by Paula Quinn
“Sebastian,” Bess said, “tell him about Malcolm Grant.”
Emma had had enough of this and made a sound much like a snort. It drew the baron’s attention.
“Do you know a Malcolm Grant, Miss Grey?”
She breathed. At her sides, hidden in the folds of her skirts, her fingers trembled. Saying no was the obvious answer. She had a feeling the baron was expecting the obvious. “Oui, I do know him. He’s a frequent patron here who thinks he fancies me but is only curious about bedding a blind girl.”
“He killed Andrew Winther,” Bess told the baron next.
Emma laughed. “That’s absurd; Grant is never sober. He couldn’t shoot the trunk of a tree if he was sitting under it. This is absurd. Bess will say anything to find favor with a man and procure for herself a new and better life than the one at Fortune’s Smile. I wouldn’t trust her ‘help’ were I you. Tell him, Harry.” Her brother had remained ominously quiet since the baron arrived. He remained so now.
She could almost hear the baron thinking over what she just said. Finally, he spoke. “Sebastian, is this true?”
Nothing for a moment or two, then, “Yes, ’tis true.”
Emma was surprised and relieved that he lied for her.
Bess spat an oath at him. Sebastian’s brother made a low sound in his throat.
“Bastian,” he snarled, “twice she told you what to say to me and now she curses you and you do nothing. How many times did you take her to your bed?”
“Oliver. Cease this.”
“You care for her.” Oliver Winther laughed, a vacant sound void of mirth or mercy. “When will your heart stop bleeding for these needy bitches, brother?”
Emma heard the sound of a dagger leaving its sheath. She knew immediately what was happening. And it was her fault! “No!” she cried out as the baron jammed the blade deep into Bess.
Sebastian’s shout boomed through the halls and Emma’s head, almost bringing her to her knees.
Finally Bess’s body hit the ground. She was dead.
“How the hell could you trust a whore, Bastian?” he said to Sebastian while his younger brother knelt over Bess’s body. “And what’s more, to think that I’d trust her as well. One day you will learn.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Cailean watched the new guests of Fortune’s Smile from the shadows. So, this was Oliver Winther, the man Harry was so terrified of. It explained why Grey hid in the shadows now. Cailean had to admit: the baron bore resemblance to something unholy. He was tall and broad shouldered, with long elegant limbs and a slow, determined gait. He wore a coat, fashioned masterfully in animal hide, the hem reaching his dusty boots, the collar lined with ermine and stiff about his shoulders and neck. His hair was shaved close to his scalp, like pale gold dust. Pale, pitiless eyes surveyed the dining hall and the entryway to the parlor, his mouth curved into a sinuous smirk mostly aimed at Emma.
Twice Cailean moved to go to them but Alison pulled him back. John Burroughs would identify him. So what? He could take them all on. He shouldn’t be hiding in the shadows like some frightened lad.
His eyes flicked to Fletcher. What the hell was he doing with the Baron of Newcastle? Cailean would find out, and then kill him.
How was he going to warn Malcolm?
Mary joined them and Newcastle laughed like a self-made god chuckling at the mere humans around him.
While Narcissus gloated in himself, Cailean looked to Emma. Och, how his feet ached to go to her, for his brother’s sake and for his good, and for his own, as well.
He owed Emma much. So did Malcolm and their kin when they saw the happy man Malcolm had finally become. If the baron meant to stop any of that, Cailean would kill him. He wouldn’t hide in the damn corners!
“Cailean, please, my beloved.” Alison clung to him when the tension in his muscles was about to burst. “Please don’t go,” she cried softly. “Don’t leave me in this world without you.”
He remembered the first night he saw her bathed in russet firelight. A flame brushing across him and stirring emotions he hadn’t thought capable of feeling again. Emma may have saved his life, but Alison brought him back from the dead. “I willna’ go, lass. Dinna’ cry. I willna’ leave ye.”
