A Scandalous Winter Wedding

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Ca—Caleb! You forget yourself, my dear.’

  Only by the faintest tremor did Cameron betray himself. ‘My wife, Mrs Crisp, only uses my given name when she wishes to castigate me. And quite rightly too, my dear,’ he said, with a soulful look at Kirstin. ‘I spoke out of turn. I merely know how anxious you are yourself to hear more regarding your friend.’

  ‘A perfectly understandable sentiment,’ Mrs Crisp said, ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Collins, but I’m afraid that your friend’s daughter has run off.’

  ‘No!’ Kirstin clasped her hands together in horror. ‘What do you mean? Pray, tell me quickly.’

  Mrs Crisp needed no urging, pouring out a highly coloured tale, though it was one which, Kirstin noted, varied very little from what Louise Ferguson had already recounted to Cameron.

  ‘And yet,’ Kirstin said, as the woman finally came to an end, ‘you say my friend decided against calling the authorities? I find that most...’

  ‘Strange? As indeed did I, Mrs Collins. One minute she’s creating a right hullabaloo, demanding that my husband question our staff as if they were not to be trusted, and the next she’s changed her tune entirely, and it’s all, “Oh, I think I’ve made a mistake”...“Oh, I remember now, there was an arrangement!” Shall I tell you what I think?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘I think there was an arrangement, but it was made by the young lady herself, and her mother, though she might have had an inkling, certainly would not have been party to it.’

  ‘You think an arrangement of a—a romantic nature, Mrs Crisp?’

  ‘That I do, Mrs Collins, that I do.’

  ‘But what makes you conclude that as an explanation for her disappearance rather than something more sinister? Though of course I do not doubt the respectability of your inn...’

  ‘As indeed you should not, but I will allow it’s a natural enough question. I will tell you why. It is because of Tom.’

  ‘Tom?’ Kirstin repeated blankly.

  ‘One of the stable hands.’

  ‘And what tale did Tom tell?’ Cameron asked.

  ‘That a man asked him to take a note to the young Scottish lady who was expected off that day’s coach.’

  Beside Kirstin, he stiffened, though his expression did not change. ‘And did Tom do as he was bid?’

  ‘He did, Reverend, I’m afraid to say. At least, he gave the note to the young Scottish lady’s maid, and I must assume that she passed it on to her mistress—her young mistress, Miss Ferguson, I mean.’

  ‘What did Tom suppose was the purpose of this note?’

  ‘Tom is one of those boys who has a way with horses and not a thought for much else in his head,’ Mrs Crisp retorted waspishly. ‘I doubt he supposed anything much. In fact I know he did not, for when my husband questioned him, at Mrs Ferguson’s behest, he never saw fit to mention the note. My husband, you see, asked only if anyone had seen either Miss Ferguson or her maid leave the inn, and Tom did not see them. He saw only the note.’

  ‘Yet he thought to mention it to yourself—when, exactly?’

  There was an edge in Cameron’s voice now, that made Mrs Crisp’s eyes widen. She swallowed, eyeing him less conspiratorially and with some fear. ‘Reverend, you must understand Mrs Ferguson was adamant...’

  ‘When, Mrs Crisp?’

  ‘Two days later. Though my husband was content to let the matter drop...’

  ‘His lips being sealed by a douceur, yes?’

  ‘How did you—?’

  ‘Please understand, Mrs Crisp, I am concerned only for the girls. Mrs Ferguson is a woman of some—some strength of personality. I understand that well enough,’ Cameron said more gently. ‘It’s her way or the highway, as we say in Glasgow.’

  ‘I’ve never heard that expression.’ Mrs Crisp’s lips twitched. ‘It describes her perfectly.’

  ‘So, although your husband let the matter drop, you were worried?’ Kirstin prompted.

