Anne Stuart (21 page)

Fleur couldn’t respond to her sister’s questions; she simply turned her face into the pillow and wept, a circumstance that distressed Jessamine tremendously. Fleur was not, by nature, a weeper. She cried over hurt animals and lost children, but the heartfelt depths of her sobs struck an unnamed terror in Jessamine’s heart.

She could only blame Glenshiel. She had no particular cause to do so, but she had rapidly come to the conclusion that the Earl of Glenshiel was the author of all her most recent misfortunes, and if he hadn’t somehow managed to sneak around Jessamine’s careful surveillance and upset her sister,
then he doubtless had a hand in it.

Fleur wasn’t telling, and Alistair MacAlpin had retired to his room with a highly suspicious illness. And Jessamine, at loose ends, had every intention of finding out just how sick he actually was.

It had been a simple enough matter to breech the fastness of his room. She had retraced her steps from a few days before, making certain there were no helpful witnesses as she rapped on the door.

There was also no answer to her tentative knock. She rapped louder, then placed her ear against the heavy wood. Not a sound echoed from beyond, and she reached down to open the door, when a loud harrumph made her leap backward with a shriek.

“
His lordship is indisposed, miss.”

It was his sepulchral-looking manservant, Malkin, staring down at her with such stark disapproval that Jessamine almost withered. Almost.

“
So I gathered,” she said brightly. “I just came by to see how he was. If he needed anything.”

“
I will convey your concern, miss,” he intoned. “Be assured I am more than adequate to the task of looking after my master. Rest and quiet are what he needs now. I doubt you’ll see him till midday tomorrow.”

“
He’s quite ill, is he?” Jessamine said. “Exactly what are his symptoms? I have some talent with herbs, and I might be able to brew him a tisane that would put him in better heart.”

“
He has the bloody flux.”

“
How very unpleasant,” she said faintly.

“
Quite.”

Neither of them moved, and Jessamine wondered which of them was the more stubborn. It didn’t take her long to realize she was no match for a superior manservant, and she contented herself with a faint smile. “Give his lordship my best wishes for
his speedy recovery,” she said, relinquishing the field of battle.

“
Certainly, miss.”

But he did no such thing. The moment Jessamine turned the corner of the cavernous hallway she stopped, leaning against the wall, listening for the sound of the door opening, listening for Glenshiel’s faint voice.

When she dared risk a peek it was only to discover that the manservant was retreating, not even bothering to check on his deathly ill master. Which served to convince Jessamine of one thing. Alistair MacAlpin was not in his room.

She doubted she’d have the chance to check. His guard dog wouldn’t have retreated far, and if she tried to enter the bedchamber once more, he’d doubtless stop her just as swiftly.

She wouldn’t find much more of a welcome in her own room. And there was no peace to be found in the elegant house of her hostess. She didn’t need to read the cards to know that something was afoot, something dark and dangerous and infinitely exciting.

And it involved Alistair MacAlpin.

The music room was still deserted in that singularly unmusical household. Outside, the rain was falling, but inside the one branch of candelabra she’d pilfered from the hallway sent streams of flickering light over the small room. The glass door still held a crack, proof that no one had breached the fastness of the place.

Jessamine averted her gaze deliberately. The scrape on her back was no more than a faint irritation on her body, but the memory of Glenshiel was a burning brand on her soul. He’d managed to distract and confound her at every turn, threatening everything she held dear.

She cleared off the top of the harpsichord, blew away a faint layer of dust, and set her reticule atop the painted lid. The cards felt warm, living in her hands as she pulled them out,
and she was aware of a sudden sweep of misgiving. She knew the cards too well—they seldom kept secrets from her. From the moment she had first set eyes on the disturbingly charming Earl of Glenshiel, she had fought the temptation to do a reading. It was a temptation she could resist no longer. Not when the cards called to her with the answers.

She let her mind go completely blank as she let the well-worn pasteboard cards shuffle against one another. The colors and symbols flashed by, and she closed her eyes for a moment, picturing him. The narrow, clever, dangerously handsome face. The mouth that could curve in a mocking smile or one of devastating sweetness. The mouth that had touched hers, wooed hers...

She laid the cards out in front of her by feel, the warmth of them tingling her fingers. Then she stared in growing apprehension.

The Prince of Swords. Who else would he be? Bold to the point of foolhardiness, a man who toyed with right and wrong. What would a man like Glenshiel know about wrong?

One card followed another, none a surprise. In truth, she hadn’t even needed to lay the cards out, she knew so well the truth that she’d been fighting. The Lovers were expected, as the Tower of Destruction.

Only the High Priestess surprised her, and she stared at it, perplexed. She seldom drew the High Priestess—its power was immutable and frightening. She looked down into the ancient seeress’s painted face and saw her own eyes looking back. And reflected in those eyes was the silhouette of a black cat.

It might have been a sound, or her own highly tuned senses. She looked up at the moment, past the cracked window, and saw a dark figure skirting the outer wall, moving with a feline grace. It was too dark to see more than a shadow, and the
creature blended with the night, but she knew who it was. Who it had to be.

She didn’t hesitate. The rain had stopped for the moment, the door opened silently beneath her hand. A minute later she was out in the night air, heading after the shadowy, catlike figure.

It was cooler than she’d expected, and damper, and the wind pulled her hair from its tight arrangement, lashing it against her face. For once she could thank fate that she was forced to wear the high-necked, heavy dresses she and Fleur had cut down from their mother’s wardrobe. She would have frozen in one of Fleur’s low-cut, diaphanous gowns.

He was heading for the stables, slipping through the night like a wraith. She followed him, hoping she was equally as circumspect, that her wind-tossed skirt and hair would blend with the darkness.

