Chapter 5
HE NEEDED AIR. DEVEN pushed into the corner of the carriage, but Helen and her perfume followed him.
“Have ye ever tasted anything as succulent as those pigeon pies at dinner?” She pressed against him. “Or the candied pears?”
Deven pulled his arm across his lap before it was swallowed by the folds of ample hip and bosom. “It was unnecessary to prepare so much food for me when I came only on yer father’s invitation to discuss the Night Fox.” Yet not one word had been spoken on the subject the entire evening.
“I shall tell Father to put together more evenings like this. Good food and excellent company. I can only hope Sir Leslie’s upcoming party is just as stimulating.” Helen tittered and ran a jeweled finger down his arm. “All those months at war have left ye too thin. No woman around to ensure ye receive a proper meal.”
Deven turned his face to the window for a gulp of fresh air. Why were women always concerned with stuffing his wame? And why did the carriage crawl along at a snail’s pace? “Yer father should not have summoned a carriage to bring me.”
“Nonsense. A laird must ride in the manner befitting his status.”
“Status is for those with a desperate need to prove something. Quite often a deficiency in themselves.”
“I hope ye do not find deficiencies within me.”
“Yer qualities will make for an excellent lady of the manor someday, however—”
The carriage swerved and jerked to a stop, flinging Helen across the seat. She sprawled half on top of Deven. Horses whinnied.
Deven shoved Helen upright and reached for the pistol in his belt. “Stay here.”
“No! Wait.” Helen grabbed his arm, locking herself around it.
The carriage jostled, and a second later the door cracked open to reveal the driver’s face. “The doubletree cracked, and the horses canna pull any further. I’ll have to double back to the house and fetch a new one, Miss Logan.”
“Oh, dear. How terrible.” Helen laid a hand to her flushed cheek. “I suppose Lord Glèidh will have to wait until ye return. I’m certain Father will understand the urgency of our unchaperoned state. Hurry along, Carter.”
Deven wriggled out of her grasp and moved to the door. “Mayhap there’s a way to repair it.”
“Nay!” Carter and Helen screeched at the same time.
“Nay, my lord.” Carter’s gaze darted to Helen then back to Deven. “With all the rain of late, yer boots will be ruined in the muck. And ’tis too dark to see much. I know this carriage and its equipment better than anyone. Trust me when I say there’s naught to be done.” He slammed the door, his footsteps retreating.
Deven sat still long enough for Helen’s skirt to brush his kilt. He sprang up. “I’ll see to the horses. They needna be out there alone.”
“But I needn’t be in here alone.” Helen’s nails clawed into his arm. “The horses have each other for company. Besides, I’m frightened. The dark woods are most sinister.”
“Aye, m’lord. Ye ne’er ken what may be lurkin in the shadows.” The door on Helen’s side cracked open, and the shiny muzzle of a pistol peeked in, followed by a hooded figure.
“Aieee!” Helen screamed.
“Wheesht yer kine there, or I’ll be forced to silence her meself.”
“Cease yer hysterics, woman.” Deven unhooked Helen’s fingers from his arm. “Night Fox, we meet again.”
“Ye make it easy, m’lord. Leavin windows open has become a bad habit for ye, but a fortunate one for me.”
“One I should like to correct immediately.” Deven reached for his pistol.
“Tsk, tsk. None o that.” Night Fox pointed the muzzle at Deven’s hand. “Ye’ll not be wantin me to make a mess in this bonny carriage, would ye? Not in front o the, ah … lady. Toss yer dag o’er here along with the dirk.”
Deven calculated the odds. They weren’t in his favor. He still had the sgian dubh hidden in his boot if need be. He slid the pistol and dirk across the floor.
Night Fox grabbed them and tossed them outside. “The wee blade in yer boot, if ye please.”
How did the swine know where Deven kept his knife? Swallowing back a curse, he retrieved that one as well and flung it. It hit the doorframe an inch above Night Fox’s hand. He grasped the quivering handle and jerked the embedded tip from the wood, tossing it outside with the others. “An impressive collection o’ death for a dinner party.”
“They’re of more use than jewels, so ye’ll be disappointed to discover that I’ve no valuables on me tonight.”
