"You love it, don't you?" she asked, scooting closer to him, her gaze thoughtful as she studied his face.
"Aye." He returned her perusal. "I love it." I love you, he longed to add, but caution kept him mute. He'd only just succeeded in luring his own Adalaide out from wherever she'd been hiding, and he feared saying anything that might send her scurrying back again. Patience, he scolded himself. His love wouldn't become any less for the waiting. On their wedding night, he decided, his pulse quickening at the thought of having Adalaide in his bed. He would tell her on their wedding night.
"Ross?" Adalaide said his name cautiously, her expression anxious as she peered at him through the lenses of her spectacles. "Is everything all right? You've the queerest expression on your face."
He immediately schooled his face to show none of the passion and wild desire consuming him. "Everything's fine, mo céile," he assured her, carrying their joined hands to his lips for a brief kiss. "I was but thinking of the Highlands, and how fine you'll look walking amongst the flowers, your fiery hair flaming all about you."
To his amusement, she flushed in pretty delight. "I've always hated this color," she said, in the tones of one confessing the gravest of sins. "It seems so frivolous." She reached up with her free hand to touch an errant curl.
"No." He stayed her hand with his. "I adore your hair. I have since the first moment I saw it peeking out from beneath that ridiculous cap you were wearing. You're not to wear such a thing after we are wed, is that understood? I'll not have it."
An elegant auburn eyebrow arched in haughty amusement. "You 'll not have it?" she said, the fierce, argumentative nature he had come to love obvious in her tone. "And pray, sir, how do you mean to stop me if I choose to wear a hundred caps?"
"'Tis easy, annsachd," he drawled, burying his fingers in her hair and tugging her closer. "Wear a hundred caps, and a hundred times I'll remove them. Along with anything else I may find not to my liking," he added, and unable to resist, covered her mouth with his own.
The kiss was as wild and sweet as his Highlands, and even as he lost himself to its magic, Ross was holding himself sternly in check. A few more days, he thought, gently teasing her tongue with his own. A few more days, and there would be no reason to stop.
It was the eve of her wedding, and Addy didn't know if she should weep or rage. Gifts had been pouring into the house since the day the notice had appeared in the paper. Gifts and invitations, she thought, grimacing at the pile stacked on her desk. She'd hoped Aunt Matilda would help her, but her aunt had insisted it was the bride's responsibility to accept or refuse the invitations sent to her as a soon-to-be-wedded woman.
Refuse most like, she decided, scowling in distaste at the thought of attending endless balls and routs. Even with Ross at her side, participating in the social round would be a torture beyond enduring, and she wondered how many she dared turn down before incurring Society's wrath. Not many, that much she knew. She and Ross had scraped through this latest scandal, but it had been a near thing. If she turned down more than a handful, it would look as if she was ashamed, and that, she knew, would be all it would take to set tongues viciously wagging.
Sighing in disgust, she picked up another letter, frowning at the almost illegible scrawl. What on earth? she wondered, carefully unfolding the paper.
Miss Terrington,
Bring fifteen thousand pounds to Number Twelve Ratcliffe Highway, or I shall tell the world your precious husband is a base-born bastard with no claim to the St. Jerome title.
Come alone, or you shall have cause to regret it.
A friend
"Oh, for pity's sake!" Addy exclaimed, her eyes flashing in annoyance. "This is getting tiresome!"
She tapped the letter against her hand, thinking quickly. She knew enough of her fiancé to imagine the howl he would set up if he learned of his cousin's poor attempt at blackmail. Which meant, she decided, that she simply wouldn't tell him . . . at least, not right away. She would deal with the matter on her own, and then when they were safely away in Scotland, she would mention it in passing.
She considered the matter for several seconds before reaching her conclusion. Pausing only long enough to scribble off a note, she ran up to her room to gather up her belongings. Her maid was there before her, packing for the bridal trip, and when she saw what Addy retrieved from the top of the wardrobe, her eyes went wide in alarm.
