The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3)

by Maeve Greyson

  Alasdair dug his fingers deeper into the rough bark of the trunk and kept his focus locked on the brothel. His brother didn’t understand. Isobel robbed him of logic. She left him with nothing but raw need to set things right.

  “Do ye know where Master Alasdair is, sir?”

  The familiar voice, cracking, then pitching high with the throes of becoming a young man, drew Alasdair’s attention downward. “What is it, Lachie?”

  Mrs. Aggie’s favorite kitchen boy stood beside Ian. Tall, lanky, his skinny arms too long for his sleeves, the lad shaded his eyes and peered upward. “Mrs. Aggie says come quick. She’s fair beside herself.” He stole a glance around the garden, took a step closer to the tree, and lowered his voice. “’Cause of them there women, if ye ask me. I never seen Mrs. Aggie get in the state she does when them women come ’round.”

  Them women. Alasdair had an inkling of who the women might be, but he had to be certain before he abandoned his post. “What women?”

  Lachie’s fair skin flashed a bright red from the neckline of his tunic to his unkempt brown hair. He jerked his head toward the house of ill repute. “Them women. Mrs. Aggie calls them the head trollops over yonder. The ones what come by here before.”

  “Since it seems ye’ve got company, brother, I’m off to see Lettie.” Ian gave a back-handed salute and was out the gate before Alasdair could respond.

  An ominous sense of something about to go very wrong hurried him out of the tree. A visit from the esteemed ladies of Château Delatate could mean only one thing; Isobel had escaped. He hit the ground with a hard, determined stride. Lachie scrambled to catch up.

  “Shall I ask Mrs. Aggie to make up a tray?” The boy hopped along sideways like a devoted dog trotting beside its master. “She put them women in yer study ’til I could find ye.”

  “Ladies, Lachie. Not them women.” He strode along. The housekeeper’s tainting of the boy’s regard toward Fanny and Madam Georgianna grated on his nerves. The ladies’ chosen profession didn’t warrant mistreatment. Prostitution might be immoral, but the service didn’t prosper in isolation. Many a self-righteous, dubiously moral client contributed to the business’s survival. “And yes, ask Mrs. Aggie to make up a tray to offer the ladies.” Although, if what Alasdair feared was true, their visit would not be a pleasant chat over a cup of honeyed wine and biscuits.

  “Yes, sir.” The lad took off at a fast lope.

  Alasdair rounded the corner of the house, heading for the side entrance. He was not in the mood to enter the service door and go through the kitchen. His housekeeper’s opinions wouldn’t be received well today, and he couldn’t guarantee a civil response. He pushed inside, blinking to hurry the adjustment from the spring day’s bright sunlight to the manor’s dim interior. The door to his study was closed. Mrs. Aggie had probably also drawn the curtains to ensure no one espied his visitors.

  Alasdair sucked in a deep breath and opened the door. “Ladies.”

  Fanny and Madam Georgianna sat in the armchairs angled in front of his desk. They each gave a polite nod as he rounded the room and took a stance behind the sprawling piece of furniture buried beneath stacks of books and scattered papers. He preferred to stand until the ladies shared their reason for the unexpected visit. “Isobel is gone. Isn’t she?”

  “Non.” Madam gave a quick shake of her head. “But her situation has changed, and after much discussion, Fanny and I felt you must be told.”

  “Aye.” Fanny bobbed her head so hard, her feathered hat slid to one side. “That husband of hers showed up and tried to buy his way back into the Château. Gave us all a scare, I grant ye that.”

  “When?” Protectiveness flared hot and fierce. He’d not abandon Isobel to that bastard again.

  “Yesterday. Right after you and Monsieur Ian departed.” The madam shifted and resettled her red skirts in a neat circle of silken folds around her ankles.

  A light pecking rapped on the other side of the door.

  “What?” Alasdair demanded. The need to gather up sword and pistols was fierce. Precious time, time to save Isobel, slipped through his fingers while they sat here making idle chatter and observing social niceties.

  The study door eased open. Maggie, the most timid of the household’s maids, peeped around its edge. “Begging yer pardon, sir. Biscuits and mead?”

  He waved the girl inside. “Leave it here by the desk. Quickly, aye?”

