“She’s Lady Marjorie Forrester,” Dùghlas put in, backing farther down the hallway and pulling Connell with him. “Lattimer’s sister.”
Graeme stared from one to the other of his brothers. He couldn’t possibly have heard that correctly. Brendan’s defiant expression didn’t alter, but Dùghlas had the sense to look worried. Connell looked ready to cry.
“Ye … Ye kidnapped Lattimer’s sister,” he said aloud. “Why by all the bloody saints would ye do that? Are ye feverish? Or just that dim-witted?”
“The Duke of Dunncraigh would pay good blunt to get hold of her,” Brendan insisted. “She’s a new herd of sheep, all the tithes we’ve missed paying, and enough lumber to repair every cottage on the property.”
Graeme closed his eyes for a moment, still willing all of this to go away. “Where’d ye get her? We’ll put her back, let someone else find her, and be done with it.”
“She saw Connell, and she knows his name because the duckling told her. He told her my name, too.”
A large tear ran down the eight-year-old’s cheek. “Are the English going to hang me, Graeme? Brendan said I should bring her to the back of the inn. He made me do it!”
The inn. “Ye took her from the Cracked Hearth? Ye load of half-wits! Yer wagon tracks’ll lead them directly to our front door.”
“Nae. They willnae,” Brendan protested. “We spent an hour driving all over the countryside. Nae a man can track us, and the Sassenach has nae idea how far she is from the road.”
His jaw clenched so hard it creaked, Graeme took a half step back. “Go sit in the front room,” he finally ground out. “Dunnae speak, dunnae look at each other, dunnae go anywhere else. After I figure oot what to do with her, I reckon I’ll see to the three of ye. Until then, nae a damned word. Now nod at me that ye ken what I’m telling ye, and go.”
One by one they nodded and stomped off to the morning room, Brendan at the back and still looking as angry as he did concerned. All the sixteen-year-old saw, though, was the brilliant plan he’d laid out. As usual, the idea of consequences completely eluded him.
The consequences did not elude Graeme, however. The female knew two of his brothers’ names, and at the least, the name of the inn from where she’d been taken. She might have people out looking for her already. Letting her go or handing her to her brother would both cause a tremendous degree of trouble for both him and his brothers with the law—if any sane man could call possible imprisonment or being transported for life merely “trouble”—but if the Maxwell heard about any of it, all the Maxton lads would be banished from the clan, and he could well find himself at the bottom of the nearest loch and his siblings vanished.
The alternative would be to do as Brendan planned and hand her over to the Duke of Dunncraigh. God knew what would happen to her if he did so, not to mention the outcome for Lattimer and all the Maxwells—former Maxwells, since Dunncraigh had banished the lot of them from the clan—on Lattimer’s land, though he had more than a hunch that it wouldn’t be anything pleasant. Dunncraigh wanted to own Lattimer Castle and its ten thousand acres, and this would give him a way to do so.
As Brendan had said, the Maxtons would benefit from aiding their clan chief. A bit of relief from debt, the prospect of making a profit from wool and crop sales and not having it immediately eaten by upkeep and taxes. He couldn’t even imagine it. All that in exchange for a spoiled aristocrat with whom he had no connection, and certainly owed no kindness. Hell, this would likely be the most good she’d ever done anyone else in her entire life.
Graeme faced the door again, then resumed pacing instead. Whatever the devil he meant to do next, he needed to do it soon.
* * *
More stomping, heavier and angrier—if bootsteps could sound angry—than before. Marjorie took a deep breath. Being tricked by a young boy certainly wasn’t her fault; any true lady would of course offer assistance to a child in need. But those weren’t the footsteps of boys, now. And disbelief, affront, or annoyance no longer felt adequate. Boys, or not, this was unacceptable. Now, sitting in a hard chair with her hands bound and a smelly sack over her head, she didn’t feel simply put out, the victim of some naughty boys’ prank. With those last bootsteps, this stopped being a rare misadventure and became very, very serious.
At least she’d managed to slip the awful cloth off her mouth, so she no longer felt half suffocated and completely helpless. If she had her voice, she had something. Not much, because both her hands and arms were growing numb, but more than she’d had ten minutes earlier.
