by Cara Elliott
The silence deepened the chill within the shadows, stirring a pebbling of gooseflesh up and down her bare arms.
Repressing a shiver, Caro stayed very still in her hiding place, unwilling to move, unwilling to think…
She had reason to know that Alec McClellan had been involved in some very radical political activities in Scotland—some of which were considered treasonous by the British government. And while he had denied being part of the faction that favored violence as a means to achieve their goals, she had only his word to go on.
True, he had helped her sister and Lord Davenport thwart a sinister French plot at Dunbar Castle, but she was under no illusion that he had shared all his secrets with them.
The dratted man was more tight-lipped than the Sphinx.
“Caro?” Isobel’s call interrupted her musings.
Rising quickly, she hurried down a narrow pathway, a lingering sense of unease impelling her to appear as if she had been sitting in a different part of the churchyard.
“Yes, I’m here.” Stepping out from behind a granite obelisk, Caro flashed a quick wave.
“We thought perhaps you had been abducted by an evil demon,” teased Andover, pointing up at one of the stone gargoyles decorating the flying buttresses.
The innocent remark squeezed the air from Caro’s lungs. But she quickly recovered and managed a weak laugh. “What a wild imagination you have, Andy. As if there are devilish creatures lurking in Bath, waiting to swoop down on unsuspecting young ladies.”
“I know, I know.” He grinned. “It’s absurd.”
Isobel was staring at her with some concern but said nothing.
Andover’s expression slowly pinched to a quizzical frown. “I say, you look awfully pale. Are you feeling unwell?”
“The air was awfully musty inside the nave,” she answered. “It was making it hard to breathe.”
“Ah, well, then perhaps a little fresh air and a bit of walking will help clear your head.” He offered her his arm before belatedly recalling that his other companion was not in the pink of health. “That is, unless you are too fatigued, Miss Urquehart.”
“Some tea would be reviving,” suggested Caro. “There are several shops on York Street.”
“Tea would be lovely,” agreed Isobel.
“Splendid!” Andover escorted them through the gate and past the classical façade of the Pump House, his cheerful commentary on the musical practice session relieving Caro of the need to speak.
Her thoughts were still elsewhere, and playing out in a decidedly minor key.
“Was the organ as impressive as promised?” called a voice from the archway of the ancient Roman baths.
Out of the corner of her eye, Caro saw Alec step out from the shadows.
“Oh, it was even more so! The sound was magnificent,” answered Isobel, turning to fix her brother with a winsome smile. “We are going to take tea at one of the shops. Would you care to join us?”
As Alec quickened his pace to join them, Caro shot an involuntary look at his boots. Dark and well polished. But that described the footwear of most gentlemen.
As for the flutter of his coattails—
She looked away quickly, pretending a sudden interest in the architectural details of the elegant Georgian townhouses, which had been designed by John Wood the Elder and his son John Wood the Younger at the end of the previous century. In the bright afternoon sun, the golden-hued local limestone—known as Bath stone—glowed with a mellow warmth, as if it had been drizzled with melted honey.
And yet, it did nothing to lighten her spirits. A sea squall, dark and blustery, with the rumble of distant thunder deepening the first spitting drops of rain, would have been a more fitting reflection of her mood.
“Did you enjoy the playing, too, Miss Caro?” For some inexplicable reason Alec chose to fall in step beside her instead of his sister. She couldn’t help but notice that his gait had the muscular grace of a prowling predator. Deceptively relaxed, but ready to spring for the kill at an instant’s notice.
A lordly wolf. With sharp, chiseled nose and ice-blue eyes that seemed lit by an inner fire.
“I have an indifferent ear for music,” she replied.
“Indeed?” He cocked an appraising look. “I would have thought a poet would appreciate the nuances of sound.”
“Then I must be a bad poet,” said Caro a little tartly. “Or your assumptions are mistaken.”
