by Arnette Lamb
Good manners dictated that he oblige her. He grasped the lantern. “No, of course not.”
Even had he declined, she would have gone to her room, waited a while, then come downstairs to continue her inspection. Tomorrow morning she would put her opinions to paper. After that she would visit the harbormaster, as she always did when in a port city, and look for information about Virginia. But Glasgow was unique, for it was home to Haskit Trimble, an unusual man with exceptional abilities, many of which he’d passed on to Agnes.
Later in the day, she’d present her suggestions to Lord Edward. This family was in danger, and she intended to help them, with or without his consent.
They retraced the path they’d taken to the old wing, but instead of entering the formal parlor, he swung the lamp toward a hallway to the left.
As they walked, she said, “My father swears that I prefer the night because I was born on the shortest one of the year.”
“Midsummer’s Night?”
“Yes, but please don’t feel obliged to indulge me. Retire if you like. I promise not to bang a drum or inconvenience the staff.” But she’d inspect that tower tonight.
“Everyone’s abed, my lady.”
Perspiration glowed on his forehead, and his face bore the shadow of a stubble. She recalled the feel of his skin brushing gently against hers. For how long must she remember? The answer came easily: until she thought of his response. Love? he’d scoffed. ’Twas desire, raw and base. To perdition with him and his vulgar honesty.
“Auntie Loo said you had bad dreams,” he said in his doctorly tone. “Is that why you do not sleep for long?” When she did not answer immediately, he added, “ ’Tis not uncommon, nor is it a sign of a serious malady.”
He shouldn’t be so attentive, not about personal matters. No doctor on earth could ease her sleepless nights; only the return of Virginia MacKenzie could. “Auntie Loo exaggerates—when she’s not making trouble.”
“Should you have a change of mind and want my professional help, please ask.”
A change of mind would occur—on the day she was reunited with her sister. Knowing his offer was sincere, she said, “Thank you.”
He led her into a wide corridor typically Georgian in style. “How did an Oriental woman who speaks the King’s English come to be your friend?”
He probably wouldn’t believe Agnes’s explanation, and if he did believe, the odds were good that he’d judge her unfairly or call her unfeminine. Most of her kinsmen did. A pity, for among the Orientals the ancient skills Agnes practiced were revered as artistry.
But she couldn’t tell him another lie. Not tonight. “I saved her father from an assassin. According to custom in his country, he owes me his life. Since he could not give it, he gave me Auntie Loo.”
“She is a slave?”
“A well-fixed one. Her allowance is greater than mine.”
“Did you take a crossbow quarrel for the emperor of China?”
He sounded irritated, but she knew it was only bruised male pride. “ ’Twas not nearly so dramatic, for I didn’t suffer the smallest bruise.”
“But you will not furnish the details.”
“Certainly,” she chirped. “When I know you better.”
“So you’ve said before. On the day we become friends, we will have much to discuss.”
He hadn’t said if but when. Was their expected friendship a foregone conclusion or a polite slip of the tongue?
His voice dropped. “You were foolish to move into the path of that arrow.”
He was entitled to his opinion. “I thought the book would stop it.”
“ ’Twould have taken a powerful book to halt the trajectory.”
Only a scientist would phrase it that way. “It is a powerful book,” she said proudly. “ ’Tis filled with the chronicles of Clan MacKenzie.”
He chuckled. “How remiss of me to forget your great Highland heritage.” Swinging the lamp toward a door, he said, “There’s the library. Does the wound pain you tonight?”
“Only a wee bit, but I think you stitched me up with itch weed.”
Bemusement suited him well. “Here we have the music room and beyond it an audience suite for the day Hannah masters at least one musical instrument.”
“Christopher has no liking for music?”
“Manly adventures are his watchwords. That door leads to the east receiving room. It’s also the entrance nearest the stables. We leave our muddy boots and wet cloaks there.”
“I shan’t be entering there until I’m well.”
