Marjorie had altered the plan he’d concocted to deal with Dunncraigh, but he’d only known her and her circumstances a few days—a short enough time that the idea of rising to victory in this fray seemed a fleeting dream, at best. A dream that had slipped through his fingers before he’d even had a chance to clench his fist.
The two men seemed determined to remain on his heels, so he informed Cowen they’d have more for luncheon, sent up a quick prayer to whoever might be listening, and headed for the sitting room. In the doorway, though, he stopped.
Marjorie sat at the small worktable beside Connell. Something in his chest unclenched as he took in the curve of her neck, the loose, tangled bun of dark hair at the top of her head, the close-fitting, too-fancy emerald gown that clung to her bosom, and the slight smile on her face as she glanced up to meet his gaze. She hadn’t tried to flee. She was still there. He hadn’t lost her.
He tried telling himself it was relief he felt, relief that she hadn’t complicated things even further, but the exhilaration coursing through him seemed closer to anticipation. She’d stayed. He didn’t know why, but for the moment, at least, he could imagine they’d chosen the same side.
“I’d nae have learned a damned thing if she’d been my governess,” Sir Hamish muttered, jabbing Graeme in the ribs with an elbow.
Connell looked up. “We dunnae curse in this hoose,” he stated. “The lasses dunnae like it.” He wrote something on the paper in front of him. “And Ree isnae my governess. She’s my tutor. And Dùghlas and Brendan’s.”
Dùghlas rose from his usual chair by the window. “Duckling, ye’ve been wanting to show Uncle Raibeart the … new thing in yer bedchamber, have ye nae?”
The boy practically bounced to his feet. “Aye! Come and see! But Graeme cannae come.”
Graeme gestured the lot of them toward the hallway, clapping Dùghlas on the shoulder as his brother passed. “Thank ye, Dùghlas,” he whispered. Eventually he would “accidently” discover the three rabbit kits, but for now they could remain Connell’s poorly kept secret—especially when they provided an excuse to get everyone else out of the sitting room. “We’ll sit fer luncheon in twenty minutes. I need a word with Miss Giswell, in the meantime.”
Sir Hamish looked as though he’d rather stay behind, but keen-witted Dùghlas pulled the chieftain into a conversation about grouse hunting, and in a loud moment the four of them were gone up the stairs. Pulling in a slow breath, Graeme faced Marjorie again.
“I want the nails gone from those windows,” she said, standing, “and I’m not stepping into that room again until I have the key to the door.”
If he’d thought for a second that she would simply play her part—her new part—without comment, that had only been in his dreams. “If ye think I’m letting ye leave here to cause havoc, ye’d best reconsider. I could still wed a tutor. Or a governess.”
“And I could have left this morning, and I didn’t,” she pointed out.
“Aye, and why didnae ye do that, exactly?” he returned, folding his arms over his chest.
She took a quick breath, grimacing and likely trying to decide the pretty lie she meant to tell him. Perhaps she would say she’d fallen head over heels for him and couldn’t bear to leave his company. That would be nice to hear—even if he wouldn’t believe a word of it. Not when he half wanted to hear it.
“I considered leaving,” she said finally, “but I’m not dressed for the cold weather. Neither do I have any idea in which direction I’m most likely to find assistance. Nor do I want you riding me down and dragging me back to force me into marriage. So I thought to prove to you that I’m not a threat to you or your brothers. When the lot of you come to your senses, I’m hoping you’ll see fit to return me to my companions and my family. If you require monetary compensation for your … hospitality, I can arrange that. Without my brother knowing a thing.”
Honesty. He damned well hadn’t expected that. “Today I reckon we’ll all fare better with ye here,” he returned. “If ye like, we can begin negotiations again tomorrow.”
She gave a curt nod. “Fair negotiations.”
He almost smiled. “Aye. Fair ones.”
“Then in light of our temporary alliance I would like to point out that you gave me the name Marjorie Giswell, the female for whom my so-called aunt is searching.”
