“Isobel.” His deep voice rumbled through her like the grumbling of a summer storm. “I know perhaps ye’ll never forgive me.” He paused and pulled in a deep breath, then blew it out. His air tickled across the bare skin of her shoulders. “I pray ye will someday, but I understand how ye might not do so. But I…”
She flattened her hands on the dresser and stared straight ahead. Surely, he wasn’t about to ask for more than she could give. Didn’t expect her to honor her part of the night’s transaction. Merciful heavens, she couldn’t bear it if he did. Not now. She had hungered for his touch so long. Still did, if truth be told. But she daren’t sate that hunger. Not ever. They had lost their opportunity to the past. Lost it when he’d chosen to leave her in hell.
“But at least let me help ye.” His hand fell away from her arm, and he retreated a step. “As a…friend.”
A friend. Of all the things she had thought about Alasdair over the years, friend was not one of them. She turned to find him standing in the center of the room. Wide stance. Fierce look. He appeared ready to go to war. Perhaps, he was. This night definitely felt like a battle.
If she had learned anything over the last decade, it was that nothing in life came free. She folded her arms across her breasts and held herself together. “And in return?”
“In return?” he repeated, then the gist of what she asked triggered a dark scowl. He snapped, “In return nothing. Since ye refuse to forgive me, helping ye will ease my conscience for all the pain I caused ye.”
A sliver of remorse pricked at her heart. Alasdair had behaved the perfect gentleman since even before entering the room. He had knocked. Had made no advances on her person even though he had wished to do so. The yearning had shown in his eyes. She gave an apologetic nod. “Forgive me. I find kindness a rare commodity of late.”
“I intend to change that.” He bowed with the respect of one addressing the queen. “What say ye?”
A wild thumping rattled the door. “Isobel! Master Alasdair! Forgive me, but it’s urgent!”
Alasdair strode to the door, unlatched it, and hurled it open.
Fanny blew in like a red-headed windstorm and slammed it shut behind her. “The duke’s men found the apartment.”
“Connor!” An anguished cry ripped from Isobel. Her son. Her precious son. Auntie Yeva. Her aunt would die protecting Connor. She shot to the door, but Alasdair caught her back.
“Nay, love. Stay here. I’ll save yer son and aunt.” He pushed her into Fanny’s arms. “Keep her here, and get Einrich to stand guard. Roust Ian from Lettie’s bed. I’ll be taking him and Adalbert with me.”
“I will not say here!” She wrenched herself away. “I’m going to save my son!”
“Both of ye haud yer wheesht!” Fanny clapped her hands, rattling the bracelets on both wrists. “Ye didna let me finish. The men found the rooms, but Yeva and young Connor hid in a wee space between the shed and the château.” The woman shook her head and held up her forefinger and thumb, displaying the tiniest of spaces between them. “Lordy me, I dinna know how they squeezed into it. Einrich said it’s narrower than a midge’s arse.”
If the harlot continued babbling, Isobel would either scream or slap the woman—or mayhap both. She took hold of Fanny’s shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “Where are they now?”
“In the main kitchen.” Fanny jerked her head toward the hall. “But I came to warn ye because we fear the duke’s men still lurk about. Einrich and Adalbert search for them now.”
“Lord Almighty, woman. Ye couldha handled yer warning a damn sight better. What the hell is wrong wi’ ye?” Alasdair glared at Fanny, then motioned at Isobel. “Fetch her a robe, aye?”
“A robe?” Fanny repeated. “Why?”
He shoved his face to within inches of the woman’s nose. “Because I’m sure Isobel needs to go to her son, and I daresay she willna wish him to see her so attired.”
Self-conscious all over again, Isobel hugged herself. He read her true. She needed to hold Connor in her arms and feel him safe. A tendril of gratitude, the subtlest warmth coaxed at the hardened walls around her heart. Alasdair understood and even cared. She turned to Fanny. “Aye, Fanny. Please?”
Her scowl still locked on Alasdair, Fanny slipped her silk dressing gown from around her shoulders and held it out. “Here, lass. Wear this.” She nodded toward the ribbon of a belt dangling from the loops in the sides of the robe. “Tie the wee belt tight. I know ye’re swimming in it, but at least ye’ll have some covering.”
