The men listened at the door for any sound. Thornton scanned the gloom, trying to spot anything that might be dangerous. He heard nothing. At the signal from Marchford, he unshuttered the lantern, casting the room in its light.
“Marchford? Is that you, honey?” a woman’s voice came from behind the bed curtains.
Thornton glanced at Marchford, but he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. The voice was unknown to him and he was not expecting company.
The men scanned the room, but finding nothing else out of place, they surrounded the bed. Thornton put the lantern down on the table and prepared for a fight. He had made it his practice to avoid fights when possible. Despite being a peace-loving fellow, he was, after all, a Highlander by birth, and if there was going to be a fight in his castle, he was going to be a part of it.
Thornton and Marchford threw back the curtains simultaneously, charging forward. The woman shrieked when Marchford threw back the covers to expose his attacker. What he discovered was a naked lady.
Recognizing that this was not an ambush, Thornton turned his back to her. “Good evening, Lady Stinton.”
“I do apologize for any misunderstanding. I believe this is your wrap,” said Marchford.
The young widow sputtered in a manner Thornton feared would lead to tears. A fair fight, or even an unfair one, he could handle. A woman in tears was beyond his expertise. “A thousand pardons,” he soothed. “We were under the impression this was the room of the Duke of Marchford. We in no way meant to intrude on yer privacy.”
“I do apologize for this dreadful misunderstanding,” added Marchford, walking away and quickly repocketing the gun.
Thornton followed Marchford out of the room, and they stood in the hall inspecting the ceiling and pretending not to notice the outraged young lady leave the room in search of her own quarters.
“Thank you, my friend,” said Marchford. “I am not sure what she was after, but I appreciate your help in avoiding entanglements.”
“I think we both know what she was after,” said Thornton with a sidewise glance.
“Lord Thornton.” The butler came into view, carrying a candle of his own. “Ye have another visitor and he is demanding to speak with the Duke of Marchford tonight!”
***
Marchford and Thornton entered a small parlor to determine who had so demanded an audience with His Grace the duke. The man inspected his timepiece as they entered, as if they had kept him waiting.
“Mr. Neville,” said Marchford. “Has the Foreign Office sent you all this way from London?”
“Yes. I arrived as quickly as I could. I need to speak to you immediately. Alone,” he added with a severe glare at Thornton. The man was small of stature but not in confidence.
“Lord Thornton, I believe you are acquainted with Mr. Neville from the Foreign Office,” said Marchford, ignoring Neville’s demands.
“Aye, o’ course,” said Thornton. “Ye shot that traitor Blakely before he could kill Grant. I shall never forget yer assistance in protecting our friends.”
“My service is to the Crown, not to you nor any of your friends. Now I wish to speak to His Grace alone,” persisted Neville.
“I am feeling generally unappreciated, so I will bid ye a good night,” said Thornton with a bow and a slight smile at Marchford. The duke and Neville had crossed paths before.
“Tell the footman to bring some warm punch,” commented Marchford in a lazy tone. “I am certain Mr. Neville’s nerves could use soothing after his long journey. And if his don’t, mine certainly will need reviving after hearing all of what Mr. Neville has to say.”
When they were alone, Neville demanded to be apprised as to the current situation. “I knew I needed to come to Thornton Hall when I heard you were planning this gathering. I need a report of your dealings here. Have you noted anything suspicious?”
“Most of the guests have only arrived today. I am probably behind schedule, but alas no spies were revealed before dinner.”
“You must do all you can to discover these traitors. And of course, I noted that several military generals and admirals were among your guest list. Pray tell me, for what purpose are they here?”
“Mr. Neville,” said Marchford, with a calculated change of subject, “how unconventional of you to arrive uninvited. I must have been away from London too long. I am not familiar with these new casual customs.”
Mr. Neville glowered. It was a look Marchford was accustomed to, so he paid it no heed. “I am not here for a social visit,” growled Neville. “I’m here to help you catch the traitor who may be in your midst. Also, the Foreign Office needs to be aware of any high-level meetings so they can be kept secret and safe.”
“I was not aware you were so concerned with my safety.”
“Your safety?” scoffed Neville. “It is the safety and security of any plans developed that is my concern. Where will these plans be kept? How will these plans be transferred? The risk of spies and traitors is everywhere. Napoleon has already conquered most of Europe. Would you see him on the British throne as well?”
Marchford began to search the room for refreshment. The butler was taking too long with the punch. Surely Thornton would have a bottle of whiskey stashed somewhere. “Mr. Neville, you need to put your vivid imagination to better use. Have you considered the occupation of writing novels?”
Mr. Neville ignored this. “If you are using or developing any sensitive information, I demand to hold this information for safekeeping.”
Marchford was saved from an immediate reply by the arrival of the punch bowl. He took over mixing the contents and Neville was blissfully quiet.
“You need not concern yourself. I will ensure its safety,” said Marchford.
Mr. Neville puffed himself up to his full, albeit diminutive, height. “As an agent of the Foreign Office I demand—”
“Rum punch, old man?” Marchford handed the man a cup of punch. “I do not wish to fall prey to the sin of pride, but I have been told my punch is beyond the common fare.”
