Liam didn’t believe in coincidence.
The young, and oh so, debonair, Frenchman—according to Mrs. Morris, was a minor noble named Jean Claude Gagneux. Since his arrival, he’d been making the social rounds. Although, no one could specifically recall his inquiring after or mentioning Emeline or her aunt.
Smart bastard. Liam would give him that.
Quinn had also inquired at the The Edinburgh Evening Courant regarding the heiress article. The reporter who’d written it had gone missing a week ago—just hadn’t shown up for work one day.
Likely dead. The assassin had left no loose threads.
No one else at the paper could—or would—provide any information, including the sources for his story or how Jeneva’s body had been found or identified. Quinn had, however, learned she’d been buried in an unmarked grave in Greyfriars Kirkyard.
Liam suspected the assassin had sent men to investigate why the killers assigned to drive the coach and kill Emeline hadn’t returned. They’d come upon the coach, Jeneva’s corpse, or mayhap both. Damn lucky for them if that were the case.
The Courant’s editor might know something as well, but he was either too terrified to reveal what he knew, or he’d been bribed to keep his mouth shut. Or, perhaps, he’d simply approved the story for the sensationalism. He wouldn’t be the first or the last newspaper man to look the other way to sell a few extra newssheets.
Camden took a position beside the window, covertly edging the fabric aside to peek out the glass. “Nothin’ suspicious lookin’ yet.”
Liam made short work of pulling the table away from the wall. “Which board?” His nape hair stood on end, his warrior’s instinct detecting danger. “Graeme, Camden, be at the ready. I dinna have a good feelin’.”
“Aye,” they answered in unison, tugging their guns free.
Her plump lower lip clamped between her teeth, Emeline studied the scraped and scuffed floorboards for a moment. Squatting, she pointed. “There. That’s the one.”
Hunkered down, Liam used the tip of his dirk to pry the oak plank upward. It gave way, making a soft, scritching sound.
With the draperies closed and no candlelight either, viewing the inside of the small compartment proved difficult. However, without hesitation Emeline kneeled and reached her gloved hand within. She withdrew an octagon-shaped, satinwood inlaid box. “Everythin’s in here.”
Giving a severe tilt of his head in acknowledgment, Liam reached for the board, intending to replace it in case the robbers returned. He didn’t want them to know about the secret hideaway. That would give them more reason to find Emeline. Something shiny caught the corner of his eye, and he leaned closer.
“What’s this?” Unease knotting his neck and shoulders, he extended a hand into the hole and clasped a hard object. He withdrew a rectangular metal casket-type box.
A fine line creasing her forehead, Emeline sent him an astonished look. “I dinna ken what that is. I’ve never seen it before.”
Liam’s gut told him this was what the assassin was after. He couldn’t guess why Jeneva LeClaire hadn’t told her niece about the case. But by placing the small chest in the place Emeline knew she kept her valuables, that meant she wanted to ensure Emeline found the box if something happened.
“We dinna have time to go through these now.” He swiveled to Camden and flicked a hand toward the hole in the floor. “Close this up and put the table back. I’m takin’ Emeline upstairs to collect anythin’ she needs.”
The warning bells in his head pealed raucously louder once they reached the upper story, and she glided into the nearest bedchamber. He strode down the narrow corridor to the room at the far end, past the living apartments.
“This was yer aunt’s bedchamber?” he called.
Emeline poked her head out the doorway. “Aye.”
He peeked inside, not surprised to see the room as ravaged as the lower level had been. He spoke over his shoulder. “Would she have hidden anythin’ of value in here?”
“I dinna think so.” Eyes narrowed in consideration, Emeline shook her head. “Aunt Jeneva was paranoid. She wouldna even move the table below until after she’d hung an extra panel across the window, locked the doors, and waited until the wee mornin’ hours.”
Turns out she had good reason to be distrustful. Which, again, begged the question: what did Jeneva LeClaire know and when did she know it?
Swiftly retracing his steps, he took mental note of Emeline’s progress before surreptitiously glancing out her bedchamber window.
Broden, hat lowered and ankles crossed, lounged against a milliner’s shop across the street.