He kissed her head and watched Bess step up to the baron. Did he just hear someone say brother? Was Bess telling him about Malcolm? When he heard her tell Winther that Malcolm killed Andrew, Cailean swore and wiped his brow.
When Emma lied about Malcolm the drunken patron, Cailean could only admire her control and strength. She’d do nicely in Camlochlin.
Cailean didn’t breathe when the baron turned icy on Bess. He didn’t expect Winther to stab her. He quieted Alison and held her close as Bess’s body hit the floor.
Cailean should have expected Emma to try to help. She took a step forward, her hands held out before her.
Cailean didn’t know what she might do, or if the murdering bastard would try to kill her next.
Alison didn’t have time to stop him. Before he had time to think or remember the words he’d spoken to her a few moments ago, he ran from the shadows and from Alison’s side and flung his own dagger at the baron. His blade missed its target when John Burroughs, seeing what Cailean meant to do, leaped in front of his lord and took the dagger in the guts. His body slammed into the baron’s, and both men went down.
Cailean swooped in and dragged his sword from its sheath. He raised it high and brought it down in a blow that would rid the land of a monster.
Another blade smashed into his, stopping its full descent. Cailean looked up from his hilt and into Sebastian Fletcher’s eyes.
“Cailean, cease this now before you kill another one of my brothers. Although, I must admit, I’d like to kill him myself right now.”
“What?” Cailean asked utterly confused while one of the men beneath him moved. “Yer brother?”
Something hit his head hard: the hilt of a sword, the handle of a pistol? He fell to the ground and felt his consciousness fade. He held on. He saw a figure standing over him; his face was blurry but his eyes weren’t.
Oliver Winther leaned over him and may have smiled. “You just ended your own life and it’s a true pity. You’re courageous.”
Cailean didn’t remember anything after the man kicked him in the guts, except mayhap, Emma’s scream.
“Don’t kill him, my lord!”
Emma knew she was taking an enormous risk to reach out her hand—covered in Bess’s blood—and touch the baron’s sleeve to stop him, especially since he’d just murdered Bess where she stood. But Emma would have done anything to stop him from killing Cailean.
“Spare him! I beg you,” she pleaded.
“You beg for his life?” the baron asked her, stilling his hand against Cailean a third time. “Why? Who is he?”
She paused, not wanting to give his real name and not knowing what else to say.
“Cailean Fletcher.” Sebastian spoke for her while he hurried to John’s side.
Oh, she was so angry with him. He’d betrayed them all. He’d come to the brothel to get information about his brother’s death. He’d gotten what he needed and then sent for his murderous brother. But he’d lied for her. Twice now. Why?
“He travels alone,” Sebastian lied. “Oliver, John needs attention. Let Miss Grey have a look at him.”
Oliver chuckled. “Bastian, Miss Grey is blind.”
Emma didn’t want to help John. She didn’t want to practice her medicine on anyone who would likely turn on her later and burn her alive. But if she didn’t help John, she couldn’t help Cailean. “I may be able to do something,” Emma offered, desperate. “Don’t kill Mr. Fletcher and I will do what I can for your commander.”
“You ask much of me,” the baron said to her.
“I offer much in return,” she replied. “Unless you want him to die.”
He laughed and still didn’t move to see about the man who’d saved his life. She didn’t think he’d go for the deal.
With a sigh of relief, she accepted his offering and took his arm. He was taller than she expected, with barely an ounce of fat on his arm. He led her to his commander in silence.
The instant he released her, she went to her knees and examined John Burroughs’s wound. She’d rather be tending to Cailean. How bad were his injuries?
“Is Cailean awake?” she whispered to Sebastian.
“No.”
She needed to get to him.
“How could you do this to us, Sebastian? I thought you a friend.”
“I am,” he assured her quietly while the baron made his way across the hall. “I didn’t send for him, Emma. Someone else did.”
“Who?” she asked. Who would betray them all like this?
“Harry Grey!” the baron called out. “Come out of the shadows. We have unfinished business to discuss!”
No. “No,” Emma breathed. “Not my brother.” She swiped a tear from her eye. “Not Harry.”