The stables were deserted at that hour, and in the distance Jessamine could hear the sounds of the servants in the hall. They must be eating—the Cat had timed his escape well.

She slipped into the stables after him, blinking as her eyes grew accustomed to the murky light. He seemed to have disappeared, and she stood motionless, peering through shifting shadows, breathing in the scent of hay and horses and leather, comforting scents from her childhood.

It took her a moment to recognize the muffled sounds she was hearing, the crisp clapping of hooves that told her that her nemesis had already made his escape, taking his horse and leaving the back way.

There must be madness in the air, Jessamine thought almost abstractedly, for her to even entertain the notion that the elegant Earl of Glenshiel was a common thief, that he would sneak out of the house and take off into the night on nefarious business.

And she had every intention of following him.

Madness, perhaps, but this time she was giving in to it. Glenshiel was a threat, the Cat was a threat, and she had the ability to neutralize both that night. If she went tamely back to bed, her self-disgust would know no bounds.

Besides, what did she have to lose? There would be no place in society for the likes of her, an eccentric who would never marry. No matter how wealthy Fleur’s future husband, it was unlikely his fortune would extend to making Jessamine a welcome member of society.

Most important of all, she was wildly curious.

She rode well, and even though it had been two years since she’d been on a horse, she had little doubt she could keep pace with any man. It was sheer luck that Marilla had seen to it that she knew how to saddle and bridle her own mounts, or she would have been helpless in the deserted stables.

As it was, it took precious time to ready one of the sleek, beautiful mares, and by the time she’d managed to scramble onto her back and head out of the stables, it should have been too late to follow him.

She paused, her hands on the reins, feeling the grace and power of the creature beneath her, and closed her eyes, focusing on the cards. The Prince of Swords, playing with right and wrong. She nudged the horse with her knee and let her take the lead.

It should have come as no surprise that they were heading out toward the London road. She kicked the horse into a faster trot, leaning forward to encourage her, whispering in her ear. Her gift with cards extended to animals as well, and the responsive creature moved faster, her sleek, strong body blending with hers.

She had no sense of time or place. She wore no gloves, and her hands were icy and chilled on the reins. Her hair had tumbled free, a witch’s tangle down her back, and the night
was cold and damp. She didn’t care. She didn’t even care where she was going or what she would find. She had turned her will over to the fates, letting them, and the horse, take her where they wished. God only knew what she would find at the end of her destination. Alistair MacAlpin? Or the Cat? Or both?

It came at her out of the night sky, dark and smothering and immensely powerful, like a blanket of death, knocking her off the horse so that she landed, hard, on the deserted roadway, stunned, breathless, knowing only smothering blackness as she felt the huge weight that pinned her down.

She struggled for breath, for sight. Her breath came back to her in a choking rush, but the heavy folds of whatever covered her offered little in the way of fresh air, and she fought more wildly, kicking out, connecting quite solidly with bone and muscle.

“
Bitch,” came Alistair MacAlpin’s pleasant drawl. “Do that again and you’ll regret it.”

Jessamine froze. She knew who it was --- she’d been certain that was who she’d been following. Yet the reality off his body on top of hers, pressing her down, shocked her into temporary acquiescence.

There was a sharp stone beneath one shoulder blade, another beneath her hip. His weight was solid, flesh and bone, atop her, and she felt annoyance, discomfort, and a strange, dangerous stirring.

“
Get off me, Glenshiel,” she said through whatever muffled her face. “You weigh a ton.”

“
That’s my sweet-tongued lass,” he said, rolling off her. He flipped the enveloping cover from her body, and she could see him sitting next to her on the deserted roadway, looking abominably pleased with himself.

He was dressed entirely in black. Tight-fitting black breeches, black boots, a black shirt with nary a ruffle on it.

Belatedly she realized the blanket that covered her was an inky black cloak, and she shoved it away from her with impressive disdain.

“
What are you doing out here dressed like that?” she demanded in her archest voice.

He was clearly unimpressed. Despite the thin sliver of moonlight she could see him quite well, and the look in his eyes boded ill. “I could ask the same of you,” he countered pleasantly enough.

“
I was following you.”

“
Rather foolhardy, don’t you think? And it could be quite embarrassing. I’ve probably gone to meet a lover, and if you happened to sneak up on us while we were otherwise... occupied I imagine your sweet little virgin eyes would go blind with shock and horror.”

“
I doubt it. And you haven’t come out to meet a lover.”

“
You wound me, Jessamine. Most women find me well-nigh irresistible. Only you seem curiously immune to my somewhat tarnished charm. I wonder why? I’ve gone out of my way to seduce you, and no matter how diligently I apply myself, you still seem to despise me. I wonder, do you hold something against men in particular, or is it just me?”

“
You aren’t trying to seduce me,” she said flatly. “You’re just trying to keep me from discovering who you really are.”

There was a sudden ominous silence. “What a very foolish little girl you are,” Alistair purred after a moment. “For one so very bright, you are alarmingly obtuse. Assume you’ve actually discovered my deep, dark secret. I have little doubt that no one knows you’re out here—no groom would have allowed you to take that horse, and no guest would have let you go unaccompanied. So what’s to keep me from strangling you and disposing of your body in some deserted spot?”

A trickle of fear slid down her spine. “You wouldn’t,” she
said, more a guess than a certainty.

He rose on his knees in the dirt, towering over her. “Tell me, my pet. Exactly what do you suspect I am?”

Now was her time to back down, to come up with an easy lie so that she might escape from this man, who suddenly seemed entirely capable of doing her grave harm. He was no longer the useless, elegant creature from the drawing rooms who watched her as she read the cards. Nor was he the seductive rogue who’d backed her into far too many corners and come dangerously close to making her forget all that was most important to her.