“Yes, daughter.” He waved a hand toward the other wingback chair flanking the table of books. His gaze settled on the thick, leather-bound tomes. “I must stay, quite an unusual choice of reading material for a young lady. Maps of Scotland, clans of the Highlands, and the history of abbeys and priories.” He paused for a deep sip of the golden liquid in the glass he always clutched in one hand until it was time for him to retire for the evening. He selected one of the larger books bound in black leather and squinted closer at the faded lettering on its spine. “Ah yes, and the Holy Bible, of course.”
“Preparations for my trip, Papa.” Mercy lowered herself to the chair, perching on the edge of the seat. A proper lady never lounged back in a chair. She wished she’d returned the book about abbeys and priories back to the shelves. That book might draw too much scrutiny to her itinerary.
Her father returned the Bible to the stack of books, frowning at the pile as though the mere sight of the collected readings disgusted him. “About your trip…” He leaned forward, cupping his glass of whiskey between both hands and scowling down at the shimmering liquid as though he hated it.
Mercy’s thumping heart threatened to steal her breath. With a hard swallow, she tucked her fists against her middle and willed herself to remain calm. “Yes, Papa? It’s my understanding that all stands at the ready. We merely await the arrival of Master MacCoinnich’s brothers.”
He looked up at her then, locking a piercing scrutiny upon her. His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “It is very important to me that Master MacCoinnich…” His words faded away and the down-turned corners of his mouth tightened and twitched as though he fought to speak in spite of some inner demon attempting to keep him silent. He trembled, his frustrated scowl growing even fiercer. “Master MacCoinnich must…”
“Must what?”
“He must grow measurably fond of you.” He downed the contents of his glass, rose stiffly from his seat, and shuffled across the room to the table of bottles and decanters beside another wall of books.
A sense of doom tightened in the pit of Mercy’s stomach. It was all she could do to keep her voice controlled and even. “Fond of me?” she repeated, nearly choking on the words. “What exactly do you mean, Papa?”
The Duke of Edsbury refilled his glass, emptied it in one long drink, then filled it again. He meandered along the wall of bookcases, perusing the shelves as though looking for a nightly read. “It is important to me, daughter. Important that you are…accepted.” He turned toward her with a jerk. “I cannot begin to tell you how I have regretted the ill treatment you, your brother, and your mother—and myself, I might add—have received over the years.” He lifted his quivering chin and bared his yellowed teeth, biting out his words. “No amount of wealth or status protected the three of you from society’s cruelty. It failed to protect any of us—myself most importantly.” Pulling in a deep breath, he appeared to grow calmer. “But I mean to change all that.” He gave her a perfunctory nod. “So, you need to ensure MacCoinnich becomes enamored of you. You must understand my intent and obey me as your mother always did.”
“Enamored of me?” The request pushed her to her feet and made her take a step closer to the door. “You wish a Scotsman to fall in love with me? Why?” What political game did her father play at, and how could the love of a Scotsman help him win it?
The thought set her stomach to churning. This did not fit well with her plans at all. And now that Mama was gone, was Mercy expected to assume the role of primary pawn for Papa’s political scheming? How much had Mama endured because of Papa’s machinations? “How can you ask such a thing of me, Papa? How?” Did he possess no kind feelings toward her at all?
Her father plunked his glass down among the decanters. Hands trembling as he knotted them into fists, he knuckled them down on the long heavy table. He leaned over it, swaying from side to side as though the strength of the furniture was the only thing holding him upright. Head bowed, he stared down at his fists as he spoke. “If you can make a Scotsman love you and then spurn him, society will see that you are above the low morals they saw fit to brand you and your mother with because of your ancestry. They will see you as a proper daughter of an English gentleman. They will see me in a better light.”