"Why, Miss Terrington, whatever would you be needing that for?" She indicated the small pistol with a shaking finger.
"I'm going hunting for rats," Addy replied, dropping the pistol into her reticule and pulling the strings closed. She quickly donned her oldest cloak and plainest bonnet before hurrying back down to the study. Retrieving the note and a handful of bank notes from the top of her desk drawer, she went back out into the hall to where Williams was standing at his usual post.
"I need to go out, Williams," she said, pulling on her gloves in brisk, determined movements. "Pray fetch a hack for me."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Terrington," Williams said, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "But Lord St. Jerome has left explicit instructions that whenever you had need of a carriage, we were to send for his. He also said you were not to be allowed out without proper escort."
The temper Addy had kept firmly under control for the past several days stirred to life. "Indeed?" she said, her lips thinning in displeasure. "And his lordship is now master here?"
"Indeed not, miss," Williams assured her quickly. "But he did say—"
"Then since he is not master here, you don't need to worry whether or not his wishes are obeyed, do you?" she asked coolly. Before he could answer, she decided to take pity on him, handing him the note she'd just written.
"Please have this delivered to his lordship at once," she said, softening the command with a smile. "It will explain everything."
Williams accepted the letter with visible reluctance. "As you wish, Miss Terrington. But are you quite sure you won't take a footman or even a maid with you?"
Addy thought of the oblique threat in the note and shook her head. She didn't fear Atherton in the least, but the fewer witnesses to the coming confrontation, the better.
"That won't be necessary, Williams. I shan't be gone that long," she told him, some of her old confidence returning. "Be sure Lord St. Jerome gets that note. Now kindly fetch me a carriage. The sooner I am gone, the sooner I shall return."
"Ratcliffe Highway?" Ross shook his head. "Can't say as I've ever heard of it."
"No reason why you should have," Falconer said, shrugging. "Not unless you've a taste for the docks. Your cousin's pockets must be more to let than we thought, if that's where he's gone to ground. Guard your back, St. Jerome. Desperate men are dangerous men. God knows what he may do."
"It matters not to me. It's what I am to do that concerns me most," Ross replied coldly, his attention turned to Atherton. Since the moment the marquess had appeared with news his missing cousin had been located, his only thought was how best to take his revenge against the man who had dared slander Adalaide. As badly as he wanted to kill him, he accepted the deamhan wasn't worth swinging for. That didn't mean he intended letting the tattling devil escape unscathed. One way or another he would avenge his lady's honor.
"I had a word with your aide-de-camp," Falconer continued. "He has men in place watching your cousin's every move. He said Atherton sent a message earlier, and we're trying to find out to whom it was sent, and if possible, what it said. He may be trying to contact some friend we don't know about."
Ross gave a mirthless smile. "Atherton has no friends I don't know of. They've all been here, their hats in one hand and his vowels in another, hoping I'll see fit to settle his debts. I've let them know that if they want to see a farthing of what he owes them, they'll let me know the moment he contacts them."
"Then perhaps it doesn't matter," Falconer said, stroking a thoughtful finger across his lower lip. "What say you, my lord? Do we wait for further intelligence, or d
o we move?"
Ross needed no other prompting. He rolled to his feet, his face set in hard and deadly lines. "We move."
They were waiting for the carriage to be brought around when his butler appeared, a note on a silver tray.
"From Miss Terrington, my lord," he said, offering it to Ross. "The footman who brought it asked that it be given to you right away."
Ross accepted it curiously. It was the first note he could remember Adalaide sending him since their engagement had been announced, and he wondered what it contained. He started opening it, and then paused. Until this matter with his cousin was resolved he could not afford to be distracted. Whatever Adalaide had to say, it would have to wait. He tucked the note in his pocket.
A short while later the carriage came to a halt in front of a half-timbered building bearing the unlikely name The Golden Pear. Ross stared at it in silence, torn with an odd mixture of emotions. Six months ago the place would have seemed a palace to him; now it looked like nothing more than a hovel. He brushed the thought aside and climbed out.