“Or perhaps there is some other answer that is not quite so obvious,” he said slowly. “The world can rarely be depicted in such stark shades of black and white.”
His gaze didn’t waver, and Caro could feel it burning like phosphorous against her skin.
“Ah, a lecture on painting, as well as poetry and music?” It was, she knew, a shrewish reply, but she couldn’t help herself. The exchange she had heard in the churchyard had left her very unsettled. “It seems we shall cover all of the arts before we reach York Street.”
“You seem bent on deliberately misunderstanding me,” replied Alec softly. “Is there a specific reason? Aside from the fact that, in general, you find me an odious oaf?”
“I don’t…”
When she didn’t go on, he murmured an encouraging “Yes?”
“As you say, sir, it’s not so black and white.”
His mouth quirked, softening the forbidding lines of his face. At that moment he no longer looked like a wild arctic wolf. But nor did he look like a housebroken lap dog.
“Your skill with language seems as sharp as ever,” observed Alec. “Which is no surprise. I would imagine that the author of a poem as lyrical as ‘Mist-Shrouded Moors’ would never be at a loss for words.”
“H-how did you know I wrote that?” Shocked, Caro released his arm and came to an abrupt halt on the walkway. “I swear, I shall throttle Anna when she returns from Russia. She promised she wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“Anna didn’t tell me.”
“Then how—”
“It was simply an educated guess,” he replied. “You said it was by McAdam, and I happen to own a copy of his complete works.” He fixed her with a speculative stare. “There seemed little reason for the subterfuge unless you had written it yourself.”
“Hmmph, I see that I shall have to work on becoming a better liar,” grumbled Caro.
He didn’t smile. “Concentrate your talents on learning to become an even better poet. There are enough accomplished liars in the world.”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. He thought her a good poet? Her stomach gave a queer little lurch.
“Come, we had better catch up with the others.” Taking her arm, Alec lengthened his stride.
“McAdam is very good,” she said in a small voice, as they crossed to the other side of the street. “It is poetic justice that I was caught trying to fob off my own verse as his.”
“You are better,” said Alec brusquely.
Her foot slipped on one of the smooth paving stones, pitching her up against him.
Wrapping an arm around her waist, he steadied her stumble.
Caro was instantly aware of myriad sensations—the lithe strength of his muscles, the solid breadth of his shoulders, the subtle scent of bay rum pervading the crisp linen of his cravat.
“Don’t tell me the intrepid Miss Caro Sloane is going to swoon again?” he murmured dryly.
She realized that her legs had gone all soft and floppy like those of a rag doll, and she was clinging to his coat like a helpless peagoose. It would have been utterly mortifying if it hadn’t been so utterly silly.
Stifling a laugh in the soft folds of merino wool, she managed to say, “Oh, dear, I seem to be making a complete cake of myself. You must think me an idiot.”
Or worse.
A flash of amusement accentuated the sapphire highlights in his slate-blue eyes, giving hint that there was sunlight behind the stormclouds. “You are,” he drawled, “far too interesting to be an idiot.”
“I dare not try to think of what other
words you might consider more appropriate.”
“Even with your impressive vocabulary, I doubt you would come close to guessing,” he agreed.
Oh, but it was a very tantalizing game to play. As well as a little frightening.
“That sounds like a warning,” she said.
Rather than reply, he handed her off with an exaggerated bow to Andover, who was waiting at the tea shop entrance.
“You aren’t going to join us, Alec?” asked his sister. She sounded disappointed.
“Not today. I have some matters to attend to.”
Caro watched him march away with a purposeful stride, leaving a swirl of dust in his wake. A poet, she mused wryly, might describe it as kicking up sparks and smoke—Alec McClellan attacked everything he did with an intensity that scorched anything in his path.
Including me.
She wished she could shake off the unwilling attraction. Like a moth, she seemed inexorably drawn to fire. And had been for ever since she could remember. Her father had often counseled her on the danger, and all of a sudden she could hear the whisper of his long-ago words.
