside she found a quill. Notes, bills and miscellaneous papers were stacked in two neat piles on the left side of the desk. Phoebe rifled through the papers until she found one that was blank on the bottom half. She creased the paper, placed the crease on the edge of the desk, and neatly tore the empty half from the rest of the sheet.
She sat at the desk’s chair and scribbled a note.
Elise,
Forgive my leaving like this, but I know you and the duke will not agree to let me go. I believe you will understand that I can't let Adam’s killer go unpunished. I am returning to London to deal with the matter myself. I believe that the longer I wait, the harder it will be to catch the murderer.
My marriage to Lord Ashlund will give me immunity against any allegations, so please rest easy in my safety. I will send word as soon as I arrive to Shyerton Hall.
Yours,
Phoebe
She folded the note and wrote the duchess’ name on the outside then leaned it against the ink well and quit the modest office.
That special sense that John Stafford wrote of, that sense that every investigator must have to survive, had roared to life in Phoebe, and she knew that the trail to her father—to her husband—were somehow connected. Thanks to John Stafford, she also knew that trail began with Lord Alistair Redgrave in Tain, Scotland.
“How does your future husband feel about your quest?” Adam had asked the night he was murdered.
Phoebe planned to find the answer to that question.
*****
Phoebe caught sight of the tiny Achilty Inn up ahead. A shopkeeper in Orrin had recommended the inn as the last one until Tain. She had left behind in Inverness the two men she'd hired on the recommendation of the minister at St. Paul's church in Perth. This, she had reasoned, was a safer course of action than taking a recommendation from the local magistrate, who was far more likely to be just the person the duke would contact if he was on her trail. Tain was but three or four hours away. An easy ride, but her horse was fagged and it was nearly ten at night.
Obtaining lodgings proved easy. Highlanders, Phoebe reflected, were a friendly lot. She recalled the night Kiernan had been shot, and the English innkeeper’s wife when they sought lodging. Phoebe received no such shabby treatment from the Scottish innkeeper's wife, who now bustled her up to a room.
“Ye look fair starved,” the woman said, glancing over her shoulder at Phoebe as she opened the door to a room.
Phoebe followed her into the modest room.
“Och,” the woman said. “That John. He made the fire, but didn't have sense enough to close the window.” She went to the open window and tugged it closed. She turned her attention to the bed. “What brings you all the way out here?” she asked as she drew back the blankets.
“Forgive me, madam,” Phoebe replied, “I know it’s highly irregular for a woman to travel alone.”
The woman looked at Phoebe, not a trace of apprehension or recrimination on her face, and smiled.
Phoebe managed a blush. “You see,” she stammered and looked down at the floor, “I am newly married—”
“Well, now,” the woman interjected as she lifted a pillow and began fluffing it.
Phoebe looked up at her. “And, well, you see, my husband went away on business. He had not expected to be gone long, but it’s been a month now, and…well, I miss him terribly.”
“Aye,” the woman clucked, “and rightly so.”
“So, I decided, if Muhammad won’t come to the mountain, I’d bring the mountain to Muhammad.”
The woman paused in fluffing the pillow, a confused look on her face.
�
��If he can’t come to me,” Phoebe offered gently, “I’ll go to him.”
The woman’s face brightened. “A fine wife,” she said, then frowned. “But do you no’ think it’s a bit dangerous traveling on your own like this?”
“Oh, well, I didn’t start out on my own,” Phoebe said, stripping off her gloves. “I had a servant with me. You’ll laugh.” She tossed her gloves on the chair that sat before the crackling fire. “The foolishness of men.”
The woman’s eyes brightened.
Phoebe giggled. “You see, he fell from his horse and broke his leg.”
“No!” the woman exclaimed, her eyes widening.
Phoebe nodded vigorously. “And my husband is forever worrying I’ll hurt myself.” She laughed again. “Can you imagine? It was I who had to save him.”
The woman laughed. “Aye, lass, that’s often the way it is. They think it’s them who saves us, but who is it that saves them from themselves?” She snorted, adding, “The weaker sex,” and both women laughed.
“Well,” Phoebe went on, “it was no more dangerous for me to continue on, then it was to turn back.”
The woman’s expression turned more serious. “Surely, you could have gotten another escort, though?”
Phoebe affected a look of abashment. “Do you think I should have? Oh dear.” She sat on the chair, crushing her gloves. “Jared is sure to be angry with me.”
“Now, now,” the woman said, and waddled to Phoebe’s side. “You did what ye thought was best. And, you’re all right, aren’t you?”
“Oh, indeed, I am. Quite well.”
The woman patted Phoebe’s arm. “No harm done, then. But,” she said with a serious look, “you never know who you might meet traveling in these parts.” She gave a succinct nod. “We’ll find you someone to go the rest of the way with you.”
“Can you spare someone?”
“Well, perhaps we can send John.” She looked thoughtful. “I’ll ask my husband.”