by Elisa Braden
“Oh, I think you’ve misunderstood our—”
“Here we are.” Mrs. Hogg abruptly turned right and opened a door into a room filled with steam. Large vats of scalding water occupied the center of the space, along with lines strung with dripping sheets and at least twenty females ranging from five to fifty. All had red faces. Some stirred the laundry vats with large paddles while others tended the fires, hauled water, pinned bedding and assorted garments to the lines, and scrubbed other garments in washtubs. One little girl dropped an armful of wet stockings when she tripped over a wayward paddle.
Without thinking, Kate crossed to her and helped the poor mite to her feet. The little girl’s lower lip quivered. “Not to worry, little one,” Kate soothed, giving the girl a smile and a pat before retrieving the overturned basket. “We’ll have this tidied up in a trice.”
Another woman, this one pinning a large sheet a few feet away, cast a nervous glance in Mrs. Hogg’s direction before crouching to help stuff the stockings back into the basket. The woman nodded her thanks to Kate and ushered the little girl toward the door leading out into a small garden.
“This way, Miss Ross,” snapped Mrs. Hogg, indicating the four girls lined up along one of the walls. “Ye have ten minutes.”
Kate blew out a breath. This visit was not what she’d hoped it would be. Mrs. Hogg was far from forthcoming and likely had never met Magdalene Cuthbert, given she’d only worked there two years and Magdalene had left at least eight years before that. All the other women in the place appeared harried and oddly silent. How was she to ask her questions? The girls along the wall were too young to know anything.
Nevertheless, she “interviewed” the girls about subjects she presumed maids must be required to know: their preferences in solvents, their opinions about starch, their tolerance for onion chopping. When one of the girls asked what sort of work would be required, she kept her explanations vague. “My employer, Mr. MacPherson, prefers a clean house. You mustn’t be squeamish or easily alarmed. Oh, and he likes onion gravy.”
At the end of ten minutes, Mrs. Hogg cleared her throat loudly.
Kate sighed. Really, the woman was insufferable. “Mr. MacPherson will be most impressed with such well-trained young ladies,” Kate said, giving them an approving smile. For Mrs. Hogg’s benefit, she added, “He’s a very successful, entirely legal and licensed distiller of fine whisky, you know. An important man.”
The wide-eyed girls curtsied, and the matron led her out of the steam-soaked room and back into the cool corridor.
A failure. That’s what she was.
Her gown itched. Her chest hurt. And like most things, investigative inquiry was not her strong suit.
Rannoch was pacing when they reached the entrance hall. “Anythin’?”
Kate gave a shake of her head.
He sighed and thanked Mrs. Hogg before escorting Kate outside. Rain was drizzling, and wind gusted it into her face. She tugged her scarf higher around her cheeks. The lane had emptied while they’d been inside.
“It’s nae yer fault,” Rannoch murmured, guiding her around a puddle toward the coach. “The odds were always low.”
Her throat and eyes burned. “I wanted this too much. I am dreadful at deception. And singing.” She began to choke. “And writing. Blast. I am dreadful at everything.”
“Nah.” He halted in front of a garden wall and clasped her shoulders. “Listen, now. If ye hadnae pressed us to go back and retrace our steps, we wouldnae have discovered Magdalene might be alive. That’s somethin’, aye?” When her tears started flowing, he drew her into his arms and patted her back. “Nae more tears, Katie-lass. We havenae failed yet.”
Her answering smile trembled, but she swiped her cheeks and raised her chin. “Quite right.” She sniffed and looked toward the coach. “Where did Alexander go?”
“Och, likely takin’ a piss. Or stayin’ out the rain.”
Neither one sounded like something Alexander would do. The man was preternaturally vigilant.
From behind them came the whining of gate hinges, then a shy voice. “A-are you … Mr. MacPherson?”
They turned. Kate recognized the woman as one of the laundry maids—the one who’d stopped to help the little girl with the stockings. The young woman had a long, prominent nose and a narrow face, full lips that covered what looked to be large teeth, and wide gray eyes that rounded as they lit upon Rannoch’s face. Faint color flagged near-translucent skin. Kate might think it the result of cold rain or hard labor, but she’d seen this before. Most females blushed around Rannoch.