“I recall. I told my uncle she’s batty.”
Her lips twitched. “She won’t approve of that.”
God, he wanted to kiss her again. This time, though, he didn’t have an excuse or an ulterior motive. He wasn’t trying to intimidate her or distract her while he stripped her of a letter she was trying to hide, or attempting to get her to agree to a union she didn’t want. This would simply be because he found her attractive and he wanted her.
Generally desiring a lass was enough to get her into his bed; even with his dour finances he was a viscount and a clan chieftain with a fine, grand house, and the lasses claimed that he had a handsome face and knew his way about a bedchamber. And he’d never heard any complaints, if he said so himself.
But those lasses were Highlanders, accustomed to Highlands ways and content with their Highlands lives. Not a one of them had been the sister of a duke, a lass who’d already dined with more lords and ladies than he’d likely ever meet in his entire life. No, he wasn’t lowborn by any means, but as she’d said, being a viscount and the master of Garaidh nan Leòmhann didn’t give him much of a pedigree by English aristocratic standards.
“So ye’ll cooperate, then,” he said aloud, mostly because he’d begun to worry that she would be able to hear his cock creaking against his trouser seams in the silence. It was certainly bellowing loudly enough in his head, telling him to ignore the nonsense of kidnappings and marriage and politics and bend her over the worktable.
“Today, I’ll cooperate,” she agreed. “If you give me the key to that bedchamber. I won’t wake in the morning to find myself locked in again.” She held out her delicate, long-fingered hand, palm up.
“And tomorrow?” he asked. “I’ll nae have ye running oot the door fer soldiers to come arrest my brothers.”
“I already told you that I would send any soldiers I might find after you. I give you my word about that. But I’m certainly not going to otherwise promise to behave myself to your satisfaction.”
Warmth coursed beneath his skin, and he couldn’t have helped grinning even if he’d wanted to. “I’d prefer if ye didnae behave yerself, Ree, so I dunnae mean to ask ye to do so.”
She flushed. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she retorted. “I meant I will not obey your ridiculous commands.”
Graeme took a long step closer to her. “I’d rather ye did mean it the other way, but I’ll make do fer now.” Taking the old iron key from his coat pocket, he placed it onto her palm and then closed his fingers around her hand. “Ye’re still mine, ye ken,” he murmured.
Her sky-blue gaze locked with his. “I beg your pardon?”
“My prisoner,” he clarified though that hadn’t been at all what he meant.
The last woman in the world he should be lusting after, the last woman in the world who would have any reason to look at him with anything but fear and contempt. Disaster waited directly ahead of him, and as little as he could afford more trouble, he had no intention of moving aside. It wasn’t love, he reminded himself, because he was fairly certain love was loftier than the carnal thoughts running through his head. No hearts, no broken hearts, and none of the damned, selfish tragedy that came with that.
“Laird Maxton,” Cowen’s voice came from behind him, and he immediately released Marjorie’s hand and stepped back.
“What is it?” he asked, his gaze still on her.
“Father Michael’s here,” the butler returned. “He spied Sir Hamish and yer uncle and he’s already blessed himself twice and invited himself to luncheon.”
The pastor had a better sense of smell than a deerhound, when it came to opportunity. Clenching his jaw, Graeme
nodded. “Set a place fer him.”
“Aye. I apologize fer nae tripping him at the front door, but I dunnae attend church as often as I should, anyway.”
“It’s fine, Cowen. Go see to it.”
This complicated things even further. Having Hamish Paulk remaining in the area should have been trouble enough. But Father Michael appeared at the door almost daily with the fair on the way, and once he met the lads’ tutor he would expect to see her … tutoring. Locking Marjorie up again after this visit would now be impossible. She’d bloody well outmaneuvered him for now, but he still had a special marriage license heading this way. If everything else fell apart, he could still fall back on that.
