The Lady and the Highlander
Page 12
He stopped in the entrance. It was festooned with white velvet curtains held back with black ribbons. On the wall directly in front of the door was a painting of a naked woman spread on a fine Campbell plaid and a pile of furs, her lush red hair splayed around her, hiding as much as it revealed. So did her knowing smile.
“Good evening.”
Iain turned. The woman in the portrait stood before him, fashionably dressed and twenty years older. Even from a distance, the exotic scent of her perfume rose around him like opium.
“I’m looking for a lass,” he said, his tongue thick and slow. He was tired, hadn’t slept for days, needed a hot meal and a bath, and it was all catching up to him. The heat of the house, the scent of perfume made it worse. But he was close to his quarry, and his heart pounded in his breast. He tried to sense Laire MacLeod in this house, tried to picture her spread naked on furs and plaids with a knowing look in her eye . . . He swallowed at the sudden intensity of desire—and worry—that overwhelmed him. He frowned at the woman before him.
She regarded him with amusement, her dark eyes twinkling. “Are you certain?”
“Dark hair, long enough to reach her hips, pale skin, soft eyes,” he heard himself saying. “And lips . . .” he paused. “She’d be new here. Very new.”
The madam’s eyebrows quirked, and her smile deepened.
“I like a man who knows precisely what he wants. We have a number of charming ladies here,” she said blandly, emphasizing the word as she flicked one more glance over his black exterior, his weapons, his unshaven jaw, the snow melting in his hair. He was dripping on her Turkey rug . . . “Perhaps—”
“Her name is Laire,” he said. He shook the purse on his belt, let the woman hear the jingle of silver.
She lowered her gaze, and her lips pursed delicately, as if she were trying to see through the leather of the purse and assess just how much coin was inside.
“I believe I have what you desire. Will you come upstairs?”
She led the way through the tastefully decorated salon, busy with elegant women entertaining well-dressed customers. Ruby wine glistened in crystal glasses, and silver trays full of fruit and sweetmeats adorned sideboards and tables. It all looked quite civilized, a simple soiree and nothing more.
But the conversation stopped as Iain entered. He knew how he looked to these folk—wild, rough, and dangerous, a Highland marauder. He glanced at the fine clothes of the gentlemen, the powdered wigs, the lace and brocade and expensive linen. He’d been one of them once . . . He glanced at each of the women. They looked boldly back, doe-eyed, practiced seductresses, assessing his value, comparing him to the gentlemen already present, and turning away. They assumed he’d be rough in bed, no doubt, and demanding.
Laire MacLeod wasn’t here. He almost sighed with relief. Of course, she wouldn’t accept this life demurely. She’d fight . . . She was probably locked away upstairs, bound and gagged, until she could be induced to cooperate. Iain’s belly tensed as the abbess led him up the stairs, her gown rustling seductively with every step.
“Are you new in Edinburgh, monsieur?”
“No,” he said, and left it there. She glanced over her shoulder at him, but didn’t press.
At the top of the stairs, she turned left and picked up a candle from a low table. Now Iain could hear less civilized noises behind the closed doors they passed, the sounds of sex and lower pleasures than the genteel ones offered below. His ears pricked, listening for Laire’s voice, her muffled cry of help. At the end of the hall, the abbess stopped at a door and knocked softly.
“Wake up, my dear. There’s a gentleman to see you,” she said as she opened the door. The room was dark. Iain held his breath, his hand on the hilt of his dirk, expecting trouble. The abbess glided into the chamber and used the candle in her hand to light others.
He heard someone on the bed stir, heard the ropes creak and the curtain rings slide along the rail in a series of gentle clicks. He saw the spill of dark hair on white shoulders in the half-light. Another candle flared, then another.
“There now. This is Laire,” the abbess said, smiling faintly. “She’s been with us for only a fortnight.”
“Aye, I’m Laire,” the girl on the bed said, but the name stuck on her tongue, unfamiliar. She began to loosen the ribbons of her night rail.
