“Many people have secrets,” he continued, “and are capable of working with others, never revealing what must be hidden. We all keep information back. I’m sure even you do, although you never could play cards.” He raised his eyebrows at this, but Jenna noted his face displayed a matter-of-fact expression, rather than the mirth she wished to see.
“The time has come. Your father and these men are risking their lives to do what they feel necessary. You are peripherally involved, and put an element of chance into their situation. They question whether it is safe for you to be here, and whether having you here is safe for them. They need to know you will follow what it is they ask of you . . . unquestionably. I do not know that you can.” He returned his gaze to the pages on the table.
Jenna held her jaws together and willed her pulse to slow. “Have you quite finished?” she asked tightly. She received no response from Daniel and ventured further. “You come back after four years of absence and treat me as if I were an ill-behaved child?”
He looked up to meet her seething gaze, his own eyes simmering. He crossed his arms. “That criticism is unfounded, and your exaggeration rather illustrates the fact that you are currently speaking as an ill-behaved child.”
She spluttered in astonishment.
“Do you realize that had you been a man, and circumstances unfolded as they have, where your irresponsibility may have put this entire process in jeopardy and everyone’s lives at stake, the first thing the clan would have done is flogged you?”
Yes, she thought with a flutter of alarm, they might have. But her clan was different. They would never elect that option.
“I’ve said it before, Jenna: you are no longer a child, but you are new at being a woman, and as such, your family has exercised a great deal of control. You would not have gotten off so easily in any other household.”
She stood and balled the quilt in her arms. There was no doubt she had little use for it now. She was livid. Heat rushed through her veins, making her fingertips tingle. Yes, she knew these things, and she’d been carrying around the guilt and the fear from that reality for the last several days. But she didn’t want Daniel to be the one bringing it bubbling up to the surface. And so she cast her dagger of anger at him.
She backed away from the table toward the stairs and hissed, “I may be new at being a woman, Daniel, but I believe your own maturity has slipped back to a level of barbarianism.” She marched upstairs, bristling with anger. When she reached the top of the landing, she glanced quickly at Daniel, who had chosen no response other than to return to his reading, a small smile on his face as he shook his head.
TWENTY-THREE
TWO WEEKS WENT BY WITH NARY AN ADVENTURE OR escape from the cottage. Jenna knew she was being watched, and everyone went to great pains to remind her how to avoid suspicion and detect oncoming trouble.
She spent a good deal of time trying to convince her father that allowing her to stay was in the best interest for both of them. He wavered. In fact, he presented her with a proposal. The men had been called to an overnight meeting a few hours north. It was a “Stuart supporters” conclave, and a dangerous one. Last week, Mrs. Wigginton had asked if Jenna would be available to help with inventory of the storage cellars, a two-day job. Malcolm thought it was a fine solution all around.
“Ye needn’t go to the clan gathering, ye’ll be safe wi’ Mrs. Wigginton, and ye’ll get a taste of working in a fine house—something to keep in the back of your mind as an option for employment.”
Jenna felt certain that disagreeing with her father would be perceived as ingratitude, so she would stay at the house with the rest of the girls . . . for one night.
That morning, she and Angus were making bread for the week while the others were on the site of the garrison. Shortly, the men would be leaving for the north, and Jenna would head up to the kitchens, but they had a little time together before departure.
The flour lay in a vast wooden bowl between them, and they scooped a handful of it whenever the dough became sticky and unmanageable.
“Have I been forgiven, do you think?” Jenna said suddenly, as she wrestled with her mound of dough.
“Well, now, that depends upon who we’re talking about.”
“I would imagine most everyone apart from Ian?”
“Aye, maybe.” His dismissive manner did little to calm her anxiety.
“Why does he stay, Angus? He argues with Da about every decision, seemingly on principle—and he clearly despises me; why doesn’t he simply leave?”
Angus gave her a sharp look. “Ian supports this cause wholeheartedly—he’s just . . . meticulous of nature and guards all our blindness. But as far as you? Despise ye?” He shook his head and looked heavenward. “Good God, no—not even close. He’d lay his life down for ye, Jenna. You’re his family.”