Liam couldn’t see Logan Rutherford from this angle.
He veered Emeline a quick glance.
She swiftly shoved a few more garments into her valise. After searching the floor for a handful of breaths, she spotted her hair brush. She seized it and plopped it atop the pile inside the valise. Her furrowed brows and pursed mouth were silent testament to her distress as she cast a wary eye about her chamber.
He returned his attention to the wynd below.
Hell.
Two scruffy men ambled down the cobblestones. Another unkept pair of scunners joined them. Each looked like a down-on-his-luck beggar rather than hired mercenaries. A calculated ploy so Liam would underestimate them, or were they the only riffraff the Frenchman cold find to do his dirty work?
Hopefully, the latter.
The miscreants shuffled to a stop several feet away from the modiste shop. One, attired in a too-big moth-eaten coat spat, and another who wasn’t wearing stockings picked his teeth while they listened to something their apparent leader said.
Broden casually pushed his tam up his forehead, his flinty gaze trained on the quartet. He drew upright as two more unsavory reprobates ambled toward the foursome.
Christ.
“Emeline, we need to go. I’ll send someone back to collect the rest of yer belongin’s.”
She raised her head, a question in her eyes.
“We must leave at once.” He wasn’t going to tell her about the men outside. She’d find out soon enough.
He took the valise from her. After placing the containers from beneath the floorboard inside, he closed the top with a quiet snick. He tapped the bag’s handles. “I believe the contents of those boxes are the most critical. But just in case there’s somethin’ else here we’ve overlooked, I’ll ask Logan and Coburn to thoroughly search both levels later. If that’s acceptable to ye.”
Even if it wasn’t.
Sadness crimped the corners of her eyes and pulled her dainty mouth downward. “Aye. ’Tis still so hard to believe she’s really gone. That I’ll never see her again. And that someone—God only kens who—is so vile, they’d do this, and try to kill me, too.”
“I ken, leannan. I ken.” He drew her into a swift hug, kissing her forehead. She leaned into him, her cheek against his chest, and he closed his eyes for two blinks, savoring the moment. “Come, jo. We must be off.”
He turned her toward the landing then proceeded her down the stairs.
Graeme step forward. “Liam, I dinna like this. Somethin’ feels off.”
Camden nodded in agreement, his steely gaze repeatedly sweeping from the front door to the window to the back entrance.
“It is. I spied six men from the window upstairs. Broden noticed them, too, so he’ll have alerted the others.” Liam made certain to keep the alarm from seeping into his voice. He’d never known Emeline to dissolve into histrionics but didn’t want to chance her doing so now.
“Liam, why didna ye say somethin’?” The color fled her face except for two crimson spots on her cheeks. “I told ye no’ to take any chances.”
Merely coming to Edinburgh had been a huge risk. Nevertheless, if there were answers to be found, he’d vow they’d be in the valise she clutched to her chest.
“We’re leavin’ now. Dinna worry.”
“Do stop sayin’ that. I can nae more stop frettin’ than ye can
stop eatin’,” she snapped, the strain obviously testing her self-possession. “And we both ken that is never happenin’.”
“Och, an impossibility, to be sure.” Graeme chuckled, earning him a sour look from Liam.
“Do exactly as I say, Emeline—”
“Liam MacKay!” Her irritation had transformed to outright anger. “I am no’ a bairn, nor am I a lackwit. I’d appreciate bein’ asked and no’ ordered about.”
This fiery-tempered version of Emeline was breathtaking. Nevertheless, her tender sensibilities would have to suffer a bit of bruising.
He speared the Kennedys a glance. “As before, we’ll keep Emeline between us. Graeme, ye take the bag. Camden open the door and take a look around. They’ll be to yer left.” He caught each of their eyes. “Ye ken what to do.”
Camden complied with a severe downward thrust of his chin.
“I can carry the valise—” Emeline started to object, a mutinous tilt to her pert chin Liam hadn’t seen before.
“If ye need to lift yer skirts to run, I’d rather ye had both hands free, lass,” he said, holding onto his patience by a thread.