“Aye,” he replied to the woman’s question. His gaze ran up and down, taking in her dishevelment. The woman tugged to straighten her slumped cap then retied her hastily knotted shawl—twice. Rannoch’s brow lifted in amusement. “Can I help ye?”
Mouth working, the woman took a step closer then stopped. Her voice cracked into a squeak. She covered her lips, mottled red flooding her cheeks.
In his usual fashion, Rannoch sought to set her at ease by teasing, “Is that a wee mouse caught in yer throat, lass?”
The woman shook her head, her eyes flaring with an odd emotion—half hope, half fear. “I—Is he … is he well?”
Rannoch frowned. “Who?”
“Broderick,” she whispered. “Ye’re his brother, aye?”
Kate’s head reeled.
“Ye look very much like him.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Wandering closer, Kate blinked at a miracle. “Magdalene?” She swallowed as the woman’s gentle eyes focused on her. “Magdalene Cuthbert?”
Glancing warily at the garden gate, the woman murmured, “Aye, though I beg of ye not to tell anybody here. Mrs. Hogg would not look kindly upon—”
Kate rushed forward and clasped Magdalene’s red, bony hands, much to the other woman’s astonishment. But she couldn’t help it. She laughed. “My dearest Miss Cuthbert. We have been searching and searching. Thank heaven you’re alive.”
As Magdalene backed away, Rannoch clasped Kate’s shoulders. “Easy, Katie-lass. We dinnae wish to frighten our wee mouse.” With a charming grin, Rannoch drew Magdalene’s attention back to him. “’Tis true I am Broderick MacPherson’s brother. And this is his wife, Kate.”
Magdalene’s breathing quickened to a pant. “Then, he is all right? I heard dreadful things. I’ve been so worried, but …” Another quick glance behind her. “This position is all I have.”
Heedless of the young woman’s reticence, Kate clasped her hands again. “Broderick is very well. Scarred from his time in the Bridewell, but strong. So strong.”
Magdalene’s expression softened. “He always was.”
Kate beamed. Her eyes welled. “Yes. He looked for you. He thought you’d been … well, he thought you hadn’t survived.” She glanced at Rannoch and back to Magdalene. “He will be overjoyed to see you. Come with us. Oh, you simply must.”
“’Twould be splendid to see him, but I cannot leave. Mrs. Hogg has tolerated me until now, but—”
“Nonsense. You will come with us to see Broderick. Then, you will return to Glenscannadoo and stay with us. Our house has ample room and the most charming little loch.” Kate tilted her head. “Or, would you prefer a cottage of your own?”
“Kate?” Rannoch said. “Ye’re gettin’ a wee bit overexcited.”
Indeed, Magdalene appeared alarmed by her enthusiasm. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“Oh, but you must!” Kate shook her hands up and down. “Broderick will insist. And you will adore the glen. Really, who wouldn’t? It is magical.”
Magdalene opened her mouth to speak, but once again, only a squeak emerged.
Unexpectedly, Rannoch chuckled. “There’s that wee mouse again.” He angled closer. “Look, lass. I ken this came out of nowhere. But Kate isnae mad. Broderick sent me and our brother to find ye because he cares for ye. He’ll wish to see ye, be it here or at our house in Buccleuch. Either way, he’ll nae
tolerate ye workin’ yer hands raw as a washerwoman.” Rannoch’s eyes hardened as they dropped to her red, chapped hands. “Neither will I.”
Looking back and forth between Rannoch and Kate, Magdalene frowned. “I—I must retrieve a few belongings.”
Triumph surged inside Kate’s chest. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” She squeezed the young woman’s hands. “Shall I come with you? I should love to see the look upon Mrs. Hogg’s face when you tell her you’re leaving.”
“Kate,” Rannoch warned. “Ye’ll wait in the coach.”
“Oh, but—”
“I’ll nae have ye wanderin’ about. I’ll take ye back to Alexander where ye’ll be safe.”
“Blast. Very well, then. Must keep Kate safe.” She rolled her eyes.
He grinned. “Aye. That’s the notion.”
