by Elisa Braden
Leading their path through the crowd, Francis stopped at a door hidden behind a giant urn. He used a key from his pocket to open a passage, waving them through. “We’ve a quarter-hour to search before they discover our ruse.” He withdrew his watch. “Return to the coach by half-past. Good luck, lads.”
As Alexander started down the long corridor glancing this way and that, Francis and George veered to the right, following a different passage. Broderick bent down and whispered, “Dinnae look at anythin’, ye ken? Keep yer eyes on me.”
She tried to do as he’d instructed, but the sounds emanating from the chambers along the corridor were disturbing. She heard groans of ecstasy similar to those in the pink room, certainly. But also, screams of pain. Whimpers for mercy. Cracks that sounded distinctly like whips or straps striking flesh. She managed to keep her eyes on the carpets as Broderick hurried them along. But, since each chamber had a window, she glimpsed movement in her peripheral vision. Automatically, she glanced up.
And instantly regretted it.
She tugged at Broderick’s arm. Dug her fingernails into his muscle. “That—that’s—dear God, how—”
“Haud yer wheesht,” he hissed, dragging her past the room she never wanted to see again.
“Dear God.” She felt her gorge rise. Burying her face against Broderick’s shoulder, she clung to his arm and tried to keep pace.
He turned them left into another passage. Soon, he muttered, “Stairs, lass.”
She opened her eyes but kept them directly on the floor in front of her. The stairs in front of her. The landing and the next flight and the new carpets in front of her. She thought they must be on the ground level, now. She could still hear moans and rhythmic thuds emanating from chambers along this new corridor. There were no screams, though. No whimpering. Soon, all sounds quieted.
“The chambers on this end appear empty,” Broderick whispered, pausing to listen. “We may be close.”
They were searching for McKenzie’s quarters, reputed to be in the less frequented area of the house. Kate’s heart pounded as Broderick rushed them forward then abruptly halted when, twenty feet ahead, a couple emerged from one of the chambers. The man was short and muscular, the woman tall, slender, veiled, and white-blonde. The man’s face was unmasked, his gingery hair only covered by a top hat. In his hand was a valise. The pair murmured to one another as the man turned to lock the door.
Suddenly, Kate found herself lifted against Broderick’s body, turned so her back was braced against the nearest wall, and her bosom crushed by his chest, her thighs straddling his leg. Broderick lifted his mask only enough to clear his mouth before slamming it down upon hers.
Her head spun. He hadn’t kissed her since that morning, and the impact was potent. Firm, skillful lips caressed hers while a sleek tongue slipped inside her mouth, pulsing and pleasuring. A large hand moved from her waist to her breast, kneading with insistent pressure. Distantly, she realized his purpose must be subterfuge, but that didn’t change how it felt.
Like an erotic fantasy, the way he touched her—with such silent, masterful command—set her body afire. Before long, she was panting and whimpering against him, running her hands beneath his cloak and around his waist to draw him closer. She felt his hardness rise against her thigh, felt his hands clasping with greater urgency, his tongue plunging in a mimicry of lovemaking. His breathing turned harsh, his grip tighter.
He withdrew enough to whisper against her mouth, “God, woman. What ye do to me.” More harsh panting. “Look to yer right. Are they still there?” He kissed her again, lighter this time.
She struggled to clear her head of its lustful fog and follow his instruction. The corridor was empty. “They’re gone,” she whispered.
He nodded but didn’t immediately release her. “Bluidy hell. Too close.”
“They wouldn’t have recognized us, would they?”
He didn’t reply. Rather, he drew back, flicking her cape closed and his mask back into place. Then, he took her hand and pulled her to one of the nearest doors. After listening for a moment, he placed a finger to the mouth of his mask to signal silence, then opened the door a scant inch. He peeked inside, found it empty, then pulled her behind him into the chamber. The room was scarcely even a bedchamber. It had a bed, true, but it was a tiny space with only a small washstand and a single chair. A lantern glowed from a shelf.
Broderick closed the door behind them. “I need ye to wait here for me, lass.”
