Lord Pembroke peered out the frosted glass, sighed, and said, “Julian’s here.”
Jenna thought she might explode with fear. She fought the desire to run upstairs and hide beneath the bed. The door burst open. “Is he here?” came the biting voice—a voice, if possible, colder than the piercing air outside.
“Rather a dramatic entrance, Julian,” Lord Pembroke said from behind the door.
Jenna couldn’t breathe. She felt her chest tighten as Mr. Finch’s bloodshot eyes locked into a defiant, accusatory glare with hers. He narrowed his eyes at the arrow in her hand, stepped through the door, and then, remarkably, changed his expression entirely into one displaying care and concern.
“Oh, thank God,” he sighed, closing the door to find Lord Pembroke behind it. “Lady Lucia has been beside herself, sick with worry.”
“Why?” Lord Pembroke said.
“When I woke, no one could find you in the house or stables. We were certain you’d come to harm in the storm and were in need of rescue.”
“And your next thought was that the stonemason’s daughter held me hostage here?” Lord Pembroke’s face showed a picture of ludicrous amusement.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Finch said, brushing the snow from his cloak. The ice crystals landed on the clean flagstones, a soppish mess mixing with the mud of his boots.
Jenna eyed it hatefully while Mr. Finch continued.
“You have no idea the distress you created at the house. Lady Lucia turned the place upside down in search of you. Your parents have become most concerned.” He turned to face Jenna when he said this.
“Have they indeed?” Lord Pembroke said, turning from the window. He leaned back against the table and folded his arms in front of his chest. “That would be remarkable, seeing as my father is in London presently. I believe he’s sitting with the rest of the members of Parliament, finishing the business of the week. Has he returned unexpectedly, then?” He arched an eyebrow in the direction of his friend.
Mr. Finch flushed but, without faltering, smiled. “Did I say parents? Of course, by that I meant your mother. More important, what are you doing here?”
“Miss MacDuff has allowed me a peek at the garrison plans. A wonderful privilege to see architecture in its most base form.” He reached for the papers by the door and quickly unrolled them in front of Mr. Finch.
Jenna’s stomach dropped, and she wanted to snatch the plans out of Lord Pembroke’s grasp, but clenched her hands together in front of her.
“Whomever created that plan is truly clever. In fact, this is a group of the most ingenious Scotsmen I’ve yet to come across.”
Mr. Finch glanced at the plans and then at Jenna.
“Well, my errand is complete, but now that I think about it,” he said, returning the roll to the table by the door, “I’m glad you’re here, Julian.”
Both Jenna and Mr. Finch looked at Lord Pembroke, their eyes widening in question.
“I made mention to Miss MacDuff of your remorse over the hunting incident. Told her how you’ve been a puppy at my heels, full of regret regarding our terrible error.”
“Yes, thank you for that,” Mr. Finch said tightly. He turned to Jenna and made a slight bow in her direction. “My sincerest apologies, Miss MacDuff. I mistakenly thought you’d taken heed of my warning. Perhaps the winds about us were too strong, and you misheard?”
Something snapped in Jenna. She’d had enough. “I do beg pardon, Mr. Finch,” she said. “I believe I was so delighted to see that you had recovered Lord Pembroke’s missing glove that your message must have sailed right over my head.” She smiled and made a quick glance at Lord Pembroke and then back to Mr. Finch.
Mr. Finch made a slight audible breath inward.
For a fleeting moment Jenna felt ashamed of her action. It was a mean-spirited thing to do. But surely Mr. Finch’s maneuver was more atrocious than hers, for she could have easily been killed. The puzzle pieces fit neatly together soon after Jenna had given the situation some thought. Mr. Finch was in love with Lord Pembroke, and Jenna was getting in the way.
Lord Pembroke looked back and forth between the two of them with a somewhat puzzled expression. “Heartwarming news. It was one of my favorites.” He walked to the door and held it open for Mr. Finch. “I think we’d best take our leave now, Julian. Lady Lucia should not be kept worried and waiting.”