Flames have a sinuous, seductive beauty, poppet. But they must be treated with caution. If you aren’t careful and try to snatch them up and hold them close, you risk being badly burned.
“Miss Caro?” Andover’s tentative query pulled her back to the present moment.
“Sorry,” she replied, turning her gaze back to him. “I was simply trying to discern whether I recognized the gentleman who just hailed Lord Strathcona. Do you know him?”
Andover squinted into the bright sunlight, but the two men had already disappeared around the corner. “I didn’t catch his face. But you know how small Bath is. Whoever the fellow is, I am sure that we shall meet up with him very soon.”
“McClellan.”
Alec looked around abruptly. Only his radical Scottish friends called him by his surname rather than his title.
“Thayer,” he murmured, as the man fell in step with him and inclined a polite nod. “I wouldn’t have expected to encounter you here.”
“I might say the same.” A smile, showing a flash of perfectly aligned pearly teeth.
Which Alec was sorely tempted to ram down the fellow’s gullet.
“So, what does bring you to the favorite retreat of England’s upper classes?” went on Thayer. Dropping his voice a notch, he added, “Have you shrugged off your so-called moral principles as well as your support of our cause?”
“You are one to speak of moral principles,” growled Alec. Thayer had once been a close friend and comrade, but rumors concerning the seduction of an innocent young lady and the demand of money to hush up the affair had caused the initial rift between them.
“Still gnawing on that old bone?” Thayer’s smile remained in place. “Your old friends think your betrayal of our goal is far more serious than any of the vague accusations that have been hurled at me.”
“Betrayal is a serious charge indeed,” replied Alec. “If I were you, I’d be careful how you use it.”
Recent rumors about Thayer’s activities had stirred even more serious concerns. If there was even a grain of truth to them…
But surely his former friend could not have sunk to such depths of depravity.
“Don’t you ever tire of parsing words and their nuances, McClellan? Or is that how to justify your fear of putting those fancy phrases you mouth into action?”
“Since I take responsibility for my actions, I consider what I say very carefully,” he countered. “People suffer and people die if one is too selfish to consider the consequences.”
“A very pretty speech,” murmured Thayer, his voice rich with mockery. “But then, you were always exceedingly good at appearing eloquent and high minded.”
“And you were always exceedingly good at appearing charming and sincere.”
A low laugh. “Dear me, are we going to continue trading insults indefinitely?”
“No,” answered Alec. “Because we are going to part company here.” He turned at the corner, hoping to put an end to the meeting. But like a cocklebur, Thayer clung to his coattails.
“Anxious to be rid of me?”
Alec kept his head down and quickened his pace. Perhaps if he didn’t answer, Thayer would grow tired of baiting him and go away.
“Do me a single favor, for old time’s sake, that’s all I ask,” said Thayer after several more silent strides. “And then I’ll take myself off.”
He remained silent.
“Our group has a traitor in its midst,” went on his former comrade. “I was hoping you would tell me the name of your private contact in Edinburgh. He may prove helpful in unmasking the guilty party.”
“What makes you think I’d share such sensitive information with you? One errant whisper and the fellow would be dancing the hangman’s jig on an English gallows.”
“Because, despite our differences on the means of achieving the end, we do have a common goal.”
Alec hesitated, but only for an instant. Violence only kindled violence, and despite his silvery tongue, Thayer had proven in the past that he didn’t care who was hurt as long as he got what he wanted.
“Go to the Devil,” he muttered. “We have chosen different paths, and whatever we once shared has been left in the dust.”
“What a pity you feel that way.” If anything, Thayer pressed closer until their shoulders were nearly touching. “By the by, was that your sister you were walking with? I had heard she had grown from a pretty little child into an even prettier young lady.”
A clench of fear squeezed the air from Alec’s lungs.
“I see the compliments were not misplaced. You must introduce us, next time we are all together.”