Iain looked at the lass, and she looked at him. Whoever she was, she wasn’t Laire—not his Laire, or rather, the Laire he wanted—the woman he was looking for—he didn’t want her, not in the sense of this place . . . he rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was tired enough to drop where he stood. “I want a bath,” he said to the abbess. “And a meal.”
The abbess glided across the room to pull the bell. “Anything else?”
Iain dropped his pack on the floor, sank into the chair near the bed, and began to pull off his boots. “Nay, that’s all.”
The lass on the bed came across the room to help him, her gown half-open, her smile as practiced as her hands. “You can go,” he said gruffly.
“Go?” she said, her face falling. She glanced at her mistress.
“Is something wrong?” the abbess asked.
“Nay,” he said. “I want a bath, a meal, and a night’s sleep.”
“This is not an inn—” the abbess began, but Iain reached into his purse and took out a handful of coins.
“Will this cover the cost of what I want?”
“Aye,” she said, and took the coins from his outstretched palm. She jerked her head to the girl and followed her toward the door. “My servants will be up shortly with hot water and food. If you should desire anything else—anything at all—just pull the bell.”
When they’d gone, Iain padded to the window in his stocking feet.
He looked out at King James’s Square, dark and snowy. It hadn’t changed much, save for one mansion in the far corner that had burned to the ground, leaving a hole in the elegant symmetry of the square. His grandfather’s house—his house—still stood across from the Pearl, dark, shuttered, and empty. There was still a caretaker, he assumed. He looked at the window of the bedchamber on the third floor. It had been Mairi’s bedroom . . . His gut tightened. She looked up at him before she died, her eyes dark pools of misery in a bloodless face . . .
He turned away abruptly. He unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall. Out of habit, he tucked one dirk under the pillow, and put the other on the nightstand. He unwound his cloak and unbuckled the black leather jack and pulled it over his head.
There was a knock on the door. “Enter,” he called gruffly.
A big male servant carried in a copper tub and set it down. He assessed Iain, took note of the weapons and the leather jack. “Mistress Arabella’s compliments,” he said, and stepped aside to admit three other male servants with buckets of hot water. They poured them into the tub and departed. One returned with a tray bearing a bottle of whisky, a loaf of bread, and a plate of roast fowl.
“D’ye want a lass to assist ye with your bath?” the big man asked, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his broad chest.
Iain met his eyes. “Any new lasses? One that might have come in the last day, not on the job as yet?”
“All our lasses are fresh and healthy, if that’s what you’re askin’, but we haven’t any virgins, if that’s what you’re after.”
It was a small comfort. He tossed the manservant a coin, and the man caught it deftly in midair, pocketed it, and left the room. Iain locked the door behind him.
For a moment he stood in the center of the room and listened to the sounds of the house. If Laire Macleod wasn’t here, where the devil was she? Had she escaped yet again? Either the lass was incredibly canny, or she had the devil’s own luck. Perhaps she’d roused from the drug and convinced her captors to release her, or to escort her to her uncle . . . Harrison, or Hugh.
Or perhaps she was dead.
Mairi’s hand had found his at the end, clasping weakly, a wordless plea as her life ebbed away . . .
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br /> He let out a harsh breath and shoved the memory away. He shed the rest his clothes and settled himself in the hot water and shut his eyes.
But all the hot water in the world couldn’t cleanse the blackness from his soul.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Laire wasn’t cold anymore, but her eyelids were too heavy to lift. She was lying on something lumpy, and she heard voices, some soft and quiet, some raised in argument. The sound of conversation rose and fell as she slipped in and out of sleep. She felt like her ears were full of water, or soft cloth. She could smell something cooking, or burning was perhaps a better description, like bannocks left too close to the fire for too long. She could smell ale, stale and dark, and sweat, damp earth, and wet clothes hung by the fire—made from coal, not peat.
They weren’t the smells of Glen Iolair, of home. They were the kind of scents found in the cotts in the village, small places filled with too many people. Was she in the village? She couldn’t remember, and there was something important she had to remember, something urgent—but sleep claimed her again before she knew what it was.