Mr. Finch gave Jenna one last, cold glare and she turned to face the fireplace, hearing Lord Pembroke’s final remarks just before pulling the door shut. “Enjoy the book, Miss MacDuff. I’ll see you at the wedding.”
She focused on her breathing, taking a few moments to restore a steady, calm heartbeat and a clear, thinking head. The book. She would spend a few moments reading a page or two and then journey with the plans to the smithy. Except, upon turning around, she’d discovered that this would be an impossibility. There would be no journey.
For there were no plans.
TWENTY
THE NERVES IN HER STOMACH WERE A KNOTTED BALL of twine, writhing about in too tight a space and unforgiving of breath. The garrison’s coded plans had been stolen right beneath her nose! The end for her clan had finally arrived. Her every thought urged her to run to the building site and sound the alarm so that they’d have time to escape before being fitted for a noose.
But just as she donned her cloak, ready to rush out the door, she stopped and gave pause.
Which one of them took the plans?
If it was Mr. Finch, then yes, this could be retribution. She’d just forced him to return a private treasure, and slyly informed him that she knew of his feelings toward Lord Pembroke. If they became publicly known, he would be in ruins . . . or worse. But, she reminded herself, Mr. Finch could not read the codes, so the plans were of little use to him.
If Lord Pembroke had taken them, it was likely because he was insisting on showing gallantry. He was on his way to deliver them to the garrison so she wouldn’t have to set foot out in the snowfall. And in that case, whomever he will give them to will shortly realize that Jenna had not only failed at her assigned task to bring them to the smithy, but also that Lord Pembroke had likely viewed them as well. Surely, that clansman will believe Lord Pembroke’s next move will be to measure the rope needed to hang them.
She shook her head and finished knotting her cloak. Either way, it didn’t matter. They needed to be told. It gave them a few more moments of precious time in case they needed to escape.
She threw open the cottage door and pulled back with surprise to see her father hastily approaching, a bull about to charge, the plans in his hands.
Jenna stepped back in alarm.
“I’ve just been congratulated, lass. For my architectural savviness.” Her father held the plans in the air and growled. “Lord Pembroke delivered the compliments as well as the designs. Imagine my surprise, Jenna!”
She could. And stuttered with her explanation. “He—he took them without me knowing, Da, and apparently only to save me the trouble of delivering them.”
“Clearly, he’s seen them.”
“Yes . . . but only briefly,” she rushed on. “It was a glance of admiration—nothing more.” She could not form any other words. Somehow the slight relief at discovering it was Lord Pembroke rather than Mr. Finch who took the plans was enough to convince her the clan was safe—that there was no need to reveal that Lord Pembroke could decipher the code. Was there?
Her father stared at her in silent calculation, and then spun on his heel toward the door. “I’m off to the smithy, Jenna. To put them in their rightful hands.”
Three days later, apart from having to survive the prickling discomfort of the agitated clan, nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. Jenna had convinced herself it was safe to breathe again and had finally begun to move about the estate accomplishing her normal daily errands when she came upon a picture that filled her with unease.
A well-muscled horse grazed upon a tuft of winter grass at the entrance to the cottage.
It was one Jenna didn’t recognize. It wasn’t unusual for her family to have guests, but much of the time they came on foot, not having adequate finances to support a beast as fine as this one.
She’d been at the garrison to peek at the week’s progress and was enjoying the brisk evening hike down the hill to the cottage when she spied the animal. She approached it quietly and put a hand close to the velvety nose, offering her scent as a means of introduction.
The cottage door opened wide and spilled light into the chilly darkness. She turned to see the outlined figure of Angus heading to the woodpile. He spotted her by the horse and crunched through the snow toward them. His hand came to rest on the horse’s flank and his face broke out into a massive grin. “Daniel’s here.”
Daniel. Her heart skipped a beat. As it had for as many years back as she could remember whenever anyone would say his name.
