Colin dropped to his knees and gathered her up. “Sinjun, are you all right?”
She stared up at her husband. “What did you call me?”
“I asked you if you were all right, damn you. You’re filthier than a Loch Ard goat.”
“Yes, certainly. Colin, you called me Sinjun.”
“It was a slip of the tongue, done in my excitement. Now, MacDuff, we will all go to that dismal little croft and I want some answers from you.”
“Go to the devil, you filthy devil’s spawn! How did you manage this? Damn you, I saw you riding Gulliver to Edinburgh and coming back to Vere Castle. I saw you! It isn’t possible that you knew I was there!”
Douglas spoke for the first time. “It was me you saw. As for discovering your hidey-hole, we had a dozen or so lads stationed all about the perimeter on the lookout. Jamie spotted you. It was quite easy after that.”
MacDuff just stared at Douglas. Then he turned back to Colin. “I wouldn’t have killed either you or Sinjun. I just wanted to leave. My father left me little money, Colin. You could afford fifty thousand pounds since you married her. I just wanted a little bit of her fortune. It was all Aunt Arleth’s fault.”
“You killed her,” Colin said, his voice shaking with fury, with betrayal. “God, I trusted you. All my life I trusted you, believed you were my friend.”
“Yes, was. Only, things change. We became men.” He looked down at his feet, then, with a fierce cry, he rushed at Colin, grabbed his gun arm, jerking it upward, and crushed his cousin to him, his massive arms tightening around his back, cracking his ribs.
Sinjun was on her feet in an instant. She froze in midstride. The gun went off.
Sinjun screamed.
Slowly, so very slowly, Colin pushed free of MacDuff. He crumpled to the ground. He didn’t move.
There was utter silence. The night sounds became louder. Sinjun fancied she heard one of the rats shriek.
“He knew he couldn’t get away from all of us,” Douglas said slowly, looking at the pistol he held in his own hand. “He saw that Ryder and I were armed.”
“We were, as well,” Alex said.
Colin stared down at his cousin, the man he’d loved as a boy and respected as a man. He was dead. He looked over at his wife. A look of intense pain crossed his face. “So many people lost to me, so many. Did he tell you why, Sinjun?”
She felt his pain, his wrenching betrayal. No more, she thought, no more. She looked at him straight in his beautiful eyes. “He told me that he murdered Fiona because she rejected him. He killed Aunt Arleth because she had proof that he’d killed Fiona. He was in financial difficulties, as he told you. He wanted to leave Scotland and he had to have money. We were the likely source. That’s all there was to it, Colin. Nothing more.”
Colin’s head was bowed. “Nothing more?” he asked, not looking at her.
“No, nothing more. He didn’t want to kill either of us, Colin. I think he was sorry for all the tragedy he’d caused. Thank you for saving me.”
“Ah,” said Douglas, “then you’re not going to claim that it was the damned Virgin Bride or the absurd Pearlin’ Jane who sent us here to save your white hide?”
“Not this time, brother dear.” She smiled up at her husband. He looked at her closely. He lightly ran his fingertips over the bruise on her jaw. “You’re a mess,” he said. “A beautiful mess. Does your jaw pain you much?”
“Not much now. I’m all right. Just dirty and awfully tired of these foul swamp smells and sounds.”
“Then let’s go home.”
“Yes,” Sinjun said, “let’s go home.”
Two days later, Sinjun went to Aunt Arleth’s bedchamber. No one had been in the room since they’d found her body. Thank God the rope had been taken away. There was no sign that a tragedy had occurred here, yet the maids wouldn’t even come as far as three feet from the door.
Sinjun closed the door quietly behind her and stood there for a moment, just looking around. She saw signs quickly enough that MacDuff had searched in here to find his proof that Colin was illegitimate. But he hadn’t found that proof. It was still here, unless Aunt Arleth had lied to MacDuff about it, and Sinjun didn’t believe she’d lied about that.
She searched methodically, but at the end of twenty minutes she hadn’t found a thing out of the ordinary. She had no idea what she was looking for, but she knew she would know when she found it.
Another twenty minutes of searching and she was nearly ready to concede that Aunt Arleth had spun the fantasy from her own tortured brain.
She sat in the chair that faced the small fireplace, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
What would the proof be?
Suddenly, she felt a warmth steal over her, a prodding sort of warmth that made her rise instantly from the chair. She stood perfectly still, wondering what the devil was going on, and then, just as suddenly as the warmth had come to her, she understood it. It was Pearlin’ Jane and she was here to help her.
She walked directly to the long brocade draperies that hung from ceiling to floor on the far east side of the bedchamber. She knelt down and lifted the hem of the drapery. There was something very solid sewn into the wide hem.