"We should have brought a brace of cannons with us," Falconer observed, staring up at the building in wry amusement. "We'll be lucky to escape here without getting our throats slit and our pockets picked clean."
A wolfish smile touched Ross's lips. "Let them try," he said, drawing a pistol from beneath his greatcoat. "In the meanwhile, let's go find my cousin. I would have words with him."
The sight of armed men entering the inn didn't warrant so much as a glance from the other occupants of the public room. They merely went on with their drinking and gaming, paying Ross and Falconer not the slightest mind as they went up to the innkeeper.
"You've a swell staying here," Falconer said, sliding a coin across the bar. "Where is he?"
The coin disappeared in the innkeeper's filthy hand. " 'E's busy, don't yer know?" the man advised them, giving them a leering wink. "Come back when 'e an' the doxy what's in there with 'im be finished. Shouldn't be longer 'n 'alf an 'hour. She 'tweren't no fancy piece for all 'er airs."
Ross had started to say something when he felt a cold trickle of unease down his spine. The small warning had saved his life too many times for him to discount it now. "What did this lady look like?" he asked, a cold feeling of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. "What color was her hair?"
" 'Ard to say, guv," the innkeeper said with another wink. "She were wearin' one o' them capes an' a bonnet, 'idin' most of 'er. But fer a bit more gold I could be more surelike."
Ross didn't waste any time in arguing. He simply pulled the man across the counter and placed the barrel of the pistol beneath the man's stubble-covered chin. "Be sure," he advised, cocking the pistol. "Be very sure."
"Red!" the innkeeper cried out, his eyes bulging with fear. "It were red, an' she were wearin' spectacles. Thought she looked more like a governess than a mort, but the gents what come here ain't regular in what they fancy."
Ross tried not to think what had brought Adalaide there. He wanted only to rescue her. Then he wanted to ring a peal over her head she'd not soon be forgetting. He gave the innkeeper another shake. "Where are they?"
"Room at the back." The innkeeper's words fell over each other in his eagerness to speak them. "I call it a parlor for them what wants a bit o' privacy an' is willin' to pay fer it. She ain't been there but a quarter hour, if that. If you waits 'til she's done, I—" His words ended in a gurgle when Ross gave him an angry shake before flinging him backward.
Disgusted, Ross reached into his pocket, flinging down another coin before turning back to Falconer.
"If he's so much as touched her, he is dead," he said, his voice flat. "Understand that."
"I understand," Falconer promised. "Let's go." They turned toward the back, but before they'd taken a step the sound of a single gunshot rang out.
Ross didn't remember moving. One moment he was standing beside Falconer, and the next he was inside the tiny room, his pistol in one hand and his eyes full of agony. A low groan reached his ears and he glanced down, his eyes widening in stunned disbelief at the sight of his cousin lying on the floor, cradling his arm.
"She shot me," Atherton moaned, rolling from side to side. "The bitch shot me."
"Of course I shot you, you odious creature," Adalaide said crossly, her elfin features set in a disapproving scowl. "I told you I would. Now, are you going to get on that ship, or must I put another bullet in you?" She blinked as Falconer came charging into the room.
"Oh, there you are, Ross," she greeted him with a smile. "You got my note, I gather?"
"Yes, annsachd," he said, his voice sounding oddly calm, even to his own ears, "I got your note."
"Excellent." She beamed at him, as she used to do when he'd gotten a lesson right. "Then you must know I have the right of it and this wretched creature cannot be allowed to continue practicing his villainy. If he cannot be persuaded to emigrate, then we shall simply have to kill him. I refuse to let him remain a threat to our children."
Atherton set up a howl at this, but Ross didn't pay him any mind. He stared at Adalaide, the pistol in her hand, her spectacles slightly askew, and her face set with determination.
"No, annsachd," he agreed, fighting to keep his joy from showing. "We cannot allow that."