“Steady,” she whispered to herself. Yes, she knew how to be polite and proper and appropriate. Evidently those very things were what had gotten her into this mess. But losing her wits now certainly wouldn’t help anything. Because that last, angry pair of boots didn’t belong to any boy, and she couldn’t keep pretending that she was having a very bad dream.
The door creaked open, and the footsteps entered the room, clattered around a bit, then retreated again to the entry. She held her breath, listening for anything that could give her a clue about who seemed to be standing there, staring at her. The silence, though, dragged on for what felt like hours.
“Whatever this is,” she finally said, trying to keep her tone calm and civilized despite the very uncivil circumstances, “I assure you that my main interest is being returned to the Cracked Hearth Inn and my carriage. The rest doesn’t signify.”
“It doesnae signify to ye, yer highness,” a low-pitched, very Scottish voice replied, “but it damned well signifies to me.”
“I’m not royalty,” she returned, seizing on those words. The young men had known her name, but if this was a case of mistaken identity, well, thank heavens. “I’m just—”
“I ken who ye are, Lady Marjorie Forrester,” he interrupted. “Sister of the Duke of Lattimer, the man most hated in these parts by the chief of clan Maxwell. And that’s where ye are, lass. In the heart of Maxwell territory.”
Her heart stammered. Had she stumbled into a war? Her brother was quite fond of battle, after all. “If you know who I am, sir, then you also know that my brother is not someone with whom one trifles. And he would not look favorably on anyone who harmed his sister.”
“And that, yer highness, is precisely my problem.” Three fast footsteps moved toward her, and then the sack yanked free of her head.
She wanted to look. She wanted to see who’d ordered that boy to trick her into wandering off, and then tied her up and dragged her off … somewhere. But Marjorie shut her eyes tight. “If you’re worried about trouble, then make certain I can’t see you,” she said. “Just drop me by the roadside, and we can forget this ever happened.”
The silence seemed to drag on forever. “Ye saw my brother, lass,” he finally returned. “And ye know the names of two of them. That’s the rub. Seeing me should be the least of yer worries.”
“I won’t tell,” she insisted, putting every ounce of sincerity she possessed into those three words.
“I’m nae willing to risk my family’s necks on the word of a Sassenach,” he said. “Especially one accustomed to having her own way. Open yer damned eyes. Ye look ridiculous.”
If there was one thing worse than being ignored, it was being called ridiculous. “You and your brothers kidnapped me,” she retorted. “Don’t expect me to take your criticisms seriously.” With that Marjorie opened her eyes—and her heart stopped beating. A lion—a lion god—leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.
A mane of dark brown hair shot through with deep red hung almost to his shoulders, stray strands half covering one eye and not at all lessening the impact of steel gray looking directly back at her. His nose was straight, his mouth spare and unyielding. And unsympathetic. She’d once seen a lion in the Tower of London, and the way he’d gazed at her—the undisputed king languidly sizing up a gazelle and deciding whether she was worth devouring or not—had made her shudder. And she shuddered now.
For heaven’s sake he was big;
tall, broad-shouldered, and looking like he could lift a horse over his head. She would have been willing to wager that everything beneath that worn shirt and coat and those buckskin trousers was muscle. Think, she ordered herself. This was not the time for ogling like some schoolgirl, however striking this man’s appearance.
Like the young boy’s, his clothes weren’t crisp and new. Unlike Connell’s, this man’s shirt and trousers were streaked with dirt. His nails were neatly trimmed, but one of them was bruised black, and all of them were dirty. What was he, a stable boy? A farmer? Certainly he wasn’t an aristocrat. Not with hands like that. And not with the way he’d called her “highness” a moment ago. Marjorie willed herself to begin thinking again, instead of simply staring. With all those muscles and the way he seemed to be actually using them, he likely didn’t have any spare space for thought. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage.
“Well,” she ventured, very aware of her hands bound in her lap, “I’ve seen you now. My offer still stands, however; return me to the Cracked Hearth, and I won’t speak a word about you. Or your brothers.”