The thread wasn’t all that secure. She gently pulled it open. Out fell a small packet of letters tied with a faded green satin ribbon.
They were letters from a Lord Donnally and they were yellowed with age, the paper crinkly. They covered a three-year period, the first one dated nearly thirty years before.
Well before Colin’s birth.
All the letters were from Lord Donnally’s estate in Huntington, Sussex. She read a few lines, then hastily folded the paper and slipped it back into the ribbon. She withdrew the very last letter in the packet. It was dated after Colin’s birth.
She read the faded black ink written in a spidery hand:
My dearest love,
If only I could see my son, hold him, just press him against my body once. But I know it can’t be. Just as I’ve always known you could never be mine. But you have our son. I will abide by your wishes. I will not seek to see you again. If ever you need me, I am here for you. I will pray that your husband will cease his cruelty, that he won’t hurt you . . .
The handwriting was blurred here and she couldn’t make it out. But it didn’t matter. She’d read quite enough.
Sinjun dropped the letter into her lap. She felt the wet of her tears slowly drop on the back of her hands.
The warmth seemed to swirl around her. She knew of course what she had to do.
Sinjun left Aunt Arleth’s bedchamber ten minutes later. The room was warm from the fire that had burned briefly.
She went into the drawing room and walked directly to the fireplace. She stood there, looking up at Pearlin’ Jane’s portrait. It was between the earl’s and his wife’s, just as Pearlin’ Jane demanded that it should be.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“Who are you talking to, Sinjun?”
Her name on his lips was wonderful. She turned around to smile at Colin, her husband, her lover, the man she would willingly give her life for. Now he was safe and so was she and they had life ahead of them.
“Oh, I was just talking to myself, really. I think that Pearlin’ Jane’s portrait needs a good cleaning. Is there someone qualified at minor restoration?”
“There must be. If not in Kinross, why then, in Edinburgh.”
“I think Pearlin’ Jane deserves the best. Let’s take the portrait to Edinburgh. Also, it just occurred to me that I would have been sorely in the wrong had I sent Robert MacPherson to Australia.”
“It would doubtless have improved his character, but it wouldn’t have been justice. I’m rather relieved that you failed in that particular endeavor. Incidentally, I saw him this morning, told him all about MacDuff.”
“Don’t tell me he apologized to you.”
“Oh no, but he did offer me a mug of ale. In his house. And none of his men or servants held g
uns or daggers toward me. Also, it appears he’s trying to grow a beard.”
“Did you see Serena?”
“No. He sent her posthaste to Edinburgh to take charge of their father’s household. He fancies he’s washed his hands of her, but somehow, knowing Serena, I doubt it.”
Sinjun grinned at him. She walked into his arms and hugged him close. “Did I tell you yet today that I adore you? That I worship you? That I would peel grapes for you if any were available and pop them into your beautiful mouth?”
“That would be nice,” he said, and kissed her mouth and the tip of her nose, and smoothed his fingertip over her eyebrows.
“I love you, husband.”
“And I you, my lady wife.”
“Ah, that sounds wonderful, Colin.”
“Before I attempt to have my way with you here in the drawing room, where are the wives?”
“The last time I saw the wives, Sophie was arguing with Alex about where the rose plants would be best situated.”
“Douglas and Ryder are out working with the crofters. Indeed, I had planned to come in and simply say hello to you and perhaps just give you one kiss. I told them that they were old married men and thus didn’t deserve the same benefits that I was entitled to. Kiss me, Sinjun.”
She did, with gratifying enthusiasm.
He kissed her until she was breathless, then he squeezed her tightly against him. “Jesus, if anything had happened to you I couldn’t have borne it.”
She felt his big body shake. She hugged him more tightly, kissing his neck. Then she felt the soft warmth again, swirling around her, about both her and Colin, but he didn’t appear to feel it. Then it began to recede, but there wasn’t any coldness in its place. No, in its wake was perfect stillness and a sort of softness in the air itself. Then, suddenly, Sinjun heard a faint lilting sound that could have been a laugh, perhaps.
Colin said as he nibbled on her earlobe, “I like your laugh, Sinjun. It’s soft and warm and as sweet as a moonless night.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
MAD JACK
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1999 by Catherine Coulter
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://us.penguingroup.com
ISBN: 978-1-1011-9097-5
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
First edition (electronic): July 2001
To Lesley Delone,
An excellent chef and flower designer,
And best of all, a splendid friend.
I hope we’ll be singing Y&R together for a
Very long time to come.
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1
St. Cyre Town House
London, 1811
March 25th
GRAYSON ALBEMARLE St. Cyre, Baron Cliffe, read the single page one more time, then slowly crumpled it in his hand. Some letter, he thought, as he threw the ball of paper into the fireplace. Not many words on the page, but most of the few there were vicious and malevolent. He watched the paper slowly crinkle around the edges, then burst into bright flame.
