Mad for the Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

  “It is true that all courts are filled with wolves in wolves’ clothing,” Tata agreed. “Just yesterday, Count Gorchakov visited me. He brought some honey after I said my throat was sore from the dry weather. I had to excuse myself from the room for a moment to fetch my shawl, and when I returned, I caught the lout going through the papers on my desk.”

  Max’s expression turned grim. “Where were the footmen?”

  “On other errands.”

  “Tata!” Nik groaned. “You know better. I will have a word with the count.”

  “Be gentle, for I hit him in the shin with my cane. He is limping still.”

  Max chuckled.

  Nik sent his brother a hard look. “It is only funny because we are used to it. Gorchakov bears watching, as does Lady Naryshkins, who has been corresponding secretly with the Russians, while Baron Yusopov has fallen into the clutches of a young mistress with ties to the Prussians, and . . . Bloody hell, we live in a hornets’ nest of intrigue and mistrust!”

  “True.” Tata Natasha nodded, her lace cap flapping over her ears. “All courts are this way.”

  “Ours is worse,” Nik said. “We are strategically placed between giants. Everyone wishes to influence us. And thus we must fight intrigues at every turn.”

  Tata looked at Max. “Was that your stomach growling?”

  He nodded. “I’m starving. Supper was to be served a half hour ago, but this one”—he nodded toward Nik—“would not come.”

  “Then go eat,” she said. “And take Wulf with you.”

  Max stood. “Aren’t you coming?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve a letter to write.”

  “Fine. Come, Wulf. I believe Tata Natasha has this well in hand. And if that is so, then I wish to leave at first light and return home.”

  “I will do the same.” Wulf stopped by Tata Natasha’s chair to press a kiss to her hand. “See what you can do for the Hopeless One. He is miserable when he’s unhappy.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” she said drily. She gave her grandson’s hand a squeeze and then waved him to the door. “I will join you once I finish my letter.”

  As soon as they were gone, Tata Natasha leaned back in her chair and sighed. “Thank God they have left. Talk, talk, talk is all they do.”

  Nik prudently didn’t answer.

  She continued, “Your brothers may worry about you, but I know you are fine. A little thinner since we returned, perhaps. And your eyes—it is obvious you are not sleeping well. You are a bit pale, too. But other than that, I see no difference.”

  “Thank you,” he said drily. “You said you had a letter to write?”

  “Da. It will not take long.” She reached into the pockets of her skirts and pulled out a folded missive. “Do you have an extra pen? I must answer this.”

  “Shall I bring you paper, too?”

  “I will not be able to answer this letter without it.”

  He found a fresh piece of paper and then took it, along with his best pen and a small pot of ink, to where she sat. He pulled the side table forward and placed the supplies upon it. “There.”

  “Thank you.” She unfolded the letter and spread it out.

  He glimpsed the handwriting, and froze, his heart giving an odd flip. “That’s from Ailsa.” His voice cracked the words as if he were throwing stones against a wall. He reached for the letter—

  Tata Natasha snatched it up and held it to her chest. “You may not see this. It was not written to you.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but better sense took over. She was right. Whatever was in the letter, he would be better off not knowing about it. He thought far too much about Ailsa as it was, and reading a note in her handwriting would only make things worse.

  Though it cost him dearly, he returned to his desk and randomly sorted papers, trying not to stare at the missive.

  Tata watched him for a moment before she placed the letter back on the table, smoothed out the crumpled paper, and began reading.

  Nik picked up his pen, irritatingly aware of the way Tata’s lips silently moved as she read.

  The clock sitting by the window ticked loudly.

  Somewhere in the distance, a door opened and closed.

  Nik stared with unseeing eyes at the letter that rested before him. He cleared his throat. “Has . . . has she written to you before?”

  “Every week or so. And every week I write her back.”

  “It would take three weeks—”

  “Special couriers,” Tata said shortly. She picked up the pen and dipped it in the ink.

  “Why does she write?”