Kate blinked. “Why? I thought you wanted me close. I thought we were looking for McKenzie’s quarters.”
“Aye, that’s why. The man we saw was McKenzie, and I suspect the door he locked leads to his chambers. He’s gone now, but for how long? I cannae delay, cannae search for Alexander to guard ye.” He cupped her face in his hands.
It was strange to gaze up at him and see only a gold mask. She wanted to see his face. Wanted him to kiss her again.
“I need ye to stay in here until ye hear me knock thrice. Lock the door behind me. Dinnae open it for anybody else. Ye ken?”
She nodded, swallowing the anxious lump in her throat.
“That’s my brave lass. If aught happens, and an hour passes without me or Alexander comin’ for ye, then do yer best to find yer way out of this place. Anybody asks what ye’re about, say yer husband left ye behind. Hire a hack to take ye back to the house. Tell Campbell what happened.”
“No,” she rasped, clinging to him. “We shan’t need any such plans because you’ll be fine. Everything will be fine. It must be.” She forced herself to smile up at him, though her eyes were welling like a perfect ninny. “You are legendary, Broderick MacPherson. More than Sir Wallace. More than any man I’ve ever known. You will find a way into McKenzie’s chambers. You will locate the list. You will defeat Lockhart.”
He huffed out a chuckle. “Dinnae ken about legendary, mo chridhe. But if there’s breath in my body, I’ll always find ye. No matter where ye are or how dark it seems.” He raised his mask to kiss her once more, then lowered it to slip out into the corridor.
With shaking fingers, she turned the lock. With shaking legs, she lowered herself onto the bed. And waited.
A quarter-hour came and went. Then another.
Her stomach began to cramp. She cradled it and rocked back and forth.
Another quarter-hour passed, and she began to pace the tiny chamber, listening at the door, wondering if she should try to find Broderick or wait until an hour had passed. She looked again at the small watch she’d pinned inside her corset. Ten minutes remained. What must Francis, George, and Alexander be thinking? Were they searching for her and Broderick? Had they left already?
Just then, a knock sounded at the door, startling her. Had that been three raps or four? It didn’t matter. It must be Broderick. She rushed to unlock the door. “What took you so … long?”
Oh, heavens. It wasn’t Broderick. It was a woman. The veiled woman from earlier.
All blood in Kate’s veins went cold. Her heart pounded. Her breath stopped.
“I recommend letting me inside,” the Scotswoman said calmly. “McKenzie doesnae tolerate intruders. I dinnae think ye wish to be seen.”
Kate staggered backward, and the blonde woman followed, closing the door. “Who are you?” Kate demanded.
“My name doesnae matter.”
It was hard to see the woman’s eyes through the dense, black veil, but Kate felt them examining her closely. “What do you want?”
The small hat perched on the woman’s white-blond hair resembled a riding hat, but it was covered in black satin and a fountain of black lace. The woman’s gown was green, her posture elegant. Kate suspected if she lifted the veil, she’d reveal beauty.
“Ye’re his wife, then?”
Kate paused. “Of whom are we speaking?”
The woman’s soft voice turned waspish. “Broderick MacPherson. Dinnae pretend. I saw the two of ye earlier.”
A sus
picion of the woman’s identity tugged at the back of her mind. “What do you know of him?”
“Oh, I ken him. I ken every inch of him.”
A wash of acid flooded Kate’s body. It stung like hatred. Tasted like hot poison. “You’re Lockhart’s mistress,” she whispered.
The woman lifted her veil with an abrupt motion. And, yes, she was beautiful. Ethereally, unbearably beautiful. “Ye’ll never please a man like Broderick. Weak, cold English tea; that’s all ye are. He’ll get bairns upon ye, aye. He’ll let ye have his name. But ye’ll never have his heart. No woman will.”
The charge was a bullet that pierced Kate’s chest. One woman had, although that woman was not in this room. She should answer, but she couldn’t breathe. Hatred and jealousy warred with pain. Finally, she marshaled every Huxley resource in her body. Wound up to fire a bullet of her own.
“At least he married me. You couldn’t even manage that much.”
