The Reckless One

by Connie Brockway

  He frowned. How did one account for her implausible mixture of innocence and savvy? That ingenuous, direct gaze and the accomplished lies? It was a puzzle and, more, it was stimulating. Nearly as arousing as her sweet little body.

  He felt again the texture of her velvety breasts, the supple yield of her body, and replayed that simple kiss.

  He wanted more.

  But then, damnation, her name was Favor McClairen, a girl who’d every right to hate him and wish him dead. The one girl in the world whom he was obligated to aid in every way he could.

  The girl whose life he’d ruined.

  Chapter 12

  “Drag him up to the gate!”

  The ropes binding his wrists snapped taut, jerking him off his feet. He landed face first in the hoarfrost, the shards scraping his chin and forehead. He hadn’t the strength to even turn his head.

  “Up, ye English bastard! Up, ye puling fucker!” A hard bootheel slammed into his side, breaking what had been cracked. He groaned. It was all he could do. Hands grabbed his arms, jerking him to his feet. He swayed. More hands seized him, half-dragging, half carrying him to the arching postern before an ancient tower. There they stood him, weaving and half-conscious, beneath the teeth of the raised iron gate. Elbows and fists jostled and shoved; angry voices rang in his ears; the stink of sweating bodies and the reek of green reed torches clogged his nostrils.

  A thin, metallic taste drenched his mouth. Blood congealed on his lips and dribbled from his chin. Blood clouded one eye and blood stained his shirt.

  “McClairen!” They were shouting now, voices raised in triumph. “McClairen! Come out to us!”

  High above him he heard a weak female voice answer, “What is this? Who do you seek?”

  A hand in the middle of his back catapulted him forward and he staggered to his knees. Behind him a harsh voice answered, “We come seeking the McClairen!”

  He squinted, saw a gaunt middle-aged figure in rags, such fury in that face as to rob it not only of its gender but of all humanity. Hers had been the first staff to break across his shoulders.

  “There is no McClairen clan,” the voice above answered, fainter this time.

  “Nay, lady, you are wrong!” a man’s voice answered, “for we be that clan. The English might chase us from our homes and burn us in our crofts. They might harry us like cunny but we’ve survived. We are McClairen’s people, and we’ve brought the laird an English rapist to teach Scottish justice.”

  “What? How’s this? Who is that boy?” the lady asked, her tremulous voice rising, seeming to mirror Raine’s own fear.

  “Carr’s evil seed who sowed his own germ ’neath the skirts of a nun’s habit!” the woman in rags screamed. “A McClairen lass, she were!”

  “Dear God, is that Carr’s son?”

  “Aye. Carr who betrayed and deceived us, who had our pipes and plaids stripped from us, who stole our lands and killed not one but three wives! Well, no more! This we will not suffer! We will have justice!”

  The crowd roared in approval.

  “Send us our laird so that we might be proud once more!”

  “Ye fools!” the woman cried out, despair so ripe in her voice that for an instant it recalled Raine to his senses. “Ye’ve murdered … my sons!”

  “McClairen! McClairen!” The chant began behind him, picked up tempo and volume, became a din drowning out even the ringing in his ears.

  He tried to lift his head and tell them the truth: He hadn’t raped Merry. Aye, they’d found them together, Merry naked and him nearly so, but it wasn’t rape. She’d made her accusation because she’d been afraid of them, of what they would do if they discovered she’d willingly given herself to Carr’s son.

  He would tell them. Tell them, too, that he hadn’t been the first to lift her novitiate’s robes. He opened his mouth. The words would not come.

  He knew too well what would befall Merry at their hands if he spoke. Merry would confess. She would be raped then, by every man there. Raped until she most likely died from the abuse.

  A fist came out of nowhere, striking his battered side. The world spun, the angry faces dissolving and expanding in a whirl of flame-stained light and shadow.

  Besides, he thought dimly, I’m half dead already. How much more could it hurt?

  A noose was thrown over his head, the scratchy hemp quickly greased with his blood. More hands. Another shove. Again he tripped; again he was hauled upright.

  “No!”