  “She seeks advice.”

  “From you?”

  Tata couldn’t have looked more surprised. “Why would she not ask me? I have a lot of advice to give!”

  “Yes, but . . . advice about what?”

  “That, too, is none of your business.” Tata bent over the table and began to write. “You do your work; I’ll do mine.”

  Seething, but unwilling to seem any more interested in Ailsa than he’d already been betrayed into doing, Nik tried to focus on his work. But why would Ailsa write to Tata Natasha? Lady Edana is right there, at Castle Leod. Surely Ailsa would ask advice from her own grandmother first.

  He thought about this for a while. Lady Edana didn’t seem particularly capable. Tata Natasha has lived a much bigger life. Given the choice, I’d rather speak to Tata Natasha, too.

  The mystery solved, he tried to keep from staring at the letter his grandmother was now writing. He’d just dipped his pen into his inkwell when Tata Natasha gave a frustrated sigh.

  “A pack of drunk monks must have developed the English language, for that is the only way to explain the many discrepancies. The spelling—pah!”

  “It is not an easy language to write,” he agreed.

  “It is frustrating.” She tapped a finger on her paper. “How does one spell ‘convenience,’ as in ‘marriage of convenience’?”

  He blinked. “Why do you need to spell that?”

  “I cannot tell you. It would betray a confidence. C-o-n-v-” She frowned. “ ‘I’ or ‘e’—which is next?”

  Bloody hell. He absently spelled the word for her.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, carefully writing it. The room was silent except for the sound of her pen scratching the paper.

  Nik tried to still the ache that was beginning to press on his chest. Perhaps Tata Natasha is writing about a marriage here at court. That was a possibility. Idle gossip and nothing more. Two such marriages had occurred in the last four months.

  Yes, that is it. Satisfied, he pulled the letter he’d been working on a bit closer, and had just written a sentence when Tata paused again.

  “Does ‘danger’ have an ‘e’ or an ‘a’ before the ‘r’? I can never remember.”

  “ ‘E.’ ”

  She wrote it and then squinted at the word. “It looks wrong, but I will take your word for it.”

  Danger? Bloody hell, is something amiss?

  After several long moments, he was relieved when Tata put down her pen and picked up the letter, waving it gently so that the ink might set. “I think it is ready. Let me read through it one more time.” As she held it up, she read it to herself, her voice low so that only a few, faint phrases could be heard. “. . . despair no more . . . marriage of convenience . . . archaic . . . shoot someone if you must . . . trapped like a rabbit in a snare . . . seventy-five is too old a man for such a young—” She frowned. “Nik, for ‘maiden,’ is it ‘ai’ or ‘ia’?”

  “That’s it.” He threw down his pen and stood. “What in the hell are you writing? Has something happened to Ailsa? Perhaps you should go to her at Castle Leod—”

  “Oh, she’s no longer at Castle Leod. She hasn’t been for some time now.” Tata Natasha folded the letter. “She is in Edinburgh.”

  His heart went cold. “This marriage of convenience? And—and this seventy-five-year-old—what is that about?”

  “You
can see that all the way from your desk? You have very good eyes, Nikki. No wonder you’re such an accurate shot.”

  “Tata. The letter.”

  “I am not going to tell you more. You left her, remember? It was your decision.”

  “I left her to keep her from coming here, and becoming a part of all this.”

  Tata Natasha shrugged. “And now she will never be a part of it. Or a part of you.”

  Nik had to unclench his teeth to answer. “Ailsa was raised in a castle in the remote reaches of a wilderness. She’s had very few dealings with the real world. She’s . . . good. Honest. Kind.”

  “But she is not weak.”

  “Nyet. But she is tenderhearted. She’s never been hurt by betrayals, or dealt with people feigning to be friends in order to get something, or—or—men who would pretend to bring her honey for her sore throat, only to try and steal something.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t bring her here. It would change her. Hurt her.”

  “You care for her.”