He walked out of the drawing room and down the long corridor toward the back of his home. He opened the door to the library—his room—all somber and warm and filled with books and little else. The heavy, dark gold velvet draperies were drawn tightly against the night, the fire low and sluggish because none of the servants had known he would be coming into this room at this time.
They all thought he’d left five minutes before to visit his mistress.
He thought of the damned letter and cursed, but not as fluently as his father had when he was so drunk he could scarcely walk. He sat down at his desk and took a piece of foolscap from the top drawer, dipped the quill into the ink pot, and wrote: If I receive another threat from you, I will treat you as you deserve. I will beat you senseless and leave you in a ditch to die.
He signed his initials, GSC, slowly folded the paper, and slid it into an envelope. He walked to the elegant Spanish table that sat against the wall in the entrance hall and placed the envelope onto the ancient silver salver that his butler, Quincy, cleaned every other day, at one o’clock in the afternoon, without fail.
He wondered as he walked in the cold, clear, early spring night to the apartment of his sweet Jenny what would happen now.
Probably nothing. Men of Clyde Barrister’s stamp were cowards.
Carlisle Manor
Near Folkstone
March 29th
There was nothing more to say, damn her. He was panting with rage at her, the ungrateful little bitch. He couldn’t help himself. He raised his hand to strike her, then got hold of himself. “If I hit you, Carlton will know it and perhaps not want you.”
She whimpered, her head down, her hair straggling long and tangled and sweaty down the sides of her face.
“Silent at last, are you? I never thought I’d see you mute as a tree. It’s refreshing for once not having to listen to your complaints and see those looks of yours. Silence and submissiveness are very charming in women, in you especially, though I’m just now seeing them for the first time. Well, perhaps it’s over, eh? Yes, you’ve finally given up. You won’t go against me anymore.”
She said not a word. When he grabbed her chin in his hand and forced her head up, there were tears in her eyes. But still he frowned. He stared down at her hard, still breathing hoarsely from his pacing and yelling. But his face was no longer as flushed as it had been a minute before, and his voice no longer trembled with rage when he spoke. “You will marry Sir Carlton Avery. He will return tomorrow morning. You will smile shyly at him and tell him that it is your honor to become his wife. I have given him my blessing. The marriage settlements are agreed upon. Everything is done. You will not disobey me, or when I next see you, I will make you very sorry.”
He grabbed her chin again, saw the tear streaking down her cheeks, and smiled. “Good,” he said. “Tonight you will bathe and wash your hair. You look like a slut from Drury Lane.” He swiftly left her bedchamber, humming with his victory. Still, because he didn’t want her to forget that he was serious, he slammed the door behind him. She heard his key grate in the lock. She heard his heavy-booted footsteps receding down the long corridor. She drew in a deep breath, looked upward, and said, “Thank you, God. Thank you, God.”
He’d forgotten to retie her hands.
She lifted her hands,
looked at the ugly, raw bruises on her wrists, and began to rub feeling back into them. She bent over to untie her ankles, then rose slowly from the chair where she’d been trussed up like a criminal for three days. She relieved herself and quickly downed two glasses of water from the carafe that sat on her bedside table. Her breathing calmed. She was very hungry. He hadn’t allowed her any food since the previous evening.
But he’d forgotten and left her hands untied. Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten. Perhaps he believed he’d finally broken her and tying her hands didn’t matter. Well, she’d tried to make him believe that. To hold her tongue had cost her dearly. To squeeze tears out of her eyes hadn’t proved so difficult.
Would he come back? That got her into action more quickly than having Farmer Mason’s bull Prixil racing toward her across the south field would have. She had to leave in the next three minutes, perhaps sooner.
She’d thought of this so often during the long hours of the past three days, had meticulously planned it, modified her plans, pictured everything she would be able to carry in the small, light valise.
The next two minutes she spent tying the ends of her two sheets together, slinging them out of the second-floor window, and praying that she would fit through the tall, narrow opening. No doubt she was thinner now than she had been three days ago. She’d stared at that window off and on during the past three days, knowing it was her only way out. She would have to squeeze through it. She had no choice at all.
She managed, barely. When she was dangling six feet above the ground, she looked briefly back up at her bedchamber window, then smiled. She let go and rolled when she landed on the soft, sloping ground. When she stopped, shook herself, and found that she’d gained only a few bruises from her jump, she looked back at her home once more, its lines soft and mellow beneath the brilliant light of the half-moon. A lovely property, Carlisle Manor, one that had belonged to her father, Thomas Levering Bascombe, not this bastard, not this man who’d married her mother after her father had died. And now Carlisle Manor was his, all his, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
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