Her father lied. Mercy felt it more surely than the over-tight corset biting into her ribs. The slow, simmering fury she’d carried with her ever since she’d been old enough to recognize the ill treatment of herself and her mother bubbled to the surface. “I fail to see how spurning the love of a Scotsman will make people stop calling me a low class aberration of muddied breeding, whelped from a prostitute you rescued from pirates off the coast of Siam.”
Her father spun about and faced her, mouth agape. “Mercy Rowena Etain Claxton! Where did you learn such language?”
“From those with whom you seek acceptance.” Mercy stood taller and drew in a settling breath, holding in the tears burning her eyes. “Now tell me the truth. Why do you come to my rooms and tell me to seduce a stranger, then cast him aside? I shall never be accepted, and you know very well why.”
The duke sagged into a nearby chair tucked up against the small hearth on the opposite side of the room. He massaged his temples, then leaned his head into hands. “I tried to cherish you, Mercy—just as I tried to love and cherish your brother and your beautiful mother after I made the mistake of falling under her spell and throwing my life into ruin.” Without lifting his face from his hands, he drew in a heavy breath. “I am a weak man, and now I must pay the price for it.” He dropped his hands from his face and glared at her as though he’d love nothing more than to beat her. He pointed at her. “You are the key to my redemption, daughter.”
Mercy studied her father, attempting to fathom what he meant. He made even less sense this evening than he usually did after a few glasses of his favorite drink. “I fear I still don’t understand.”
“You are to secure my place at court, dear child. Permanently.” The duke settled himself back in the chair and folded his hands in his lap with a coldness that filled the room. “And Jameson Campbell owns my soul due to several of my recent debts, but you shall remedy that problem as well.”
“But the king—” Surely King William would help him—especially against a Scot. After all, her father had been a court favorite for as long as she could remember.
“I have fallen from his majesty’s favor since your mother’s untimely death. Disregard all you have seen over the past year and what he told MacCoinnich during our meeting.” Mercy’s father propped his elbow on the arm of the chair and set his chin in his hand as he stared into nothingness. He gave a disheartened shrug. “All that kept the king from banishing me from court after your mother’s fatal accident was a promising opportunity I offered him.”
A sick sensation washed across Mercy. Whatever her father was about to say couldn’t possibly be good. “What opportunity?”
“The MacCoinnichs fought alongside the MacDonalds at the massacre of Glencoe.” The duke studied her, his expression unreadable. “They are considered a possible problem to the crown. The king does not trust them or the Neals, with whom they forged an alliance through marriage to rebuild their clan.”
“What has that to do with Jameson Campbell, your debts, and an opportunity for the king?” Her father still wasn’t making sense.
“Jameson Campbell was once betrothed to the current wife of Alexander MacCoinnich.” Her father frowned at her as though this information should mean something. It didn’t. He rolled his eyes and continued, “Alexander MacCoinnich is Graham MacCoinnich’s eldest brother. Clan MacCoinnich’s chief. When Campbell attempted to claim his betrothed, along with her generous dowry, MacCoinnich not only dishonored Campbell but also convinced Lord Crestshire to toss him into the Tolbooth at Edinburgh.”
Mercy hugged herself, scrubbing her arms against the oppressive sense of evil settling across the room. Mama had warned her of Papa’s political scheming before. He enjoyed the games of politics far better than any
challenge of backgammon or chess. “Spurning a Scot seems weak revenge for Campbell’s time in prison and however much money you owe him.”
“Not if that Scot reacts as predicted.”
“Which is?”
“When a Scot wants something, especially a MacCoinnich, he takes it, and if it escapes him, he fights to make it his own, even steals it if need be. MacCoinnich’s brother proved that.” He sipped at his drink, never blinking in his plotting scrutiny of her. He lifted his glass in a toast. “King William wishes the MacCoinnichs tested and neutralized the same way the Campbells quelled the MacDonalds, but His Majesty would like the task to look more plausible this time, cleaner—especially after the debacle at Glencoe.” He gave a dissatisfied shake of his head as he rose from the depths of the chair. “Glencoe turned gruesome and risked the image King William wishes to maintain.” Pointing a finger at Mercy, a cold, mean laugh rumbled from him as he returned to the decanter and filled his glass. “But the kidnapping of a Duke’s daughter, the one and only favored godchild of the king, would give His Majesty good reason to silence a dangerous rumbling in the Highlands before it becomes a deafening roar.”
