“M’lady?” Janie paused with another slice of bread part way to her mouth.
“You seem…distracted.” Mercy had to know for certain, but she had to play this situation with care. “Are you unwell?”
Janie’s eyes rounded and her reddish brows arched to her hairline. “I’m quite well, m’lady. I am sorry. Did I miss something you said?” Her cheeks grew rosy. “Mam always said I was the worst child she ever had when it came to wool gathering.” She gave an apologetic shrug and lowered her voice. “Please forgive me, m’lady. I don’t mean to complain, but this trip is a mite boring compared to staying in the city.” She cringed and caught the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. “But please don’t dismiss me. You’re true and for certain the kindest mistress I’ve ever had.”
Perhaps Janie didn’t know. A guilty conscience punishes with many a useless thought. Mama’s words echoed strong and true. Thank goodness she hadn’t asked Janie outright. She would’ve revealed her scandalous secret. “How could I dismiss you, Janie, after you’ve taken such good care of me?”
“Thank you, m’lady.” Janie brightened and bobbed her head. “Thank you for your kindness.” Then she settled back on the blanket, lifted her cup to her lips, and returned to staring at the dreaded clump of grass.
She knows. No matter how innocent the girl played it, she knew. Mercy felt it in her heart. Regret and resignation settled like rocks in the pit of her stomach. She bowed her head and flattened her hand atop her sketchbook. Not only had she just lost an ally, she’d lost a friend. She prayed Janie’s devotion to her was as real as it had always seemed. Only that would keep the girl from profiting from the afternoon’s secret.
“There it is again!” Janie pointed at the grass. “There it is, m’lady! See it?”
Mercy shielded her eyes, relief flooding through her as she spotted what Janie had spied. Never in her life would she ever dream the sight of a sleek dark rodent swimming in a river would bring her so much joy. “Thank you,” she whispered to whatever benevolent power had seen fit to encourage the water rat to appear.
Chapter Nine
“Another two weeks or so of this ’til we reach Tor Ruadh?” Duncan shook his head and gave him a look Graham recognized all too well. Little brother thought him a fool. “Ye dinna handle the playing of games well, brother. Pretending one thing whilst ye feel another has never been your strong suit. There’s no guile about ye, ye ken? Never has been. Ye’re a hard-headed, bull of a man. Ye charge forward damned and determined with your whole heart or nothing. And to attempt such a farce with a Sassenach whose ties to the king appear strong? Ye’re daft for certain.” Duncan watched him, concern showing in the set of his shoulders and the scowl on his face. “I fear for ye, brother—fear both for your heart and your stubborn arse.”
Graham snorted away Duncan’s concern, concentrating instead on the rugged beauty of the surrounding land. Thank God they were back in Scotland. He glanced back at the group following them at a distance. Mercy had taken to riding at his side since their witnessed kiss. But today, he’d quietly asked her to stay with the group. He needed to learn the gossip of the camp. Duncan’s job was to ferret it out. His brother had a talent for blending in and becoming a best friend to a total stranger. As their mam always said, Duncan could charm a dog off a meat wagon. He made the perfect spy.
Graham ignored the critical points of Duncan’s warning. His brother could also be a nettling pain in the arse. “So, tell me then. Lady Mercy and I, our affection, ’tis believable?”
Duncan rolled his eyes.
Graham shifted in the saddle, trying his best to ignore the fact that his brother might be right, and the amorous pretense ventured too damn close to becoming a reality. The more time he and Lady Mercy invested in their charades, the more impossible it was to ignore his feelings for the woman. Not just a beauty, the woman was sharp-witted, tenacious, and fierce. What a waste. Such a woman bound for an abbey. And no matter how many times he suggested they come up with another solution, Mercy insisted she was determined to go to the abbey—even though Mother Julienne’s letter was less than welcoming. “I bid ye answer me, brother. Is our liaison believable?”
“Aye.” Duncan scowled at him. “Believable because ’tis real. I dare say ye’ll struggle something fierce when it comes time to carry out your plan. Just what will ye do, Graham? When the time comes to secret her away, when it’s time to get her to the nunnery, will ye?”
