Night of the Highland Dragon

by Isabel Cooper

  Around her, the castle was very dark, very large, and very empty. She walked back to her room and listened to her own footfalls echoing down the winding hallway.

  Twenty-five

  “Note for you, Mr. Arundell,” said Claire, handing over the envelope practically as William stepped in the door. “Ben brought it just now. Ben Murray,” she added, when he looked blank. “He’s one of the footmen up at the castle.”

  “Oh?” William asked. None of his sudden interest showed—not the way his heart sped up, nor the twin thrills of hope and dread that ran through him as he took the note. Any half-decent agent would have been able to hide those things, and he was far more than that. He felt them all the same. “I’m much obliged to you, Miss Simon.”

  He didn’t open the envelope in front of her, obliged or not. And curious or not, Claire was too well-brought-up to ask or even to look disappointed when William vanished into his rooms. Her interest was plain, but William didn’t think it was the same interest she’d displayed when he’d first arrived. At sixteen, Claire was likely as keen to know about an intrigue as she was to be a part of one herself.

  There was no address on the front of the letter, only his name, and the hand was a round copperplate, more florid than he would have expected from Judith—until he recalled that she’d likely learned to write back when George the Second was on the throne. The s in “Mister” was just a touch elongated, now that he looked closely.

  With the note in his hand, he spared a moment to wonder: good news or bad? I’ve found out who the killer is, go to work or On second thought, leave this place or I’ll have you beheaded? There were plenty of ways for a woman as smart as Judith to get around an oath.

  After making inquiries, he’d given his report to Young Hamish that morning. The Connoh family had set up temporary shop out of their lodgings, mostly selling papers and taking in mail. The report would go out tomorrow. He couldn’t do anything about it now, even if he’d wanted to.

  He flipped the paper open.

  The words ran smoothly in the same hand that had addressed the envelope, black ink on thick parchment.

  William:

  If your crowded social schedule permits it, I would welcome your company for dinner tonight at seven. Send a reply by Claire. The excuse for a walk will do her good, and Agnes will thank you for the respite.

  Judith

  Not a death threat: if she intended to poison the soup, she wasn’t going to warn him about it. Nor did she seem to want him gone immediately. The note revealed only that much. There were any number of reasons—businesslike, friendly, and hostile—that she might want to talk with him.

  She had used both of their first names. William allowed himself to think that was a decent sign and to smile before he sat down to compose his reply of thanks and acceptance, showing his hand no more than she had done. He would go in as an agent to an unproven power, not assuming alliance, friendship, or more.

  “Please tell your mother that I’ll be away for dinner,” he said when he handed Claire his reply.

  “You will? At the castle?” she asked, round-eyed, and then caught herself. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Arundell. I dinna’ mean to pry.”

  “No harm done,” he replied with a smile. And there was no harm in telling her—she was a bright girl, and the conclusions were easy to draw.

  Judith must have known that, he thought as he watched Claire half run off toward the road. She’d been the castle’s lady for generations, and Mrs. Simon’s friend for all of Claire’s life. She would have predicted that Claire would guess, which meant that the dinner would be public knowledge in Loch Arach by the next morning.

  That was another piece of evidence against her doing him any harm at dinner. William doubted that all of the villagers were constrained, magically or otherwise, not to talk about visitors who disappeared after paying a visit to the castle. Odds were that she was planning to let him walk back out again, and probably even in his right mind.

  He washed, shaved, and dug evening clothes out of the back of his wardrobe. He’d had them unpacked and pressed when he’d first arrived, just in case, and now was glad he had. Mrs. Simon wasn’t around to do it on short notice, and even if Loch Arach had been large enough to offer replacements at the last minute, he was particular to certain tricks his tailor had. The cut and fabric of the coat, for instance, were perfect for looking distinguished while hiding the presence of a gun at his hip. Small charms sewn into the lining of the shirt warded off food-borne enchantments of the mind and body, and there were small sheaths in the shirtsleeves for flat knives.

  Ordinary tailors might make gentlemen. D Branch’s tailors kept them alive.

  William snapped on silver cuff links, made certain his tie was crisp and correct, and peered at himself in the cloudy mirror over the dresser. Everything was in place. All the armor was polished, the horse saddled, and the lance sharpened. Outside, the sun was halfway down behind the mountain, and the clock on the wall said that it was half past six.

  He walked out of the boardinghouse and briskly up the road toward the dragon’s lair.

  * * *

  Janssen met him at the door, his own black coat and white shirt freshly pressed and his young face schooled to comic formality. “Mr. Arundell,” he said, as if neither of them had seen the other in shirtsleeves, covered in ash and sweating, just a few days before. “May I show you into the drawing room, sir?”

  “Yes, of course,” said William with equal formality.

  The castle felt different as he entered. The only changes he could identify offhand were the blazing lights along the hallway and the background noises that told him servants were busy in the rooms out of his sight. Both could merely have been products of the difference in time. It was evening now and had been earlier when he’d visited before.