Jenna snorted, but decided not to waste any more time debating that opinion. “What about Daniel? Is he still grumbling?”
“Pay it no mind, lass. He’s just not used to seeing you all grown-up like, ye ken?”
“Is it that I’m taller? Or more conversational? Or opinionated? What exactly is it about me that vexes him so?” Jenna scowled.
“More like the fact you were about to be kissed,” Angus said, not looking up from his work.
“I wasn’t. It’s not true. It—it never happened,” she said, her face flushing.
“Aye, but I believe what really bothers him is that he thinks ye wanted it to.”
She sat down and put her head onto the table, her floury hands still resting on the dough. “Maybe it’s true, Angus, and I’m too ashamed to admit it.” There. She said it. Relief came in fragmented bits, like the quenching of thirst to a parched throat.
With his hands covered in flour, there was little physical comforting he could offer, but he put aside his dough and sat down across from her. He patted her powdery hands, trying to ease her embarrassment. “Do ye think you’re such an abhorrent individual you should be unlike everyone else? That ye shouldna crave love? Do ye believe none of us have ever gone through the same as you? When I recall the number of times I’ve gotten my hide tanned for doing things I shouldna have—and most of them dealing wi’ girls an such like—I’m surprised I still have a backside agreeable enough to sit upon.” He sighed loudly and, as a result, blew a tiny cloud of flour onto her head. He squeezed her hands until she looked up, flour on her nose and forehead. Angus smiled at the sight.
“If it’s not such a horrible thing to want, then what’s created Daniel’s disdain?” She looked sadly at him.
“Perhaps your taking him off his pedestal. He left us last wi’ ye clinging to his shirttail, talking of nothing but adventure and how you’d perish wi’out him. ’Tis a hard slap in the face when ye come back to see people have moved on, and ye werena there to see it happen and ye werena there to make it so.” Angus patted her hands. “He wants nothing more than to protect ye, as he’s always done.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jenna said quietly. “I’m not twelve anymore.”
Angus got up and gathered his dough. He bit his lower lip, which made his beard sprout hedgehog-like, and then overcame his hesitation. “That’s what he said.”
Jenna counted the minutes until it was time to leave, relishing the idea of tallying supplies to clear her head. At this point she would agree to anything that would free her from a house full of overbearing and overprotective men. The opportunity came a little earlier than expected, when one of Mrs. Wigginton’s kitchen boys arrived requesting that Jenna collect some bottles from her at the ale house.
Angus nodded to her, “She probably wants to get a head start on the work. Ye best take your things and head up. We’ll see you tomorrow on our return.”
She wrapped herself in the warmest woolen cloak she owned and waited as Angus cased the freshly baked bread loaves in cloth.
“Here. Take this to Mrs. Wigginton. Tell her I’m willing to put my rye against her wheat any day. If she wants the recipe, she’l
l have to part wi’ hers for the syllabub.” Angus winked and gave her a rough hug and the bundle, its warmth still radiating from within.
She stepped out into a January day grim enough to depress the stoutest of constitutions. The ale house was located behind the kitchens, its path muddy from the cold rains of the last two weeks. The rain had also left the air smelling of damp earth and leaf mold, scents Jenna felt glad were the same in both England and Scotland. Upon reaching the rough oak door of the ale house, she turned the handle and peered inside.
“Mrs. Wigginton?” She poked her head in and was greeted by the pungent smell of hops. A chair scraped against the floor. She slipped in and closed the door. “Mrs. Wigginton?” Jenna called again, allowing her eyes a moment to adjust to the room’s murky light.
“Not exactly,” said a voice that most assuredly did not belong to the housekeeper.
Jenna gasped as Mr. Finch’s face came into focus. He sat at the round table in the middle of the room and moved a candle in front of him.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, a slight coppery note springing to the back of her throat. “Mrs. Wigginton asked me to collect some bottles. Where is she?”
