There could be no denying the meaning of that letter she had sent him.
“Right,” he whispered to Finley, “ye stay here.”
“Oh, aye, I’ll stay here,” his friend said. “And what is it ye’ll be doin’?”
Marcus pointed at the trellising that covered parts of the wall, allowing roses and honeysuckle to climb up the face of the large country house.
“I’m goin’ up,” he said.
Finley settled further back into the darkness that pooled at the bottom of the statue, much like a man might settle more comfortably into his seat when watching a group of Mummers perform at a feast. His grin flashed in the gloom.
“On wi’ ye then,” he said.
Casting a wary eye left and right, Marcus sprinted from their hiding place and paused at the foot of the trellis that climbed up, past the second floor window in which he had seen Delilah.
All right, lad, Marcus told himself, setting a cautious foot to the trellis, slow and steady. Ye’ll get no points fer a broken leg.
Step by guarded step, the Highlander made his way up the side of the slumbering manor house. It seemed to take him hours to get to just below the level of Delilah’s window. With infinite care, he raised his head a fraction so that he could peer into the room.
There she was. The flaxen-haired, blue-eyed being that had captured his heart in her soft hand the moment he had laid eyes on her four years ago. A grin split his handsome face, and he momentarily forgot the spirit-crushing letter that had driven him out of Scotland in the dead of night, over the border and up this trellis. He reached out to tap on the glass.
There was a knock from inside the room and Delilah turned from facing the window.
“Yes?” she called.
Marcus ducked back out of sight, pressing himself close to the wisteria and peering with one eye into the room.
The door to the bedchamber opened and the Earl of Glimouth stepped in.
Marcus could not make out all of the brief conversation that took place between father and daughter. Snatches reached his ears through the wavy, uneven glass.
“…I fear he’s not the man you believe….” Delilah said.
“…perhaps, just nerves…”
“…have me as an ornament…”
“…nonsense…”
“…if you could talk to him again…”
“…nothing more to say, my dear…”
Marcus watched as the Earl stroked his daughter’s cheek and then retired from the room, closing the door behind him.
Delilah stood staring at her bedchamber door for a moment. Then, with the air of someone carrying a great weight around her shoulders, she walked to her bed and sat heavily upon it.
Feeling that no better opportunity was likely to present itself, Marcus tapped smartly on the window.
Chapter 11
At first, Delilah thought that the tapping sound was her father knocking at her bedroom door again.
What more has he to say? He’s as good as told me, in his kindly way, that my bed is made and now I must sleep in it.
“Yes?” she called, willing some strength into her voice. Strength that she did not feel at all.
There was no answer. The tapping continued.
Delilah felt a stab of irritation. This was quickly smothered, however, by a surging rush of lethargic despondency that swept over her like the tide up a beach. Unable to summon the care necessary to answer the door, she flopped backwards onto her four-poster bed.
The tapping ceased.
Good. Leave me in peace. Let me sleep. If God exists, he’ll make sure I sleep for a thousand years.
There was a sharp crack as of splintering wood, and a sudden gust of wind blew into the room. It carried the perfume of the honeysuckle outside the window, and another smell, woodsmoke and horse and rich earth. It was a scent that was at once familiar and utterly impossible…
Delilah sat bolt upright.
Marcus Malloch hauled his muscular frame through the window and stood in the middle of her bedchamber.
Delilah stood up slowly, her mouth slightly open in shock.
The rugged Highlander brushed honeysuckle petals off his kilt, grinned sheepishly and said, “I couldn’ae wait forever for ye to get out of bed, lass.”
She ran to Marcus and threw her arms around his broad shoulders.
The sight of his face, the scent of his clothes, the sound of his breathing was a combination that tore a sob of joy from her throat. She buried her face in his linen shirt, ran her hands through his thick, dark shoulder-length hair.
“You came,” she whispered into his chest. “You came for me.”
Gently, she felt Marcus push her back so that he held her at arm’s length. Looking into his face, Delilah suddenly recognized that, as well as a delight that mirrored her own, there was also a sort of circumspect and inquiring cast to his eyes.
“Aye, I came, lass. O’ course I came. When I received yer letter… Well, I couldn’ae let ye go after that. Nae after what happened last time.”
Delilah frowned.
“Let me go?” she asked.
He’s not here to help me?
She watched as Marcus fished in his sporran, pulled out a crumpled letter.
“Yer betrothed tae be married, Delilah?”
“Yes.”
The Highlander swallowed, as if each word caused him pain.
“And ye’re in love wi’ this man?”
Delilah blanched, felt the blood rush from her face. The very thought of feeling anything other than a disgust at a life spent with Viscount Keicester made her feel faint.
“Why—why would you think I was in love with him?” she asked.
A slight frown creased Marcus’s attractive face.
“Ye say so,” he said, waving the bit of paper. “Ye say so in yer letter.”
It was then that Delilah noticed that the flakes of sealing wax that still clung to the crinkled letter were green. The sealing wax she had used was the common black stuff, made from lampblack.
“No, I didn’t,” she said.
“Then how—?”
“Let me see that note.”
Marcus handed over the message.