  More than that, and more nebulous, was the feeling that ran through the place, one of patient anticipation, of waiting to see—something. William wondered whether the servants themselves were aware of that, whether even Judith was, or whether the castle itself was waiting. After centuries hosting a family like the MacAlasdairs, the place could have a will of its own.

  Then again, everything he felt could have come out of his own head.

  That had changed enough over the last few weeks.

  There was a fire in the parlor. Finding a seat, William folded his hands in his lap and stared at it, clearing his mind and calming his nerves with every carefully steady breath. He kept his eyes on the leaping flames until he heard the door open. Then he turned to greet Judith—and couldn’t even think of looking anywhere else.

  In their acquaintance, she’d almost always dressed well, but he’d never seen her dressed formally before, never witnessed on her the results of such time and care as ladies spent even for dinner in company. Secluded in Loch Arach, William had almost begun to forget those customs.

  Now he remembered.

  Judith stood in the doorway, a faint smile of greeting on her face. Plaid taffeta, green and blue and red, rose in a narrow skirt to her slim waist, then clung to her full breasts before fading to thin bands over her shoulders. Gold net took up the dress then, in long sleeves and a high neck that might have been modest if they hadn’t been nearly transparent. On her left hand, the emerald ring caught the light and sent back green fire. Matching earrings nearly glowed against her neck. Her hair was twisted up, smooth and elegant, and held in place with gold pins.

  If she’d had her hand on a dog or a child, she could have been a portrait: Lady MacAlasdair. If she’d had a throne, she could have been a queen—or a goddess.

  Then she grinned at William, which didn’t dispel the impression completely, but at least made her look mortal again and approachable. “Full battle kit for both of us, aye?”

  “Diplomatic regalia, I’d rather think.”

  “Diplomacy’s just war of another sort,” she said
, but without sharpness. “But the food, I vow, will be a damned sight better.”

  It was. William’s experience of Scottish food had already given the lie, for the most part, to the bad jokes he’d heard in London clubs, but Judith’s cook far outdid the pub food and even surpassed Mrs. Simon—though, granted, the woman probably had more to work with. He ate soup and beef and herring, all with excellent wine, though he only allowed himself to drink a little. Despite appearances, he was on duty.

  While they ate, the conversation was not of anything significant. Footmen were still in the room, removing plates or bringing over more servings, Janssen appeared to pour wine, and there was no privacy to be had. They spoke of racing and the theater and politics, of how the Connohs were doing after the fire and how Shaw was recovering, and even a little of their pasts, though neither of them revealed much. None of it was important to William’s goals, but he was too absorbed to be impatient. When Judith stood up to end the meal, he actually felt like protesting.

  As he’d expected, she invited him into the drawing room. The evening wasn’t over and probably wouldn’t be for a while yet. But it would, he knew, turn most decidedly toward business, and he couldn’t help regretting that.

  Regrets didn’t matter. Neither did his desires. He didn’t let himself voice either, even inside his own head. He smiled and followed Judith back to the drawing room.

  “I assumed that you drink brandy,” she said as a footman opened the door and William saw a carafe and two half-full glasses on the table inside. “With just the two of us, it’d be a wee bit awkward separating the women and men for it as usual.”

  “I do,” he said. The notion made him smile. It also reminded him that they were the only two people in the room, once the footman had closed the door behind them, and brought to his mind a sharp awareness of how improper the situation was. His pulse began to speed up, and it was an effort to speak evenly. “And you? Cigars as well?”

  She laughed and seated herself on a couch, relaxing against the cushions. Had she been less alert, the pose would have been extremely languid. “Both, in my day. I generally keep to drink these days. ’Tis passing hard to get cigars up here—most of the locals stick to pipes, and I never acquired that habit.”

  “I can’t imagine you with a pipe.” He could imagine her with a cigar in one hand, lounging just as she was, and the mental picture had a surprisingly immediate physical appeal. William sat down quickly.

  Judith took one of the glasses but didn’t drink. She didn’t speak either, only looked from him to the liquor, as if she was reading its dark ripples for signs. Perhaps she was. Shadows from the leaping flames, stirred to fresh life in the fireplace, danced on the thick carpet between them.

  “So,” she finally said. She looked up from the untouched brandy and met William’s eyes. All humor had left her voice now. It wasn’t solemn or hostile, but completely businesslike. “You’ve this organization of yours. I know you can’t be telling me everything, but I do want to know more. And I want to know what you can do for us.”

  Twenty-six

  William frowned. Judith didn’t think there was either displeasure or surprise in the look. More, he was sorting through what he knew, determining how much he could or should tell her—and perhaps how much he should ask in return. “I can think of a number of places to start,” he finally said. “What do you want to know?”

  And the ball returned to her side of the court. She found that she was enjoying the exchange, both for the challenge of question and response and, to her surprise, for the relief of telling William the truth. She had been honest with so few people about who she was. With this man, it felt welcome rather than dangerous.

  Of course, that itself was a danger.

  “You said your people ‘concerned yourselves’ with magic and monsters,” she replied, drawing herself back toward caution. “To what end?”