  Maggie hurried to comply, scurrying so fast, the cart’s contents rattled and sloshed. Focus locked on the floor, she made a quick curtsey, then turned and ran from the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  “Have ye ill-treated that girl?” Fanny scowled at him with a judgmental set to her jaw.

  “I willna grace that insult with an answer.” Alasdair strode to the sidebar beside the bookcase and poured himself a glass of whisky. He shot a glance back at the ladies. “Help yerselves to the cart. I fear I dinna possess the manners of a parlor matron.” He downed the drink, then poured another before taking a stance between his chair and his desk. “What happened with Temsworth yesterday?”

  Fanny rose and circled the cart of treats with the interest of a bird of prey about to pounce on a juicy carcass. She glanced over at Madam Georgianna. “Ye want I should fix ye a plate, lovie?”

  Madam held up a hand and shook her head. “Non, merci.” She returned her attention to Alasdair with a delicate sigh. “The duke left without incident, but Isobel feels certain he will return.” Her mouth, painted the same bright red as her dress, tightened into a worried line as she clasped her hands in a prim pose atop her knees. “His appearance, as well as your own, has filled her with fear about remaining in Edinburgh any longer.”

  “I can protect her.” Alasdair set aside his empty glass. Every muscle tensed, and he leaned forward. “Ye must convince her to see me. Force her to do so. Her life depends on it.”

  “Oh, ye havena heard the worst of it yet.” Balancing a plate laden with honey-drizzled biscuits and dried fruits, Fanny toddled back to her chair and eased down into it.

  Madam released another delicate sigh. “That is why we are here, monsieur. Isobel refuses help from anyone. She has chosen a different course, of which we felt we should make you aware.”

  “What course?”

  “To secure the funding she requires in a timelier manner, Isobel has requested to become a lady of Château Delatate.” The madam shifted in her seat and rested her hands atop the arms of the chair as though bracing for Alasdair’s response. “She is prepared to receive gentlemen.”

  “Like hell she is.” Alasdair leaned farther over the desk and stabbed the air, pointing at Madam Georgianna. “Ye will take me to her now. Enough of this foolishness.” A blinding haze of emotions roared through him. He barely contained the urge to tear the brothel to bits until he found Isobel and made her see sense.

  Fanny stretched to slide her plate onto the corner of the desk and held up a hand. “Steady now, Master Alasdair. That’s why we’ve come.” She paused and nodded toward Madam Georgianna. “We thought ye might wish to be Isobel’s first client.” Her lips curled into a conspiratorial smile. “If ye purchase Isobel’s time for a night, ye’d have an entire evening to talk sense into the girl. She’s no more suited to our profession than I’m suited to be queen.” She let out a wicked chuckle. “And whilst I might enjoy setting the country on its ear, we both know I’m not suited for such a life.”

  “What do you say, Monsieur Alasdair?” Madam rose from her seat. “Would such an arrangement be suitable? We will make Isobel understand that when a gentleman purchases her evening, it belongs to him.” She gave a light shrug. “Unless the gentleman threatens harm, of course, but I am certain such a thing would not be a concern with you.”

  For the first time since he’d learned of Isobel’s current situation, the logical, plotting side of him regained control. What the ladies suggested made sense. Damn good sense. He reached into the inner pocket of his waistcoat and retrieved the small key to the de
sk drawer he kept locked at all times. Clans MacCoinnich and Mackenzie paid for his services in gold. Gold was the securest form of currency. He selected three doubloons and thumped them down atop the pile of books closest to the madam. “I am the only one Isobel is to receive. Ever.”

  One of the madam’s brows ratcheted upward, and Fanny’s painted mouth formed an awestruck o. Madam gifted him with a regal nod as she stepped forward, plucked up the coins, and tucked them into the draw-stringed silk purse hanging from her wrist. “You have my word, Monsieur Alasdair.”

  “Mine as well,” Fanny added as she pushed up from her seat whilst brushing biscuit crumbs from her dress.

  Madam gave a gracious nod. “We shall take our leave now. When might we expect your first rendezvous with our Isobel?”

  “Today.”