“Do ye not?” Night Fox tilted his head at Helen.
Helen screeched again. “What is it? Why is he looking at me? Make him stop! Oh, what do ye want?”
“’Tis ye m’lady. I had to see ye for myself after hearing ye’ve caught the attention o the most sought-after laird in the land.” His hooded head moved as if examining her. “I should say ye dinna disappoint my curiosity.”
Helen fumed. “How dare you!”
“I dare all I please which will serve ye well to remember. Yer hankie, if ye please.”
“I do not please.”
“Hand it here all the same.”
Pulling a bit of square lace from her bosom, Helen tossed it at the Fox. The Fox caught it and sniffed. “Whew! Ye’d drown a coo in that amount o perfume. I’ll have to scrub it clean afore I dare blow my nebbit.” Holding it away from his nose, the Fox tucked the piece up his sleeve.
Deven seized the distraction and kicked. The Night Fox jerked his hand back and slammed the door on Deven’s foot. Pain ricocheted up his leg, and he fell against the seat.
The window curtain brushed aside as the pistol muzzle slid in followed by the Fox’s mask. “Why ever would ye do such a thing? I only came to pay a friendly call as ye’re so oft wantin to do with the ladies.”
“Next time, face me like a man.”
Night Fox shook his head. “’Tis more fun this way.”
Deven clenched his hands atop his knees. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a musket ball trained on him, but never in front of a lady.
“Whatever does he mean by ‘ladies’?” Indignation bypassed fear in Helen’s tone.
“Dinna assume ye’re alone in his attentions,” Night Fox said. “I counted three lovely redheads last week.”
Deven half rose off the seat as air hissed through his teeth. “Stay away from Rooney—Miss Corsen.”
The Night Fox’s head cocked to the side as he considered Deven for a long moment. The movement was unsettlingly familiar. At last, the Fox sighed loud enough to stir the strip of material about his mouth and nose. “I’ve no reason to proddle an honest lass. As I said afore, fatted calves be what I’m after.”
Helen snorted. “Rooney Corsen. That disgraced laird’s daughter?”
What did Helen understand of disgrace and the sting it left on a person’s soul? “Miss Corsen canna help the failings of her father. ’Tis her upright character that should be judged without blemish.”
“Well, well,” said Night Fox. “Ye’ve an understandin for the unfortunates, m’lord. Seems we’ve more in common after all.”
“Do not think to compare the two of us, Thief.”
“I am merely a reflection o what is born in every man. Many keep it cleverly hidden, but ’tis there all the same. The spirit to do what is needed. Which reminds me, Miss Corsen’s thatched roof has taken to leakin from all the rain o late. Seein as how ye havena been there in a while, I thought ye might wish to know. Now, with my curiosity satisfied, I’ll be on my way. Miss Logan, ye’ve been more than I could ever hope for.”
Darkness shrouded the Fox’s features. Like a faceless ghost set to haunt him. “Running like a coward again. Enjoy the freedom while ye can.”
“More threats. If I had a silver doit for every time ye handed me one o those, I’d be a verra rich man.” The Night Fox laughed. “Mayhap next time when I havena the advantage on ye. Come to think on it, if I wait that long, I’ll be a long time dead
.” Withdrawing his pistol, the curtain fell back in place. His voice drifted from the other side. “Oh, there’s no crack in the doubletree. Yer driver is sittin just around the bend havin a wee smoke on his pipe. Good evenin to ye.”
Chapter 6
WEAVING PAST ANOTHER INSISTENT server carrying a tray of wine glasses, Rooney sidled along the back wall to where a potted fern on a pedestal provided the perfect hiding spot from Sir Leslie’s dinner guests. She discreetly tugged on her low-cut bodice that somehow made her feel more exposed than when taking a swim in the loch. Why had Mam bought a dress in dusty rose? Didn’t she know pink and red hair mixed like vinegar and water?
For the hundredth time since arriving, she looked at the door. All guests accounted for save the one she wished to see. Where was Lord Glèidh? Deven? Her face warmed at thinking of him by his given name, as she had ever since that evening in the carriage.
