Catherine straightened and let out a disgusted breath. “I should have known a Highlander would latch ahold of the ridiculous curse nonsense. They are just jewels, Rowena. Lovely, rare jewels that will soon grace the throat of a Russian princess and in so doing set me for life.”
“Ye’re wrong.” Rowena stood too, slowly but without qualm. “If ye want them for only selfish purposes, ye’ll taste nothing but the curse.”
“You want to talk about curses?” Catherine’s lips curved up into a smile small and mean. “Let’s talk about Malcolm Kinnaird.”
“What?” Now she froze, all blood seeming to rush from her head so quickly it left her dizzy. Frost blew across her heart.
Catherine laughed, but there was nothing light in it, nothing pleasant. “Let me make this so clear there is no mistaking it, even for a dolt like you.” She leaned forward, somehow still looking like the doting mother with her babe hanging on her leg—but for the utter disdain in her green eyes. “Find the gems, or I send a little note to one Malcolm Kinnaird saying you’re carrying his babe and trying to pass it off as Nottingham’s.”
Her stomach lurched, the bile rose, panic clawed at her neck. But through it cut another dagger altogether. How could she know that? How? The only people who knew she was with child at all were the staff at Midwynd, the family, and surely, surely none of them would have rushed over here and told her.
Would they have?
Catherine smirked, even chuckled low and deadly in her throat. “Wondering how I know you’re with child? Oh, I have my sources, my dear Rowena. Remember that. I know your every move.”
Please, Lord God. Give me strength. My own is never sufficient, but yours . . . please. Please.
“I know your comings. Your goings. I know that the duke just announced the good news this morning, never guessing how you’ve duped him. Do you think he would be any less upset about that than about the Fire Eyes?”
Rowena sucked in a breath. Catherine didn’t know quite as much as she thought, whoever her source. “You’ve got it all wrong. I am with child, yes, but the babe is my husband’s.” He had claimed the wee one—and more, wanted no one to know otherwise. Certainly didn’t want Catherine spreading such terrible things around the society he so enjoyed. Having everyone, for generations, speaking of how he’d been cuckolded.
But Catherine just smirked. “Perhaps, perhaps not. But what, do you think, will this Malcolm believe?”
A shudder overtook her, too fierce to be controlled.
Catherine obviously noted it, given her mean little laugh. “Oh, this is good. The self-righteous duke who always made a point of being so much better than the rest of us ends up with a wife who’s already given herself to another.”
Given? Rowena dug her fingers into the cushion. “Ye dinna ken of what ye speak.”
“I know enough, you dithering fool. You’ve made your bed, lied to the duke—now you’ll pay the price. Do exactly as I say, or the enraged clansman my darling friend has told me about will be knocking on your door—and I daresay he will act first and ask questions later. The only question is, who will he kill first, do you think? You, who betrayed him, or the man you ran off with?”
Heaven help us. Rowena’s throat ached with the memory of his hands around it. The long-faded bruises pulsed on her wrists. The murderous rage in his eyes filled her vision. And in her ears echoed that low Gaelic threat. “If I find you carry my babe, I will come for you. No child of mine will be raised by a Sassenach.”
How did he mean to make good on that threat? Kill Brice and steal her away? Kill her and the babe rather than let her child be raised English? Kill them all?
She was going to be sick. Squeezing her eyes shut, she forced her breath to stay even. Forced composure into the limbs that wanted to fold and curl up. Forced her hands not to clap together and draw her men into the house—she could handle this herself. She must. “Why would you do this? I have been nothing but a friend to you. Wanted nothing but to help you.”
Catherine picked her son up again, settled him on her hip. And when she smiled, Rowena saw what Brice must have been seeing all along. The woman who had posed for magazine advertisements, who was all confidence and sultry smiles. The woman who was just like her brother. “Do you think I need help from the likes of you? I take care of myself. Your only use, dearest, is in getting me those diamonds. Now go home like a good little coward and fetch them.”
