Beguiled

by Arnette Lamb

  Still reeling, Agnes shook her head to drive out the ringing of fear. “Lay the cause to fate, if you will. I say ’twas put in motion by my own foolishness.” She reached for the exquisite scabbard and passed it to her friend. “The children?”

  “Sleeping through it all.” With hands that could as easily crack bones as set them, Auntie Loo sheathed the weapon. “What happened?”

  Agnes wanted to embrace her friend, but a display of affection would embarrass Auntie Loo. So Agnes bolted the door, poured herself a glass of brandy, and told Auntie what had occurred.

  “This assassin is patient.”

  Agnes agreed. “Lord Edward’s study was undisturbed, except for the dove, which was hastily placed.”

  “You came upon him too fast. He heard the ringing of the alarm bell and left hurriedly.”

  Praise the saints, she and Edward had moved quickly. “What else does the assassin want?”

  Agnes was still pondering the question sometime later when Edward knocked on the door. Auntie Loo had retired. Agnes was alone. She capped the ink pot and threw the bolt.

  His shoulders were drawn with fatigue, and her short sword dangled from his hand, but his gaze was sharp and apprehensive. “My children.”

  She grasped his arm and drew him inside. “Safe and asleep.”

  “I want to see them.” Pulling her along, he moved to the stairs. Manners appropriately forgotten, he took the steps two at a time. Agnes had to work to keep up with him.

  At the first landing, the glow of a lantern illuminated the chamber she shared with Auntie, who lay on her bed facing away from them. The new wooden steps contrasted sharply to the ancient stone walls. Without pausing, he climbed the second staircase. Agnes grasped the lantern and followed him.

  He stopped beside the sleeping Christopher. With a shaking hand, he reached out and touched the boy’s head.

  Mumbling, Christopher opened his eyes long enough to say, “Night, Papa.”

  Sighing loudly, Edward walked around the partition. Close on his heels, Agnes watched him gaze at his slumbering daughter. Tears sparkled in his eyes. Seeing his tender expression, she thought of her own father. Lachlan MacKenzie had worn a similar look on the night dear Virginia had been born.

  Agnes had seen that expression many times since and knew the sentiment behind it. Without conscious thought, she moved closer and rubbed his back. Lifting his arm, he drew her to his side and rested his cheek against her head. Heat poured from his body, purging the fear, and his chest heaved with every breath.

  “My sweet, innocent Button,” he whispered.

  Hannah stirred. Edward stilled. Agnes eased the lantern behind her and moved to leave. He followed. She waited at the landing while he took the light and examined the other exit to the tower—the bolted hatch in the ceiling that led to the battlement. A new hand ladder rested on the floor a safe distance away. If the assassin managed to climb the tower and to pry open the door, he’d face a drop of twenty feet to the stone floor. The small door in the common room downstairs offered the only entry to the tower.

  The children were safe.

  Agnes preceded him down the steps. In the common room she poured him a heavy measure of brandy. “Will you trade?” she asked, offering him a drink and indicating the short sword in his hand.

  He yielded the weapon, accepted the tankard, and took a mighty swallow. The fabric of his long tunic hosted an array of twigs and stains.

  “You’ve ruined your new clothing.”

  “Man was not made to run in a dress.” With a scratched hand, he kneaded his neck and rolled his head.

  Agnes felt an outpouring of affection for him. She pointed to a nearby bench. “Sit and let me help.”

  He ripped off the tunic. Beneath it he wore only linen trews. Firelight glistened on his bare chest and arms, and she marveled at the true strength of him. He was a scientist and scholar, not a warrior shedding the garments of a civilized man. But the proof was there, displayed vividly before her. His hips were narrow, his belly nicely rippled.

  “Agnes? What’s amiss? Have you opened that wound?”

  Again she’d fallen prey to softer feelings. The earlier lapse had almost cost her her life. No more, she promised herself. “Nay, my lord. I haven’t a scratch or a bruise.”

  “My lord?” He stared at her blankly. “We’re beyond formalities, Agnes.”