A cursory glance was all that it took for Delilah to see what had happened.
“This is not my letter,” she said.
“What?”
“These are not my words.”
“But…the handwriting?”
“A half-decent approximation of my own, especially if whoever did it wanted to convey a note scrawled in haste.”
Delilah watched the realization of what she was telling the young man break over Marcus’s face. It was like watching the sun come out from behind a cloud.
“Then, ye daenae love this Viscount?”
Delilah shuddered. “No,” she said. “I would rather spend my days as a spinster than attempt to love a man like that.”
All of a sudden, it seemed to Delilah that a new energy flowed through the commanding figure of the Highlander. He looked as if he had been suffused with purpose. There was a set to his jaw that Delilah could not remember seeing before. He was watching her closely.
“It’s one thing fer me tae spirit ye away under the nose o’ yer parents—the thought o’ doin’ it doesnae sit well wi’ me. But tae see yer afeared o’ this noble ye’re tae marry…” He shook his head. “I’ll nae sit by and see ye carted off tae a life of misery.”
Delilah felt hope swell so suddenly in her breast that she thought she might burst. Hand in hand with this hope, courage also sprang, tapped from a reserve that she did not know she contained.
“But what can we do?” she asked.
The thought of defying her parents, of robbing her mother and father of marrying their daughter off to a fabulously wealthy Viscount, was a daunting one.
“First things first, Delilah,” Marcus said. “I think it’d be better if we were any place but here.”
Delilah giggled nervously. Never, in all her life, h
ad she been in such a compromising position.
Having a wild Highland man scale the shrubbery and break into my bedchamber… I’d like to see Mother’s face if I told her that at breakfast!
“We can’t go through the house,” she whispered. “Mother or Father or any of the servants might see us.”
“Aye,” Marcus replied, a slow and mischievous grin spreading over his face. “I was nae thinkin’ about takin’ the stairs, lass,” he said.
Delilah looked at the window, with its splintered and broken frame. “You can’t possibly mean—”
“Aye, I dae. Now, tie yer skirts like we did when I took ye ridin’ that day.”
“My skirts?”
“Ye’ll never get down that trellis wi’ all that material flyin’ about the place,” Marcus said. “Now hurry!”
Delilah started to do as she was told, using some ribbons torn from two of her hats to tie her gown into rough breeches.
“Have ye somethin’ warm to wear while we ride?” Marcus asked.
Delilah pointed to a woolen mantel that she wore around herself in chillier weather. Marcus grabbed it, walked to the window and dropped it out.
Delilah opened her mouth to protest, but Marcus raised a masterful hand and said, “Hurry!”
To her considerable wonder, Delilah found herself swinging her leg over the windowsill not five minutes later.
This is by far the most ludicrous thing I have ever done.
Below her, Marcus was already almost on the ground. He had insisted on going first, telling her that he’d rather she fell on him rather than the other way around.
She could see the logic in his words, knew that he had meant them to be reassuring. Somehow though, they were not.
Looking down between her legs, she was amazed to see how far away the ground looked. When you were climbing up a staircase, you gave absolutely no heed to the fact that you were actually ascending high into the air. But when you were hanging out of a window, this fact was dramatically brought home to you.
Happily, by steeling herself, looking determinedly ahead and feeling her way with her feet, Delilah made it unscathed to the ground. A warmth spread through her as Marcus took her by the waist and lifted her bodily from the shrubbery and set her on the path. She was amazed at his strength, as he lifted her without any sign of a strain.
Suddenly, a shadowy apparition rose from the stone fountain nearby. Delilah gasped and clutched at Marcus, but the Highlander patted her hand and whispered, “It’s just Fin.”
The man slid over the rim of the fountain with the grace and silence of a fox.
“Ye did it,” he said quietly, sounding impressed.
“Did ye doubt it?” Marcus asked.
“Aye, I did.”
Delilah was about to suggest that perhaps they should be going, when a voice rang out in the dark.
A familiar and despised voice.
“Here! Who goes there?”
Marcus’s head snapped up. The feeling of elation that he had managed to get Delilah out of the house unscathed and unseen, replaced by a thrill of terror at their discovery.
“Who in the devil is that?” the voice came again.
It was not the Earl, the voice was far too young and sharp to be that benign gentleman.
“Delilah? Is that you? Who in God’s name are you with?”
A slight, cocksure figure emerged from the darkness of the grounds. Marcus instantly recognized him as the man who had been prowling about the gardens and almost discovered Finley and himself earlier. He had the look that was common—in Marcus’s opinion—to the English aristocracy; the look of someone who thought themselves superior to almost everyone they came in contact with.
“I say, Scottish brigands, is it? How unexpected,” the young nobleman said.
“And stealing my wife-to-be. That surely will not do!”
There was the ring of steel, and Marcus saw that the man had drawn an elegant and ornate rapier from a scabbard at his side.
“Run, man!” Finley urged him, pulling his serviceable dirk from the sheath at his belt.
“What about ye?” Marcus hissed.
“Ah, I’ll be fine. Once I’ve dealt wi’ this wee fool, I’ll lead whoever fancies followin’ me on a merry chase. Meet ye at the hut in a couple o’ days. Now go!”