“I’ll never.”
“Oh yes you will, Duchess.” She sat down, all casual unconcern, her son in her lap. “You’ll be back here in three days, with the Fire Eyes in hand. Or Malcolm Kinnaird will be knocking on your door.”
Shaking too much to answer, Rowena strode from the room. She wouldn’t have even paused for her things had a servant not been standing there with them.
Her guards waited outside, looking about to storm the house when they glimpsed her face. So she schooled it, forced a smile, and shook her head. “Dinna. All is well.”
A blatant lie, but a necessary one. All was so very far from well. But she held it in until she’d climbed into the carriage. And only after the men had closed her firmly within did she let the shaking come, let the tears clog her throat.
It wasn’t fair. She had just finally come to appreciate all she’d been given, to see that the Lord had been there all the lonely years she’d thought herself abandoned by anyone who might have loved her. She had only just begun to realize that Brice was the man her heart needed. She had only just found the strength to reach out to another she thought was in need.
Why had she chosen so foolish a recipient?
She dashed at the tears, but more replaced the ones she wiped away as the landscape rocked past her out the window. She had been right in one thing, at least. There was pain there, there was violence. She had recognized that in Rushworth, and the echo of it in Catherine too.
But Brice, too, had been right. Catherine had let it turn her into as much a monster as her brother had. And now what was Rowena to do? Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t just hand over the diamonds. She had no idea where they were, and though she now had access to Brice’s room . . .
No. That was no answer at all. That was the curse—that was destruction. That was feeding the beast instead of slaying it. She wouldn’t take part in such deception. She wouldn’t let the curse win.
She would tell Brice what Catherine had threatened. They could find an alternative solution together.
Together. The promise of it wove a strange peace around her, and she blinked away the tears. If anything could counteract the curse, perhaps it was that.
Brice stepped out into the morning sunshine and focused on the drive. Today would be another day spent poring over all the information they had about employees’ histories—which would manage only to make him feel like a spy. At no point thus far had he stumbled across anything that made an Aha! sound within him.
But there would be no focusing upon such tasks until his wife had safely returned.
He wasn’t usually one to prowl about the front of the house where any tourist could spot him, but it afforded the best vantage. He would stay right there until he saw that carriage roll up. He would pray. Worry for his wife. And yes, worry, too, about who in his house was set against him. If Humphrey had spoken true, then one of them had been bought. But he felt no closer to discovering who it was than he’d been a week ago.
A knot loosened in his shoulders when their familiar carriage came into view, the horses moving at an unhurried trot. Nothing had gone terribly wrong, then, or they would be rushing. She was safe, safely home. He strode forward as the vehicle drew near, but his relief vanished when he caught sight of Rowena’s face at the window. He arrived in time to help her down and knew he was frowning. “You’ve been crying.”
Her attempt at a smile did little to mollify him. “You were right. I was too, but . . .” She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and tipped her face up to look into his. “Could we walk?”
“Of course.” He intended to learn exactly how Catherine had proven them both right—and preferred no one else be there to overhear the conversation. “The Abbotts were helping their grandmother in the vegetable garden, so perhaps toward the wood.”
Rowena nodded her assent and waited until they were protected by the ancient trunks and optimistic saplings before she drew in a breath and turned toward him again. “I was right that there has been mistreatment in her life—but it was her father, and her brother took the brunt of it. It has knit them together, I think. And, as you feared, made them both monsters.”
Brice let his breath ease out and gripped her fingers. “But you were right to want to help.”
Rowena moved her fingers so they fit between his, held them. “And you right to warn me away from her. To think that I believed if they could use the diamonds to restore Delmore, free her of him, it could break the curse. To think that I promised to help them.” She shook her head.
Brice drew in a quick breath and came to a halt. “Of course. You are the one they were banking on, the one Humphrey mentioned.” A relieved laugh slipped out. “I should have realized long ago! They don’t have another spy in the house at all.”