Graeme needed her cooperation not just through luncheon, but for the remainder of her stay. In addition to that, Father Michael was a notorious gossip. Once he knew about Marjorie Giswell, everyone would know. The Giswell woman at the inn would know—and once she realized who’d done the kidnapping, she would be off to Lattimer to inform the duke.
The sins piling up on his doorstep looked to be higher than the winter snow. Even so, he had every intention of keeping his greatest temptation as close to him as he could manage, whether she had any strategic value, or not.
* * *
Her eyes beginning to droop closed, Hortensia Giswell poured herself a last cup of tea and sent the driver and footman upstairs to the room they’d been sharing. As loath as she was to admit defeat, she had to face the fact that Lady Marjorie had been missing for over four days now. What had begun as a hopeful, possibly heroic attempt to find her was now on the verge of becoming a self-serving, irresponsible attempt to save her own employment and reputation. And if something happened now, she wouldn’t be able to live with it.
Tomorrow. First thing in the morning she would hire a horse for Wolstanton and send the coach driver six hours north to Lattimer Castle. By midnight the duke would be here, and he and his men would hopefully find more cooperation than she had. Of course Gabriel Forrester was English, as well, but he nevertheless wielded a great deal of power, and he could offer a great deal more money, or threats if that proved necessary, for his sister’s safe return.
The inn door opened, but the hopeful accelerated heartbeat that had been accompanying that sound for the first two days had given up the effort. An older man in a plain brown coat and the red, green, and black plaid of clan Maxwell on his kilt strolled inside to take a look about the nearly empty common room. Apparently seeing no one he knew, the old fellow turned around and left again.
She wasn’t surprised to see him go. From the complaints of the other patrons, the beer and spirits at the Cracked Hearth got weaker as the night progressed. Even Robert the blacksmith had kissed her hand, declared that he would rather drink cow piss than more of the inn’s swill, and departed some thirty minutes ago.
Stifling a tired groan, she stood and sent Ranald the innkeeper a nod, then slowly climbed the stairs to the private rooms on the first floor. Because of her searches she was coming to know the territory for several miles around the inn fairly well, not that it had done her any good. Today, at least, she would have called the land that spanned the river Douchary and its surroundings lovely, if it hadn’t been so empty of Lady Marjorie. By the time she left here, she imagined she would detest every bit of the Highlands as the location of her latest, greatest, and last failure, but for the moment she could still admire parts of it.
Once inside the small, plain room she shut the door and then sat on the edge of the bed to remove her shoes and stockings. As she straightened, the bed creaked behind her. For a startled, fleeting second she thought Sir Robert had decided to try to tempt her into sin. Then, before she could do more than gasp, a cloth went around her mouth and pulled tight as something smelly and heavy dropped over her head.
No! She swung backward with an elbow and struck something solid, eliciting a pained grunt. Ha!
Despicable scoundrels, attacking virtuous women! Was this what had happened to Lady Marjorie? Oh, the horror! Hortensia rolled sideways on the bed, kicking as she went.
“Ouch,” a low male voice muttered. “Ye didnae say she was a fighter.”
“I didnae think she was,” came the reply. “But make certain ye dunnae hurt her.”
Two of them at least, then. Hands grabbed at her again, and in response she rolled back in the other direction—and smacked her head against a bedpost. The blow stunned her. Before she could recover her wits they’d twisted her up in ropes and blankets so tightly she couldn’t even wiggle her toes. Blast it! Defeated by her own momentum.
“Are ye injured, lass?” the second voice whispered, close by her ear.
She tried whacking at him with her head, but only struck air.
“I’ll take that as a nae.”
“How the devil are we supposed to get her oot the window?” the first voice hissed again. “I didnae realize she was so stout.”
The nerve! To kidnap her and then insult her figure! With a growl she tried to kick out again, but only managed a motion she imagined looked something like a beached whale.
“I reckon ye’ve made her angry,” the second voice observed, humor in his tone. “Tie the rope aboot her waist and we’ll anchor it to the bed. Once we get her lifted into the window, we’ll lower her doon to … our friend.”