Mercy turned away as her father continued sharing his grand plan, wishing she could cover her ears to shut out his words.
“And what better form of repayment to Jameson Campbell than the opportunity to destroy the family who shamed him without fear of reprisal from the king?” The wood flooring beneath her father’s large frame groaned and creaked as he made his way to the door. “You will do this for me, daughter, and for our king. With Lord Crestshire’s military reports of no treasonous issues with the MacCoinnichs, this is the only way to destroy them honorably.”
“Honorably?” What honor existed in setting such a snare? “And if I refuse?” She had to say the words even though she heard her mother’s soft warning in her mind. You must never challenge Papa.
“I shall disavow you as my daughter and name you as a bastard of one of your mother’s numerous affairs. Trust me. It won’t take anything to prove my claim.” Her father’s words echoed low and deadly through the room. “And I shall have you sent to the wharf where I met your mother, and you can survive as best you can among the pirates.” He paused and gave her a slow up and down look. “I’m sure you’ll fetch an even higher price than what I paid for your mother all those many years ago.”
The door creaked as he opened it “I am not completely heartless. Accomplish this task to my liking and you shall be sent to the abbey on the Isle of Iona. The abbess there was well acquainted with your mother and felt a kindness toward her.” He gave a casual flip of one hand. “At least, from what I gathered from your mother’s journals, the abbess had no issue with a reformed whore and adulteress.” He stared at Mercy, his watery, bloodshot eyes squinting. “I can barely stand to look at you, daughter. You remind me so much of her. My misbegotten lust for her. The way she drove me mad beyond reason. The damned foolish mistake I made in marrying her for which I’ve paid a thousand times over. I could have achieved greatness without the lot of you attached to my name.”
As much as she wanted to look away, Mercy couldn’t tear her gaze from him as he stood in the doorway, this monster of a man who had once been her trusted papa. Yes, he’d always been detached but never this cruel.
“I refuse to lose any more opportunities because of an error in judgement I made years ago. One way or another, you shall make this right for me or rue the day you were born.”
“Too late, Father,” Mercy whispered. “I already do.”
Chapter Three
’Twas a gray, bone-chilling day–typical for early spring in England. A drizzling rain soaked through everything. Graham swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, then yanked his long, dripping hair away from his neck. He hated the feel of clammy hair shoved down his collar and stuck to his skin.
The rhythmic clop-clop-clop echoing ever closer pulled Graham’s attention away from tightening the leather straps of the bags to the rear of his saddle. He turned and scanned the bustling area in front of the public stable. His dark mood lightened somewhat at the sight of his younger brother, Duncan, riding a dapple gray down the narrow alleyway cutting between the tall buildings lining one of the city’s busiest thoroughfares. Good. It was about time. With his brothers here, they could be shed of this crowded, stinking hell and be on their way back to the Highlands. He sidled to one side, craning his neck to see behind Duncan and catch sight of his youngest brother, Sutherland. But the alley behind Duncan was empty.
“Where’s Sutherland?”
“Greetings to ye as well, dear brother.” Duncan fixed him with a go-to-Hades look as he dismounted. His brother rolled his shoulders and glanced around the paddock. “Sutherland’s in France. Left the day before the messenger arrived with your strange request.” He slapped a hand to Graham’s shoulder. “So, tell me, brother, what manner of shite have ye stepped in this time?” He leaned in close and winked. “I’m proud to see ye’re at least not in prison, so it canna be too serious.”