“Daniel?” Jenna said. “Why?”
“News for your da, I ’spect,” he answered, sliding his hand across the horse’s back. “He’ll be pleased to see you too, ye ken.”
She thought for a moment and asked, “How long has it been?”
“Three years? Nay . . . four. Aye, four years since we’ve seen him. Whatever it is, it’s been too long. He’s kept well, I think, but you’ll have the chance to see for yourself in a minute.” He gave the horse a solid pat. “Would ye mind putting her in the stable before ye come in? It’s been a long time of travel. I bet this old girl could use some warmth and company. And she’s finding none so much to eat by this fence post.”
“Of course,” she answered, now noticing the small thrill of exhilaration thrumming through her veins. Daniel Delafuente—the most intoxicating person she’d ever met. And the one that caused her the greatest embarrassment.
Angus went into the house with another armload of firewood as Jenna untied the horse from the stud and led the weary animal to the barn for a long deserved rest. She crossed the distance between the cottage and the stable and listened to their footsteps as they broke through the thin crust of snow. A cloud shifted and the moonlight came strong and bright, the white floor around them illuminated. Their breath came in steamy clouds and rose above their heads to disappear into the brittle night air.
They entered the stable, where the smell of sweet hay saturated her senses, and the warmth of all those bulky animals enveloped her—like a womb. She smiled demurely at Jeb and Mr. Wicken as they assisted the animals for the night. She avoided making eye contact with Jeb, as his well-developed sixth sense might recognize that, even unintentionally, she had not heeded his advice to stay away from Lord Pembroke. The two men worked to feed the horses, brush them, and supply fresh bedding. Without a word, Jeb nodded in the direction of Henry, to an open stall for the visiting animal. She tethered Daniel’s horse to one of the rails alongside and found a clean brush to work over her neck and mane.
She stroked the animal and tried recalling the last time she’d seen their family friend and her childhood white knight.
Daniel used to visit with much more regularity—certainly more than every three or four years. And he used to come with his father, but her memories of the elder man were few. Recollections of Daniel were indelible, for as a young girl she told anyone who would listen that she intended to run away with him. She wanted to lead his life of adventure after he’d filled her ears with his stories of people and places. These weren’t the ordinary towns and villages she’d grown used to living in, but were wild and exotic places she hungered to travel toward. The hot, dusty sands of Egypt, the spicy wealth and splendor of India, Spain and France and Poland—all places Daniel brought to life.
For a man now of around twenty-four, he’d had his share of exploration. At the time of his last visit, her only concern was leaving with him. She’d packed her bag, hugged her father good-bye, and waited by Daniel’s horse, waited for him to come and put her on it. To her shock, she’d been given a kiss on the forehead and a book of ancient Indian poetry in place of a seat behind him. She was told she must wait her turn for adventure, but that in good time, it too would come.
She’d done her best to bury those tender, fragile feelings. She had only been twelve, after all. Her plan, she could see now, was quite absurd. And so pining for Daniel had been replaced with more practical matters of learning and living. She turned at the creaking sound of the stable door.
Daniel. After all those years, he was exactly as she’d remembered, and her heart leapt, boiling over with emotions like an unwatched pot.
He was silent as he advanced, his warm smile growing as he reached the stall, his deep golden eyes gleaming.
“Jenna, is that you? I can’t believe it. Tu eres hermosa,” he said in a low voice, his accent thick and velvety to her ears. Daniel shook his head and walked around the mare to where she stood. He looked her up and down and then swallowed her in his arms. He smelled of horses and leather and damp earth. He kissed the top of her head and moved her out at arm’s length to search her face.
“It cannot be you—No lo puedo creer. You were a scrappy little girl when I last left. Bright red hair, round red face, and a very red temper to match, if I remember correctly. This cannot be the same girl, no?” He smiled broadly, showing well-kept teeth, even and white.