  “The defense of the realm, of course.”

  “Of course,” said Judith dryly. She took a sip of her brandy. “Defense of what part of it? Against what?”

  “Defense of the people and their lawful rulers,” he said, startled that she would even have to ask, “against either their personal enemies, as in this case, or the enemies of the nation.”

  Judith chuckled, and the sound was low and dark even to her own ears. “When I was a child, we would have been the enemies of your nation.”

  “Are you now?”

  “I couldn’t speak for everyone in Scotland, nor even everyone in the village,” Judith said, “and I certainly don’t know what everybody in England thinks of us, but I doubt it. Those of us who want independence try to get it at the ballot box these days and by shouting in Parliament. ’Tis less bloody, most of the time.”

  “And what do you think of it?” William asked, eyes keen and blue.

  Judith shrugged. “If it comes in its time, I’ll be happy enough. If it doesn’t—we’re not badly treated here. I’m not the political my father and sister were. One king or queen is as good as another, provided they keep to their place and that place is far from me. London’s far enough.” She shifted on the couch, taking the reins back. “But so are the nation’s enemies. Who are they now? The Russians? The Germans? Or are you being traditional these days and hating the French?”

  “All three and more, should they move against us.” With a small click, William set his brandy glass down on a small table. “If you’re old enough to be cynical about the ways of nations, you’re old enough to know why I’m not ashamed to say that. We don’t seek conquest anymore—”

  “Not on this continent,” said Judith, and she saw him wince.

  Nonetheless, he continued. “And the enemies I’ve encountered, generally speaking, have either been the foes of all natural life or have dealt extensively with those foes. For the most part, they’ve also been subjects of Her Majesty, nominally speaking.”

  “Which is why you’re here.”

  “Which is why I’m here, yes. I don’t believe we’re dealing with a German agent or a rebellious Irishman.”

  “For one thing,” said Judith, “the accent would have stood out a wee bit.” She sighed. “If your targets are mostly like this killer of ours, I can’t fault you. But what would you do with my family? We’re far from completely human, but we’re thinking beings, and we’re not acting against the Crown. Would you press-gang us into your service or exile us from your borders to be sure we never become a threat? Will you, in fact?” She caught his eyes. “I assume that your superiors know already, or will very soon.”

  “Yes,” he said unflinchingly, “but I don’t know.”

  “At least you’re honest about it,” she said and didn’t say now or about that. Glass houses and all.

  William rubbed his forehead. “To the best of my knowledge,” he said, “and bearing in mind that I doubt I know everything we do or have done, we’ve never forced anyone into service. That’s a good way to wind up with a traitor in your midst, and spells can’t cover everything. You would know that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Hmm?” Judith asked, caught off guard by the rapid change of subject.

  “Your servants can’t talk about certain parts of the castle, can they?”

  “Some can’t.”

  “How many?” William’s face sharpened. “In fact, how many of the villagers still have their own, uninfluenced minds?”

  “Almost all,” Judith replied coldly, all the more so because the question did make her squirm a touch inside. “Nobody who works in the castle can talk about certain parts. It’s no harder an oath, I’d wager, than what your own masters demand. And, like you, they take it voluntarily.”

  “And overlook being asked. Just like their families overlook the ‘giant eagles,’ or how well-preserved your family stays—or, I suspect, how much you look like a…great-aunt?”

  “Great-grandmother,” said Judith with a tight litt
le smile. “And aye. They do.” She straightened her back and lifted her head. “There’ve been no clearances in Loch Arach. Nobody loses his farm because we’re wanting a flock of sheep or a patch of land for hunting. Nobody starves in a bad winter, and fewer perish of disease or illness than might if we didn’t make it worthwhile for doctors to abide here. We’ve a good school and scholarships for any lad who passes the exams, and I believe by the standards of London, I treat my servants very well.”

  Knowing that he’d be unable to deny any of it, she flung the words in his face. William let them come, gave them due and thoughtful consideration, and then nodded. “And all you ask is…”

  “Loyalty. And the ability to overlook a few things now and again. Human beings are quite good at that, and we’re all eager to do it in one area or another.” She reached for the brandy again. “I saw London, William. I saw a fair few cities, in fact, and I fought in a war or three. The civilized world lives and breathes willful blindness.”

  He didn’t try to deny that either, but smiled wry acknowledgment, and then said, “Where you’re concerned, it might not be able to for very much longer.”

  “That’s what my brother said. That’s why I’m talking to you. And I still wait upon an answer to my question.”

  “To the best of my knowledge,” William repeated slowly, “we’ve never forced anyone into our service. That said, we’ve also never before encountered anyone with…” He hesitated and found, to his credit, perhaps the most tactful words that existed to describe the MacAlasdairs. “…so much clear nonhuman influence. Not anyone inclined to discourse, at least.”

  “Not anyone who didn’t see you as a meal, you mean,” said Judith.

  “Or building materials.” He grimaced in memory.

  That allusion didn’t match any race Judith had heard of, but she hadn’t made a comprehensive study. “How old are you?”