“I will leave her there as she wishes,” Graham said, staring straight ahead. “I’m no’ like Alexander. I am a mercenary—no’ a husband.”
“Alexander swore the same yet now he’s happy with Catriona and father to two bairns. Ye’re a fool, Graham. A fool through and through, ye ken?”
“Who is our enemy besides St. Johns?” It was time to change the subject and devise a battle plan before they reached Tor Ruadh, then deserted the group and spirited Mercy away before any of the others suspected. At least—that was the plan for now. He tried to ignore the bleak feeling of hopeless emptiness the thought triggered. “What about Percy and his son?”
“Near as I can tell, neither of the Marches give a rat’s arse about anything but horses and whisky.” Duncan gave an appreciative shrug as the horses meandered their way around a particularly rocky patch of ground. “Damned wise if ye ask me.”
That left Robbie, Wills, Bateson the cook, and Janie. Cook Bateson cared for no one but herself and her wagon, she’d made that apparent from the onset of the trip. The crotchety old woman kept to herself and none dared disturb her. Robbie and Wills still had a sullenness about them but so far, no other incidents of insolence had transpired. Mayhap they were just a pair of lads fed up with the life of servitude. And then there was Janie. Closer to Mercy than any of them. He prayed Mercy had taken his advice and not taken her into complete confidence. The outcome of such a mislaid trust could be deadly.
The sighting of three riders approaching fast ended Graham’s mulling. He and Duncan reined in their horses. The angle of the sun to the back of the riders rendered them as silhouettes, dark, foreboding figures, their features impossible to discern.
“They dinna wear kilts. I can tell that much.” Duncan drew his pistol. “Shall I ride ahead and greet them proper?”
“Nay.” Graham motioned back toward the wagons. “Warn the others, and have the men draw arms ’til we see if they be friend or foe.”
Highwaymen plagued the area but so did King William’s regiments. If he had his choice, Graham hoped for highwaymen. There was a certain honor among thieves, and he’d seen very little of that among the British. A flash of red filled him with renewed trepidation. Soldiers. From the direction they’d come, more than likely they came from Fort William. Could be some of Lord Crestshire’s troops which wouldn’t be a bad thing. Most of Crestshire’s men got along well with the MacCoinnichs. Graham readied his pistol and rested it across his lap. A man could but prepare for the worst and pray for the best.
Galloping from behind tore his attention from the soldiers in front of him. A gut-churning mix of protectiveness and irritation heated through him. He didn’t bother looking back. He knew very well who approached. “Get back to the wagons, lass.”
Mercy brought her horse up even with his. “Who do you think they are?” she asked, completely ignoring his order.
“I dinna ken.” He jabbed a thumb back toward the cluster of wagons. “Which is why I bid ye do as ye’re told and take shelter in the center of the wagons.” He squinted at the progress of the oncoming riders drawing ever closer. They’d reach them soon. “Now. Mercy, please listen and dinna challenge me on this. I canna protect ye as well if ye’re out in the open and vulnerable to attack.”
“I need you safe, too.”
Something in her voice made him turn and look at her. Chin lifted, she sat taller in the saddle and glared back at him, unflinching, defiant, and more beautiful a sight than any he’d ever seen.
Folly. Sheer folly, this was. His head knew
it all too well. The only chore left now was convincing his heart this wasn’t wise. “I shall be safe, lass. I swear it. Please.”
With a glance at the approaching soldiers, she gave him an acquiescing nod and turned her horse. “I shall hold you to your word, sir. Do not anger me by getting hurt.”
Her threat warmed through him like a shot of good whisky. He lifted a hand, drew Duncan’s attention, then motioned toward the lady returning to the group as he’d requested. He felt some better then. His brother would guard her well.
“You, there!” The soldier at the center of the trio drew ahead of the other two. “Identify yourself, sir.”
“Condescending bastard,” Graham muttered under his breath. He puffed out his chest and bared his teeth. “Graham MacCoinnich of Clan MacCoinnich. Who might ye be?”
“MacCoinnich, you say?” The soldier halted his mount a few feet away. “The MacCoinnich leading Lady Mercy Claxton through the Highlands?”
This man knew too much for his own damn good. Graham made the pistol in his hand more apparent. “Your name?”