  A new voice. Young. Very young. A child’s voice, raised pure and distinct above the guttural roar of the crowd.

  “No, ye mustn’t!”

  A murmur began in the crowd.

  “’Tis the McClairen’s daughter.”

  “The laird’s wee lassie.”

  “McClairen’s gel.”

  He felt a shift of attention thrum through the mob, a ripple of movement as something passed among them. He squinted, peering woozily about. He didn’t understand what was happening, half expected to be snatched off his feet at any second and hanged from the gate’s tines.

  “No, I tell ye! Ye canna kill him. My mother, yer laird’s own lady, begs ye to free him.”

  “The child’s daft. Tragedy has chased her reason from her. Go up to her mother, Colin, and find out the truth.” A stout young man shoved past Raine, heading into the tower.

  “I am not mad! Me mother begs ye to spare this lad. My brothers’ lives depend on it.”

  An unhappy rumble coursed through the crowd.

  “Where is yer ma then, bairn?” someone asked.

  “Dead!” A voice boomed from the tower window above. “The lady’s bled to death!”

  The lass burst out a choking sob. And Raine pitied the child, for it was clear she’d made a deathbed promise to her mother and clear she could not keep it. Children take such things hard.

  Yet, she tried. “’Twas more than she could bear, birthing me stillborn brother and then seeing how ye here are sure to cost her the lives of her other sons. She sent me with her dying breath to stop ye. Have ye no honor fer the dead?”

  But all the crowd heard was that a McClairen lady had died in this all but tumbled tower where their laird had taken refuge while their enemy prospered in what should have been her home. And their enemy’s son was in their power.

  “Dead? Ye hear? The McClairen’s lady is dead! Haul back on the rope! Draw him high! Make him kick!”

  Suddenly Raine felt a small form hurtle into him, thin arms wrap about his torso, a face bury itself in his blood-soaked shirt. Voices broke out around them, shocked and hushed.

  “I’ll not let ye kill him,” she vowed fiercely. “My brothers sit in a London prison and me da rides even now to seek the king’s mercy. If ye kill this ’un, ye kill my brothers as surely as if ye wield the ax yerselves!”

  He could barely stand with the girl’s wee body clinging so desperately to him and his hands tied tight behind his back. The crowd milled uncertainly, their bloodlust temporarily suspended by the sight of the small lass in her white night rail clinging tenaciously to the tall, bowed form of the battered boy.

  He tried a smile, failed, and whispered into the kitten-soft head beneath his chin, “Stand back, lassie. They’ll not let me live this night through and your brothers are dead already. There’s no mercy in London for Highlanders.”

  “The bastard speaks true!” the gaunt Scotswoman pro-claimed. “Stand back, girl. Ye don’t ken what he is, what is happening. Stand away!”

  The child’s arms wrapped tighter about his waist, her whole small body cleaving to his like a barnacle on a hull. “Nay! I promised my mother.”

  “Take her away.”

  But no one was willing to lay hands on the McClairen’s last living child. Thus they stood for what seemed to Raine an interminable time, fixed in place like characters in a tableau vivant, awaiting death.

  Death did not disappoint.

  It rode in with the sound of hoofbeats resonating through the frozen ground, a lurid
glow streaming toward them on the black highway.

  “Redcoats!”

  With something like exultance the crowd turned from Raine, snatching up pike and cudgel, outlawed sword and staff. They erupted into motion, streaming forth to meet the advancing troops. Raine stared, only vaguely conscious of the girl reaching up and pulling the noose from his throat.

  And then the soldiers were on them. Horses cleaved the black night with lethal hooves, swords slashed flesh, and cudgels battered bone. Piercing scream, grunted effort, and everywhere grease and sweat-stained faces, taut with strain and rigid with virulence.

  He blinked away the blood from his eyes and stared down at the girl. She trembled, shook so violently that he could hear her teeth rattling as she stared in wide-eyed horror at the massacre.

  It was over quickly. So damn quickly. One minute the night churned in apocalyptic struggle, the next it was nearly silent. All about them Scotsmen lay dead and dying. A few soldiers strode among them, finishing off the survivors.