“Oh,” she murmured taken aback, her expression contrite.
She obviously hadn’t considered that possibility. God knew he had. He angled his head toward Graeme and, wordlessly, she extended the valise.
The four of them had no sooner stepped from the shop than the half-dozen armed ruffians descended upon them, weapons drawn. Matrons screamed, mothers clutched their children close, and terrified people scattered in all directions. Reeking of unwashed bodies and stale ale, the band of hirelings approached, menace in each confident, swaggering step.
As Liam had planned in the event something of this nature occurred, Camden swept a startled Emeline into his arms and bolted toward the carriage a few feet away.
Graeme followed, hot on his heels, wielding his own gun. His horse stood beside the carriage, and the coachmen were poised to take off, their pistols drawn and pointed directly at the scourge determined to kill Emeline.
“Nae. What are ye doin’? I willna leave him! Put me down,” she screamed, pounding Camden’s back. “Li…am! Nae. Nae! I canna leave him.”
Without slowing his pace, Camden grunted, “Sorry, lass. I gave my word.”
“Shite, dinna let her escape again!” one gunman shouted, aiming his firearm at Camden’s back.
Liam slammed his hand down on the cur’s forearm while smashing his fist into the man’s face. Dropping his blunderbuss, the sod crumpled into an insensate heap.
That’s one. Five more to go.
Camden all but tossed Emeline inside the carriage before diving in after her. His gun drawn, Graeme threw the bag inside the equipage and jumped atop his mount. As the carriage sprang forward, the door still gaping wide open, Liam growled his satisfaction.
Emeline was safe. For now.
The other five louts advanced on him, and he grinned as he yanked his dirk from his waist and his sword from its sheath. “Come on then, ye devil’s spawn.”
He’d enjoy seeking vengeance on Emeline’s behalf.
“Ye’re outnumbered, ye bloody cockscum,” snarled a man missing his front teeth. He gave a maniacal laugh, spittle forming on the corner of his mouth. “The lass will nae get away. That fancy Frenchman will no’ stop until she’s dead.”
“Hold yer wheesht, ye idiot,” bellowed his compatriot. “Nae one’s to ken about him.”
“It willna make a difference,” the first ruffian argued, his beady gaze glinting with wrath. “Who’s this bastard goin’ to tell when he’s dead?” He snickered as if he’d made a clever jest.
“Ye’re assumin’ ye can kill me, ye whoremonger.” Weapons at the ready, Liam inched backward.
Like a pack of rabid, snarling wolves, they advanced toward him.
One wearing an incongruent vibrant purple silk and gold waistcoat beneath his impossibly filthy brown jacket elbowed another in the side and gave a malevolent chuckle. “Numpty sot still disna get it. There are five of us and one of him.”
“I’m surprised ye can count that high,” Liam said dryly, skewing his mouth into a mocking smile.
“Actually, ye tosspots, there are five of us as well,” Brogdon drawled, a wicked grin creasing his face. He enjoyed a brawl more than any man Liam knew.
Jaw slack, the thug swung around.
Logan, Quinn, and Coburn flanked Broden, each with murder etched upon their harsh features.
“I want them alive,” Liam growled before lunging forward to take down the first man.
The hired thugs were no match for Liam and his friends. In short order, three more lay unconscious, and a fourth hunched upon the ground, supporting his broken arm. The fifth scumbag squirmed as Liam pressed his fingers hard into the man’s throat and shoved him against the building.
“Who hired ye?”
The man sneered in defiance, and Liam tightened his grasp.
Clawing at Liam’s hand, the hireling tried to kick him.
Mrs. Morris poked her bewigged head out of the haberdashery, and upon spying Liam with a man by the throat, uttered a strangled squeak and slammed the door shut. The rasping and clicking of three locks being secured in rapid succession almost made him grin. Almost.
“I’ll ask ye one more time before I start breakin’ bones,” Liam said. “Who. Hired. Ye?”
Gray-faced and making gurgling noises, the wretch stuttered, “The…wench’s…brother.”
Liam loosened his grip a fraction, uncertain he’d heard correctly. Emeline had said she hadn’t any kin but distant cousins.