“You had the chance, and you let it slip through your fingers, Daniel,” Jenna said, feigning disinterest. “I would have run away with you, but you wouldn’t have me, remember?” She gave him a cursory once-over. “You don’t look as I recall. Your hair is too long and you need a bath.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling and picked up the brush to continue working over the mare.
“Oh, mi querida, you have not forgiven me for leaving without you?” He attempted to look contrite, but failed, unable to get past the humor of the situation.
“Well, you might have at least made the effort to write,” she said, giving him a frosty sideways glance.
“I did write! I just never trusted letters to arrive here, so I waited until I could deliver them myself. It is my present to you, Jenna, a journal of all my travels.”
She scrutinized him and calculated his unexpected appearance. His family was from southern Spain, that much she remembered. With his inky black hair and olive complexion, it would be easy for anyone to place his background, but his accented speech created confusion for the best of ancestral scholars. He could be Spanish, Portuguese or Greek, or even Egyptian. It was a talent he’d developed, in order to fit in wherever he went.
But Jenna was sure it was impossible for Daniel not to draw attention to himself, at least from the females he’d come across. Even after weeks of weary travel, the smudge of smoky bristles upon his face could not hide the true depth of striking attractiveness in the man.
“The book, where is it?” she asked, putting a hand out toward Daniel. “I want to find out what I missed, and what was so important it kept you away from us.”
“Well, first let me finish what you’ve started here. I do not expect anyone to look after me or my horse. These things I can do myself—and if I do not mind Pazya here”—Daniel tapped the rump of the animal—“she will anger with me and treat me badly the next time I ask of her.” His eyes were playful as Jenna handed him the brush, bristles first.
“I think that’s a fine idea,” she said. “I’m going back to the cottage, where I shall pilfer through your belongings until I locate the book you seem nearly as determined to keep from me as the travel itself.” She turned and left Daniel with a grin of sheer amusement on his face.
Back at the cottage, everyone was busy making room and dinner for Daniel’s visit. Angus was at the hearth, preparing a stew of rabbits—a timely snare from the morning—and the smell of gingerbread slid through the house, a come-hither invitation. Appetite whetted, Jenna felt that waiting for the celebratory meal would be unbearable if she wasn’t allowed to participate somehow and keep her mind occupied.
She surveyed the rest of the family. Colin was helping Angus with the kitchen w
ork by chopping winter vegetables and setting the table. Duncan and Gavin were fixing a pallet in the far corner of the room, a place for Daniel to sleep. Her father was traipsing in and out of the house, gathering firewood and arranging it in a tidy stack hearthside. Even little Tavish swept the cottage floor, useful in all the commotion.
Ian, she noted, was absent.
“Angus,” Jenna said, coming to him by the fire, “give me a task to do—Daniel wouldn’t let me finish rubbing down the horse. And anyway, I’m starving, so I must keep busy.”
“Aye, there’s plenty to do,” Angus said, nodding his great hairy head. “Go on up to Mrs. Wigginton’s kitchen and tell her you’ve come for some of the new ale in the brewhouse. And bring Tavish wi’ ye; he’ll help carry the load back.” He gave her a wink and whistled for the boy.
Outside, the frost-fettered air slapped against her woolen skirts, determined to discover any bare patches of skin. She and Tavish skidded through icy patches to the house and Jenna explained to the newest member of their clan who this old family friend was.
“I can’t remember when he first visited, but he always came with his father. They traveled endlessly, one voyage after another. And they always brought us books. Plus spices for Angus. Their visits were too short, and after they’d gone, just when I’d finally stop asking about them, they’d come back.”
“Why did they come?” Tavish said.
“To pass along important news and take any with them thereafter.” She glanced at Tavish and wondered how much he’d been told about why they themselves were here.
“Daniel is Spanish, but I imagine you could tell just by looking at him that he was foreign. He talks a lot about religion and philosophy, but when I was a little girl, what he said didn’t matter. Just the sound of his silvery voice would have me curled up on the floor by the fire and drifting off to sleep. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She mussed his hair.
The Freemason's Daughter Page 14