  “Of course I care for her! If I didn’t, I’d have brought her here and let the world steal away her very soul. I could not do it.”

  “You will not need to. She will be facing the rigors and treachery of court soon enough.”

  “Is Edinburgh’s court so bad? And is—” His throat tightened. “Is that why you mentioned a marriage of convenience? To a seventy-five-year-old man? Is that what’s happened?” Somehow, he was no longer at his desk, but standing before Tata Natasha, his voice raised and demanding.

  Tata shrugged. “She is not your concern. You have as much as told her so. You can do nothing about what happens to her now . . .”

  “Like hell. I may not wish to bring her here to this bloody rats’ nest of intrigue, but I’ll not have her throwing her life away on an antiquity!”

  Tata stiffened. “Seventy-five is not so old.”

  “I’m going to Ailsa. I’m going to tell her not to marry whoever it is. She deserves love. Happiness.” He’d convinced himself that with him gone, she would find another love; her life would be gentle and blessed. But this . . . “Is her father making her do this? Is that what’s happened?”

  Tata smoothed the letter on her knee. “It is sad, the things fathers do to their children. They mean the best, but . . .” She shook her head.

  “When is this wedding to take place?”

  “I would imagine it will be soon.”

  “I will have a ship readied. We will leave this evening with the tide.”

  She stood. “I’m to go with you?”

  “Of course. Ailsa is . . .” He took a steadying breath. “She may not listen to me, but she may listen to you. We must convince her to refuse her father, no matter the pressure he puts upon her.”

  “Very good. There’s a ship waiting at the docks, so you do not need to order one readied.” Tata held up her letter. “The courier was waiting for this. I daresay there may be cabins to be had—”

  Nik took her elbow. “How long will it take you to pack?”

  “I can be ready in half an hour.”

  “Then do it. We must go swiftly.”

  Chapter 26

  Urged on by Nik’s insistent orders, the lumbering coach made its way to the port. Throwing back the curtains, Nik could see the ship moored to the biggest dock, ready for travel. Good. We must make haste.

  Across from him, Tata Natasha was bundled in a heavy wool cape, her wrinkled face framed by a thick fur-lined hood. “So. We are on a rescue mission, eh?”

  “I cannot allow Ailsa to throw herself away on a marriage of convenience. She deserves better.” God, she haunted him. The shape of her face. Her delightfully bold nose. Her silken laugh. Her cloud of dark blond hair. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, he could still smell the faint lavender of her scent.

  “You pine for that woman. I see it in your eyes.”

  “I think about her. That’s all.” When I’m awake. And asleep. And in between.

  The coach slowed as they rolled onto the cobblestones of the main thoroughfare by the dock. The scent of the ocean rose over the clatter of wagons and the shouts of drunken sailors.

  Over the clamor, Tata said, “She’s not so pretty, this one. She’s not the type of female you usually pursue.”

  “It has been many months since I have thought her one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.”

  “Then I am glad.”

  “Of what?”

  “That we will—” The coach made a sharp turn and she grabbed the edge of the seat and peered out the window. “We arrive. Here. Help me down from this blasted carriage.”

  Nik swung open the door without waiting for the footman, frowning as he did so. “We are not at the docks.”

  “We are at an inn. I instructed the coachman to stop here. Before we go on the ship, I would take a moment to refresh myself.”

  “We should go straight to the ship. The tide—”

  “—is not due for another half hour, perhaps longer. Besides, when I said ‘refresh myself,’ I meant something more delicate in nature.”

  Good lord, this woman was difficult. He tamped down the desire to point out that she could deal with her ‘delicate’ issues as soon as they reached the ship, but the stubborn set of her mouth told him it would be quicker to allow her to have her way.

  He reluctantly pulled out the steps, waving off the footman as he did so. “Do not take long.”

  Tata Natasha allowed him to assist her down the steps. “A few minutes, no more. I promise.”

  “I will wait here.”