When she woke again her body felt like lead. Her mouth and throat were as dry as dust. Her head felt as if someone was hammering on it without mercy. She tried to find a more comfortable position, but the pounding continued.
Someone poked her the shoulder. Cait or Meggie, no doubt. Was it time to get up? She didn’t want to . . . the poke came again, more insistent, and went on until Laire forced her eyes open.
An unfamiliar face loomed over her, small, sharp, and dark. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came from her parched throat. The person above her—a wee boy—also screamed, his cry as silent as her own. He scuttled backward, away from her, until he reached a wall a few scant feet behind him and squatted there, staring at her.
Laire clutched at the blanket that covered her, something threadbare and rough. Where was she? She turned her head gingerly, saw a curtain hanging beside her, as tattered as torn gauze. The room she lay in was tiny, a mere closet, and the rough stone wall on her other side was black with soot and age.
She was lying on the floor.
She stared at the child who was staring at her. He leaped to his feet like a frightened hare and fled, bursting through the curtain, letting it fall behind him.
The sudden burst of light hurt, and Laire put a hand to her eyes, rubbed them, sure she was dreaming. She fought to remember. Snow. She remembered snow, and a ship . . .
She sat upright with a gasp. Papa . . .
The curtain parted again. She winced and squinted. The child was back, and he’d brought others. She scanned their faces as they crowded in, blocking the light with their bodies, peering at her with wide-eyed curiosity. Most were children, though two of the older lads had fledgling beards.
“She’s awake,” one said.
“I can see that, can’t I?” another replied.
“What will we do with her now?”
There was silence in response to that.
“Get back, all of ye. Ye’ll smother her,” said an angry voice. A young woman shoved the others aside and glared down at Laire.
“Who are ye?” She demanded. “Are ye a whore?”
A whore? They thought she was a whore? “I am Laire Mac—” the words dragged like hot coals over the dry flesh of her throat. “I’m Laire,” she tried again, and shook her head in reply to the second question. She swallowed. “Where am—” her question trailed off, and the faces around her shifted as they glanced at each other, quick, canny little looks. Laire. The whisper of her name passed among them.
The angry lass stepped back to admit someone else, a young man, slightly older than the others. He was lean and bony, his eyes as sharp as flint.
“We’ll ask the questions,” he said. He reached out to touch her cheek with scarred and dirty hands. Laire recoiled. The angry lass grabbed his hand, slapped him away.
“She’s obviously mad. Look at her eyes. It’s drink or drug . . .”
“No,” Laire shook her head again, through it hurt to do so. “Is there water?”
The lass looked amused. “Water? There’s snow aplenty. We could send ye back where ye came from . . .”
But the wee boy was back again, worming his way past the others to reach her. He had wide green eyes, freckles, and dark hair that needed a comb. He thrust a cup into her hands without speaking. Water . . . she swallowed it greedily. Without a word, he took the cup and went to get more. Laire’s eyes felt heavy again, and she tried to force them open, to focus on the strangers around her.
“Och, we’ll get nothing out of her now. Let her sleep. We’ll make her talk tomorrow,” the hard-eyed lad said, and disappeared.
Make her talk? She’d gladly talk. She remembered the boat and the docks. Was she still in Edinburgh?
The sealgair. He’d been chasing her, had been standing on the dock in Inverness as she sailed away . . . Had he caught her after all, made her drink Bibiana’s potion? She put a hand to her aching head. “Is he here—the sealgair?” She croaked, but they looked confused.
“I must go.” She pushed the blanket aside and tried to rise. She had to find her uncle, get help before it was too late. But something held tight to her wrist. She saw the rope tied there and stared at it in surprise. Was she a prisoner—his prisoner? How . . . ? Nothing made sense. Her mind moved like treacle, thick and slow.
The lad retuned with another cup of water, knelt before her, offered it to her, but she pushed it away. “I must find . . .”
But the child put his hand on hers, patted her wrist. He didn’t smile or speak, but she read concern in his green eyes, understood his attempts to comfort her.