“Hmm . . . an obedient girl for some, but you’ll ignore the sage advice of others,” Mr. Finch said, his jaw firm, and his eyes narrow. “How is it you decide whose bidding you’ll do, because you certainly have taken no notice of mine? I saw you leave the carriage house, and you somehow compelled my friend to follow you. Your campaign to divert his habits of mind is about to bring him ruin.”
She heard the scuffle of feet and recognized Mr. Fowler and Mr. Gainsford as they came out from behind the barrels by the door. She turned to reach for the door handle, but Mr. Fowler made his way to it first.
“Oh, don’t leave—you’ll spoil the party. Julian says Alex finds you most entertaining, so perhaps you’ll amuse us for a spell while you’re waiting on Mrs. Wigginton.”
“Yes, don’t be in a hurry to go on our account. Come here—we’ve much to discuss,” Mr. Finch drawled.
“You wouldn’t dare—” Jenna began.
“Dare what? Dare to be as bold as you? Dare to do as we wish, despite the consequences?”
A wave of cold dread washed over her as she realized what they intended to do. “I will scream,” she said, her eyes darting between Mr. Finch and Mr. Gainsford.
“That you might,” Mr. Finch countered. “Thank you for the warning.”
A surge of terror ran up her spine and she swallowed hard to rid herself of the rising fear.
Mr. Finch pushed himself away from the table and edged toward her.
“You really don’t want to do this,” Jenna said, trying to stay her hands.
“Oh, but I must,” Mr. Finch retorted.
“I won’t tell them what I know about you,” she promised, cutting her gaze toward Gainsford. “It’s not their business, in any case.”
Fowler snorted. “What in the hell is she talking about, Julian?”
Mr. Finch rushed at her, grabbing her by the throat with one hand and pinning her against the cold stone wall. “I’ll tell you what’s my business. Meddling wenches who forget their place.”
He wrenched her neck forward and, before she could react, snapped it back again toward the wall.
“Now wait a second, Julian,” Jenna heard Mr. Gainsford call out. She felt a sharp pain at the back of her head where it hit the wall, and blinked her eyes against the tiny starbursts floating in front of them. It was hard to breathe with his hand encircling her neck. His breath smelled of licorice.
She dropped the bread and brought her knee up sharp and fast. When her foot came up, she grasped the small dirk she kept strapped to her calf. Mr. Finch hunched over, sputtered, and tried to upright himself. Jenna fumbled to toss off her cloak and untangle the sgian dubh from her skirts.
She heard Mr. Finch choke out the words, “Grab her,” to Mr. Gainsford.
“What?” Mr. Gainsford cried. “Julian, you said we were simply going to give her a fright.”
Jenna finally managed to pull the knife out. She held it in front of her and scrambled to the other side of the table and chairs. Her breath was shallow with fear, and she could not calm her beating heart.
Mr. Gainsford stood dumbly in place, peering at his friend. “I suggest we simply leave, as I’m not very fond of knives—”
“Just help me!” Finch hissed.
He circled in front. Mr. Gainsford lunged and grabbed Jenna awkwardly from behind. It was clear he was not much of a fighter. He gave Jenna the split second she needed to jam her elbow into his stomach. But she also struck a bone on what must have been a very solid buckle, and gasped as a burst of pain shot down her arm. Her fingers went numb and the dirk dropped.
“A good blow to the stomach is never enough to stay one’s attacker,” the men had instructed her. “You must also render them incapable of walking for a few moments to aid your escape.” Jenna brought the back of her heel down with a bone-cracking force and hoped to hit the target. Mr. Gainsford doubled over in pain, and for the briefest moment, she was given the necessary time to concentrate on Mr. Finch.
The dirk had skittered across the floor a few feet in front of her, and both she and Mr. Finch lunged for it. He managed to reach for the knife with one hand and shoved her away with the other, the side of her head crashing into the heavy wooden table next to them. She fell to her knees and found her vision become a tunnel, her focus of the floor fading. She wrenched air back into her lungs and looked up to see Mr. Finch on all fours, watching her.