“Ye willna believe me when I tell ye.” Graham turned back to his mount, running his hand over his sheathed sword, to his holstered musket, and across the rolled bundles in one last check of all he’d need for this venture. He’d been ready since the day of the meeting but still couldn’t believe all that had transpired. With his hand on the braided lip of his saddle, a frustrated snort escaped him. “King William and the Duke of Edsbury have hired our expertise for a safe, informative tour of the Highlands. Gold to be our payment.”
“A tour of the Highlands, ye say?” A dark brow hiked and disbelief sparking in his eyes, Duncan laughed. “Since when does the king and one of his pawns hire a mercenary, a Scot no less, to take them through the Highlands?” He propped his shoulder against one of the stone columns of the stable. All humor left him as he gazed at Graham. “I smell a trap, brother.”
“Aye, I got a whiff of that stench as well.” Graham stole a glance around the area and edged a step closer to Duncan. “And we’re nae taking them through the Highlands, mind ye. ’Tis Edsbury’s daughter. Lady Mercy Claxton and her retinue, and we’ll be nursemaids to them through the wilds of Scotland.”
“The Lady Mercy Claxton? A genteel woman of noble birth? Camping her way across the Highlands?” He pushed off the wall and looked about, confirming their privacy. Still scowling, he strode back to within a hairsbreadth of Graham’s nose. “This reeks of a dangerous snare, ye ken that, aye? What the hell do they play at?”
Graham felt the same. It was as though he and Duncan were a pair of clueless rabbits about to be caught. “I have yet to discover their game, but the king made it quite clear this was not a request. There was little choice to be had.”
“Ye mentioned gold,” Duncan reminded, his avarice always at the forefront.
“Aye. Bags of it, they said. As much as ye can carry.”
“Christ Almighty, ’tis one hell of a trap for sure then.” Duncan scrubbed a hand over the dark stubble of his beard, then raked his fingers back through his hair. He studied Graham, the muscles in his square jaw flexing. “Ye told them half now and the rest when the job was done, aye?”
Shite. Why the hell had he not thought of that? Graham knew exactly why. Because he’d been done in with the strangeness of the entire situation. He ducked his head, ashamed to admit a failing to his younger brother. “Nay. Payment in full once we return her here to London.”
“Ye’re daft, ye are.” Duncan gave him a damning glare. “Ye always get the money first—or at least a good bit of it. She must be quite the fetching lass.”
“If ye’d been there, ye would understand,” Graham defended. A private audience with a king who’d as soon hang your arse as to look at ye, paired with a beauty begging to be swept away to the Highlands, well… Hell’s fire. At least he’d ensured they’d be paid at all.
The sound of an approaching rider silenced them both. A soldier in full redcoat uniform headed his horse toward them at a fast cl
ip. The man sat tall in the saddle, his scowl locked on Graham. He yanked his horse to a halt, squared his rain-soaked shoulders, and squinted down his nose at Graham. “Master Graham MacCoinnich?”
“Aye.” Graham rested one hand on the hilt of his sword sheathed in front of his saddle and the other on the butt of his second pistol tucked into his belt.
“Lieutenant George St. Johns, sir. I shall accompany you and your brother on Lady Claxton’s journey.” He gave a nod at Duncan as though this small, polite gesture should be taken as quite the blessing.
“Well… that’s verra reassuring, I grant ye, but I fear we’ve yet to be notified when her ladyship wishes to leave. So ye might as well be gone for a bit.” Graham clapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder. “My brother here just arrived. He’ll need a bit of time to refresh himself before our departure.”
Mouth ajar, the lieutenant darted a quick glance behind him as though the devil himself nipped at his coattails. He motioned back down the alley. “Lady Claxton and her company await us at Gray’s Inn Fields. They are ready to leave.” A jerk of his head in that direction expressed the urgency. “Now.”
This was not the way any trip should start. Graham shook his head. Time to take control. The king could order him to do this task but, by damn, the man wouldn’t control how he did it. “Tell her ladyship we set out at dawn, aye? ’Twould be better than leaving midday today.”
The Guardian Page 3