  “Then I wish to go back to them.” She tapped the bench with the tip of her sword. “Sit and argue the issue no more.”

  “As you wish.” He dropped to the bench. “But you cannot always carry a sword.”

  She put the weapon beside him on the bench and began kneading his shoulders and neck. At his first groan of relief, she worked harder, releasing the tension, relieving the strain.

  “You did not find him?” she asked.

  “Not a trace, above that bitter message. But why would a Scot choose a dove?”

  “He’s no Scot. He’s a mercenary and loyal only to his own causes.”

  “Then why would he defile your plaid with the blood of a dove?”

  “Is that a slight in the Lowlands?”

  Tried patience softened his features. “Nay. But surely it is to those of you above the line?”

  He spoke of the Highland Line, an ambiguous boundary from near Aberdeen in the northeast to the lands near Loch Lomond in the southwest. Glaswegians had seen their share of war, but the city lay south of the infamous demarcation.

  “You speak of us as if we are another nation, separate and apart from you. Have you never been to Tain?”

  “Nay.”

  “ ’Tis as fertile and free a place as God ever made. We haven’t your shipbuilding or tobacco and textiles, but our air is not fouled with coal dust, and fish thrive in our harbor.”

  “What has the beauty of the land to do with Scottish differences?”

  “You think we are savages, occupied only in petty clan wars. You disparage us.”

  “Tis safe to say, Agnes, that you are anything but a savage.”

  She huffed in disdain. “How can both my father and Michael Elliot agree that you will be the man to lead us into the next century, Edward Napier?”

  He turned his attention to the weave of his trews.

  “ ’Tis misbegotten praise. Machines will lead us there, not I.”

  The acclaim discomfited him. In a different way, Agnes, too, was troubled. In the span of the evening he’d progressed from the charming host to the valiant defender to the loving father. Now he revealed a gentle heart, and it frightened her to her soul. Tonight she had faced accidental death at the hands of a friend, and she couldn’t shake the terrifying memory. But she could not seek comfort in the arms of Edward Napier; thoughts of him had driven her to blunder.

  For lack of a better excuse to retreat, she walked to the basin and washed her hands. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Nay, except your father’s messenger, he skinned a knee.”

  She strove for lightness. “Impossible. Haven’t you heard? The skin of a Highlander is tougher than a ship’s keel.”

  His gaze snapped to hers, and he studied her for so long a time, she grew uneasy.

  Quietly, he said, “You’ve ducked into your shell again, and I’ve driven you to it.”

  Desperation urged her on. “You talk nonsense.”

  A sly smile banished the last of his worry over the evening past. He snatched up his tunic. “We will stay within the walls of this house until he is found,” he said.

  She fought the urge to follow him. “As prisoners? Then you aid him, for he wants no witnesses to his deadly mission.”

  Unconvinced, Lord Edward waved her off. “He did not fear a crowd in Edinburgh.”

  Fact defeated that theory. “He met with failure there,” Agnes said. “We’ve succeeded tonight, Edward. Henceforth he must depend on stealth, a weakness to him. We have him at the disadvantage. I say we flush him out.”

  Bracing the flat of his palm against the wall, he propped the other
hand on his hip. “I say you are now in danger.”

  The old excitement was slow in coming, but she knew better than to explore her feelings now. In less than three days her father would know that the assassin had included the MacKenzies by defaming their plaid. “I’ve written to my father. He must know.”

  “You can tell him yourself. I’m sending you home to him.”

  She retreated. “I will not go. You cannot force me.”

  Her words hung like a specter between them. He sighed loudly and sat on the bench. Little light fell on his features, but she needed no illumination to see his resolve.

  Desperate to change his mind, she addressed his weakness. “You need me here with the children.”

  “I will not have the duke of Ross wreaking havoc in Glasgow o’er an insult to his Highland pride.”