“Your Grace.” Neville took an obliging sip of the offered cup of punch. “I need to take control of… my word, this is good.” He took another sip of punch. And another.
“Let me refill your cup.” Marchford gave the government agent another hearty helping and watched with amusement as Mr. Neville drank it down. “It has been a long journey for you.”
“Yes.” Mr. Neville relaxed back into his chair. “Very long. The roads toward the end were especially bad.”
“You need to put new springs on your coach. Makes a world of difference.”
“I am only a representative of the Crown. I traveled most of this way by post.”
“No! My dear man, let me refill your cup.” Marchford poured out another cup and smiled as the agent sank further into the pillows of the chair. “You must be so very tired.”
Neville obligingly yawned. “Yes, it has been a long several days. I am quite weary of the road.”
“Then you must stay and rest before you return to London. Do not worry yourself about anything. I shall let the housekeeper know to turn down an extra bed for you.” And with that, Marchford made his escape.
Twelve
“’Tis time.” Tam met him at the gate, lantern in hand, and Thornton followed the older stable master into the castle.
Thornton had risen even earlier than usual in the predawn morning, hoping this might be the day the mare would foal. “How are things progressing?” This foal had every chance of being a fine racehorse, perhaps his best, and he needed things to go smoothly. Not only did his financial survival depend on it, but these horses were his passion.
Tam shook his gray head. “Water broke but she’s agitated something fierce, up and down.”
Thornton stepped quickly to the mare’s stall. She lay on the clean straw and groaned. He patted the chestnut mare gently. “How long has she been pushing?”
Tam hung the lantern on a hook on the stable. “Too long, my lord. Dinna like it
.”
Thornton quickly stripped off his jacket and cravat and rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s get her up, see if repositioning helps.”
“Aye.” Tam helped Thornton encourage the mare to her feet, even as she whinnied in protest. She pawed the ground and her nostrils flared with her short breaths.
“There ye go, my dear,” crooned Thornton to the mare. “It will be all right.”
The mare turned around and lay down again. With a groan, two hooves emerged. The horse grunted and strained, but no further progress was made.
“The foal is breech.” Thornton knew he had to act fast. If the foal was not born soon, it could die.
“Too long. Most likely stillborn,” said Tam in his blunt manner.
Thornton ignored him and stripped off his shirt. Things were going to get messy. “Ye can do this,” he said to the mare in a soothing voice. “Yer bairn will be a great one.” He wrapped a cloth around the slick legs of the foal and pulled down to help with the birth. Reaching in, he rotated the foal. Then he pulled on the legs of the foal as the mare pushed with a contraction. With effort, the hocks were delivered, followed by the hips.
“Hardest part is done. Just a little more.” Thornton spoke softly to the mare. He was sweating with the exertion. This baby must live. He pulled hard, and with a grunt from the mare, the foal was delivered.
“No’ breathing,” said Tam grimly.
“Come on, breathe!” Thornton grabbed the cloth and vigorously rubbed the colt. “There’s a good lad, breathe now.” He paused to feel for any signs of life.
“Stillborn,” muttered Tam.
“Nay, wait.” Thornton rubbed the colt more, his heart sinking. He paused and finally felt what he was waiting for.
“He breathes!” Thornton took a deep breath himself, relief flooding through him. “Och, he’s a bonnie lad.” To be frank, the wet colt just born may not have appeared to his best advantage, but Thornton smiled at the black colt with true affection.
He was going to be a fine one. The colt briefly raised his head and Thornton gently scratched behind his ear. The colt would fetch a big price if Thornton could be induced to sell. His horses were like family and he was extremely particular about who received one of his prized ones.
“Big one, he is,” said Tam, more interested now the colt lived.
“Aye, little wonder she had difficulty wi’ him. I shall name him Lazarus, because he came back from the brink of death and hopefully will help us to do the same.” Thornton stood and felt the need for soap and water.
Two stable lads sauntered in through the side door to begin their workday and were immediately entranced by the new colt. The mare stood and everything appeared to be progressing well.
“Stay wi’ them and let me know if there are any problems,” said Thornton. He grabbed a jar of soap and strode out of the main keep to wash. The colt lived. It was going to be a beautiful day.
***
The air was fresh and the hour was early. Harriet Redgrave climbed over rocks and up grassy hills to the ruins of a castle above. She was following a track of hoof prints to try to catch sight of some local deer. Being raised close to the edge of the great American wilderness, she was accustomed to tracking potential dinner items with her brothers. This morning was strictly sightseeing. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, casting the landscape in the orange hue of sunrise.
It was a glorious morning. The air was crisp, but the sun was warm with the promise of a clear day. It was considerably better than London, where she feared her lungs would burst from the smoke and general haze settled permanently over the city. Not to mention the smell. With so many people living in one place, the odor of waste of all sorts offended her nostrils. How anybody could become accustomed to such conditions was beyond her.
Harriet was a country girl, raised on the coast of Massachusetts. The wilds of the Highlands were different from anything she had ever seen—surely she did not have ancient ruined castles tucked away in the hills around her house. But still, the Highlands reminded her of home, fresh and clean, and verdant in multiple shades of green. Of all the places she had traveled since arriving on these shores, the Highlands were the one place she would miss once she finally left.