And his wife would most assuredly not be helping them any longer.
Though she certainly scowled at him now. “You didna mention that Humphrey implied such, or I could have told you that a week ago.”
“I-I didn’t mean to keep it from you, darling. I—”
“It doesna matter.” Indeed, her frown smoothed out and a bit of a smile found a place on her lips. “We were focused on happier things last week, when I wasna losing my dinner. But mo muirnín—” she turned to him and rested her hands on his chest—“she intends to use me yet. She’s given me an ultimatum. If I dinna hand over the jewels in three days’ time, she’ll . . . she’ll tell Malcolm I’m carrying his bairn.”
Had he thought it fear tickling him before? No. That was but a pinch compared with the pressure now threatening to squash him. His arms slid around her waist. “How? How does she know?”
Rowena shook her head, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Someone must still be feeding her information.”
So there was still another traitor in his house. One who must have been there when they made the announcement. One who must have sent word to Catherine in all haste, to have beat Rowena there. No, wait . . . Not just someone there this morning. Someone who’d been there in Scotland too. Or who had overheard them talking yesterday.
But that would mean someone so very close to them. Davis? Cowan? No, he couldn’t accept that. He couldn’t.
And it didn’t really matter, did it? The damage was done. For now, they must focus on lessening the potential effect. “We’ll alert the constable. Hire more guards if we must. Leave the country if it comes down to it, go somewhere Malcom Kinnaird can’t follow. But he will not touch you again, Rowena. You have my word.”
She buried her face in his chest and slid her arms around him. For a second, he feared she’d turn those luminous eyes of hers up at him and say it wouldn’t be enough, that for the sake of her child—their child—they must give Catherine and Rushworth what they wanted. He feared that he’d be unable to say no, that all noble thoughts of justice and freedom from the curse would crumble under the fear for her and the babe.
And she did turn her gleaming silver eyes on him. She reached up and touched his face with her small, gloved fingers. Her lips even pulled into a tremulous smile. “When the shock has worn off,” she said softly, “as it settles more in your mind, ye’ll wonder. Ye’ll wonder if I fear the curse more than I believe in us. Ye’ll wonder if in a panic I’ll take them to her. But I willna. I promise. She’ll not have them, not when it will just keep the curse going strong. I dinna even want to ken where they are anymore. Dinna tell me—dinna ever tell me.”
“Rowena.” He held her close, shut his eyes against the world. “I trust you. Implicitly.”
“And I you. But still—I dinna need to know.”
He relished the feel of her in his arms, the floral scent that drifted from her hair. How grateful he was that she didn’t pull away anymore. So grateful she looked up at him without the fear, the caution, the distrust. They’d come so far, so quickly once they got over those seemingly insurmountable bumps. He ran a hand up her back. “You’re more important than the diamonds, you and the baby. If it comes down to it—”
“No.” Her finger touched his lips, stilling the words. “There is another way. I dinna ken what it is yet, but I’m sure of it. If a curse is darkness, then there’s only one way to break it—with the light of the Lord. He’ll provide a way.”
He smiled to realize she’d grown there too . . . even if he didn’t feel the Lord’s peace at the moment. “We’ll pray.”
“Yes. And He’ll answer.” Her hand slid around to the back of his head, bidding his heart to thunder. “I’m so sorry I doubted. Doubted you, doubted us, doubted God. But He’s proven me wrong on every count. And especially about you. Ye’ve accepted me and my bairn. I owe you everything.”
He shook his head—slightly, so as not to dislodge her hand—and tried to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “One cannot keep accounts in marriage, darling. You owe me nothing.”
But oh, the way she smiled. Small and warm and private, the kind of smile that promised things he dared not put to name. “Don’t I? I would think that, at the least, I owe you my heart.”