The man squinted at the weapon, scowled, then shrugged it off. He gave Graham a polite bob of his head. “Captain Herschel Marsden. Dispatched from Fort William to relieve Lieutenant St. Johns of his duties.”
“I assure ye, it doesna take three of ye to replace that man.” Graham rested his pistol back in his lap but kept it at the ready.
Captain Marsden tucked his chin to his chest, face growing red and shoulders bouncing as though trying not to laugh out loud. He cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, you may or may not be aware of an incident involving St. Johns back in the village of Benswick.”
Duncan had reported a scuffle between the lieutenant and a local man, but Graham was not about to reveal his knowledge of the matter. “What incident?”
“As I thought.” With an indulgent smile, Captain Marsden tilted his head in Graham’s direction and urged his horse closer. “Officer James and Officer Carmichael will be escorting Lieutenant St. Johns back to Fort William to stand trial for the murder of one Franklin Samuels.” The Captain’s smile broadened. “I shall take St. Johns’s place in your entourage as His Majesty’s promised guard for the lady.”
Graham studied Captain Marsden. This change in the game was proof that word of his and Mercy’s feigned involvement had reached Edsbury and the crown. St. Johns hadn’t murdered anyone in Benswick. The man had returned from his trip to the village with a bloodied nose, a swollen eye, and his tail tucked. Duncan had said he’d nearly pissed himself laughing at the drunken brawl the fool had lost.
So, Edsbury’s scheme grew more entangled. A captain had been sent to replace the fool, and the man spoke as if he had a bit a sense. The remainder of the game would have to be played with greater care. Graham motioned the soldiers forward as he turned his horse. “Follow me. I wouldna wish to stand in the way of justice.”
The one thing that troubled Graham was the speed with which the news had traveled. He and Mercy had introduced the appearance of their mutual infatuation but a little while ago and had gone through only a few villages since.
An aggravated growl escaped him as Mercy met them halfway. “I asked ye to wait with the wagons, m’lady.”
“I waited as long as I could,” she said. She dodged Graham, urged her mount in front of Captain Marsden, and blocked his way. “I am Lady Mercy Claxton. What is your business here, sir?”
Captain Marsden tucked his hat beneath his arm and offered a gracious nod. “Your servant, m’lady, Captain Herschel Marsden.”
Mercy stole a look at Graham. He shot back a narrow-eyed glare, hoping she’d read his displeasure at her behavior. They would speak of this later.
“It appears the lieutenant is to be replaced by Captain Marsden here.” Graham nodded toward the wide-eyed St. Johns being escorted away after having his wrists cuffed to his saddle. “Murdered a man in Benswick, they say.”
“Murder? Lieutenant St. Johns?” Amusement and disbelief reflected in Mercy’s expression and tone. She found the possibility as laughable as Graham did.
“Never fear, m’lady. The officers shall carry the rogue away, and I shall be here to ensure your safety.” If Captain Marsden’s wide smile shone any brighter in his plump face, it would surely pale the sun.
Graham rolled his eyes and snorted.
Mercy didn’t grace the man with an answer, just turned her horse and returned to her place among the wagons in the cavalcade.
“Where are we bound, sir?” Captain Marsden asked as he brought his horse abreast of Graham’s mount. The man’s charming demeanor and almost puppy-like friendliness made Graham want to knock his Sassenach arse out of that saddle.
“Tor Ruadh,” Graham replied.
“Your brother’s keep,” Marsden noted. “A fine keep, I must say. I enjoyed a visit there earlier this spring once the passes cleared of snow. Your brother appears to be an exemplary chieftain.” He glanced back at the entourage plodding along behind them. “About a two-week ride at this pace, wouldn’t you say?”
Graham turned to answer, but Mercy’s galloping approach stopped him. “A problem, m’lady?” he said with a growl, not attempting to hide his frustration.
“Sir!” Captain Marsden shot him a stern look. “I bid you curb your tone when addressing the lady.”
“Do ye now?” Graham pulled his horse to a halt. “And what do ye mean to do about it if I dinna?”