“Brother?” He scowled and shook the wretch. “Are ye certain?”
“Aye. Aye.” The man gasped and choked, his bulging eyes darting back and forth. As if he realized the game was up, he babbled, “A prissy fella named Jean Claude Gagneux. He’s boardin’ at the Swan and Stag at the south end of town.”
The cur sitting on the ground and favoring his arm, snickered. His mad-eyed gaze shifted between Liam and his friends standing guard over the other miscreants. “He kens where she’s stayin’, too.”
Christ on the blessed cross.
Swearing beneath his breath, Liam gave the thug another hard shove before releasing him. Cradling his already bruising neck, the man slumped to the ground as Liam spun toward his friends.
“Coburn, Logan, see these Satan’s spawns are turned over to the authorities,” he said swiping his hair off his forehead. “Broden, ye and Quinn come with me. We’re payin’ Monsieur Gagneux a visit.”
Chapter Twelve
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Emeline pivoted and paced the other direction, deliberately counting her steps again. Doing so kept her focused and also from screaming her frustration and fear. She darted a glance at the bronze mantle clock and the air whooshed from her lungs.
Prince, lying before the hearth, raised his head from his forepaws, watching her progress with worried pecan-brown eyes. Releasing a woeful sigh, he lowered his head once more, but his dark gaze never left her.
Three hours.
Three hours since Camden Kennedy had unceremoniously scooped her up like a sack of grain and tossed her into the carriage. Three hours since she been bustled inside the house and offered tea to soothe her frayed nerves. Three interminable hours since she’d last seen her beloved’s face contorted into a battle-hardened warrior’s scowl.
She marched to the window and peered out onto the street again.
Och, when I see Liam MacKay, Baron Penderhaven, again, I’ll give him a piece of my mind for havin’ me carted off like a hog to market.
For not telling her his insane plan to which she would have strenuously objected. For staying behind to make certain she was safely away. For putting her life before his.
Her heart contracted painfully. Oh, Liam, ye darin’, wonderful numpty. Blinking away tears, she muttered beneath her breath, “I’ll strangle him with my bare hands.”
Or h
ug and kiss him until every last morsel of worry had dissipated.
“I’d rather like to watch that,” Kendra quipped, though her flippant reply didn’t hide the apprehension etched upon her fine features. She might pretend to be unaffected, but she was as worried about Liam and the others’ continued absence as everyone else was.
“Kendra,” her mother chided with no real censure. “Ladies dinna revel in the notion of their brothers bein’ strangled. Even if they deserve it,” Lady Penderhaven muttered beneath her breath.
“But, Mama, imagine it. Emeline has such dainty hands, and Liam has a neck as thick as a bull’s.” She gave an unapologetic shrug. “The logistics fascinate me. I doubt ’tis even possible, he’s so stiff-necked.”
Skye’s droll chuckle brought a bit of lightness to the too serious atmosphere. “Ye are awful, Kendra MacKay.” She fared only slightly better as her tormented serviette and low sighs every few minutes attested.
“Miss LeClaire, ye shouldna be near the window,” Camden advised patiently for at least the tenth time. He gave the sofa a pointed look, which she deliberately disregarded with a frosty glare and an elevated chin.
She hadn’t forgiven him or his brother for their parts in hauling her away, leaving Liam to trounce those blackguards alone.
Except, as Camden had patiently explained on the wild carriage ride home, and Graeme had done again once inside the house, Liam’s four other friends were there to back him up.
She felt marginally reassured until she recalled the blackguards’ malicious, twisted faces. If any of those men had ever possessed a conscience—and she had her doubts they had even as wee bairns—they’d long since sold any sense of decency to the devil. Their very souls were as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat.
Her stomach pitched again, and she swallowed against a wave of nausea and faintness. By God, she would not succumb to womanly histrionics and weakness. She would be courageous and display fortitude such as Liam had showed. At least, she would try to.
Graeme Kennedy, along with a trio of footmen, were stationed about the house’s entrances. A flea couldn’t enter the place and hope to live longer than half a second.
To Woo a Highland Warrior Page 12