She huffed. Clicked her tongue. Gave Magdalene’s fingers one last squeeze. Suddenly, she recalled the small tin Mrs. MacBean had given her. She reached inside her cloak to dig through her reticule then offered the salve. “Here. It’s excellent for chafing.”
Mrs. Hogg chose that moment to appear at the garden gate. Immediately, she castigated “Miss Smith” for laziness and implied her week’s wages would be reduced. When Magdalene merely gave a dejected nod, Kate bristled.
So did Rannoch. “She’s leavin’ yer employ, Mrs. Hogg. I’ve decided to hire her.”
Glaring at Magdalene, Mrs. Hogg harrumphed. “After all I did for ye.” She shifted to Rannoch. “Fine. Ye can carry that ingrate’s heavy trunk out of here. I never want to see it again. Nor her.”
Rannoch shot Magdalene a puzzled glance.
“It’s a long story,” she sighed.
In the end, Rannoch agreed to accompany Magdalene after he deposited Kate safely inside the coach. Kate argued the coach was only twenty feet away and she could find her own way inside, but he insisted.
She greeted the coachman, who tipped his hat.
“Jack,” Rannoch barked as they approached. “Where is Alexander?”
“Inside, sir.”
“Doin’ what?” He nodded to the closed curtains. “Havin’ a nap, for God’s sake?”
“Aye, sir. I believe so.”
He reached for the door handle.
Kate patted Rannoch’s arm. “Don’t wake him. Go on and help Magdalene. I shall wait inside with our somnolent guard dog.”
Rannoch frowned.
“Somnolent means sleepy,” she clarified.
He rolled his eyes and started toward Magdalene. “Get inside, Kate,” he called over his shoulder. “Dinnae linger.”
“Yes, Papa.”
He shook his head as he strode away.
Jack started to climb down from his bench, but Kate waved him off. She opened the door and immediately saw Alexander’s long legs sprawled awkwardly between the seats. There was something strange about the position.
Something odd about the smell inside. Like … gin.
“Join us, Lady Katherine,” a chilling voice said from the darkest corner. A click sounded. A gloved hand held a pistol to Alexander’s chest. “I insist.”
Her veins froze, stalling her heart. She wanted to scream. Frantically, she gasped, trying to draw air, mouthing Rannoch’s name. She managed to turn, but Rannoch had already disappeared inside the orphanage.
“Now, now,” the voice said. Beneath the aristocratic diction, it was faintly Scottish, yet slurred and distorted, as if he was chewing his words. “Come along.”
Another man’s hand grasped her upper arm and dragged her inside. This man, swarthy and mean, was the source of the gin stench. He forced her onto the seat beside him and latched the door.
Kate couldn’t stop staring at the pistol. Head spinning, she tried to see whether Alexander breathed. When she noticed the faint movement of his chest, her own lungs filled. A whimper was the result.
She didn’t want to look at the man who held the gun, but she must.
Ah, God. He was … hideous. His left brow slumped into his eye socket. His jaw was sickeningly large. His teeth were largely absent, his lips bisected, his nose angled in at least three directions.
Broderick’s fists had been thorough.
She could scream. Jack would hear her. Why hadn’t their driver noticed these men entering the coach? Why hadn’t he seen them attack Alexander? Why—
Sickness hit her in a wave.
Jack would do nothing. Because Jack worked for Lockhart.
Dear God. Broderick had surrounded her with guards and the MacPhersons. He’d hidden her away, taken every possible measure to ensure her safety, but none of it mattered a jot.
Lockhart had always known where she was. He could have killed her at any time. Killed Broderick. Killed Alexander or Rannoch or Campbell. Or Annie.
Jack had been John and Annie’s coachman first, after all.
The black and silver interior warped around her. Lockhart’s grotesque face twitched as he pounded the ceiling. The coach lurched into motion.
Rain fell in buckets.
Cold froze her through.
And Kate wondered if anything she did could have changed this, or if her fate had been sealed the moment she’d set foot in Scotland.
“We’ve a bit of a drive, Lady Katherine. Make yourself comfortable.”
Her stomach twisted. “I prefer Mrs. MacPherson.”
Green eyes burned with unnatural fire. “What a coincidence. So do I.”
Breathing without pain had never before seemed a luxury to Sabella. But as she spied the coach below her bedchamber window, her starving lungs and pounding heart reminded her that anything could be a luxury, given sufficient deprivation.