  If not for the fact he’d slept in his clothes, he’d escort the ladies back to the brothel and see her now. But no. He wouldn’t present himself in such a light to Isobel. Clean clothes and a bit of scrubbing came first. He would have her see him after all this time as the proper gentleman he had become. Rounding the desk, he strode across the study and opened the door. A sense of gratitude and hope lightened the pressure inside him for the first time since yesterday. “I am grateful to ye both. More than ye will ever know.”

  “We are happy to help such a fine gentleman,” Madam said as she and Fanny swept from the room. She paused in the hallway and gifted him with a wistful smile. “We truly hope to see Isobel find genuine happiness for herself and her son.”

  “Aye,” Fanny said. “And that happiness willna be found in a brothel. Not even one as fine as ours.”

  “I shall do my best, ladies,” Alasdair promised as he walked them out. “Once again, I thank ye.”

  “Good day, Monsieur Alasdair,” Madam Georgianna floated down the steps of the front stoop with the grace of society’s noblest lady. Fanny gave him a wink and a cheery wave as they turned up the street and sashayed home.

  Alasdair closed the door. Anticipation and resolve banished the gritty weariness of his sleepless night. “Mrs. Aggie!”

  The rapid staccato of sturdy heels clacking against hardwood floors greeted his bellow. “Aye, Master Alasdair?” The housekeeper hurried around the corner, hands fisted in midair as though willing to hop at his slightest command. Lachie must have warned the woman of his dark mood.

  “I require a bath. In my room. Quick as the boys can fetch the tub and water.” He tugged at the knot of his neckcloth as he strode toward the steps leading to the second floor of the manor.

  “Aye, sir. ’Twill be done.” Mrs. Aggie sounded dubious, but she spun about and barked out the orders as she headed toward the kitchen. “Lachie! Fetch Rob and Hugh. Master wishes a bath drawn. In his rooms. Hie yerselves now!” Still within earshot, she continued in a low grumble loud enough for Alasdair to hear, “And it not even June yet. He’ll catch his death taking a full bath this early on in the year.”

  He snorted out a laugh as he took the steps two at a time, stripping off the neckcloth and unbuttoning his waistcoat in the process. The untimely bath would take a bit of effort to achieve, but he distinctly remembered a much happier time during his youth when Isobel had wrinkled her nose and informed him as long as he smelled like a Highland goat, he’d be getting no kisses from her. He didn’t know if this particular meeting would end in kisses, but he’d damn sure make certain he’d not give her any reason to refuse him. He hurried to his bedchamber and tossed his clothes aside as quickly as he peeled them off.

  A loud clunking behind him in the sitting room announced the arrival of the tub. “We gots four boiling kettles, Master Alasdair,” Lachie called out. “Cook’s set more to the fire, and we’ll fetch them up soon as they’re ready.”

  “They dinna have to be boiling. Bring them straight up. I can wash in cold water, aye?” Four kettles of boiling water were plenty. He grabbed the pitcher of cool water off the washstand, a cake of soap, and an armload of linens. Hugh and Rob emptied the kettles into the oblong copper tub, then all three boys hurried out to fetch the rest.

  Adding the pitcher’s cooler water to one end of the tub, he eased in a toe to test the heat, then stepped in the rest of the way. With a quick sousing of the rag into the water, he lathered it up. While scrubbing, he ruminated about what he would say when he faced Isobel. Ever since he could remember, she’d had a temper, and if yesterday was any sign, still possessed it. He prayed God would grant him the words to make her understand.

  The boys bumped back into the room, bearing a kettle of water in each hand.

  Alasdair directed them to empty one kettle over his head and down his back. He braced for whatever temperature, hot or cold, might hit.

  “Mrs. Aggie says ye must be going to an important meeting to warrant taking a bath before June,” Lachie said as he handed his empty kettle to Rob and took the next full one from Hugh.

  Alasdair was not a fool. The housekeeper had instructed the boys to fish for information. The nosy woman was probably beside herself with curiosity, especially since she knew who his visitors had been. “I’m headed to Château Delatate,” he said as he scrubbed his head. He jabbed a thumb toward his soapy hair. “Rinse.”

  Lachie complied, then cleared his throat. “Master Ian says he takes his bath with the ladies there.”

  “Aye, well…those ladies do not wish to string Master Ian up by his bollocks.” He’d not be making his man parts vulnerable to Isobel until he knew her frame of mind was a bit kinder toward him.