Sea-blue eyes flashed fire. “I managed to persuade him into my bed in an afternoon. Can ye say the same?”
No, she couldn’t. She’d had to beg him to kiss her, demand he touch her. His own wife. Sickness roiled in her stomach. Her hands curled into claws.
A triumphant smile curved the woman’s exquisite lips. “When ye kiss him, remember I kissed him first. When he touches ye like ye’re made of spun glass, remember he touched me first. When he whispers his sweet, bonnie words in yer ear whilst he tups ye, and turns yer head with his Gaelic poetry, remember others have heard it all before and likely will again.”
Kate’s jealousy receded just enough for confusion to intrude. Spun glass? Sweet, bonnie words? Gaelic poetry? Were they still discussing Broderick? Perhaps this white-blonde tart was thinking of another man she’d “persuaded” into her bed “in an afternoon.”
In Kate’s experience, Broderick touched her with passionate command. He scarcely uttered more than ten words when they made love, and those were far from “bonnie” or “sweet.” Erotic, yes. Guttural. Raw. And the only Gaelic he used with her was mo chridhe. He said that fairly often, but as far as she knew, it was a common endearment, much like darling or dearest. Certainly, he’d never bothered to cite poetry.
Perhaps he knew it was unnecessary. He knew she would beg for his attentions. Why expend the effort to treat her like spun glass?
Her sickness deepened, her vision shifting. The white-blonde tart’s expression disappeared behind a lowered veil.
“He’ll be here soon,” the other woman said. “If you care to keep him safe, best the two of ye leave quickly. McKenzie returns at three. Tell Broderick I willnae help him again.”
Kate narrowed her eyes as the woman turned to open the door. “Why didn’t you help him before?”
The woman froze.
“You must have known what Lockhart might do.” Kate’s chest felt crushed. “Did you know before it happened?”
The woman lowered her head.
“Yes, of course you knew. Yet, you did nothing. Not even a warning.” Kate moved closer. “Do not speak to me about my husband’s nature. Lockhart’s nature would have been obvious to you, and yet, you risked Broderick’s life. You stood by whilst an envious demon tormented a man you claim to love. I don’t know why you’re helping us now. But it is far too little and months too late.”
“Ye ken nothin’ of my reasons.”
“True. But I know this: I would sooner die than watch him suffer. And I would not stop fighting until he was free of that place, no matter the consequences. Because love means you value him above yourself.” She paused before repeating the woman’s earlier words back to her. “Can you say the same?”
The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she left the chamber, quietly closing the door.
Alone again, Kate stumbled to the bed and collapsed. She held her middle and rocked. She waited to hear him.
Then, came three raps. She surged to her feet, dizzy and sick. She managed to open the door a split second before he gathered her up into his arms, crushing her to him.
“Thank God,” he murmured. He held her tightly while she breathed him in, burying her face in his neck and clinging with all her might. “Time to go, lass.”
She nodded. Loosened her arms reluctantly. He set her down carefully. Then, with a curse, he lifted his mask, clasped her neck, and brought her mouth to his. The kiss swiftly turned desperate before he tugged away with a low growl. “By God, ye madden me.”
Finally, he locked her arm inside his and tucked her close against his side. After checking the corridor, he led her out, keeping his pace swift and steady.
Her thoughts whirled, but she kept up and kept her gaze pointed down. A short while later, they exited through a different entrance—this one at the rear of the house. A blast of cold rain struck her face.
Then, she heard Francis’s voice, and tears began to choke her.
Dear, dear Francis. He’d waited for them. She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek.
Suddenly, Broderick scooped her up and carried her into the coach, settling her on his lap and ripping his mask off. Dimly, she heard him explaining that he’d had to force his way into McKenzie’s chambers and search six rooms for the documents he sought. That had been the delay—they’d been hidden inside a book on a shelf behind a sculpture of a kelpie.
“But ye have them,” Alexander asked.
“Aye.”
Broderick’s hands didn’t stop stroking her all through his conversation. Her arms and her back, her nape and her cheeks. As the coach turned onto a new street, he removed her mask, cradled her head, and encouraged her to rest against his shoulder.