  ‘The young lady seemed so nice, and the maid—well, she was cocky, as some of these girls are, when they are raised above their station, but I could see no real harm in her. A pair of country mice, that’s what they were when it came down to it, and innocent as a lamb, the young lady was. I simply couldn’t believe she’d run off with some man—but there, I was wrong. For when I asked around myself Tom remembered the note, and who else would be sending a note like that save a lover? So Mrs Ferguson was right after all, to try to hush the matter up. What a scandal! What that poor woman must be suffering. I don’t know what would be worse, tracking the girl down before she is married or letting her marry in haste and repent at leisure.’

  ‘You think they were headed to Gretna Green?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘Have you evidence to back that notion up, Mrs Crisp? Did one of your men actually see the carriage?’

  ‘No.’ The landlady shook her head. ‘No,’ she repeated, ‘no one has said so.’

  ‘But you suspect...?’ Cameron said.

  ‘But you think...?’ Kirstin said.

  ‘I think I’ve said more than enough. Speak to the farrier. He has been dropping all sorts of hints, in the hope of a reward, I’ll wager. Whether there’s any substance to his nods and his winks—well, I leave it up to you to find out.’

  Mrs Crisp got to her feet. ‘He’s a big brute of a man, and one with a very high opinion of himself and of his worth too. He charges us well above the going rate for the work he does. Were it not for the fact that we could not do our business so well without him—There, but I’ve said more than enough. You are welcome to talk to him, though I doubt you’ll get anywhere. I only hope that you being a man of the cloth, Reverend Collins, will prevent him taking his usual measures with those he doesn’t wish to pass the time of day with. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when they arrived back at the hotel. The back stairs to which Cameron had been granted access, having duly greased the Head Porter’s palm for the privilege, allowed the reverend and his wife to avoid the main reception area. His generosity had also resulted, he was pleased to note, in the arrival of a servant bearing a tray of refreshments within five minutes of their return.

  Kirstin, looking genuinely grateful for the pot of revoltingly fragranced tea, sank down on the couch and poured herself a cup. ‘So it is clear, from what the farrier told you,’ she said, ‘that the two girls were abducted.’

  Cameron helped himself to coffee and dropped down into the chair opposite her, stretching out his legs in their prickly woollen stockings. ‘Very clear. He saw the maid waiting across the road at the toll booth. “Yon one with hair the colour of a cock’s comb,” is what he said, so it must have been Jeannie. Anyway, assuming it was a lovers’ tryst, the farrier kept an interested eye. It was not until the coach pulled up that he became suspicious. For a maid to have a lover with a coach and a pair struck him as unusual.’

  ‘Though he did nothing about it,’ Kirstin said, undoing her shawl and pulling off Euphemia’s bonnet. The movement released a puff of powder from her hair, the grey at the front making the rest look even more midnight glossy than ever.

  ‘There was nothing to be done at first, he claimed.’ Cameron cast off the reverend’s hat and loosened his necktie.

  ‘And when poor Jeannie cried out, while she was struggling to get away from the two men pulling her into the coach...’

  ‘The farrier dared not intervene. He’s a big brawny man, but he feared they would be armed,’ he said, with a sneer as he recalled the man’s initial bravado, and how easily it had been destroyed.

  ‘If only Philippa had been as timid she would not have tried to save her maid, which is what I think must have happened.’

  ‘Aye. That note which the landlady mentioned, the one intended for the young Scottish lass, it must have been for
Jeannie, though who wrote it I have not an idea.’

  ‘Whoever it was, Jeannie must have told Philippa, and Philippa was intrigued enough to follow her to catch a glimpse of this lover. Do you think Jeannie had a lover, Cameron? And if she did, what was he doing waiting for her at the Spaniard’s Inn? If he followed her from Scotland—’ Kirstin broke off with a sigh. ‘It makes no sense. It is much more likely that Jeannie was meeting a relative, isn’t it? Or perhaps a friend. Though why she should meet anyone in such a clandestine way...’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll get something from Mrs Ferguson when we meet with her tomorrow morning. We may have more questions than answers now, but we’ve made progress, of a sort. We know that what we’re dealing with is definitely an abduction, and not a random one either.’

  As he stretched across to set his coffee cup down on the tray, the sleeves of his second-hand coat rode up, revealing the bruised and bloody knuckle which had, to his great satisfaction, so easily made the farrier crumble.