Pushing upright, he strode up to her. “And I still dunnae believe ye,” he stated, and pulled a knife from one boot.
“No!” she shrieked, ramming her head into his chest. The impact made her blink stars.
He grunted. “I’m nae going to murder ye, yer highness. Nae today.” Grabbing her shoulder, he leaned over to slice through the ropes binding her arms and then the ones holding her hands together. “If ye try to run, ye’ll be back in this chair,” he said. “And because I’m nae as much of a fool as ye English like to think, I’ve two guards by the door and a shackle and chain locked to a bed upstairs. That’s fer the night.”
The idea that she wouldn’t be seeing her brother Gabriel and his betrothed at the end of the day, that she didn’t have her clothes or her hairbrush or any money with which to purchase replacements, that she truly wouldn’t be going anywhere unless someone else allowed it—Marjorie abruptly wanted to scream and cry and pound her fists like an infant. “And then what?” she made herself ask.
The big man shrugged, returning the knife to his boot and backing toward the door. “And then we’ll see. I reckon ye can untie yer own legs.” He tilted his head, the fall of that lanky hair making him look oddly vulnerable. “There’s a bowl of water there by the wall, a mug of milk, and a slice of mutton. I reckon it’s nae as fine as ye’re accustomed to, but I wasnae expecting guests.”
“I am not your guest,” she retorted, and those gray eyes assessed her all over again.
“Nae, ye arenae. Ye’re a pile of trouble that my brothers have dumped on my lap. And now I have to figure what use to make of ye.”
“And you’re blaming me? Don’t be absurd. Let me go before this gets any worse. I’ve been missing for an afternoon. I can explain that away. Overnight won’t be as simple, sir.” And it would likely ruin her—if that hadn’t happened already. She took another breath, trying to slow her pulse. One thing at a time. Escape first, then worry over her reputation, and about how much more difficult this would make her plans for acceptance in Mayfair.
“Naught aboot ye is simple, lass. But dunnae expect me to give in to yer doe eyes and long lashes when lives are at stake. So ye’d best calm yerself and get someaught to eat before ye faint dead away, and I’ll come fetch ye later. If ye care to curse anyone beneath yer breath, I’m Maxton. Graeme Maxton.”
* * *
“What do you mean, ‘she isn’t there’?” Hortensia Giswell demanded, keeping her expression one of matronly annoyance despite the tightening of her throat. Not again.
The coachman brushed at the water soaking into his coatsleeves. “I went around the back of the stable where Lady Marjorie was headed, not five minutes after I lost sight of her. She wasn’t th—”
“You let her out of your sight?”
“No need to be shrill, Mrs. Giswell,” Stevens countered with a frown that looked more put upon than concerned. “It’s raining; she won’t have gone far. Did you look inside the inn? She might have come back in through the kitchen. Maybe even took a room to warm up and dry off.”
Hortensia made herself take a slow breath. “I will go ask again. In the meantime, take Wolstanton and don’t simply ‘look.’ Find Lady Marjorie, or none of us will ever find employment in London again. You do recall who she’s on her way to visit.”
Finally the coachman blinked, nodding. “Yes. Of course. Wolstanton and I will search the stable and the area around the inn. Thoroughly.”
“Good.”
Gathering her appropriately matronly skirts, unmindful of the continuing drizzle despite the fact that it was likely turning her tightly bunned graying hair into a shiny helmet, Hortensia hurried back inside the Cracked Hearth. The luncheon crowd had thinned somewhat, which she didn’t like. Not only had she lost potential witnesses, but any one of them who’d vanished might have made off with Lady Marjorie. She was pretty, wealthy, unmarried, and English. Anyone with avarice in his heart might have taken her away.
Oh, she’d been right to suggest outriders, protection, someone to alert the Duke of Lattimer of their approach. The duke might even have sent men to meet them. Why had she stopped at mere suggestions, though? She knew the proper etiquette, for heaven’s sake. This had been such a bad idea—everyone knew the Highlands were dangerous, and Highlanders even more so.