It burned Marcus to flee from a man that looked more like a peacock than anything else, but his overriding desire was to get Delilah away.
Besides, Finley could more than handle himself in a situation such as this.
Marcus grabbed Delilah’s hand and pulled her into the maze of gardens. He had a hunter’s sense for directions and followed the path that he and Finley had taken on their way to the house. He and Delilah fled through the darkness of the grounds, their way lit only by the faint light of the stars.
Behind them, Marcus heard the unmistakable screech of metal on metal, the clash of blade against blade.
When they were halfway across the lawns that led to the belt of trees, on the other side of which the horses were tethered, Marcus chanced a glance over his shoulder.
More lights in the windows. Old Finley must be puttin’ on a show. He’s wakin’ the whole house!
Finley Henderson was indeed putting on a show, though it was only a two-man show at present.
Although he was facing a man armed with a rapier, whilst armed only with a dirk himself, he was enjoying himself immensely.
Finley was not of noble blood, had never trained formally in the art of swordsmanship. Had no idea that there was such a thing as etiquette when it came to sword fighting. His training had taken place in woods, sparring with his father for hours at a time with nothing more than a stick.
Learned many a hard lesson in those woods.
He circled the statue, keeping the stone pond between himself and the rapier-wielding nobleman.
His father had been a soldier in the Laird’s army and had patrolled and protected his lands until his shaking hands had forced him to quit the soldiering life. He had taught a young Finley that, in war, there was no such thing as fighting fair. There was winning and there was dying, and there was an end of it.
The man opposite him, though, he had been taught the aristocratic notion of fighting fair and maintaining one’s honor. He held his weapon in an elaborate way with one hand, his other hand raised behind him as if he was about to start dancing.
Finley feinted in and the man made a vicious swipe at him with his sword. Finley dodged the blow and lunged in with his dirk. He wasn’t aiming to kill the man, just buy Marcus some time to get through the woods and onto his horse.
“I’m going to spit you, my friend,” the young nobleman said, flourishing his lovely shiny blade. “Then I’m going to go after that friend of yours and get back what was promised me.”
What kind o’ man speaks of a woman as he would a sheep that he’s bought?
“Me faither always used tae say that a man who’s got breath for chin-waggin’ in the middle of a scrap is nae fightin’ hard enough,” Finley replied pleasantly.
The noble’s lip curled. “Well then,” he said, “to business.”
He cut furiously at Finley, but the Scotsman hopped nimbly out of reach. He swiped at him again, and once more Finley evaded him. With a snarl the man lunged in and this time Finley spun in close, knocking the rapier’s blade away with his dagger, and grabbed the wrist of the man’s sword hand in his own.
Too easy.
The man yelled, as Finley twisted his wrist, and dropped the sword. Finley stepped in so that the two young men were nose to nose and held his knife in front of the man’s scared face.
“Remember,” he said. “I could’ve killed ye.”
Then he pulled his fist back and punched the man squarely in the nose. The nobleman squawked and tumbled over backwards. Finley ducked and picked up the shiny sword.
“This’ll make a fine letter opener,” he said. “I think I’ll keep it, if ye daenae mind. Ye’re nae good with it anyway.”
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With a derisive laugh, the Scotsman sprang away into the darkness, leaving Viscount Keicester on the ground, clutching his broken nose and calling for aid.
Chapter 12
It was almost morning by the time Marcus reined in on the edge of a copse of Scots pine that lay at the bottom of a little dell. He helped Delilah down from his big horse and she staggered slightly as her feet touched the ground.
“I have ye, lass,” he said, holding her close for a few moments.
Gazing up into his face, Delilah could tell by the concerned look on his face that she must look as exhausted as she felt. The escape, their flight through the gardens and the woods had taken a toll on her—not to mention the stress of the last few days.
“Follow me,” Marcus said and took her hand again.
Delilah followed him into the cool, fragrant shelter of the pines. Their feet made barely a sound as they moved under the hanging boughs, the carpet of pine needles soft and giving under their feet.
“Where are we going?” she asked after a few minutes.
As an answer, Marcus moved aside, and Delilah could see that they had come to the edge of a small glade. A pair of Scottish crossbills took flight at their appearance, fluttering up to look disapprovingly down at Delilah and Marcus from a tree branch. A squirrel scurried around the trunk of a young wych elm. In the middle of this little clearing, walled in on all sides by Scots pine trees, was a little cabin. It was no more than a little box with a steeply pitched roof to let the winter snows slide off, a couple of windows and a door.
“It’s nae much, but it’s safe,” Marcus muttered from behind her.
She turned to him. “It’s perfect,” she whispered.
Inside, the shack was warm and dry and cozy. It consisted of only a single room with a bed in one corner, a stone fireplace and chimney in the other, and a table and two chairs in the middle.
“What is this place?” Delilah asked.
“Fin and I built it when we were boys,” Marcus said. “Spent a lot o’ time huntin’ out in these parts, so one summer we decided tae knock up a wee secret shack in case we wanted to stay out.”
Captured by his Highland Kiss Page 9