  “Come with me,” she said over her shoulder, already walking into the inn, her cane clicking on the stone walkway. “You will want vodka while you wait, nyet?”

  He stifled a sigh, every fiber of his being focused on the ship he could see so tantalizingly close. But he might as well have a glass of vodka, as he was sure her idea of “hurrying” would not match his.

  He followed her into the inn, a delicious aroma causing his stomach to growl.

  She sniffed. “Roasted goose,” she said with approval as she headed down the long hallway. “Wait in the front parlor. I will not be long.”

  With that, she disappeared into a side door.

  He stifled a sigh and stepped into the parlor—only to stop dead in his tracks.

  Ailsa stood at the far end of the room, her eyes wide in surprise. She was dressed in a plum-colored traveling gown, a thick shawl draped over her shoulders, her hands clasped in front of her. Her hair had been twisted on the top of her head, two fat curls resting on one shoulder.

  The raging desire to cross the room and scoop her into his arms, to bury his face in her neck and feel her against him, made his knees almost weak.

  He forced himself to remain where he was, near the door. “It seems I have been tricked.”

  Flushed, she said in a tight voice, “We both were. Your grandmother was to meet me here, nae you.”

  “She is meddling as ever.” He took another step into the room, leaving the door open. “She said there was vodka and a roasted goose.” He looked her up and down. “You do not look like a goose.”

  “Nae, but now that I see what she’s done, it explains that.” Ailsa pointed to the table by the window set for two. The table was laden with a roasted goose, a tureen of turtle soup, curried rabbit, a dish of basket-weave pastry, prawns in butter sauce, stewed mushrooms, and more. It was a feast.

  “Her Grace ordered quite a repast.” Ailsa gave a short laugh. “I thought perhaps she wished to welcome me, but now . . . I greatly underestimated your grandmother.”

  “We both did. But do not worry, I’m not staying.” He shouldn’t. And yet his feet remained planted as if glued to the floor. “What will you do now?”

  “Me? I suppose, for the moment, I will eat my supper. I just arrived in this frigid land of yours, and I’m famished. But you . . . you must leave, of course.” She walked to the table, her silk skirts rustling as she took a seat and moved the napkin
from the table to her lap.

  Nik shifted from one foot to the other. The door behind him was open. It would take only two or three steps and he’d be through the door.

  She was here and so achingly close. His gaze devoured her and he noted the almost imperceptible changes since the last time he’d seen her. She, too, was thinner, her jaw more pronounced. She held her shoulders stiffly, as if she were ready to spring into action at a second’s notice. What should he say? What could he say?

  She carved a slice of goose, and put it on her plate. “Before you go, would you mind passing the bread? I cannae reach it from here.”

  His gaze flickered to the bread that sat at the farthest edge of the table.

  He crossed to the table, picked up the bread basket, and handed it to her.

  Her hand closed on the other side of the basket, both clinging to their side as if it bridged a huge chasm, and if one or the other of them let go, they would fall.

  Ailsa wished she could think of something brilliant and witty to say. Something that would move them past this frozen awkwardness. But her mind was unable to do anything but drink in the sight of him.

  Did he have to come in looking so blasted dashing and . . . and . . . perfect? His black hair was longer than before, falling to his shoulders, his face leaner, which only served to make him look even more handsome, a feat she hadn’t thought possible. Worse, he was dressed in an elegant double-caped coat, his hat perched at a rakish angle on his head, his boots reflecting the firelight.

  She wished she could think of something to say but all she could do was fight the tears that threatened to leak.

  His gaze moved from her eyes, to her nose, to her lips, and then followed her arm to the basket.

  He released it and stepped back. “I suppose I should eat. I daresay I’m paying for it, anyway.”

  She stared at him blankly as he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it and his hat onto the low settee, before he joined her at the table.

  Bloody hell, we’re together. The room suddenly seemed too small, and all she could do was remember how he’d touched her, tasted her. Her heart beat in her throat and she glanced at the fire, wondering if it had suddenly blazed up.