Harriet stepped over rocks and scampered ever higher, until the rocks were boulders and she was more climbing than walking. Above her the ruins of a castle soared. The castle had two towers on either side of a five-story square keep. The wall around it had been breached, and she climbed over it at a low place and wandered around the castle itself.
It was awe-inspiring. She had seen drawings of castles in books but was unprepared for just how large a structure the castle actually was. What must it be like to live in such a place?
Harriet walked along the wall of the main keep and trailed her fingers along the edge of the stones, smooth and cool to the touch. How much had these stones seen? She walked around to find a door. It was clear from her rambles she had approached the castle from the back and was now walking around to the front.
The front of the castle had a sturdy oak door that looked oddly newer than the stones around it. Newer and locked. Frustrated, she put her hands on her hips and stepped back, looking for another way to get in.
“Hey there, lassie!”
Harriet whirled around and faced an elderly farmer, approaching her with a pitchfork in hand.
“Ye’re no’ to be trespassing. Move out wi’ ye!”
Harriet folded her arms across her chest. “I am a guest of Lord Thornton. Who are you and why are you threatening an unarmed young lady?”
The man stopped short, removed his cap, rubbed his gray hair, then put the cap back on. “I’m Tam, I am. And I dinna threaten anyone, miss. I just lead them back to their rightful place. Like sheep.”
“You think I’m a sheep?”
“Aye. Nay. Aw, have pity, lassie. I’m supposed to keep people away. Can ye go away now?”
“As you wish,” said Harriet to be obliging. The man had a pitchfork after all.
“Thornton Hall is that way.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, and Harriet could see the manor house in the valley below. She had indeed come up the long way.
Harriet began to stroll toward the castle gate in the direction of Thornton Hall, but as soon as Tam had disappeared around one side of the castle, she hustled around to the other side. It was not every day she had a chance to explore a real castle!
She rounded the corner and stopped short, utterly dumbfounded at the sight before her. It was Thornton, drawing up water to wash in the well. And other than boots and breeches he was… naked.
Thornton used jar soap and scrubbed his hands, arms, and chest. Harriet could only watch in awe as his muscles rippled under his skin. Living with four brothers, she had on occasion seen a shirtless man, but never had she been so afflicted. She knew she should back away, since he had not yet seen her, but she could not move.
The water glistened off his skin in the golden light of dawn. She was seized with an overwhelming urge to touch him. Instead of backing away, Harriet took several steps closer. Thornton turned and dropped the bucket.
“Miss Harriet!”
“Lord Duncan.” It was not quite his name, but it was the best she could do.
Silence fell over them. Thornton was dripping wet, clean, and to Harriet’s eye, the most beautiful half-naked Highlander she had ever seen. Of course he was the only half-naked Highlander she had ever seen.
“I was… that is to say… I was not expecting anyone to be awake so early.” Thornton was indeed surprised.
She knew she should leave, but her feet remained planted to the ground. “I am an early riser.” It was spoken apologetically, but she was not at all sorry to witness the sight before her.
“I should dress. ’Tis unseemly. My clothes, they are near. Dinna move. Stay there.” He gave the order and she was more than willing to comply. “I shall be back directly.” He practically ran around to the back of the castle.
H
arriet took a deep breath of the cool morning air. They certainly knew how to grow them in the Highlands. She shook her head at herself. What was this sudden interest in a man? Her passion had always been her work. No man had ever elicited such a reaction. It was almost chemical in nature. Her heart was pounding, her cheeks were flushed, and she was sweating even in the brisk morning.
Very unnatural.
To calm herself back into good regulation she focused on reviewing the elements. All forty-six of them. Science was so very reassuring (usually), predictable (generally), and safe (occasionally). Men were… here her mental faculties met their limit. She had no idea what men were except that they were not reassuring, predictable, or safe.
If she had any sense she would leave, but Thornton had asked her to stay, and not even wild horses could drag her away.
“Miss Redgrave.”
Harriet turned and smiled at Thornton, who emerged from the back side of the castle and strode to her. He was wearing work clothes: a dark-blue coat, buckskin breeches, and Hessian boots. He looked every bit the lord of the manor. She ignored her desire to see him again unclothed.
“Good morn to you, Lord Thornton. I see you have located your shirt.”
“I do apologize for my appearance earlier. I had no expectation any of the guests would be awake or present at the castle.”
“No, it is I who should apologize. I am clearly where I should not be. A man already attempted to run me off with a pitchfork. I am in the wrong. This is your home, you should feel free to do as you please.” And if you want to run about half-naked, I invite you to do so.
“I was just washing this morning. I sometimes come up to the castle to make some repairs and I try to keep my clothes clean so…” Thornton was a terrible liar. “Aye then, verra well. Nice weather we shall have today.”
Harriet desperately wanted to ask him more about why he was undressed but refrained. The voices of Penelope and the duchess and her own mother urging her to show a little more decorum prevented her from asking impertinent questions. But she wanted to, make no mistake.
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