Shaky and exhausted, she let him hold her, needing the comfort.
An hour later, she sat in their bedchamber while Janet brushed her hair and debated whether bairns fathered by Stuart MacDonnell would inherit his “bonnie red hair.” Kate took comfort in her maid’s conversation. She’d also bathed earlier, enjoying the sense of normalcy and routine. It felt important to wash away the remnants of that dreadful place.
Downstairs, Broderick and his brothers continued poring over the documents he’d stolen and made their plans to choke off Lockhart’s finances. While they’d been infiltrating the club, Campbell and Rannoch had been tracking Munro. They’d spotted the constable meeting with Sabella Lockhart at an inn near Lawnmarket. Once again, the conversation had been brief, and Sabella had left Munro looking frustrated. It remained unclear whether Munro was hunting Lockhart or working for him.
What did seem clear was that Lockhart’s mistress—Cecilia Hamilton, according to Broderick—had been ferrying funds between McKenzie and Lockhart. Having recognized Cecilia in the corridor, Broderick had quickly concluded that she was still controlled by Lockhart. Kate had started to tell him that she’d spoken with Cecilia, that the woman had known he was there and might have protected them. But the words had choked her.
Meanwhile, the men had continued discussing their plans, and she’d retreated upstairs to gather her thoughts.
Kate wanted this to work. She prayed it did. But she still felt sick. The cold, slithery feeling refused to go away, despite the bath and her cheerful maid’s chatter.
Janet finished tidying up then laid a hand upon Kate’s shoulder. “All will be well, mistress. The MacPhersons are no wee, puny men. Only look at yer husband. All he’s survived.” She gave Kate a reassuring pat. “That blackguard fired every weapon he had at Broderick MacPherson, and all he did was make him stronger.”
Kate didn’t know why, but a tear tracked down her cheek. She squeezed her eyes closed and nodded.
“Summon me if ye have need of anythin’, ye ken? Even if I’m sleepin’, I’m never far away.”
She nodded again. A moment later, she heard the soft click of the door. Despair crept in like smoke beneath a door. It filled her with a dreadful ache. Tears kept coming, and she kept swiping them away. With a sniff, she gathered Broderick’s plaid around her shoulders and drifted to lie on
the bed.
God, how she hated wallowing. But all she could see when she closed her eyes was Cecilia Hamilton’s exquisite face. All she could hear was Cecilia’s taunting description of Broderick’s lovemaking. The knowledge that he’d gone to her bed so readily, treated her so differently.
What did it mean? Perhaps nothing.
He wanted Kate. She need only kiss him, and his body told her that much. He’d worked hard to please her and keep her safe—to a maddening degree, one might say. He was a good man. Noble.
Yet, her despair would not abate. She loved him. But by all evidence, he did not love her. Perhaps he’d loved Magdalene. Perhaps he’d treated her the same way he’d treated Cecilia—with gentle kindness and Gaelic poetry.
Perhaps with Kate, he’d resigned himself to being her husband and, needing wifely comfort, he’d simply taken what was offered. Seduction? Unnecessary. Wooing? Why bother? She was already his—her body, her heart.
Now, she buried her face in a pillow and chided her own stupidity. What had she expected? She’d all but forced the man to marry her, to consummate their marriage and pretend it was real.
The door opened and closed. Boots fell in a quiet, hitching rhythm. Clothing rustled. Water splashed. A sigh. The cooling scent of his liniment wafted toward her. The mattress depressed behind where she lay curled up. A gentle hand stroked her hair. “Are ye awake, mo chridhe?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry I took ye to that place. I should have locked ye in here and taken the key with me.”
“Don’t be silly,” she rasped. “I forced your hand. I do that a lot, don’t I?”
He fell quiet but kept stroking her hair. “Do ye care to tell me what has ye in such a state?”
Her breathing shuddered. She considered not saying anything, but she must tell him about Cecilia. He needed to know. She rolled over and sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. “I spoke with Cecilia.”