“I’m sorry,” Sebastian whispered.
She shook her head and rose to her feet. “Harry?” she called out. “Harry! Answer me!”
“Emmaline,” her brother’s shaky voice scratched across her ears. “I had to. He threatened to kill us all and burn the brothel if I didn’t do as he said. If I didn’t…”
John Burroughs groaned.
“Emma.” Sebastian stood and leaned in to speak in her ear. “Will John recognize Cailean when he awakens?”
Oui, he would. Cailean would be the next to die in this hall. She had to put Harry’s betrayal out of her mind and concentrate on keeping John asleep.
She reached for the vials of herbs she kept hidden in her skirts but the baron’s cool voice stopped her.
“What do you think you’re doing, Miss Grey?”
“Making certain he has less pain and sleeps through my ministrations.”
“He doesn’t need to sleep,” Winther insisted. “He needs to be on a horse and ready to leave in—”
“Harry, you bastard.” She couldn’t contain her anger, her heartbreak. “You’ve always been a selfish son of a—”
“Your brother told me you are a lady, Miss Grey,” Oliver Winther said. “Are you not?”
“Why?” she asked. “Does being a whore make one less of a woman? Someone easier to kill?”
“No, one is easy to kill when they attempt to use my brother for her own gain. You said yourself I shouldn’t trust her.”
“I didn’t tell you to kill her,” Emma retorted. “But feel free to do what you wish to Harry.”
She refused to think of her brother ever again. She wouldn’t shed another tear over him. But even as she vowed it, she knew it wasn’t true.
Where was Alison? Emma wondered, pushing her brother from her thoughts. And Gunter and Brianne? She prayed they were together, somewhere outside waiting to warn Malcolm.
She did what she could for John, dressing his wound and stitching him up on the floor of Fortune’s Smile. She fed him enough roots and herbs to make him sleep for a full twenty-four hours. After she saw to John, she went to Cailean. His temple was swollen and she prayed he didn’t suffer any permanent damage. His pulse was strong and his flesh felt warm. He didn’t wake up after another half hour, or when Oliver ordered Sebastian and the rest of his men to help John to a horse.
Sebastian pulled his brother out of earshot, even for Emma, and asked him what the plan was.
“We’re taking Miss Grey and Mr. Fletcher with us.”
“No, Oliver,” Sebastian insisted. “We don’t need—”
“I do,” his brother interrupted. “She belongs to me now.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Sebastian demanded.
“Her brother gave her to me in exchange for my leniency after Andrew died in his establishment.”
“She’s not a servant, Oliver.”
“I know, but I need her to help me with something and am I not being more than merciful and understanding by allowing that Fletcher fellow to live?”
“What is it?” Sebastian demanded. “What do you need with her?”
“What it is, is none of your concern.”
“No,” Sebastian countered, just as menacingly, “what it should be is your greatest concern. For if you harm her in any way, I’ll leave your presence forever. You will have no choice but to consider me dead because you will never see me alive again.”
Oliver laughed. “Do you think that threat means anything to me at all?”
“Yes, I do,” Sebastian said.
The brothers were quiet for a moment or two, with Oliver giving in first. “Fine. If it means that much to you, I will not touch her, take her to my bed, or harm her in any way. You have my word. But I won’t let you stop me from keeping her. She is vital to the future of Newcastle. I need her help and if I need to kill everyone here to get it, I will.”
“You don’t have to,” Emma said, coming up behind him. “I’ll come with you and help you, my lord,” she announced, silencing everyone. She wasn’t about to let any more of her friends get hurt. “But first, you will tell me what I’m to help you with.”
He moved closer to her and growled back at Gascon. But when he spoke to her, his voice was like a deep, melancholy sigh. “Very well, Miss Grey.” His face dipped, as did his tone, low enough so no one else but she could hear him.