“Now, Graham.” Mercy steered her horse between the two men. “Captain Marsden,” she said in a voice dripping with sweetness. “You mustn’t read anything into Master MacCoinnich’s tone. I fear I have been quite the trying charge, and he is not to blame for being curt. I assure you, he’s been a most admirable gentleman even though I fear I have behaved like quite the spoiled child at times.”
“Oh, my dear lady, I am certain that cannot be true.” Captain Marsden beamed at her, the curls of his receding blonde hair stuck to the perspiration on his broad forehead as he clutched his hat in front of him.
Graham forced back a gag. He scrubbed a hand across his mouth and glared at Mercy, willing the woman to behave. “The lady is quite the challenge. I grant ye that.”
Captain Marsden gave him a wink and a knowing nod. “I am more than certain she is, sir. Why else would His Majesty take it upon himself to see she is secured with such an advantageous match?” He shrugged, oblivious to the fact that both Mercy and Graham sat staring at him with their mouths open. “Of course, she is his only godchild. Both I and all the court find it more than natural he takes such a keen interest in her well-being.” He turned aside toward Graham, lowered his voice, and shielded his mouth with one hand as though attempting to hide his words from the lady. “After all, there is the problem of her father’s debts and the slipping of his status at court.”
“What match?” Mercy asked, biting out the words as though they choked her. “After my journey through the Highlands, I am bound for Iona Abbey. My father has agreed to it.”
Graham edged his horse closer to Mercy’s mount. The poor lass had paled and looked ready to faint.
Captain Marsden’s eyes grew wide, and he pressed a hand to his chest. “Forgive me, m’lady, but I was under the assumption you knew of your betrothal.”
“Betrothal?” The word unleashed a possessive rage through Graham. He’d struggled to resign himself to Mercy dedicating her life to a nunnery, but he’d be damned if he handed her over to another man.
“You must be mistaken.” Mercy shook her head. “I am not betrothed.”
“Oh yes, m’lady.” Marsden gave an adamant nod. “Louis Van Der Berg. A very influential Dutch cousin of His Highness’s with close alignments to the House of Orange-Nassau. According to a reliable source, Van Der Berg is to receive the title of Duke upon the day of your wedding.” Captain Marsden gave Mercy a glowing smile. “You shall not only be a bride but a duchess in your own right, m’lady. Quite fortunate, yes?”
Mercy stretched out a hand to Graham, fear
and panic flashing in her eyes. “I knew nothing of this. I swear.”
Graham took her hand and held tight, her pain and dread cutting through him. He laced his fingers through hers, then pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. Leaning closer, he whispered, “We will make this right. I swear it.”
“Oh, dear,” Captain Marsden interrupted, looking first at Mercy, then at Graham, then at their clasped hands. “So, it is true. I had been informed you two…but surely, m’lady, with a Scotsman, you didn’t—”
“Ye dare sully this fine lady’s name and I’ll scatter your bones from one end of this glen to the other.” Graham leveled his pistol at Marsden. “Lady Mercy has done nothing improper, I assure ye. Christ, man, she is determined to spend the rest of her life in a nunnery, ye ken?” Graham hated to deny the kisses and the feelings they’d shared even though they’d gone unspoken, but he had to—for her sake and the sake of his clan—at least until he figured out a better plan and a way to make Mercy his own.
“I am not one to propagate disparaging rumors, I assure you.” Captain Marsden glanced toward the retreating figures taking St. Johns toward Fort William. He turned back and frowned at Graham, then gave a slow shake of his head. “But I am also not one to lie. There have been reports of an attachment between yourself and Lady Mercy, and those reports have reached His Highness.”
“And that is why I now discover myself betrothed? I am bound for the abbey. Does that count for nothing?” Mercy looked close to tears. “When?” she asked bitterly. “When am I to be handed over?”
The captain’s shoulders slumped. “Upon your return from Tor Ruadh, m’lady. His Majesty—in his generosity—has allowed that you may finish your tour of the Highlands and are also granted a fortnight’s stay with Clan MacCoinnich at their keep to better record the traditions of Scotland in your journal honoring your late mother and brother.” He gave Graham and her an apologetic shrug. “Then you are to return forthwith to Kensington. Your wedding day is set for early September.”
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