  He’d gotten it wrong. “Listen well, Edward Napier. If Lachlan MacKenzie comes here, he will not come for his own sake.” Righteous anger kindled to life inside her, tempering soft thoughts about a man she could not have. “Lest you think you are the only father who cares for a child, Lachlan MacKenzie will prove you wrong.”

  In the blink of an eye, his demeanor changed. “I take it back, then. His devotion to his children is well known.”

  “Papa will not leave London. Mary needs him more. He knows I am capable of dealing with the assassin.”

  Edward tipped his head toward the letter she’d left on the desk. “Then you must have colored up the truth.”

  “Nay. Nothing comes here that we cannot defeat. Tonight he was fortunate. The glazier’s paste had not yet set; the assassin easily lifted out the windows in your study. Tomorrow you will remedy that.”

  Summoning the glazier again was a simple matter, Edward intended to see to it first thing in the morning. His other problems would not be so easily resolved. Foremost in his mind were his strong feelings for Agnes MacKenzie and the dilemma they posed.

  He thought of Elise, the wife he’d cherished and lost. He did not worry about loving Agnes as much; he worried over loving her more.

  8

  STANDING IN THE COURTYARD, EDWARD examined the new mortar around the windows in his study. The assassin had been careful and silent; not a single pane of glass bore the slightest crack, and the pebbles in the walkway appeared smoothly raked. The man had crouched here, between the low boxwoods and the building.

  Turning, Edward studied the distance to the fountain where the sentry had come to take a drink last night. He judged it twenty-five feet of unobscured view in a direct line to the target. The bowman could have made that shot on the run. In the crowded church in Edinburgh he’d had only one chance and a narrow line of vision. His aim had been true.

  Why hadn’t he killed the guard last night?

  When Agnes had come downstairs, she’d said the sentry was not atop the new wing. A moment later, Edward had spied the man at his post. A moment after that, the bell had sounded. They’d run through the corridors like deer before a pack of hungry wolves.

  The bell had saved their lives. The guard had been spared. The incongruity of both confounded Edward. Knowing he could not leave the inconsistency alone, he went in search of his beguiling houseguest. He didn’t have to go far; he found her alone in the music room.

  She faced the windows. He stopped in the open doorway and, unnoticed, observed her. Barefoot and dressed in loose-legged breeches and a jacket of coarsely spun and tightly woven cotton, she stood in the center of the spacious room. A strip of undyed flax, embroidered with black diamond shapes, belted her waist. A bright red ribbon secured her golden hair at the nape of her neck. Sweet-smelling smoke streamed from a brass pomander sitting on the floor nearby.

  Pressing her palms to her thighs, she lowered her head and bowed. Her left arm was stick straight, but her right elbow was cocked, a lingering effect of her injury. Soundlessly, she dropped to her knees and thrust her hands, palms up, into the smoke. As if anointing herself, she scooped up handfuls of the scented air and smoothed it over her head and shoulders. He’d know that fragrance anywhere, but he’d mistakenly thought it came from soap.

  That part of her ritual done, she rose on tiptoe and began a series of movements that resembled a dance with a spirit. As graceful as a bird in flight, she stretched and swayed, always with her right arm bent, like a wounded wing. Her balance never wavered until she stood on one foot, folded herself over, and touched her nose to her ankle. That’s when she saw him.

  Upside down, she teetered briefly before righting herself. Staring blankly, expectantly, she waited.

  Feeling the need to explain himself, Edward tapped the lintel. “The door was open.”

  The glow of exertion flushed her cheeks, and she tugged at the knot securing the unusual belt. “How long have you been watching me?”

  “For a short time,” he lied. “That’s a remarkable dance.”

  “I was not dancing.”

  “No? Then what were you doing.”

  “Seeking harmony with myself.”

  “Have you found it, then?”

  With the end of the stiff belt, she blotted her forehead. “Nay. I am a seeker still.”

  “Where did you learn this art?”

  His choice of words pleased her, for she moved toward him, and her gaze was direct and open. “In China, from a relative of Auntie Loo’s.”

  “She also knows foreign fighting skills?”

  “They are not foreign to her.”