“A hole ’neath your clavicle is nothing to scoff at.”
She slid him a cheeky look. “Not unless I were trying to anger my physician.”
Now that he was smiling, she decided to broach an important subject. “What other damage was done—in your study?”
“Why do you wish to see the vandal’s leavings?”
“Because it will tell us what he wants.”
“Above my demise?”
“Aye. The more we know about his purpose, the quicker we will find him.”
His brow furrowed, and his mouth tightened in indecision. “Will you persist until I agree?”
She sighed and gave him her most self-effacing grin. “To be honest, the odds favor that, my lord.”
Blowing out a breath, he exuded impatience. “Are all of the women in your family as spoiled as you?”
“All except Mary, but she’s more stubborn than the rest of us. She’s an independent thinker, too.”
“Pity the earl of Wiltshire then,” he murmured as he pushed open the door to his study. “Here we are.”
They had walked a path in the shape of an inverted U, but square at the corners. According to her inner compass, the west outside wall of this room should face the tower.
She stepped inside, and as she surveyed the destruction, apprehension overcame her. The innocent smell of aged leather bindings and newly applied furniture wax mingled with the almost oppressive odor of the intruder. This assassin was well paid and determined, else he would have helped himself to the many treasures in Napier House. Instead, he’d aimed his assault directly at the earl of Cathcart.
A quarrel had been shot into the high back of the earl’s chair, the fletchings identical to those of the weapon used in Edinburgh. Another arrow pierced the tapestry firescreen emblazoned with the heraldic shield of the Napiers.
Keepsakes in the room had also been targets. Books were torn from the shelves, the pages ripped from the bindings. Rugs were upturned, and upholstery split. But no glass was broken, and none of the heavy furniture was upturned. The silver canisters hadn’t been opened; neither had the marquetry boxes or tobacco containers been disturbed. The intruder had been quiet in his work, and whatever he sought was larger than a humidor.
Pushing aside the pain of sympathy, she laid her hand on Lord Edward’s arm. “What was he looking for?”
“Money? Valuables to pawn?”
“Nay, else he would have taken the treasures in the old wing. Or the silver canisters there on the mantel.” She could feel his frustration and knew that anger simmered beneath the surface of it. Turning, she implored him with, “Please think, my lord, and think objectively about every person you know. Whoever did this was looking for something. For what?”
He doubled his fist and pounded his chair. When he reached for the quarrel protruding from the upholstery, she yelled, “Nay. Let me.”
Hurrying to his side, she grasped the stem and gently worked the arrow free. When separated from the shaft, the arrowhead itself would bear the mark of the craftsman who’d made it. She already knew that the fletchings were English, and by sending a courier to London with one of the quarrels, she could have it examined by a knowledgeable expert, thus gaining a history of the weapon. Having the quarrel intact bettered the odds of learning its origin. But she’d wait until the messenger returned to present the findings to Lord Edward.
Behind the chair she noticed an indentation in the wains
cot wall that matched the size of the earl’s doubled fist. Tiny splatters of blood marked the spot. She touched it, then glanced at his bruised and abraded knuckles. “I wish it had been the assassin’s jaw you bashed.”
“As do I,” he said. “But I’d rather refer to him as a would-be assassin, if it’s all the same to you.”
“It’s very much the same to me,” she said, and felt the air grow heavy between them. Light from the lamp behind him threw his features into shadow. The rich auburn of his hair glowed as red as fine claret. He loomed beside her, a powerful figure of a man bedeviled by an unknown enemy.
He stared at his hand, but Agnes knew that his attention was fixed on her, and the pull of his masculinity set her heart to racing. A similar occurrence had led to a kiss that neither of them had planned. Had he truly meant those harsh words? Were his feelings toward her solely based on lust? His expression spoke of more tender feelings, and she fought the urge to lean into him and learn the answer.
Much as she hated to end the sensuous moment, she feared where it would lead. Her fingers tightened on the quarrel. “Shall I have Auntie Loo doctor your hand?”