She pressed on his head, and he obligingly lowered it, though he paused an inch from her lips. “Don’t you know, darling? Hearts can’t just be given. They must be exchanged. I can take yours only if you take mine too.”
“Is that how it works?” She strained up until her lips touched his, making him forget the cool air and the warm sun both. Making him forget there was a world outside her arms. No birdsong, no whispering wind, no snapping twigs. “How fortuitous.”
“Isn’t it?” He held her flush against him and claimed her lips with his.
No! He knew? He knew the babe wasn’t his, and he accepted it anyway? Stella nearly collapsed. Her stealth, so prized a few minutes earlier, gave way to clumsy feet that stepped on twigs and fists that pummeled trees on their way back out into the garden.
They spoke of hearts, of unity, of working together. No, no, no! It was to drive them apart! Kinnaird was to be a wedge between them. He was . . . he was . . .
He isn’t here. And Lady Pratt hadn’t promised to fetch him, had she? No. She had said she would use it. But apparently she deemed it enough to use the knowledge as a threat. All that stupid woman wanted were those stupid diamonds, and she didn’t see far enough ahead to realize that they would be most easily acquired through the destruction of this ridiculous marriage.
The world went grey. Cloudy. Beset with fog. No one else would solve the problem. No one else would provide the answer. Stella clutched at the soft wool cloak she had put on to fend off the wind. She could depend on no one else. No one else could ever make her what she was destined to be, no one else could give her the desires of her heart.
It was up to her and her alone. If she wanted the love, the husband, the title . . . if she wanted all her dreams to come true . . . if she wanted anything in this world . . . then she’d just have to take it.
Twenty-Three
Lilias listened, unabashed, to the laughter seeping out from beneath the drawing room’s door along with the strip of lamplight. It warmed her more than any fire to hear it, and to hear it sound so bright. So light. So free. She pressed her fingertips to the closed door and smiled through it.
Maybe her methods hadn’t been right—though she hadn’t a clue how she could have managed it differently—but the outcome was. Her Rowena had found happiness. A husband who would love her and the bairn—whom she could love in return.
Soft footsteps padded up behind her, silent but for the muted squeak of the soles upon the floor. “Are we eavesdropping, Lily?”
Her smile only grew as she let her finge
rs fall and turned toward Mr. Child. “Aye, and happily so.” But she stepped away from the door and motioned him to follow. “They’re content. I just have to listen now and then to assure myself of it.”
“Well, if you’ve had enough of it . . .” He pulled his arms from behind his back, revealing her coat and his. “The moon is out and the night mild. I thought perhaps I could talk you into a stroll, since the duchess isn’t likely to retire for another hour.”
Unless the sickness struck earlier than it had in nights past. . . . But even if so, the duke would gladly see to his wife for a few minutes until she could be fetched. She accepted the coat and, once Mr. Child had helped her into it, pulled out the knit gloves she’d stowed in the pockets.
He led the way out the back, held the door open for her. And when she’d paused to await him, he didn’t offer his arm. Instead, he took her hand in his and gave it a little squeeze that made her heart dance like a schoolgirl’s. “It’s a lovely night indeed, Mr. Child,” she said in an attempt to school her reactions.
Useless, given the way he smiled at her. “You could call me Franklin, you know. If you’re of a mind, and given that I’ve taken the liberty of calling you Lily without even asking your leave.”
She hadn’t felt so giddy since Cowan had pulled her away from the feast all those years ago, down to the shores of the loch, and kissed her under the starlight. “I’d like that. And I dinna mind that liberty at all. There are too few people left in the world to call me Lily.”
“It suits you. You’re fair as a lily, especially in the moonlight.”
Heat stung her cheeks—and made her laugh. “Listen to you, complimenting me as though I’m still a lass. And me blushing like one.”
Mr. Child—Franklin—rubbed his thumb over her knuckles, making her wish she hadn’t put on her gloves. “I can’t imagine you were any lovelier twenty years ago.”
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