Isobel slipped it on and tied the belt. She cast a glance back at Alasdair as she headed into the hall. “Forgive me for cutting yer evening short.” Gentlemen who purchased an entire night enjoyed the pleasures of their lady until dawn—or so had stressed Madam and Fanny. “I shall ask Madam to return yer money.” Although she could think of many better ways she would have ended this hellish night, at least her forced attendance with Alasdair was finally over.
He shook his head. “Oh no, lass. My evening is nay over yet. I’m coming with ye. I think it’s time I met yer son.”
She shot a glance at Fanny, who responded with a firm nod, then rubbed her thumb across her fingertips in a silent reminder that Alasdair had paid for her time. Isobel forced a graceful look in Alasdair’s direction. “Very well. Follow me.”
She pushed through the narrow door to the back staircase leading to the main kitchen. Racing down the stairs, she steadied herself, sliding her hands along the walls of the narrow passage. Alasdair kept pace behind her. His boots filled the tight space with the sound of galloping thunder. The noise jarred her nerves, triggering memories of the duke’s visits to the tower. His boots had sounded just as loud and ominous each time he had approached her rooms, like the tolling of a death knell. She shook herself free of the nightmarish feeling and picked up the pace. She shot through the last door with such fervor, it bounced against the wall.
“Mama!” Connor sat perched on the end of the worktable, swinging his feet as he munched on a biscuit and basked in the attention of Marjie, Rew, and Rosie, three of Madam Georgianna’s ladies.
“Connor!” Isobel rushed to him, gathered him up, and hugged him tight.
“I’m fine, Mama.” He squirmed in her arms. “Ye’re crumbling my biscuit.”
She allowed herself one more hug, then resettled him back on the table. She pecked a kiss to his tousled head and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I feared for ye, son, but ye did well making it here to safety.” She’d always told the boy if anything happened to run to the château. Madam and Fanny had granted her permission to do so.
“He’s a fine, brave lad, this one is,” bragged Rew as she handed Connor a small tin cup of milk.
“That he is,” chimed in Marjie as she set a fresh plate of biscuits and a crock of jam beside him. “Said he hasna had jam in forever.” Margie winked. “I reckon we can fix that!”
“And who might ye be, sir?” Rosie asked Alasdair as she sidled closer with a suggestive wiggle.
Alasdair gave a polite nod. “Alasdair Cameron.”
Isobel nearly laughed aloud at Alasdair’s strained expression. “He is my assigned gentleman, Rosie.” She glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s Auntie Yeva?”
The Delatate ladies parted and pointed to the far corner beside the hearth. “We offered her food and drink, but she doesna seem to understand what we’re saying,” Rosie said. She gave a sad shake of her curly blonde head. “Poor thing. Seems fair addled, she does.”
Auntie was not addled. Auntie was enraged. Isobel could tell by the way the old woman had drawn herself up into a knot and sat glaring at all around her. At any moment, an explosion of Armenian curses and predictions of dire moral consequences would surely ensue.
She made her way over and knelt in front of her. Taking hold of her aunt’s calloused hands, she held them tight and whispered, “This is but a temporary situation. Please, Auntie, bear with me. We will get through this.”
Auntie’s mouth tightened, the tw
itching corners drawing down even more. Her dark eyes narrowed as her gaze swept across Isobel’s attire. She jerked her hands free and tucked them tight against her body as she turned aside.
Isobel’s heart sank. She hated disappointing the dear woman who had raised her since her mother had died, but it couldn’t be helped. She pushed up from the floor and returned to stand beside Connor.
“What did ye say yer name was again?” Connor asked Alasdair between bites of biscuits, his small cheeks bulging.
Alasdair bowed. “Alasdair Cameron, at yer service.” He held out his hand. “I’m an old friend of yer mother’s.”
Connor switched his biscuit from his right hand to his left, wiped his jam-covered fingers across the front of his shirt, then took Alasdair’s extended hand and shook it up and down. “Peezed to meet ye, Master Cameron.”
Isobel’s heart swelled with protective pride. Now and then, Connor still had trouble saying certain words, but the more time that elapsed from the last time his father had belittled him, the more sure of himself he became.