  Kirstin gasped in surprise. ‘You hit him!’

  Cameron grinned. ‘More than once. I find that with some people the direct approach is much more effective.’

  ‘I thought you wanted me to stay outside so that you could talk with him man to man.’

  ‘Which is exactly what I did, in his own language,’ he retorted. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s not nothing.’ Kirstin jumped to her feet. ‘I have some salve. Give me one moment.’

  She was gone but a few minutes, bustling back in with a small tin of something and a washcloth.

  ‘Let me see.’

  He held out his hand meekly for her inspection, amused by her concern, but more than happy for her to make a fuss over his grazed and swollen knuckles if it meant her touching him.

  It hadn’t occurred to him that she might have misinterpreted his desire to talk to the farrier man to man. It had seemed so very obvious to him from the little the landlady said that the farrier would require roughing over rather than coaxing or bribing with coin.

  Kirstin had poured the contents of the hot water kettle into a saucer, and was now dabbing cautiously at his hand with the towel. ‘Does that hurt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is this your only injury?’

  He chuckled. ‘If I told you he’d thumped me on the chest and that I’d a huge bruise...’

  Her head whipped up. ‘Cameron, you have not—Oh, you are teasing me.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘I take it that the farrier came off the worse from your encounter?’

  ‘He’ll have been looking for a steak from the kitchen for his eye.’

  ‘How revolting. A pack of ice would serve the purpose just as well.’

  ‘It wouldn’t, actually. A steak brings the swelling down much more quickly.’

  ‘What on earth do you know of such things?’

  Cameron shrugged. ‘You don’t learn to be handy with your fists without taking part in a few fights.’

  ‘And you are? Handy with your fists, I mean?’

  She was not revolted by this. Far from it, she seemed rather taken with the notion.

  ‘Oh, very,’ Cameron said airily, though the truth was he’d not had cause to hit a man for a long time, until today. But it seemed that a skill so hard-learned was not easily forgotten, and he was enjoying the effect of his toughness on Kirstin. Who’d have thought it?

  ‘You should have seen the look on the farrier’s face, when the Reverend Collins planted his fist on his jaw. Just because I’m a man of the cloth, I told him,’ Cameron recounted in his best Glaswegian growl, ‘it disnae mean that I can’t take care of masel.’

  Her eyes were fixed on his. He was not imagining the flare of heat there, he was sure of it, and as he leaned towards her, she leant towards him.

  ‘I suppose that working in such a rough parish as we did, you got into any number of fights.’

  ‘And you, my sweet Euphemia, were always there to bind me up and kiss me better.’

  The towel she’d been holding dropped onto the floor. ‘I’m not so sure that Euphemia is sweet.’

  ‘Och, but she is. She puts on a good front to the world, mind, but when they are alone Euphemia and—and...’

  ‘Caleb,’ she reminded him, with a smile that caught his breath. ‘When they are alone...?’

  ‘When they are alone...’ He trailed his fingers down the line of her jaw to rest on her shoulder and she leant in, closing the tiny gap between them. ‘She is the sweetest...’ He kissed her brow. ‘The very sweetest...’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘The very, very sweetest Euphemia you can imagine.’

  He kissed her mouth. He meant it to be a simple kiss but as their lips met, and he felt the sharp intake of her breath, their lips clung, and their kiss turned into something much more complex.

  She tilted her head, and her mouth opened to his, and his head whirled. There was an echo, the fleeting memory of their kisses all those years ago, and then it was gone and he was firmly in the present, drinking in the taste of her, his blood singing in his veins as their tongues touched, as their kiss deepened, as she twined her arms around his neck, as he felt the brush of her breasts against his chest, as he inhaled the odd mixture of powder and greasepaint and second-hand clothes and a feral, heated undertone that must be desire.

  Blood surged to his groin as their tongues danced together, as their breaths mingled, shallow and fast, as they pressed themselves uncomfortably together on the sofa, not wanting to move lest they break the kiss, yet wanting so much more.