  Abashed, Edward chuckled at himself. “I stand corrected.”

  “Auntie’s knowledge is a hundred times greater than mine.”

  “Gentle Auntie Loo is skilled with a knife and sword? You’re having me on.”

  She swallowed nervously and stared at her hands. “Nay, ’tis true. She is highly skilled with a sword.”

  “Then I cannot come upon her unawares?”

  “It has been done, but I do not recommend it.”

  Something about the subject affected her strongly, but he doubted she’d share the details with him. “Auntie Loo also learned them from the relative you spoke of?”

  “Aye. From her mother’s father, Chang Ling. He is the greatest living master of weaponless fighting.”

  “Forgive my lack of knowledge, but it did not seem to me that you were aggressive in your movements.”

  “Those were not, but others are. Most were perfected centuries ago by holy men.”

  “Will you show me?”

  “When I know you better.”

  A state they were rapidly approaching, Edward hoped. “I await that day, my lady.”

  She again tugged on that belt, as if it were vital to have the knot in the right place. “Were you looking for me?”

  Until now he’d forgotten the reason for seeking her out. “Aye. Something about the bowman is troubling me.” He told her his theory about the assassin and the guard being in the courtyard at the same time.

  Her interest engaged, she stared at his chin and considered what he’d said. At length, she nodded. “Yes. The timing cannot have been happenstance. The assassin waited until the guard had turned his back to climb down from his post to get a drink at the fountain.”

  “So . . . why did the bowman spare the guard?”

  Her gaze sharpened. “A valid detail, Edward. As we know them, his actions make no sense. He left an armed man at his unguarded back.”

  Two possibilities came to mind, but Edward thought them weak.

  “What are you thinking?” she said.

  “ ’Tis improbable.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not, but if you keep it to yourself . . .”

  Looking past her, Edward saw a wayward gull fly into the courtyard. Pigeons flocked to protect their domain, and with a piercing cry, the seabird moved on. Protecting one’s home had taken on new meaning to Edward.

  “You were saying . . . ?” she prompted.

  “Either he carried only one quarrel, or he knew he hadn’t the time to cock the weapon again. Or he does not work alone.”
/>   With a slight shake of her head, she disagreed. “He has no accomplice. What if he purchased the guard’s loyalty?”

  “Absolutely not. The man is Hazel’s nephew.”

  “That’s unfortunate for us. I believe our man is the worst kind of foe . . . an honorable assassin.”

  “A decent mercenary? What logic is that?”

  “Do not scoff at the theory,” she said. “I grant you, it sounds contradictory, but there is considerable truth to it. He’s been paid, and paid well, to kill you. A substantial part of his worth lies in his anonymity.”

  “But why try to kill me in Edinburgh and then ransack my papers here?”

  “I do not think he is foremost a thief. He traffics in murder. It is his livelihood, his commerce. Should his face become known, his value lessens.”

  “Then whatever item he seeks is second in importance to—” Edward couldn’t voice the possibility.

  Her hand touched his. “What he seeks will fall short of our ability to prevail against him. He will not succeed. Trimble is very resourceful. We should hear from him soon. Worry not.”

  The gentle comfort wasn’t enough for Edward. He twisted his wrist until their palms met and their fingers entwined.

  She gave him a tight, sweet smile. “Have you lost faith in me so soon, my lord?” Tugging, she tried to withdraw her hand.

  He was stronger than she and more determined to have his way. “Nay, Agnes. I’ve lost patience with formalities between us. I should like for you to call me Edward.”

  Regret shone in her eyes and in the sad pursing of her lips. “I should like for you to let go of my hand.”

  “Coward.”

  She shrugged, but the gesture lacked conviction. “Perhaps I do not want your attentions.”

  “And I’m a merchant without a rag of business or a penny of reward.”

  Her gaze was level, her tone sincere. “A poor jest, my lord. All of Scotland and beyond know your worth to mankind.”

  Her flattery soothed, but Edward wanted more from her. “Has it crossed your mind that one or both of us could have died last night?”