Connor released Alasdair’s hand and held out his plate of treats. “Wanna biscuit?”
“I thank ye, m’lord.” Alasdair helped himself and downed the morsel in one bite.
The boy held a hand to his mouth and leaned forward. “Ye dinna have to call me that,” he whispered, then stole a glance at Isobel. “Nobody’s ’posed to know I’m a marqest. Just call me Connor, aye?”
“Marquess,” Isobel gently corrected. She pecked another kiss to his temple. “Finish yer biscuits,” she urged with a hug.
The lad nodded and happily complied.
Madam Georgianna appeared in the doorway. “Rew, Rosie, Marjie.” She cast a glance in Connor’s direction and shooed the ladies out into the hallway.
“Where they going?” Connor asked, his disappointment at the loss of his admirers evident.
“Their friends have arrived for a visit,” Alasdair volunteered. He cast a devilish look in Isobel’s direction, a look that made her stomach tighten with dread. “Tell me, Connor, do ye like dogs?”
The boy brightened and bobbed his head. “Aye, I do.”
“My stable master’s dog, Toaty, had six pups. Wiggly wee things they are. Would ye like to see them?” Alasdair beamed at Isobel with a smug, self-satisfied smile.
“Can we, Mama?” Connor kicked his feet faster at the prospect. “Can we?”
“I shall think about it. Such a visit would be for another time. It is too late today. As soon as ye finish yer biscuit, we must see to getting ye to bed.” Isobel shot Alasdair a warning glare. The man best keep his mouth shut. She knew well enough his sly game. Befriending her son. Indeed. She was not dull-witted.
Armenian mutterings came from the corner.
Isobel turned to find Auntie Yeva on her feet, shaking her kerchief-wrapped head and jabbing a bent finger in the air. She vehemently refused to spend the night under the brothel’s roof. Said she’d rather be dead, and Isobel should be ashamed to have her son sleep in such a place. She went on to remark on the cleanliness of anywhere Connor might lay his head, but after that, her rant increased to such a fast stream, Isobel couldn’t understand her.
“My manor has bedrooms aplenty.” Alasdair rested a hand on Connor’s shoulder. “And in the morning, after ye’ve had a fine breakfast, we could go to the stables and see the pups.”
“Aye, Mama! That would be finer than fine, do ye not think so?” Connor bounced in place, making the worktable creak with all his wiggling.
Irritation simmering, Isobel pointed at the cup of milk and plate of biscuits. “Sit still, and finish yer treats whilst Master Cameron and I step into the hall and have a wee chat, aye?”
“Peeze?” Her son folded his hands and gave her a dangerously angelic look.
“What did I say?” She pointed at the cup of milk again.
“Aye, Mama,” Connor said, his small shoulders slumping in a show of mock obedience.
She fixed a meaningful scowl on Alasdair as she headed toward the hall. “Master Cameron.”
The man followed with a smile that irritated her even more. “Aye?” he responded as he folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned back against the wall.
One thing hadn’t changed about Alasdair. He still possessed the power to enrage her with that smug look of his. “Dinna use my son against me!” she warned through clenched teeth. “We will stay here and be fine as long as Madam and Fanny allow it.”
“Shall I ask yer auntie her opinion on the matter? I dinna understand Armenian, but she made her meaning clear enough. Or shall I ask Madam Georgianna or Fanny? Ye know as well as I that giving ye an apartment on the property is one thing, but having a child running about the brothel is a different matter entirely.” Alasdair leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Dinna let yer stubbornness rule ye, Isobel. Ye’re cutting off yer nose to spite yer face.”
“What do ye know about it?” she snapped. She massaged her throbbing temples, wishing she’d chosen somewhere besides Edinburgh to run out of money.
“I know well enough that a child doesna belong in a brothel, and neither do ye.” Alasdair glanced down the hallway toward the sound of females laughing, followed by a loud male guffaw. “My home. A safe haven as long as ye need it.” He lifted his chin. “I offer it as a friend and as an atonement for my sins against ye. It’s a damned sight better payment to ye than reciting a stream of Hail Marys.”
