by Tarah Scott
The boy turned. “We're in Boston, sir. We've docked.”
“Can you get me a messenger? I need a note delivered immediately.”
“Aye, sir,” the boy said. “I'll go if you like.”
“Good lad,” he said. “I'll have it ready in ten minutes.”
* * *
At five-fifty in the afternoon three days later, the door to the private dining room in the Boston Harbor Hotel opened and Marcus looked up from the glass of wine he had been staring at.
“A message for you, sir,” the waiter said, and laid an envelope beside him on the table.
Marcus saw the return address from Colonel Shay. He tore open the letter and read.
My Dear Marcus,
I have only now received word concerning Steven Landen. The boy is a lieutenant in the US Army and functions as a tracker for them. As of three months ago, Lieutenant Landen was stationed with the 23rd Cavalry Division on the Tyger River in South Carolina. The Army is slow in updating its records; the boy may have been sent elsewhere in the meantime. I hope this information will suffice to connect you with him.
Another bit of news I know will interest you. My wife is acquainted with Mrs Charles Hampton, of the Burlington Hamptons. (No, I do not expect you to know them, but you may take my word that they are among the Boston elite.) Mrs Hampton remembers the calamity which struck the Amelia on that fateful trip to England. Apparently, the story was widely discussed amongst Mrs Hampton's class, a class, as you know, far above my own station.
My wife related to me the tale as told to her by Mrs Hampton as follows: When the Amelia docked and her captain advised Price Ardsley of Elise Kingston's fate, he was grief-stricken. Your wife's brother, the young Lieutenant Landen, was seriously injured and went into forced convalescence for nearly three months. Even before his release from the hospital, he demanded a search be mounted for his sister. The demand was flatly refused, most notably by Ardsley, though the directors of Landen Shipping did agree. They believed that had Mrs Kingston survived, she would have returned to Boston.
None of this surprises you, as I well know. There is, however, one piece of information I believe will. Steven Landen contends that the night Elise was lost at sea, he came upon Robert Kingston strangling her. Steven thwarted the murder attempt, and he and Elise escaped up to the deck.
Marcus stared, his gaze fixed on the words he came upon Robert Kingston strangling her. Elise's husband had tried to kill her. His chest tightened. This explained why she shot him. Marcus closed his eyes. Elise, why didn't you tell me? He forced back the pain, opened his eyes, and refocused on the letter.
While they were on deck, Robert appeared. Elise shot her husband. Robert pulled a pistol from his pocket after she drew on him, and returned fire. Steven took the bullet he says was meant for his sister. When Steven regained consciousness, the captain informed him Elise had fallen overboard and that Steven had tried rescuing her by cutting down the longboat. Steven has no memory of this.
Ardsley proposed that Robert Kingston wanted to eliminate Elise in order to claim her shares in Landen Shipping. Ardsley preached this philosophy with a depth of gravity that Mrs Hampton described as '“most admirable.'“
I wish I could be of more service. Travel safely to South Carolina. I look forward to learning of your success when you return.
Sincerely,
Colonel Martin Shay
“South Carolina,” Marcus said in a low voice, but his mind still staggered with the picture of Robert Kingston strangling his wife—my wife, Marcus's mind shot back. Memory of her broken body after the carriage crash filled his mind.
The clock that hung on the wall near the door gonged. He jerked his gaze onto the clock, dispelling the bloody vision. Six o'clock. Justin would arrive any minute. Even as he folded the letter with expert precision and set it beside him on the table, the door opened and Justin entered. A waiter followed close behind. The waiter pulled Justin's chair out as he seated himself across from Marcus.
Justin lifted the wine bottle sitting on the table and poured the remainder of the wine into his glass. He handed the bottle to the waiter. “Another bottle, if you please, and…” He paused, then focused on Marcus. “No dinner yet?”
Marcus gave a slight shake of his head.
Justin turned to the waiter. “Have you any pigeon pie?”