Violin and harp music floated around the sitting room as small groups mingled. Men in their refined Lowland cuts of satin breeks and women in splashes of color with glittering jewels adorning their necks and hands. Enough baubles to feed the villagers for months … years.
She patted her silk evening bag. It would have to be after dinner when the fatted calves were glutted with food and drink and merriment. Spilled wine on a lap could provide the distraction needed to slip off a bracelet or ring.
The ornate gold clock on the mantel showed eight forty-five. The invitation said dinner would be served promptly at nine. Why did rich people insist on eating so late? Was it a testament to their greatness to see how long their empty stomachs could withhold from food? Rooney’s stomach growled. She’d hoped lacing herself into tight stays would stop the noise, but her stomach rumbled in fierce protest.
“Not hiding, are you, my flower?” Sir Leslie appeared at her side dressed in black velvet with a ruby boulder stickpin resting in the lacey froth of his jabot. He touched a tapered finger to her ruffled sleeve. “Like a rose in a garden of milkweed.”
Rooney angled away. She’d kept her mother’s dress as the only nice frock she had to wear, but after tonight she’d decide whether or not to burn it. “A bonny turnout ye have.”
“Indeed, but only because I have the most extraordinary hostess.”
She smiled but kept her thoughts to herself. Let him think what he would if it kept her family in his good graces.
“You may have shied from your duties to greet our guests, but why are you not mingling? It’s bad manners to hide your delightful self away,” Sir Leslie said.
It was also bad manners to force one’s guests into uncomfortable situations. “I’m afraid my social skills have rusted from lack of use.”
“Then we must sharpen them if you are to take your place once more. Sharpening comes with practice. Ah, here are Lord and Lady Branaugh.” Sir Leslie gripped Rooney’s elbow and pulled her away from the wall toward a middle-aged couple. “My lord and lady, allow me to present Miss Corsen.”
The man’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Corsen … Corsen. Where have I heard that?” His wife whispered in his ear, and his eyebrows shot up. “Of course. That laird’s daughter. How’d you do?”
Without waiting for a reply, they walked away.
Rooney edged back toward the plant. She was a fool to come here in the open. The promise of jewels had begged too much of her attention. Slipping into their carriages as the Night Fox after the party would have been a wiser move.
The door opened. Rooney’s heart tripped as she stood on tiptoe to see who entered, but even in Mam’s heeled shoes, she couldn’t rise above the gaggle of women flocking to the newcomer.
“Late.” Sir Leslie clipped beside her.
The crowd parted, and Rooney’s breath caught as Deven stood in the doorway. He was magnificent in kilt, gray long coat, embroidered waistcoat, and plaid in the McLendon blue and green sashed across his chest and held at his shoulder with a silver brooch. His eyes cut through the crowd like a sword and stopped on her. With a tilt of his mouth, he approached.
“Sir Leslie. Miss Corsen.” Stopping directly in front of her, he inclined his head in a courtly manner. A black wave of hair swung over his forehead. Straightening, he brushed it back. “How beautiful ye are this evening.” His gaze never left her face.
She touched her neck to cover the tell-tale blotches of flustered red that would give away her excitement. “My Lord Glèidh. I was beginning to doubt yer arrival.”
“With such company, never.”
A ball of lace and butter yellow barreled through the crowd and catapulted itself at Deven. Helen Logan. “I thought ye would never come. How handsome ye look. Have ye received yer invitation to the chieftain’s masked ball? I’m planning to go as a Norse queen.” Straightening her curled wig, she clutched his arm and narrowed hawk eyes to Rooney. “I presume ye’re Corsen. Oh, I apologize. That was yer father. Miss Corsen.”
Rooney cracked a small smile. “Miss Logan.”
“For now.” She purred and stroked Deven’s sleeve.
Deven pulled away and inched closer to Rooney.
Jutting out her lip, Helen latched on to Sir Leslie with a swish of her taffeta-swathed hips. They bent their heads close together and moved off, whispering furiously.
“I do hope I’ll be invited to yer wedding,” Rooney whispered. “Save a piece of the cake for me.”
“I dinna care for cake,” he grumbled.
“Everyone enjoys cake. Ye simply need to find yer flavor.”