  And then the wanting sharpened, and the kiss ended, and they were left gazing into one another’s eyes, dazed, confused, letting each other go, reality coming back slowly as they sat up, as their breathing calmed.

  Kirstin picked up the towel from the floor and folded it neatly in her lap. She reached for the little tin, opened it, and started spreading salve on his knuckles, concentrating only on that, the touch of her fingers light, determinedly impersonal, and the kiss faded like a dream.

  ‘Put some more of this on tonight, before you go to bed,’ she said, letting his hand go and snapping shut the tin.

  ‘Thank you.’

  She smiled at him awkwardly. ‘I feel sure Euphemia would insist on binding your knuckles, but I feel equally sure that you would resist.’

  ‘I reckon you’re right on both counts.’

  ‘And I reckon it’s time we pack Euphemia and Caleb away, before they do any more damage.’

  She got to her feet, shaking out her skirts. Despite the fact that she was still more or less in costume, she was no longer Euphemia but cool Kirstin. ‘You’ll likely need a bath to rid yourself of the smell of wet dog, so I’ll leave you to it.’

  Cameron opened the door for her, but as she made to step through, he caught her wrist. ‘What did we do with Goliath? He was a smelly beast, but a loyal one, I hope he’s not missing us too much?’

  She smiled at that. ‘I doubt he’s missing us at all, living the doggie dream as he is now on your cousin’s farm. I think you are missing Goliath more than he is missing you.’ She touched his arm lightly. ‘We’ll get another dog in the New World. Something smaller. And sweeter-smelling.’

  And with that she whisked herself away to her own suite, leaving Cameron smiling softly, thinking to himself that a collie would be a good substitute, before the whistling of a messenger boy in the corridor brought him back to reality and he shouted after the lad to bring water for a bath as soon as it could be arranged.

  Chapter Five

  As she ate a solitary breakfast alone in her suite the following morning, Kirstin realised, with disbelief, that this was only her third day at the hotel, a mere five days since her assignation with Cameron in the church. So much had happened it felt like weeks had passed.

  Today she would meet Louise Ferguson, the h
alf-sister who meant so much to Cameron that he would go to the enormous expense of employing The Procurer in order to help her, and yet who meant so little to him that he had no desire to see her ever again afterwards. What form of debt did he feel he owed her, since it was clearly not financial?

  She poured a second cup of tea. The curious nature of Cameron’s relationship with Louise Ferguson was none of her concern, though perhaps it was indicative of his general aversion to family ties? He had been quite unequivocal on the subject over dinner two nights ago. There was no place in his life for a wife, never mind a child.

  She sipped her tea. They were the words of a man who knew himself very well, and was ruthlessly honest about what made him tick. Kirstin smiled thinly down at her empty plate and absent-mindedly began to butter another bread roll. A man after her own heart, in that sense.

  But as she broke off a piece of the bread and popped it into her mouth, her smile faded. She had the proof she had sought. She had done the right thing six years ago, for all concerned, including Cameron, whose sense of honour would oblige him to do what he was not inclined to do if he ever found out. So he must never, ever find out.

  For a moment, cold fear clutched at her heart, making her shiver violently, but Kirstin was not given to wild imaginings. She took a deep, calming breath. She reminded herself that she was The Procurer, the keeper of secrets, that there was no reason whatsoever to fear her secret might be discovered.

  Her heart slowed. Her fingers unfurled their tight grip on the handle of her teacup. She had made the right decision. She need never question it again. The future she had planned was assured, and hers alone to shape. And so she could—not enjoy the situation, as such, given the circumstances, but relish it, knowing it was safe to do so.

  She smiled. Now that the burden of her doubt was lifted she could admit to herself that she was not averse to spending some more time in Cameron’s company. Free from other responsibilities, she could be herself, just for a while. It would be a novel experience. She would devote her energy to resolving this dreadful situation, and if, in the process, she and Cameron shared some laughter, a little danger, relished the thrill and the challenge of pitting their wits against this unknown abductor—well, then, where was the harm?