The waiter looked horrified. “This is not a port tavern, sir.”
Justin raised a brow. “Can you name a port tavern that serves pigeon pie? Never mind. You do have filet mignon?”
The waiter straightened. “Of course.”
“Be kind enough to bring two then, along with whatever you Americans consider appropriate accompaniments.” Justin reached for his wine, clearly dismissing him.
The waiter looked as though he would like to bludgeon Justin with the wine bottle but turned stiffly and left the room.
Marcus leaned back in his chair. “You have a knack for condescension.”
“Never say you think the fellow was right?”
“Not right,” Marcus replied. “Simply not worth the time.”
Justin snorted. “Had I not done it, you would have.” Marcus started to reply, but stopped short at the gleam that appeared in Justin's eye. “Marcus, prepare yourself… she is alive.”
Marcus's hand jerked, upsetting his glass. Wine spread across the linen tablecloth. Justin started, nearly tipping over his own glass.
“Bloody hell,” Marcus cursed, and set the glass upright. He ignored the stain. “What are you talking about?”
“Three months ago, Ardsley announced that Elise had returned to America.”
“Three months ago? But that was before we wed.”
“Listen,” Justin cut in, “there's a very interesting stipulation in her father's will. If Elise dies, a body must be presented as evidence, or five years must pass before Ardsley can take possession of her stock.”
“How does that prove she's alive?”
“Ardsley claims to have her in a convalescent home.”
Shock ricocheted through Marcus. “An insane asylum?”
“Yes.”
His mind reeled. Elise, alive? And in an asylum. “'Tis not possible,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“No?” Justin held his gaze. “For the past six months, Ardsley has been attempting to get Landen Shipping's board of directors to agree to a large loan he wants in order to expand the shipping company to include west coast trade. Many of the board members plan on retiring in the next few years and don't relish the idea of putting their life savings at risk. They have a date set three weeks from tomorrow to settle the matter.”
“Ardsley needs Elise's twenty-five percent interest to control the vote,” Marcus said in a near whisper.
“Fifty-one percent,” Justin rejoined.
“What?”
“A year after Elise married, Steven Landen signed his interest in the company over to her.”
“My God.”
Justin's brows lifted. “It's rather late in the game for Ardsley to present Elise's body, don't you think?”
“An insane asylum,” Marcus murmured. “If it is true…”
'No Campbells, or anyone else, can harm you,' he had told her. 'I can protect you.' Wed only two days and he had utterly failed her.
“Marcus.” Justin's sharp voice cut into the picture of Elise huddled in a tiny filthy cell, hands clamped over her ears to drown out the screams of the other inmates.
“I saw her body,” Marcus said. “If that wasn't Elise, then who—”
Justin's mouth thinned. “That is a mystery to be solved—but not one we cannot solve from here. Agreed?”
Marcus stared. “Aye.”
“What have you learned of Steven?” Justin asked.
Marcus's mind registered the letter lying on the table. He picked it up and handed it toward Justin.
The earl unfolded the paper and began reading. A moment later, he murmured, “Shay. Wait. Shay. This cannot be the fellow whose son you
saved while on campaign in America?”
Marcus nodded.
Justin frowned. “What prompted you to contact him?”
“Landen Shipping informed me Steven Landen was serving in the Army.”
Justin laughed. “Good of them to be so obliging.”
“Colonel Shay located the boy.”
“Boy?”
“He is twenty-five.”
“I expected someone older than Elise.”
“I thought the same,” Marcus said.
“Something more you need to know,” Justin said. “If Elise doesn't return from the dead, her shares go to the next living blood relative.”
“Steven Landen would control Landen Shipping,” Marcus said.
“Steven Landen does control Landen Shipping. Elise's stock isn't his—not until the allotted five years passes—but he controls her vote until then.”
Marcus frowned. “Then why hasn't Ardsley simply killed him?”