“He wants ye to be still,” another child said, a wee girl.
The boy nodded.
“He’s called Wee Kipper. He doesn’t talk,” the girl said.
The older lass pinched the boy’s ear. “He can talk. He just doesn’t want to. Saw something so horrible it stole the words right out of him.”
The wee lad ignored her, though Laire watched a blush spread over his pale cheeks.
“I’m called Magpie,” the other child said. “You’re very bonny, even if ye are a whore.”
“I’m not a whore,” Laire repeated. “I must find my uncle . . .”
“Your uncle is it?” the girl demanded.
“Am I—am I a prisoner? Did the sealgair bring me here?” she asked. “Is this—a madhouse?” She’d heard of such places, that cities had them.
“A madhouse?” the young woman began to laugh. “A madhouse, she says, Dux. What d’ye make of that?” she called to someone behind him, someone Laire couldn’t see.
“It is a madhouse, Hoolet. After a fashion,” came the reply.
“Who’s the sealgair?” Magpie asked, but because she was wee, no one answered.
“You’re not a prisoner exactly. More of a guest.” the older lad with the sparse beard said.
“A guest,” Laire managed. “Then I can leave if I wish?”
The hard-eyed young man returned and glared at Laire. “Ye’ll stay until we decide ye can go. Finders keepers—we found ye, saved ye, and now ye owe us something for our kindness.”
“Room and board,” the voice called Dux said.
Laire swallowed. “I can pay,” she said. “I have a purse of money.”
She could tell by the dark scowl on the faces around her that it was gone.
“I had a cloak, a dirk, and . . .” She reached for the locket, but that was gone as well. She stared at the ragged band around her and realized she had even less than they did.
“Ye had a cloak, but naught else. We found ye in the snow, snoring like a stoat. Drunk, were ye?” the girl asked.
“No,” Laire said. “I only drink water . . .”
The girl smirked. Wee Kipper crept forward and began to arrange the threadbare blanket, tucking it around her.
“He wants you to go to sleep,” Magpie said. “Ye do look dreadful weary . . .”
“And where might we find him? At the Pearl?” the girl demanded.
The Pearl? Laire frowned.
“He lives in Edinburgh. Am I still in Edinburgh? I’ve come a long way to see him.”
Hoolet frowned. “Then give us his direction. We’ll have him send his coach-and-four to fetch ye. Shall we ask him for a proper silk gown and a fine pair of slippers too?”
Coach-and-four . . . she remembered the lass on the dock, the inn she’d taken Laire to. She’d been hungry, had devoured the bowl of stew they placed before her. Laire rubbed her forehead, tried to remember beyond that, but there was nothing.
“Nay,” she murmured. “Nay. Sir Hamish is my mother’s brother. He’s a man of science. He studies medicine, and books, and—”
“Have ye ever heard of Sir Hamish MacEwan, Dux?” the girl asked.
“Can’t say I have,” came the reply. The girl looked back at her with dark distrust.
They didn’t believe her. They thought she was a whore . . . Laire’s face flamed. But Wee Kipper slipped his hand into hers, sat down beside her, and stared at his friends. “Don’t mind Hoolet. Wee Kipper likes ye,” Magpie whispered.
The older lass disappeared, and Laire heard her muttering as she moved around whatever space lay beyond the tattered curtain.
Laire forced herself up, rose unsteadily, though her head spun. She brushed the curtain aside and emerged into a large, square room with a low ceiling. A lad with spectacles sat at a table, sorting silver teaspoons and making note of the tally in a ledger. He paused to push his glasses up his nose and peer at her.
“Where am I?” she asked again. “Who are you?”
Magpie twirled one of her curly red locks around her finger. “We’re the clan. We live in a very grand house—one of the finest in all Edinburgh. Well, part of it. But nobody else lives here, so why shouldn’t we? There’s an old woman who lives upstairs. She thinks we’re rats or bogles, and stays away. She has her part of the house, and we have ours.”