“Nay, I’ve suffered worse mishaps in my laboratory. A little soap and—” He looked up and their gazes locked.
He licked his lips in a manner that she might have deemed seductive, were the circumstances different. Yet the potential was there. Lord, how she wanted to explore it. “Soap and . . . ?”
Giving himself a shake, he broke the spell. “Soap and a salve ’tis what it needs.”
She took two steps back. “Where is your laboratory?”
“In the dungeon.”
“Where is the dungeon?”
“Near the entrance to the tower door. A tapestry covers the entrance.”
“What damage did you find there?”
“None. The door is heavy oak and the lock proved impenetrable.”
The would-be assassin was no thief, she’d decided that, but now she knew that he was not a lockpick, either. A dire bit of information, for it proved to her that the man was a killer without conscience or scruples.
She stifled a shudder at the thought. A thief could be bought for a higher price. The same was true of a vandal. This enemy was deadly serious, and he had only one agenda: the death of Edward Napier.
“What of interest would he find in your laboratory?” she asked.
“Nothing of import to anyone but me. But I’ll tell you this, our heathen has put himself in exalted company by assaulting the door to my laboratory. It withstood the will and might of Robert the Bruce.”
Lowland Scots of her acquaintance were, by comparison, passive in their heritage. Or was it because the Highland MacKenzies put clan before God if their loyalty was at stake? But as she watched Edward Napier, his vehemence grew as fierce as that of any Highlander she’d ever known.
She’d ponder the matter later; for now she walked to the window and pulled aside the drapes. As she had suspected, the mass of the tower loomed in the darkened sky. A garden or maze covered the ground, filling in the U shape of the building. Was the assassin now crouched in the shrubbery, his crossbow cocked and aimed to kill.
She jumped back and moved to retrieve the quarrel in the firescreen.
“Nay!” he shouted, his voice again cracking like a whip. “It stays where it lies until I find the bow and the man who shot it. Then I’ll bury both in unconsecrated ground.”
Startled, she stared at him in confusion. Left unchecked, his anger continued to rise. In his wrath this scholarly Lowlander resembled the great chieftains of the Highlands, long known for their power to wreak terrible retribution upon their enemies.
“ ’Tis later still, my lady, than when last I brought it up.” Giving the room a final inspection, he motioned toward the door. “I’ll walk you upstairs.”
“But I’m not ready to retire.”
“Come.” Thoroughly distracted, he tipped his head toward the door.
He could have been herding a cow, so careless was his regard for her. What had overcome the scholarly nobleman? Feminine wiles begged for a go at challenging him. Demurring, she said, “Please?”
That got his attention, and the fire in his eyes gave her a shiver. His voice dropped to an ominous rumble, “Any compromise on the matter will be seen as . . .”
She remembered what Christopher had said. “Disobedience, my lord?”
“Aye, and you will not like the punishment.”
The will to yield to him set off sparks of excitement, battling wonderfully with her need to prevail. She felt alive and eager to stay in his company. “Frankly, I’m taken aback by you, my lord.”
“As am I vexed by you, Agnes MacKenzie.” Pointedly he added, “Not of the Saint Andrews’ branch.”
The constable’s words, but coming from Edward Napier, they sounded the perfect light foil for these dire straits, and Agnes laughed. “You needn’t see me to my room.”
He closed his eyes, and his shoulders shook with silent chortles. “A prudent decision was there ever one.”
The truth dawned on Agnes. “You’d rather be alone.”
Alone, Edward thought? Giraffes would graze in Glasgow before he’d prefer his own company to hers. Tumbling naked with her there on the rug before the hearth held great appeal. With the slightest effort, he could see a pile of discarded clothing. He could feel her soft skin against his palms and his lips. He could hear her purrs of contentment.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
Absolutely not. He stood three strides from an honorable kinswoman of the most decent of Highland clans, and he could think of little beyond suckling her breasts and tasting her sweeter parts. A lusty beast raged within him.