  “Is he alive?”

  Raine lifted his head, trying to find the source of that familiar voice, his father asking his status with immeasurable indifference. But then, who’d have even thought his father would have ridden to his aid?

  “Yes.” Another familiar voice, rough with concern. Ashton, his brother, ever trying to stand between Raine and his own reckless nature. “He’s over there.”

  “Oh.” A moment’s silence. “And what is that next to him?”

  “McClairen’s daughter,” Raine heard one of the soldiers answer.

  “Oh?” Carr asked, his brightening tone evincing the interest he’d lacked on discovering Raine lived. “How do you know?”

  “There’s a Scotswoman here cursing the little girl. Said if it hadn’t been for her they’d have hanged Raine Merrick and been gone by the time we’d arrived.”

  Beside Raine the girl’s head snapped up. “No,” she whispered.

  “Should I kill her?”

  “The girl or the Scottish witch?” his father replied. “No. Don’t bother. The woman looks too old to be breeding any more McClairens. Let her go. As for the girl … I suspect that one must consider her a subject of the Crown? And, in a way, now under my care?”

  “Aye,” the soldier answered in a confused voice.

  “As I thought.” Carr sighed. He emerged from the darkness, maneuvering his mount carefully amid the bodies strewn over the frozen ground. He stopped, his attention fully on the child beside Raine, ignoring his son utterly.

  “Don’t touch her,” Raine croaked.

  Carr glanced at him. “I assure you, I have no intention of soiling myself by touching her and as for your tone, my boy … well, you have provided me with the excuse I needed to rid my lands of any remaining McClairens. Indeed, thanks to you, Raine, there are no more McClairens left.” A slight keen issued from the girl and Carr’s gaze dropped to the small figure huddled at Raine’s feet. “And thanks to you, too, my dear.”

  He kneed his horse closer, puzzlement drawing his brows together. “Why did you save my worthless son?”

  The girl’s head came up, her eyes shimmering with tears in the torchlight. “Naught fer love of you, sir, but to save my brothers’ lives.”

  Raine’s father stared a second and then he threw back his golden head and laughed. All about them the soldiers, who’d been picking through the dead Scots’ clothing like jackals among carcasses, lifted their heads and gave Carr their wary attention.

  Raine swayed, nausea rising from his belly. He knew why Carr laughed. There could only be one reason. He closed his eyes, for he couldn’t bear to see her face when he told her.

  “But my dear, didn’t anyone tell you? Didn’t you know?”

  “Know what?” the child whispered.

  “Why, that at this very moment John McClairen’s head decorates a pike above the North Gate.”

  Raine’s eyes were closed, but he could not plug his ears. Only a child can voice such anguish, only a child who’d, in one single night, lost mother, brother, and the clan she’d helped destroy.

  Because of him.

  Raine jerked awake. He was covered in sweat, as though his body, even now, all these years later, must repudiate the events of that night. He eased back against the seat, staring out at the sea.

  Whether Favor McClairen was here hunting a husband as she claimed or was here for any other reason, he would aid her and never threaten her again or cause her fear.

  He’d never had much experience with honor, nor had he ever cared to become acquainted with such a lofty concept. But for Favor McClairen he was willing to learn.

  Chapter 13

  Carr sat motionless while his new valet finished shaving his hair in preparation for the new wig. The little man—Randall? Rankle?—slid the peruke in place and offered Carr a silver-foil cone. Carr held it to his face as powder descended about him in a fragrant cloud, covering the wig with a fine white coat. Rankle waited a few minutes for the dust to settle and then carefully removed the cape protecting Carr’s clothing.

  “Your Lordship looks most impressive,” he said.

  Carr flicked a little clod of powder from his sleeve. “Rankle,” he asked curiously, “did you just comment on my appearance? You did, didn’t you? Begad, what is this world coming to when servants offer unsolicited opinions on the appearance of their betters? I should thrash you for such impertinence but as that would probably undo the best of your tiresome ministrations, I shall resist the temptation. This time.”

  Really, first his magnanimity toward Tunbridge, now his valet. He was becoming positively mawkish.