Recovering his breath, Alec put a hand on the other man’s sleeve. To the casual onlooker it might have appeared a friendly gesture, but his vise-like grip was almost tight enough to crack bone.
“I suggest you leave my sister alone, else the misplaced thing will be your liver. Because I shall tear it out of your body with my bare hands and feed it to the crows.”
Chapter Six
Caro added a dash of sugar to her morning coffee, wishing there were some magical powder to slip into the teapot to sweeten her mother’s grumblings. That they were already in fine fettle at breakfast did not bode well for the rest of the day.
“And what a pity,” went on Lady Trumbull, “that of all the eligible bachelors who might appear in Bath, Fate would have to bring us that dreadful man from the north.”
“Lord Strathcona?” responded Caro. “Dreadful seems a rather harsh word, Mama. If you recall, he did play a key role in rescuing Anna.”
“Hmmph.” Lady Trumbull gave another aggrieved sniff. “Please do not mention that horrid house party. I would rather not be reminded of our stay in Scotland.”
“Anna did end up marrying a marquess,” pointed out Caro.
“True.” Another disgruntled sigh from the baroness. “But I was so hoping for a prince.”
Caro bit back a laugh. “Anna and Prince Gunther would not have suited each other. Not at all.”
“Nonsense! You girls have been reading too many silly novels about love and romance. Princes do not grow on trees…”
Thank God for that, thought Caro. Otherwise her mother would have her making a tedious tour of every garden in England.
A scowl pinched at her mother’s mouth, then suddenly gave way to wistful smile. “But they do, on occasion, visit Bath to take the spa waters. Perhaps one—”
“If one does arrive in town, he would likely be advanced in years, Mama,” interjected Caro, determined to nip this particular matchmaking idea in the bud. Thank goodness she had been able to cut off any hints that Andover might be brought up to scratch. Even her mother had to admit that if the fellow hadn’t succumbed to Anna’s winsome charms, the youngest Sloane was unlikely to fare any better.
“Maturity is an excellent quality in a husband,” countered Lady Trumbull after a
moment of thought.
“You are quite right, Mama.” She flashed a winning smile. “Why, perhaps you should think of setting your cap at him, if such a paragon of perfection appears.”
Lady Trumbull’s eyes lit with a speculative gleam. “My figure is still rather pleasing…”
Exhaling a sigh of relief, Caro quickly excused herself to make a visit to the local bookshop and run some other errands, leaving the baroness murmuring to herself about the latest styles in ballgowns and bonnets.
Caro couldn’t blame her mother for wanting to see all her daughters well settled. Life had been hard for the family after their father’s death. Money—or rather, the lack of it—had been a constant threat shadowing their every move, like a lurking wolf with snapping jaws. Society was not kind to young ladies without dowries, and the thought of being swallowed up into genteel poverty had been terrifying for the baroness.
Now, of course, with Olivia married to the exceedingly wealthy Earl of Wrexham, such fears had disappeared.
But old habits were hard to change. And not only for her mother. The unsmiling face of Alec McClellan came to mind…
Determined to push such musings aside for the moment, Caro entered the bookshop and made her way past the display tables to the nook-and-cranny comfort of the back rooms.
Squeezing between two towering cabinets of architectural prints and a chipped Argand lamp, she pulled a book down from the crammed shelves, setting a cloud of dust motes to dancing through the blade of sunlight cutting in through the diamond-paned window. Apparently poetry was not nearly as popular as guidebooks to the area or the latest novels from Minerva Press, for the small alcove was deserted, save for herself.
She was not unhappy to have a bit of solitude, for even though she understood her mother’s concerns, the none-too-subtle hints about marriage always left her feeling unsettled. But the chance to spend a quiet hour perusing the bookshop’s excellent selection of verse was already proving to be a balm for the spirit.
Setting the hard-to-find edition of McAdam’s complete works on the window ledge, Caro then added a slender volume of odes by another Scottish poet whose work was unknown to her.