Three of them, then. And while they might be trying not to hurt her—likely so she’d fetch a better price from some foreign prince or other—she had no such qualms about hurting them. Ladies didn’t fight, but neither did they willingly surrender their freedom or virtue.
She flopped about again, but didn’t manage to strike anyone. Breathing hard, she had to settle for growling under her breath. “Easy, lass,” the second despicable man murmured. “We’re taking ye to see yer mistress.”
She made what she hoped was a derisive sound.
“Ye dunnae believe me? I cannae blame ye fer that. But how else do ye reckon I know she’s nae yer niece, and that she goes by Forrester and nae Giswell?”
He knew something, clearly. And furious as she was at being manhandled, the slightest bit of hope sneaked back into her heart. If they were both kidnapped, she still had a chance to redeem herself. She could save them both—perhaps not their reputations, but she wouldn’t be stranded on the outside and forced to watch the inevitable unfold without being able to help.
She nearly changed her mind about cooperating when the two men hoisted her into the air and then left her hanging there with her head pointing downward. The jolts and jumps that rattled her teeth and cut off her breath seemed to go on forever, but finally another pair of hands spun her right way up just before she thudded dully onto the cold, hard ground.
A moment later she heard the two men climb down the wall behind her. “Ye might have backed the wagon beneath the window, lad,” the first voice panted.
“That’s nae stealthy. Ye told me to be stealthy.”
“Well, now we’ll stealthily lift her into the wagon,” the second voice whispered. “Now, before someone walks by and we have to snatch him, too.”
Hands pawed at her legs and her shoulders and—good heavens—her backside, and then she went back into the air and settled onto what must have been the bed of the wagon. It creaked and shifted around her, and then began bumping and rattling as it rolled forward.
Poor Wolstanton and Stevens would be beside themselves in the morning, with no idea where she’d gone or why. Hopefully they wouldn’t conclude that she’d decided to head to Lattimer Castle herself. Given the driver’s reluctance to travel through the barbaric Highlands alone, though, they might well conclude that she had made the trip just so they could justify staying put, themselves.
At least she would be with Lady Marjorie. Once the two of them put their heads together, no ropes would prevent them from escaping to rain fierce justice down on these savages.
* * *
The one clever thing his brothers had done when they’d kidnapped Marjorie had been to drive the wagon in circles for
an hour before they turned for home. By the time Graeme had duplicated their maneuver and driven up the long drive to the Lion’s Den, his old pocket watch in the moonlight read nearly four o’clock in the morning. He closed his eyes for a moment, tired and knowing he wouldn’t be sleeping for a good twenty hours, at least, before he hopped to the ground.
Strategically this made sense; the local cotters would know shortly, thanks to Father Michael, that the grand house employed a lass named Marjorie Giswell and that the lass’s aunt had been looking for her and offering a reward for her return. He’d taken his own steps to spread the rumor that Mrs. Giswell was something of a lunatic, and now in addition he could say that she was residing with them while she recovered her senses. The searches would stop. The rumors of a Sassenach female going missing would stop. And no one would dig deeper to discover who these mad Englishwomen truly were.
It gave him what he needed most: time. And thanks to the lengthy wagon ride and covered eyes of his new captive, while his neighbors would know where the two English ladies were, the lasses themselves would have no idea. She—they—hopefully wouldn’t be trying to flee.
In fact, the largest difficulty he could foresee was that he was running out of spare rooms with locks on the doors. “Let’s get her inside,” he intoned, lowering the back gate of the wagon.
“And up the stairs?” Cowen said woefully, still looking uncomfortable out of his usual livery. All three of them had donned the Maxwell plaid beneath plain, coarse coats, as well, in the hope that no one would notice three more cotters lurking about the Cracked Hearth in the middle of the night.
“Aye. If ye can heave her over my shoulder, I’ll carry her up.”
“Ye’ll break yer back, Lai—lad,” Ross protested.
My One True Highlander Page 14