  He stood up and held his arms out from his sides waiting patiently while the valet scurried to pull them through the sleeves of his new waistcoat. Violet brocade, an extremely flattering color.

  “Henceforth,” Carr continued as Rankle adjusted the collar, “Henceforth, bear in mind that I am fully aware that I look impressive. Indeed, I am interested in your sartorial evaluation of my person only should I fail to look impressive.”

  “I’m sorry, sir!” That was the thing about new valets—it took such a deuced long time to break them in, Carr thought with a sigh as he reached down for his gloves and brought them in a blinding stroke across Rankle’s face. The crystal beading on the cuff cut the little man’s cheek. He raised his hand to the wound, staring at Carr in astonishment. A flicker of what looked like—by God!—anger flashed in his eyes. Impossible. Creatures such as Rankle did not get angry. They fled.

  “I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I was informing you of my opinion. And you interrupted me. Now, Rankle, should I ever look less than impressive you shall be dismissed. I imagine finding a position in these heathen parts without a letter of recommendation might be a trifle difficult.”

  The little valet flinched.

  “Now, go away,” Carr said. “I have decided not to attend this evening’s dinner. Have my daughter informed.” The valet bowed and hurried off.

  Carr approached a wall covered in green velvet and tugged on an embroidered bell pull. The material flew apart, billowing out and settling in banks on either side of an exquisite life-sized portrait. He stepped back, studying it tenderly.

  “Janet, my dear, why now?”

  He hadn’t needed the old Gypsy, Pala, to tell him what he knew in his blood, what he’d sensed every night for a dozen years; that Janet was here, watching him. He was used to it. It neither disturbed nor even greatly interested him. The uses one could find for a ghost, after all, were limited.

  But this new notion Pala had voiced, that a spirit could infiltrate another’s body and in some sense live again, that Janet had done so, in order to come to him in the flesh once more—If she had found new housing for her spirit, he needed to discover it before he left this cursed castle once and for all.

  She’d obviously left her scarf in order to convey some sort of message. But what? Had there been rebuke in that gesture?

  Carr opened the lid of a chest that stood beneat
h the picture. It contained some gold, a few jewels, and remnants of the offending arisaid.

  The night Janet had died he’d been hosting the first party Wanton’s Blush had known since its renovation. The most important people in society had made the treacherous trip from London to attend. Among their number had been the king’s personal secretary. The trouble, alas, had begun when he’d gone seeking his beautiful wife shortly before their guests were due to come down to dinner.

  He found her—along with their brats—on the cliffs. Apparently she’d finally tumbled on to the fact of his involvement in her clan’s … difficulties. In a fit of pique, she’d sworn to wear her family plaid to his party as a show of allegiance, knowing full well that the wearing of plaids was strictly prohibited by law. And with the king’s secretary there!

  She had sealed her own fate.

  “In all honesty, Janet,” he murmured to her likeness, “wasn’t it a shade coincidental that you awoke to my ‘duplicity’ the day I hosted what could have been the most important party of my life?

  “Yes.” He nodded. “You might as well have jumped off that damn cliff yourself instead of forcing me to throw you over. You did it to ruin my party, didn’t you? But I foiled your little plan, didn’t I, my dear?”

  Idly, he fingered the silk arisaid.

  “What did you mean by leaving this for me to find, Janet? For you never were one for subtlety. Tiresomely straightforward, if truth be known. So what’s this about?”

  Thoughtfully, he dangled the torn half of scarf in front of the portrait. Perhaps, if she hadn’t died that night he might not have felt compelled to marry those other heiresses; he might not have facilitated their demises and subsequently been banished.

  She really did have a lot to answer for.

  Perhaps Janet recognized her culpability. “Did you leave me this by way of an apology? A sort of ‘Here, you take the damn thing. It’s caused enough grief.’ ”

  The explanation pleased him. “It makes sense. I mean, a scarf isn’t exactly the sort of thing one leaves behind as a means of striking terror into a body. I mean, it’s a scarf, for God’s sake, not a gory eyeball or a pulsing heart, or some such rot.”