The innkeeper, apparently also aware of the reputation of his countrymen and of the impact a kidnapping would have on the popularity of his establishment among English travelers, escorted her to every room in the inn, and opened every door himself. No Lady Marjorie. If she’d been a lesser woman, Hortensia was certain she would have begun hand-wringing and possibly fainting by now. A lesser woman might also believe she’d been cursed.
When Princess Sophia had disappeared, she’d known almost immediately that the willful girl had arranged it herself, with substantial aid from that dastardly and utterly unsuitable glorified groom of a beau. Yes, the queen had managed to find her wayward daughter fairly quickly, but the mere fact of the princess’s absence had been enough to see Hortensia sacked. And the babe that had resulted nine months later had cemented, or so she’d thought, her reputation as the worst companion in London.
She’d thought her career as a mentor and companion utterly and forever destroyed. For heaven’s sake, she’d taken work as an assistant in a series of dress shops for twelve horrific years—until Lady Marjorie Forrester had posted a request for someone of precisely her qualifications. Her second, and last, chance at redemption. And now this. It simply wasn’t fair.
An hour later Stevens the coachman sat down across the table from her in the low-ceilinged common room of the Cracked Hearth, the arrogant man. “We didn’t find a damned thing,” he panted, taking off his gloves and setting them on the worn tabletop. “No tracks, no bits or baubles off her clothes, not a soul who saw anything. Or at the least not anyone who would admit to seeing anything.”
Hortensia nodded, taking a last sip of her cold tea. “I found nothing, either.”
“Well, Wolstanton’s hitching up the team as we speak. I reckon if we push for it, we’ll reach Lattimer Castle just after dinner. His Grace’ll have men down here before daylight.”
“No!” she squeaked, then cleared her throat to try to cover the outburst.
“No?” the coachman repeated, furrowing his brow.
“The only way for the three of us to keep our positions is if we retrieve her from wherever she is and deliver her safely—and gratefully—to her brother’s care. We’ll take rooms here. With enough questions asked and enough of Lady Marjorie’s money delivered to the right hands, someone will talk. She didn’t simply vanish into thin air.”
“You’re jesting, I hope,” Stevens returned. “The only thing worse than being sacked immediately for this would be what will happen when His Grace discovers that we knew about it and didn’t notify him. I’d rather be unemployed than arrested.”
&nb
sp; “That will only happen if we don’t find her, which we will.” She reached out to seize his hand, squeezing it. “We must.”
Stevens grunted, his precise black hair only a little dented by his coachman’s hat. “We’ll stay the night. If we’ve learned nothing by morning, we’ll … reassess our plans.”
Hortensia withdrew her hand. A lady’s touch, when rarely given, could have a very potent effect, indeed. “Thank you, Stevens. Fetch Wolstanton, and we’ll divide our efforts appropriately.”
Once he’d left the table, Hortensia took another drink of her long-cold tea. The barmaid really needed to bring around a fresh pot of hot water. The lack of civility and attention to detail she’d found thus far in the Highlands could prove to be very problematic—especially when she had a rescue to perform, and a very limited amount of time in which to do it.
Chapter Three
By the time Graeme left the sitting room and pulled the door shut behind him, every servant in the house had gathered at the head of the hallway to whisper and mutter among themselves. Even if he’d wanted to keep his captive a secret, it was far too late to do so now. The best he could hope for was to keep the household from gabbing about it outside these doors.
“Nae a soul’s to speak to her, and she’s nae to leave that room,” he ordered, pushing his way though the half-dozen men and one woman—the manor’s formidable cook, Morag Woring. “Cowen, set Boisil and his lads outside until we can get a spare room upstairs ready and the windows nailed shut.”
“Aye, M’laird.”
His brothers sat close together on the sofa in the front room, though at this point he wasn’t certain whether it was a show of united defiance or an attempt to hide how nervous they were. He hoped it was the latter.
For some reason he hadn’t expected the woman beneath the sack to have black hair. Why that mattered he had no idea, but it felt significant. As did the bright blue eyes, and the way he’d wondered whether the color would deepen to sapphire in the sunlight. Graeme blew out his breath. The parts of her didn’t matter. All that did matter was that the whole of her was in his house, and that she was there against her own will.
My One True Highlander Page 4