  The boy gave him a shocked look and held up the empty kettles. “Ye want we should fetch more?”

  “Nay, lad.” Alasdair stepped out of the tub, scooped up a folded linen from a nearby chair, and slaked away the wetness with a hurried swiping. He squeezed the water from his shoulder-length hair and slid the drying cloth back and forth across his back. The quicker he finished and dressed, the quicker he saw Isobel. “Thank ye, boys. That’ll be all for now.”

  The trio trooped out, their shoulders slumping at being dismissed, and conversation about the brothel ended.

  Alasdair donned fresh clothes. His best waistcoat, jacket, and shirt. A new neckcloth. Polished boots usually reserved for Sundays or important meetings. He belted his kilt, then slicked back his damp hair, and secured it into a tidy queue with a leather tie. He slid his sgian dhu into his boot and patted it for good measure. Some might think it odd, taking a knife to meet a long-lost love. But if Temsworth reappeared, Alasdair would not be ill-prepared.

  He cast a glance at his reflection in the standing frame of polished metal that had come with the purchase of the manor and been considered quite the selling point with the previous owner. Alasdair didn’t give a damn about the thing. If it had not come with the house, he would have been fine without it. Although, at least now, he could ensure Isobel wouldn’t find him lacking. He straightened the knot of his neckcloth and smoothed down the lines of his waistcoat. He was not a vain man, but today’s reunion meant more to him than anything he’d ever risked before. He was ready.

  Charging out the door and down the stairs, he headed toward the kitchens. Mrs. Aggie looked up from her mending as he stormed through the door. “I willna be home this evening. Enjoy the night off, aye?”

  “No supper?” Her piercing scowl gave him a good up and down.

  “No supper.” He exited through the service door before she added any additional comments that might force him to reconsider his wisdom in hiring her. This was not the day to try his patience.

  He strode across the gardens, pushed through the gate, and crossed the alley. He paused with his hand on the cool metal of the ornate black iron latch of Château Delatate’s gate to the small enclosure leading to its rear entrance. An eerie sense of being watched tingled across his nape, standing every hair on end. He looked up and down the way. Not a soul present other than the black and white stray cat that often showed up in his gardens. Old mercenary senses died hard. Something ill was afoot. He felt it.

 
; “Keep watch, aye?” he advised the cat before proceeding. He closed the gate behind him, then vaulted up the steps to the rear door. As soon as he entered, he found his way blocked by an immoveable wall of muscle.

  “You should enter by the front door, Master Alasdair.” Adalbert assumed a stern look as he settled his feet farther apart and flexed his arms. “Madam Georgianna will not be pleased.”

  “It is all right, Adalbert,” Madam said from farther down the hallway. “I am expecting Monsieur Alasdair. You may return to your post.”

  Adalbert made a half bow, then resumed his stance with his back against the door.

  Madam Georgianna waved Alasdair forward and held out a key by its dark green ribbon. “Third floor, monsieur. End of the hall. The door to the green suite matches this ribbon. Your lady awaits.”

  He accepted the key with a curt nod, then climbed the stairs. The closer he drew to the third floor, the harder his heart pounded, and the more difficult it became to breathe. The moment was at hand. The moment he’d never dreamed of receiving.

  The gentle, golden glow from the sconces beside each door washed the hallway in a seductive light. The very air of the place thrummed with the excitement of the forbidden. Upon reaching the dark green door at the end of the corridor, he hurried the key into the lock. A belayed thought stilled his hand. His conscience warned him to tread through this portal to his hopes and dreams with utmost care. He rapped his knuckles against the frame.

  “Ye may enter.”

  Alasdair closed his eyes. He’d never thought to hear the sweetness of that voice ever again. He turned the key and walked through the door, taking care to close it behind him and lock it. Neither of them would leave this room until he’d had his say.

  Isobel stood with her back to him, gazing out the open window. The evening breeze riffled the lacy gauze of her thin chemise, outlining her lean, lithe form. How thin she’d grown. Gone were the plentiful curves of years past, the curves that had made his mouth water and his body beg for relief. Her waist-length hair was the lush ebony he remembered, tresses fluttering like a river, set aglow with amber and copper highlights in the candlelight.