"Someone call the Watch!" Atherton wailed, rising unsteadily to his feet. "That woman is mad! She ought to be locked up for the public good! She came in here and shot me without the slightest provocation!"
"I've had plenty of provocation, you sniveling coward!" Adalaide jabbed the pistol in his direction. "I will not have you spreading lies about the man I love. If I cannot have your silence one way, then I shall have it another. Ross might be too much of a gentleman to shoot you down as you deserve, but I am not possessed of such tiresome scruples." And she calmly began reloading her weapon.
"I'll go! I'll go, curse you!" Atherton wailed, backing away from her. "The devil take you both! You deserve one another!"
"Aye," Ross said, unable to hold back a roar of laugher, "and so we do." He reached out and plucked Adalaide's pistol from her hand, ignoring her indignant protests as he handed the pistol and powder bottle to Falconer. He next turned to Atherton.
"Listen well, cousin, for this is the last time we shall speak," he said, feeling a sharp pang of regret he'd been denied his chance to so much as break the cladhaire's nose. "Stay away from me and mine. If you return to England or Scotland ever again, I'll give her back her pistol. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly." Atherton's voice was sulky, but it contained just enough fear to satisfy Ross. He glanced up at Falconer, who was also looking as if he longed to break out laughing.
"See my cousin gets some doctoring before you put him on a ship, if you would, my lord," Ross said, knowing he could trust the other man to see to the matter for him. "I hear the south of the Pacific is in want of villains. Send him there."
"As you wish," Falconer said, bowing formally to Ross. "My lord." He turned next to Adalaide. "My lady." And he led the protesting Atherton away, closing the door behind them.
"Now, Ross, I know what you are going to say," Adalaide said, regarding him anxiously. "But in my own defense, I should like to say I only did as you yourself would have done. The wretch was threatening to have you named a bastard, for heaven's sake, and I knew I had to do something."
"And so you shot him," Ross said, advancing on her slowly.
"Well, not right away," she replied, clearly puzzled by his apparent calm. "I tried reasoning with him first, and when that failed to have any effect, that's when I shot him."
"It was only a flesh wound," she added hastily. "My brothers taught me to shoot, and I am really quite good."
"So it would seem." He stopped a few feet from her.
"Well, is that all you can say?" she demanded, hands on her hips as she glared at him.
"No, there is something else I should like to say." He was shaking inside from the need to hold her, but there was something he needed to say, somethi
ng he wanted to say more than anything in the world.
"And what is that?" She was eyeing him with suspicion. "If you're thinking of trying to cry off, you may think again. The announcement has already been made and that is that."
"No, I've no intention of crying off."
"Then what?" She all but shouted the words, and that was when he saw the fear, the longing she had kept hidden from him. The sight of it had him moving forward, taking her into his arms and holding her to his heart with fierce joy.
"I love you, Adalaide Margurite," he said softly, brushing his lips across hers. "I love you more than my life, more than my honor. Marry me, leannan, and I swear to you I will do everything in my power to make you happy."
Her blue eyes sparkled with tears of happiness. "And I love you," she murmured, standing on tiptoe to boldly press her mouth to his. "Now, will you do one thing for me?"
Ross kissed her again, deeper this time, and with a great deal more warmth than was strictly proper. "What is that, my dearest?" he asked, his voice husky with passion.
She smiled beguilingly. "Teach me what those words you are always calling me really mean."
He stared down at her, his heart overflowing with a happiness and a love greater than anything he could ever have imagined. "Gladly, mo cridhe," he said, and proceeded to give her a lesson in Gaelic that was nearly as shocking as it was delightful.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The Author wishes to beg the Readers' indulgence as she has played rather fast and loose with historical facts. Whereas 'tis true there were several attempts to have Wellington removed as commander of the Expeditionary Forces on the Peninsula, none of these attempts occurred during the time frame indicated in this novel. The Author shamelessly manipulated these facts to fit the dramatic necessity of the story, and hasn't a jot of remorse for having done so.
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