Air. Safety. Love.
Below, in the garden, her brother’s blond hair glinted gold in the watery light. Hair like her own. She remembered how he’d plaited her hair for her when they were wee. In their basement room beneath a weaver’s shop, he would brush her hair gently with his fingers then tell her delightful stories about their mother’s silk gowns. It had drowned out the hunger for a time.
She squeezed her eyes closed and opened them again to see he’d donned his hat. The coachman and Cromartie struggled to remove something from inside the coach. Cromartie was the one who’d broken her ribs. The physician had said she was fortunate they hadn’t punctured her lungs.
Fortunate. Some might assume so, she supposed.
Her maid poured her another cup of tea. “I waited at the shop like ye asked, mistress. He werenae there.” She transferred a slip of paper, folded in eighths, into Sabella’s hand beneath the saucer.
Sabella closed her eyes again, taking care not to gasp or breathe too deeply. Another failed attempt to warn the intrepid constable from Inverness. The man was going to die if he weren’t more careful. Worse, MacPherson’s wife was going to die. And she couldn’t help her. She couldn’t even help herself.
Below, the two men carried what looked to be a third between them. The third man was dreadfully long and, given the strain on the coachman’s face, dreadfully heavy. One of the MacPherson brothers, no doubt.
Banging resounded from downstairs—Kenneth’s new favorite way of summoning her. She stiffened and handed her tea back to her maid. “Fetch the blue wool pelisse. I’ve a feeling today will be quite cold.”
Minutes later, she entered the parlor overlooking the rear garden. Seated at a small desk near the fireplace, Kenneth scraped a spoon across the bottom of his soup bowl and handed it to a footman before dabbing his chin with a napkin. Nearby, sprawled on a large sofa, was an unconscious MacPherson male.
She laced her fingers at her waist, tightening them against the odd desire to wipe away the blood streaking from dense, dark hair down a square jaw and along a thick, muscular neck. He appeared enormously strong, so she had hope he would survive. For the moment, however, she could not rush to his rescue. She must focus on keeping her brother’s temper calm.
“Who have you brought into our home, Kenn
eth?”
“Alexander MacPherson.” He gave her a bone-chilling smile. “Ye remember, do ye not? I believe you enjoyed watching him toss stones over a bar and remove his shirt for a swim during the Highland Games last summer.”
Her heart quickened. She struggled to control her breathing. “Did I? I’m afraid I don’t recall.”
“No? It was the same day your friend Annie Tulloch engineered my humiliation. He was present for that, too.”
Silence fell between them filled only by the sigh of rain outside. “Why did you bring him here?” she asked.
“Because you enjoyed watching him so very much.” Kenneth’s ravaged lips twisted into a sneer. “Don’t you wish to see him once more before he dies?”
She swallowed, her mind scrambling, her heart pounding, pounding, pounding. “He is nothing to me. Why would you assume otherwise?”
“Well, that much is true. He is nothing. Which makes yer interest in this rustic monstrosity a fair mystery, sister.”
Every breath she took hurt like stabbing knives, but the pain of watching the brother she’d loved, who must have once loved her, deteriorate into madness was unbearable. “Kenneth. Please. I don’t know him. We’ve never spoken.”
His eyes softened. He sat back, glanced out the window, and gave her a broken grin. “Do ye remember the year I taught ye to ride?”
Grief welled up from a chasm. “Aye. I remember.”
He’d been so patient. Eighteen and handsome, already amassing his fortune. She’d been eleven, cosseted as a crystal vase, and fearful of getting too close to such large animals. Nothing to fear, Sabella, he’d assured her, sunlight beaming down on his golden head. All ladies must learn to ride. I shall catch ye if ye slip. Have I ever failed ye before?
“You couldn’t fathom why I would force ye to mount an animal large enough to crush you,” he said. “But my reasons were the same then as they are now.” His smile faded until his eyes turned sharp. “You are the daughter of Lady Lockhart. Your blood demands you behave as ladies are required to do.” He gestured to the unconscious giant on their sofa. “He is beneath you, Sabella. All the MacPhersons are, including the red-haired bitch you betrayed me for.”