“Because Steven's will bequeaths his shares and controlling interest to a distant cousin who lives in New York.”
“My God,” Marcus murmured. “Steven Landen is of no consequence—”
“If Price Ardsley has Elise,” Justin finished for him.
“Why the bloody hell is her brother not here?” Marcus burst out. “Where did you get this information?”
Justin grinned. “There is always a disgruntled employee to be found.” The earl returned his attention to the letter. A moment later, he looked up, shock written on his face. “My God, she shot her husband? Surely, it can't be true?”
“I believe every word,” Marcus said.
Justin glanced at the letter. “You knew nothing of this? Of course not,” he added.
Marcus gave a hollow laugh. “I knew I wanted her. Nothing else mattered.”
The earl nodded. “Love blinds a man.”
As does passion, Marcus added silently, then said, “I meant to leave immediately to find Steven, but if it is possible Elise is here—” he broke off, still unable to grasp the possibility.
“You must find the boy. He's the key to getting to Ardsley. I never met his sister. If our story is to hold any weight, it must come from you.”
“But Elise…”
A glint appeared in Justin's eye. “I will find her.”
Marcus grasped his cousin's shoulder and squeezed, then released him. “I'll depart tomorrow. We—”
The door opened and the waiter appeared, a plate of food in each hand. He approached the table and began to set Marcus's plate before him but halted, his gaze falling on the wine-stained tablecloth.
He straightened. “I shall replace the linen.” He turned to leave, plates still in hand.
“Nae,” Marcus said. “Leave the plates. We will live with the spilt wine.”
The waiter looked as if he'd been asked to strip naked and run through the streets of Boston.
Marcus rested his gaze on him. “Leave the plates, lad.”
The man did as instructed. “If you need anything—”
“We will call for you,” Marcus cut in. “Until then, see that we aren't disturbed.”
The waiter blinked, but gave a stiff bow and left.
Justin picked up his knife and fork. “I said you'd cut him to the quick.”
“I'll be back well before Landen Shipping's next meeting,” Marcus said. “Then I will cut Ardsley to the quick.”
* * *
Marcus slowed his horse in the dense forest and scanned the ground. The tracks in the soft South Carolina ground were less than an hour old. He glanced up through the trees. At most, the afternoon sun would be in the sky another two hours. At a sudden commotion in the trees ahead, Marcus jerked his hand to the musket in his saddle holster, but relaxed when a flock of bobwhite quail took flight. The leather fringes on the sleeves of the buckskin he wore swayed violently, then came to a rest as he focused again on the tracks and urged his horse forward.
Only a moment later he caught sight of two horses picking their way through the trees about seventy-five feet ahead. He looked closer. One of the horses was riderless. He'd been following the tracks of two men, where—the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked answered the incomplete thought.
“Take the musket from its holster and toss it,” a male voice said from above him. Marcus hesitated and a strong “Mister” settled the matter.
He slid the Brown Bess musket from its holster and tossed it to the ground. “I'm not here to cause trouble.”
The sound of the rifle's hammer being uncocked from above was followed by the light drop of the man from the trees onto the ground behind Marcus.
“You tracked me some distance before I realized you were on my trail,” the voice said. “Not bad for an Englishman.”
Marcus slowly turned his horse and found himself facing a young man dressed like himself, except the other's clothes bore testament of the wearer's time in the saddle. This was Steven Landen. Those deep brown eyes—and the challenge they held—were all too familiar.
“Scottish Highlands,” Marcus said.
“Well, Highlander, what are you doing in South Carolina tracking me?”
Marcus glanced at the Baker rifle the boy held loosely at his side—not so loose he couldn't yank it into position before Marcus was upon him. Arrogant pup. But perhaps it was an arrogance born out of experience. The British-made Baker rifle was known for its precision aim, a very good reason for a US Army tracker to carry the weapon.