She grasped the table for support, the pain in her head making her crazed with anger. “They don’t know, do they, Mr. Finch? And so to keep your secret—” But before she could finish her words he launched himself and pulled her to her feet. He wrapped a hand over her mouth and then set the cold blade of her sgian dubh against the hollow of her throat.
“I might have guessed correctly at your poor parentage and upbringing,” he panted, “but I must admit . . . I underestimated the amount of gumption you have.” The words rushed out of his mouth in bursts, and Jenna could feel each rise of his chest in search of air. “Well . . . no one can accuse you of just lying down . . . and playing dead, can they? It seems you’re willing to hurt anyone who gets in your way.”
Jenna felt the sharp prick of the knife pierce her skin.
“But what to do with you now? What will leave a permanent reminder . . . that you may not claw your way . . . out of the filthy class you were born in?” His breath was hot in her ear. His anger squeezing the air from her lungs. “Nor can you drag Alex down into it.”
The sound of frantic voices outside made them both stiffen.
“You must do something! I can’t stop him!”
The ale house door burst open and Lord Pembroke charged in, panicked. She saw Mr. Fowler behind him. Both of their faces were wide with alarm.
“Let go of her, Julian!”
The words sounded far away. Pinpricks of light dotted her vision again as the vise around her chest increased. The last thing she saw before slumping to the floor was Lord Pembroke’s fist driving into Mr. Finch’s face.
TWENTY-FOUR
JENNA WOKE IN SOMEONE ELSE’S BED. SHE OPENED her eyes and took in the low ceiling and whitewashed walls, all bathed in flickering amber light. Shadows fluttered on the wall, a fair imitation of children’s puppetry. She closed her eyes again and tried to escape the blurry vision and throbbing pains in her head. Am I ill?
She brought her hand to her forehead in search of fever, came to rest on a bandage just above her temple, and recognized the source of one of her pains. The other tender area was on the back of her head—a modest lump, but impressive enough to jar her memory.
Carefully, she sat up on her elbows and tried to focus on the rest of the room. There was the strong but not unpleasant smell of food permeating the air. A door to her right was closed to whatever lay beyond it. On the other side, a slender shelf attached to the wall
held a few books and a polished wooden cross, which sat atop a lace doily. Tavish leaned his head against the shelf. His eyes were shut, but his mouth was open. At his feet lay a sack of almonds. His lap cradled a bowl, divided into two segments: shelled and unshelled nuts.
Her eyes edged to the left, for moving them quickly brought on a searing pain, and objects swirled haphazardly if she wasn’t cautious. The dithering light, a beeswax candle, rested in a thick pewter base and burned on a sturdy wooden cupboard along the far wall, opposite the bed. Its flame quivered from a feathery breeze, the source flowing from the breath of a slumbering figure in the wooden chair next to the hutch.
She squinted. A pair of long legs splayed in front of the chair. One hand grasped a strip of gauze and the other propped a head from falling to a chest. Lord Pembroke’s face was turned toward the candlelight, a deep crease between his fair brows.
The light attached itself to his features, and she stared for a moment, watching him doze, but felt it almost voyeuristic to satisfy her curiosity when he was clearly unaware. It was then she realized her own vulnerable state and saw that apart from the warm quilts covering her on the little cot, she wore nothing but her shift. Where were her things and who had removed them? She panicked at the thought of Lord Pembroke having seen her in this state of undress, snatched the quilt to her chin, and lunged to get out of bed.
Her head reeled and she grasped it, falling back against the cot. She moaned in response to the hammering throb.
Lord Pembroke woke to the sound and leapt to his feet. He scrambled to the side of the bed. Blinking back sleep and fumbling for wakefulness, he gushed, “Miss MacDuff, you’re awake. Thank God.” He snatched her hand and pulled it to his chest just above his heart, searching her face and squeezing her fingers. Her eyes shot fully open and he pulled back, alarmed at his own actions. He quickly replaced her hand on the cot and stood, stuttering. “I . . . I’m so sorry. My apologies.” He rolled his eyes skyward and let out a deep breath. “I’m just . . . so relieved you’re okay.”
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