“What flavor might ye suggest? Something frothy and sweet or mayhap with a dash of spice?”
“A taste unexpected. With one bite ye’ll not understand how ye’ve missed it yer entire life.”
“What about me tells ye I fancy the unexpected?”
“Nothing, which is precisely why ye need it.”
“Need and want are two verra different things.”
“Not always.” Rooney’s gaze moved to the piece pinning his plaid. “A bonny brooch ye have there. Is it stag horns locking together?”
Lips flattening, he touched the silver circle at his shoulder. “Aye. Stags. My other is …well, is unique.”
His father’s ruby brooch. Guilt gripped Rooney.
Double doors opened behind them to reveal the dining room glowing with candlelight and heralding the rich scent of awaiting food.
“Dinner is served,” a servant announced.
“I hope ’tis not sgathach,” Rooney whispered, recalling the soured milk drink.
The corners of Deven’s eyes crinkled as he offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
Heart racing, Rooney placed her hand lightly atop his arm. For the first time all evening, she felt at ease.
“I’ll take her from here, McLendon.” Sir Leslie snatched Rooney’s hand and clamped it on his own arm, locking it in place as he dragged her into the dining room.
Rooney glanced over her shoulder. Helen attached herself to Deven and gave Rooney a smirk of satisfaction. Resisting the urge to scowl, Rooney flashed Deven a smile he boldly returned. Sir Leslie escorted her past the customary hostess’s chair at the far end and swept her to the left-hand side of the head of the table, imprisoning her at his side for the entire evening.
Jewels glittered the length of the table. That was why Rooney had come. Let Sir Leslie attempt to display her like a show horse, she would walk away with the grand prizes. Deven and Helen sat at the other end of the table. Not only would she walk away with the jewels, she’d be the only one to receive a smile from Deven. A reward if there ever was one.
By the end of dinner, Rooney was stuffed with more than she’d eaten in the past year while her ears gathered wool from the dull conversation. Politics, happenings at court, land agreements. How did they not fall asleep in their soup?
“Miss Corsen?”
All eyes fastened on her, especially Sir Leslie’s. “Pardon?”
He smiled apologetically at his guests. “Forgive her. Miss Corsen is not accustomed to the delicious rumors of court li
fe.”
“Nothing from the last twenty years I’d wager.” Helen dabbed the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin and swept her gaze over Rooney’s dress. “The fashion for turned back skirts and wide, ruffled sleeves was best saved for our grandmothers, God rest them.”
Snickering erupted down the table. Heat flushed Rooney’s face. She ran a hand across her lap. Mama had always looked beautiful in this dress. “Fashion has never carried much weight with me. Not when there are so many other intelligent interests to pursue.”
Helen’s eyes glittered with ice. “A pearl choker or cascade of sapphires would set off yer hair to perfection. A distraction from the other … ah, failings. But how dare I be so unfeeling? Of course, ye have no fine jewels to comfort yer appearance with. If my father were to gamble away our family finery, I should never be as brave as ye to show my face in public again.”
Several seats down, Helen’s father grunted as he licked his pudding spoon clean. “Nay fear, daughter. I would never be so careless to jeopardize our standing in the community. Ye and yer mother may hold yer heads up proudly.”
Heads nodded in approval.
Deven’s hand came down on the table, a solid thunk that garnered silence. “Miss Corsen has every right to hold her head proudly. Weaker constitutions may have crumbled, but never have I seen a stronger character as she works to care for her sisters.”
Helen threaded a lace hankie through her fat fingers. It was identical to the one Rooney had swiped from her that night in the carriage nearly a week ago. “A lady should not have to work, but then, that doesna seem to concern ye. Does it, Miss Corsen?”
Rooney smiled past the humiliation choking off her air. “Not when it keeps me from growing thick around the middle and sagging about the jaw. Excuse me, Sir Leslie.” Rooney pushed back her chair and rose.
Deven stood. The only one. “Miss Corsen—”
She walked from the room, keeping her chin tilted so the threatening tears didn’t shame her further. Outside, she found sanctuary in a small sunken garden bordered by trailing ivy, out of season rose bushes, and ash trees. Perfect for climbing.
The Highlanders Page 5