Steven's gaze shifted past him and Marcus glanced over his shoulder to see the rider he'd spotted a moment ago standing a few feet away. He saw now what he hadn't discerned before. The buckskin-dressed man was Indian.
Marcus faced Steven. “How did you discover I was on your trail?”
“I'm the best tracker this side of the Mississippi,” Steven said with unabashed candor. “White tracker, that is.”
“You are Steven Landen, then?”
The boy gave no indication Marcus had hit the mark, only continued to study him.
“We need to talk. Privately,” Marcus added.
“Anything you have to say can be said in front of Joseph.”
“'Tis about your sister.”
Steven's nonchalant demeanor vanished. “My sister is dead.”
“Nae. She was lost off the coast of Solway Firth, Scotland.”
Steven's jaw tightened. He looked at the Indian. “Joseph.”
Marcus didn't hear the man leave but knew he had when Steven swung his gaze back to him.
“You have any idea how many people have information concerning my sister?” Steven's expression turned speculative. “None of them ever tracked me through the wilderness. You must feel damn confident about your information. You have five minutes. I should warn you, however, if I don't find your story amusing, I'll kill you.”
A melancholy warmth rippled through Marcus. “That sounds like something your sister would say.”
Steven's gaze turned icy. “If you want to delay dying, don't bother with the amusing anecdotes.”
“I will begin with this.” Marcus reached into the front pocket of his buckskin jacket.
Steven pointed his rifle at Marcus. “Easy.”
Marcus paused, then slowly produced his and Elise's wedding certificate from the pocket. He dismounted, then strode to Steven and extended the certificate to him.
Steven rested his rifle against the tree he'd been hiding in. “Don't think we're alone,” he said as he unfolded the document, “I saved Joseph's life once. He can't return to his Chickasaw tribe until he returns the favor, so he's hoping like hell someone will try to kill me.”
Steven scanned the document. A moment later, he looked at Marcus and gave a short laugh. “You got the name wrong. Elise is not a Merriwether.”
“Nae,” Marcus said, “she's a MacGregor.”
Half an hour later, Marcus laid Elise's death certificate on the ground between him and Steven. The boy stared at the document. The fire they had built flickered off his pale f
ace in the waning daylight. He lifted his gaze to Marcus.
“No death certificate was issued for Elise.” He stared at Marcus for a long moment before saying, “I have no way of knowing if a word of what you say is true.”
“Perhaps you do.” Marcus retrieved the gold band from his front pocket. He laid the ring on the death certificate.
Steven looked at the ring, his brow furrowing in thought, then he picked it up and held it up to the firelight. Marcus watched him read the words etched inside the band—For all eternity—words he'd read a thousand times over the last month.
Steven set the ring back on the document and looked at him. “Why tell me any of this?” He nodded toward the death certificate. “She's dead.”
Marcus took a deep breath. “Mayhap not.” He produced the next piece of evidence: the notice of reward for Elise's body that had appeared in the Sunday Times.
By the time Marcus finished with the more bizarre half of his tale, Steven's expression had hardened. “I knew Price was a fortune hunter, but this goes beyond anything I suspected. Twenty-six percent of Landen Shipping remained held in trust for me until I reached twenty-one. When the shares became mine, Price wasn't pleased, but he still held controlling interest. Elise married Robert when she was twenty-one, four years before she would come into possession of her inheritance. Not that it mattered; Robert controlled the purse.”
“The woman you describe is different than the one I knew. Elise—” Marcus laughed, “She has done things many men would grow fainthearted over.”
Steven picked up the stick he'd laid beside him earlier and poked the fire. “She never wanted for courage. That night on the Amelia, she surprised even me.” Steven looked at him with sudden surprise. “Damn! Her journal.”
Marcus tensed. “What?”
Steven plunged the stick into the ground. “Amelia's doctor instructed Elise to keep a journal in order to chronicle her illness. After she died, Elise began doing research. Actually, she began the research before Amelia died but, by then, it was too late.”