“My lord? What has come over you?”
She was delightfully baffled, an interesting aspect to an altogether exciting woman. “Nothing for you to worry about.” He could have laughed at that. Instead he added the truth, “There’s nothing for you to worry about . . . tonight.”
“Good.” She moved toward him, a radiant smile on her lips. She wasn’t pinched in at the middle, but sleek and graceful in her femininity. “I wouldn’t want you to think me a poor guest.”
Now she was pushing the limits of his patience. The vixen. Oh, but a part of him liked her playfulness, and he almost growled with satisfaction. Agnes MacKenzie was a prize, but only for the man who could manage her.
* * *
The next morning he decided she was more trouble than she was worth.
Dodging a pair of maids carrying brooms and buckets, Edward went in search of Mrs. Johnson. Small in stature but great in her girth, his cook-cum-housekeeper sat at the worn oaken table, a bucket of leeks before her.
“Morning, my lord,” she murmured, her head down.
“Morning, Hazel. Why are maids tromping through the parlor at this time of day?”
She slapped one of the field onions onto the table. “May I speak frankly, my lord?”
“When have you not?”
“Meaning no disrespect for the Highland MacKenzies, but your houseguest is most peculiar.”
He had a different opinion, but one that her father also shared.
“She has odd ways, the Lady Agnes does.” Mrs. Johnson’s nose twitched in disdain. “Not in her appearance, mind you. She’s a beauty to rival her famous sister Mary—that painter in London. But the Lady Agnes is a puzzlement.”
Edward snatched up a scone. “How so?”
“I came upon her in the kitchen before dawn. She was cleaning up the mess she made winding torches.”
“Torches?”
“Aye, for the tower, where she spent most of the night laboring like a scullery maid. Turn me out to sweep the streets, but I think she means to occupy it” From her apron pocket, she produced some papers. “Gave me this. ’Tis an order for carpet for the stairs and a draft to pay for it.”
He examined the document. “Carpet for the stairs. Why?”
“You’ll be needing a wizard to learn t
he why of it, my lord. She’s also taken Bossy and the carriage off with her.”
“I’ll deal with her.”
Edward did not learn the answer to the question about the new carpet, but over the course of the morning and early afternoon, he discovered that a stair runner was the least of the changes Agnes MacKenzie intended to make in his household. Her visit was turning his life into a Tobias Smollett novel. Was this what Lord Lachlan had meant when he said trust her with your safety?
“Where is Lady Agnes now?” he demanded hours later.
“She’s here.”
She hurried into the room, a vision in crimson silk. Bossy trailed behind her, his arms laden with packages.
With her free hand, she pulled the pin from her plumed hat and swept it off. Her hair was twisted into a fashionable coil and secured at the crown of her head. The style accentuated her slender neck and delicate chin. She’d been outdoors for too long; her cheeks and nose were pink from the summer sun.
Admiring her, Edward questioned the reasons behind his anger and knew that unbidden desire was also at the heart of his displeasure.
He leaned against the large foyer table. “Your father sent an ax-bearing Highlander. He’s in my stables.”
“He’s one of father’s many messengers. He’ll stay in the stables, and I doubt you’ll notice him. He’s to take my letters to Papa. Another messenger will bring Papa’s letters to me. The duke of Ross demands that we communicate regularly with him. Is something wrong, my lord? You look vexed.” Alarm flashed in her eyes. “Has there been trouble? Are the children harmed?”
“The children are fine.” Edward waved toward an array of baskets and flowers that filled the parlor. “I’m surprised that every noble family in Glasgow has sent you a basket of fruit or baked goods. Their eligible sons have sent you flowers and love notes of dubious origin. Six maids are scouring my tower. By way of a minion, the parson promises to be a regular visitor during your stay.”
“Good. I had hoped they’d get started as promised.”
She’d invited guests to his house without permission? What would she do next? Plan a harvest ball? “What will the parson get started doing?”