“Fanny said they believed the men to still be about. How will we get there without being seen?” Isobel glared at him. Alasdair thought himself so smart. How would he manage their escape without discovery?
His victorious look made her wish to smack him all the harder. “One of my clients, Clan Mackenzie, might be of some assistance. I believe Madam Georgianna warehouses a good bit of their Edinburgh stock in her cellar.”
“Their stock?” All she knew for certain was she wished this worrisome night would come to an end.
Alasdair eased a hand under her arm and urged her farther down the hallway toward Madam Georgianna’s sitting room. “Whisky. Port. Rum.” He glanced around as they walked and kept his voice low. “Regular deliveries come and go. Wagon loads of the goods. Tied and covered from prying eyes. I’m certain we could spirit the three of ye out amongst the barrels.” A half-smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “In fact, I’m due a delivery of whisky. Perfect timing, methinks.”
Chapter Five
The cramped, dark space between the barrels in the wagon made her mouth go dry and her palms bead with sweat. The canvas and rope piled next to the cart, waiting to cover the cargo, caused her stomach to lurch. Nay. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bear the thought of being trapped again. Isobel gasped in a deep, desperate breath, blew it out, then pulled in another. She shook her head and backed away. “I canna do it.”
“It’s the safest way.” Alasdair pointed at the narrow opening between the casks. “The three of ye tucked in cozy as peas in a pod.” He patted the lowered footboard. “It’s but a short distance. We’ll cut through the far alleyway and round the square to come out on the other side of my property. Those watching the château will nay suspect a thing.”
Without hesitation, Auntie Yeva snatched hold of Alasdair’s extended hand, scrambled up into the wagon, and crawled into the opening. Connor climbed up next, snuggling up against the old woman like a wee mousie in a nest.
Memories of Temsworth’s stone closet crashed in all around her. Visions so real, she smelled the place, relived its terror. Dank. Dark. Barely big enough to stand upright. Too narrow to sit. Too tight to lift her arms. The cold rear wall had pressed against her backside whilst the iron door had shoved against her front. Turning her head had been almost impossible. An upright tomb, Temsworth had called it. He’d laughed and sworn that someday he would leave her there to rot. He had locked her within, trapping her for hours whenever she displeased him. Isobel had learned quickly how to behave.
She dug at her arisaid, pulling it away
from her throat and fighting the smothering sensation. “I canna do it.” She waved away the wagon and retreated another step. “Take Connor and Auntie. I’ll take my chances on foot. Fanny told me where ye live. I’ve but to cross the close to reach yer back garden. They’ll never see me in the darkness. I can sneak well enough.”
“All is loaded. We can cover it now,” Einrich called out from the other side of the wagon.
Alasdair held up a hand. “Give us a moment, aye? I’ll call out when we’re ready.”
“Ja.” Einrich dipped his chin, then disappeared deeper into the storage cellar.
“What do ye fear, Isobel?” Alasdair’s piercing glare troubled her. It was as though he looked into her soul and saw all her weaknesses. He gave a perplexed shake of his head. “I remember when we used to race and hide in the darkest, tightest caves along the beach. Many a time. We risked drowning a time or two because of the tide. Remember? Scared our kin to death.”
She swallowed hard. The dear memories made her yearn for those carefree days again, yearn so badly she wanted to weep. “I remember the time yer da tanned yer arse for scaring him so, and I had to stay inside and empty all the chamber pots for a sennight.”
“Aye.” Alasdair grinned. “I got off better than ye did. I’ll take an arse whipping over tending chamber pots any day.”
She resettled her arisaid around her shoulders and hooded it over her head. “Take them on now. I’ll be fine on the streets.”
How could she tell him her fears? Fears that wouldn’t exist if he had but kept his word and stolen her away. She struggled to fan the dying embers of her anger against him. Anger gave her strength. But those emotions faltered with every kindness he offered. He had given good reasons for all that had happened. Reasons that made sense. Reasons which, even in her fury, she could nay find fault.
She tried to harden her heart. Fanny had said he was now the finest solicitor in all Edinburgh. Solicitors excelled in polishing lies until they sparkled like the truth. Perhaps his reasonings were nothing more than falsehoods. It didn’t matter how much he lied as long as he kept Connor safe.
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 6