“I’m going blind. I need you to help me see without my eyes.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Malcolm hated having to drag a woman through the rain, on a horse, with barely any light to guide their way. This one didn’t complain, but rather, kept him smiling the entire way. Her name was Leslie and he didn’t find her at The Thieving Prince. The proprietor wouldn’t let any of his girls go for anything less than robbing him. Hence the damn name of the place.
He’d had to travel leagues away, to a small brothel in South Hetton, to get Leslie.
She didn’t put up any kind of resistance when she was informed that she was leaving Hudson House with him. If Fortune’s Smile’s patrons looked like him, she was happy to go.
“Ye’re certain ye won’t be staying there a bit longer?”
He shook his head and smiled. “I wish to go home.”
“With Emmaline Grey, lucky gel.”
They had to talk about something on the trek back, didn’t they? He told Leslie about Emma and Gascon and everyone at the brothel.
“Why couldn’t ye stop at Hudson House that night, instead Fortune’s Smile? Ah well,” she said with a long, regretful sigh, “perhaps I too will meet my Prince Perfect there.”
He laughed. “I’m no’ perfect. Och, nowhere near it.”
“And humble too.”
“Ye’re good fer m’ pride, Leslie.”
“I could be good for more than that, my lord.”
Leslie was quite bonny with stark black hair and soft blue eyes, sweet, humorous, but he wasn’t the least bit interested. He’d been celibate, not disinterested. Emma was the reason. Ah, how good it was to finally understand the tales of love from bards like Finn Grant, his uncle. To know what had made the others give all for the women they loved.
“Here we are.” He stopped his horse and turned to watch Leslie do the same. He’d paid handsomely for the horse, even though they all knew the old mare wasn’t worth much.
Leslie dismounted without any help from him and looked up at the place where she now lived. The rain had finally stopped and the moon cast its pale light on the double row of windows. She saw something and stepped back.
Following her gaze, Malcolm saw the man’s face at the window just before whoever he was moved out of vision.
“Why did ye bring me here? How could ye?”
“What?” Malcolm reached for her but she pulled away, looking afraid.
“Ye knew he was here and ye didn’t tell me.”
/> “Who is he? D’ye know him?” Was she mad? Is that why Will Burnet gave her up so easily?
“Oliver Winther. The Baron of—”
Malcolm’s heart accelerated rapidly. No! She was mistaken. A trick of the light. “That was Oliver Winther in the window?” he asked again to be sure.
“Aye, ’twas him fer certain.”
He freed his sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. The terror rushing through his veins was almost paralyzing. Was the infamous madman inside with Emma? Cailean? Had he hurt them?
“Ye don’t ferget when ye’ve slept with the devil.”
Hell! It was Oliver Winther. He’d come and Malcolm wasn’t here. “I didna’ bring ye here to him,” Malcolm vowed to her. “He’s inside with…” He didn’t finish. “I must save them. Take m’ horse and go.”
“Yer friends are likely already dead. Ye should come with—”
He left her there with his horse and hers, and disappeared around the house. She could have been wrong. It was dark, with only the light of the moon to capture a glimpse of the devil himself.
He came around to the kitchen door and tried to open it. Locked. Thankfully, his mother, Mairi MacGregor, had taught him how to pick locks.
The inside was quiet. Too quiet. It made the beats of his heart boom through his head like battle drums reaching a crescendo. There were no sounds of lovemaking coming from any of the rooms upstairs. No patrons. It was possible, but improbable. Where was Cailean? Harry? Gunter?
He moved through the kitchen and the dining hall cautiously, making certain there were no other Winthers hiding in the shadows.
He moved toward the parlor but his boot kicked something soft. The ground opened up and yanked at his stomach until he felt sick. He looked down at the body, his breath suspended by the terror that it was Emma.
Bess. He felt little relief in her death because anyone else could appear, just as cold, around any corner. He kneeled at her side and felt her skin. She’d been dead for a few hours now.
He didn’t want to find the woman he loved or his brother dead. He didn’t think he would recover from that.
But this was battle. No opponent would ever find him running from a fight. If he found his loved ones dead, he would do what needed to be done.