Beguiled (16 page)

Tomorrow they'd visit Saint Vincent's Church and hopefully glean the whereabouts of the mysterious Mrs. Borrowfield. After a visit to the mill, Edward and Agnes would take a late supper with William Arkwright, the mayor of Glasgow. Edward smiled, thinking of the lively conversation he'd shared with Agnes earlier in the day. As her host and a man of lesser rank than her father, he was obligated to escort her. Convention aside, he'd make certain that her hand rested on his arm when they were called into dinner.

A shape passed before the hearth. Edward froze. He recognized the slender figure wearing breeches, her hair hastily gathered at the nape of her neck, a weapon in her hand. In her passage down the stairs she hadn't made a sound. During an earlier climb to visit the upper levels, the new wood had creaked and groaned beneath Edward's weight.

How could anyone be so light on their feet?

She stopped, stepped back, and faced him. “I thought you had retired, my lord.”

He sat in the shadows. She stood between him and the light. She couldn't have seen him, and he'd made no sound, but she'd known he was here.

Necessity played no part in her excursion; the upstairs garderobe functioned efficiently, there was food aplenty in the larder behind him. A barrel of water stood near the door. She certainly didn't need a sword.

“Where are you going?”

She moved toward him. Light glinted on steel as she tried to hide the weapon behind her. “The guard is absent from his post atop the new wing.”

Edward went to the nearest arrow slit and looked across the courtyard. The sentry was drinking from the fountain. The arrow slits in the walls of the chamber above faced east, offering a view of the river Clyde. She couldn't see the courtyard from her vantage point.

Edward wanted to rail at her, but he'd done so before with disastrous results. But when he thought about the weapon she carried, gentle words failed him. “So you were going in search of the guard? And if you say you intended to walk about anyway, because you are stiff from sitting at the gaming table, I will take great umbrage at it.”

“Shush! You'll wake the household. Do you wish to accompany me?”

In two strides he stood beside her. “What if the assassin did get past the guards and you had come upon him? Do you think your foreign fighting skills would have prevailed?”

“I thought to hold him off until help arrived, which I would be screaming for.”

The attempt at humor was too weak. She was hiding something. “That blade is useless against a crossbow, Agnes.”

“I also have a dagger,
my lord,
and my aim is excellent.”

She wouldn't distract him with false formality. “The guard stands his post.”

As quickly as it had come, the fight left her. “Humor me, Lord Edward?”

Something in her tone made him agree. Motioning toward the door, he followed her into the hall and closed the door behind him. Absolute darkness and silence surrounded them. Even without light, he could find his way in Napier House. To the left lay the entrance of the passage to his laboratory. Straight ahead, with a brief veer to the right, was the corridor to the new wing.

He touched her shoulder. “I'll lead the way.”

She slipped her hand under his and drew his arm down. “How did you find me in this pitch?”

Had twenty proper excuses come to mind, he couldn't have voiced one. “ 'Tis the fragrance in your hair.”

“Truly?” She sniffed. “I cannot smell it over those cloying roses.”

What made him think and say such bold things to her? He didn't know. Her hand felt perfect nestled in his. He gave a little squeeze, which she returned. It was then he realized that he held her right hand, and her grip proved that she was past being on the mend.

The tinny sound of a bell pierced the silence.

“That's the alarm in your study!” she said.

Edward moved and almost sent her careening into one of the suits of armor. Steadying her, he put her behind him and ran down the hall. She kept pace, and when they reached the juncture in the formal parlor, she darted left and tried to move ahead. Now in a race, they sped through the corridor. Edward glanced out the glass doors leading to the courtyard. He was moving too fast to see if the windows in his study were open. Moments ago in the tower, he'd looked through an arrow slit and spied the guard at the fountain. Nothing had seemed amiss in the new wing.

Something was amiss now.

They hurried past the music room and the library. Slowing enough to clutch the door handle, Edward burst into the room, Agnes fast on his heels. As if they'd made a plan of action, Edward moved to the left and dropped down; she moved to the right.

The newly mullioned windows stood open, the draperies gently billowing into the room. A patch of wavering moonlight spilled onto the floor.

His chest heaving, Edward strained to see into the shadowy corners of the room.

“He's gone,” she said on a ragged breath.

“You cannot know that.”

Shouts came from the roof. She sprang to her feet. Edward hurried to the window and called to the guard, “Is anyone about?”

The sentry moved to the edge of the roof and scanned the courtyard.

“Stand away from the window, Edward,” Lady Agnes said. “You're an easy target.”

Again Edward dropped down. He hadn't thought to bring a weapon but the woman behind him had.

Flint struck steel. Turning he saw her lifting a lighted taper. She stood before the firescreen. She wasn't in the least winded, and her hand was incredibly steady on the candlestick.

“Sweet Saint Ninian,” she murmured.

When Edward realized what she was looking at, he understood why she'd cursed. Rolled inside the small MacKenzie plaid was a dove, another of the wicked quarrels skewering the bird to the Napier shield.

“There!” came a shout from outside. “He goes by the stables!”

Outrage boiled inside Edward. “Give me that sword, and find a way back to the tower,” he said.

“Nay.” Agnes could feel his anger, and it fed the fire that smoldered inside her.

“The sword!” In stance and determination he radiated fury.

The weapon grew heavy in her hand. His eyes widened, and she could feel him willing her to yield.

She tossed him the blade. “Find him!”

In a swipe of his hand, he snatched the sword from the air. “Stay out of harm's way, Agnes MacKenzie.”

Mired in feelings she could not explain, she drew the dagger from her boot. “I'll be with the children.” More needed to be said, but there was so little time. “If you get yourself killed, Edward Napier, I will take great umbrage at it.”

With a quick nod, he gathered up his long tunic and bounded into the courtyard.

A drum of apprehension beat in her breast. “Fortune and God go with you,” she whispered.

The candle flame wavered, then winked out. Smoke from the smoldering wick worried her nose. She pinched the tiny ember and dropped the candlestick. Blinking back fear, she hurried from the room and moved down the dark corridor. Almost on her tiptoes, she ran, her passage a silent movement of the night air. The slender steel felt warm and deadly in her hand. The children were only moments away, and Auntie Loo was between them and the only entrance to the tower. If the assassin had so much as touched a hair on their heads, Agnes would give him a death that would make a Shansi warrior beg for mercy.

Come out, she silently begged. Show your blackened soul so I can send it to hell.

Blinded by the thought, she raced around a turn, the first in the square horseshoe shape of the corridor. As an image of the route formed in her mind, she ignored the possibility that the bowman could be behind her.

The parlor lay ahead, and to the right, the old wing. She slowed, then stopped to peer into the moonlit room. No evil presence lurked here. The dread she'd felt earlier, at the end of the last chess game, was gone. But at what cost to the occupants of this house? Did the earl of Cathcart now lie dying in the courtyard?

The children.

She moved into the old wing, picking her way through a legion of armor. At last she felt the curvature of the tower wall. Her fingers touched the handle. Gripping it, she flung open the door.

An eerie sound alerted her. “Auntie!” she cried and crumpled to the floor. In a whoosh, movement rent the air above her. When death did not come, Agnes looked behind the door. There stood her friend, an arm's length away, her face pure white, her hands gripping a Pe-tung backsword, its blade sharper than a razor.

Auntie Loo closed her eyes and let the priceless weapon fall. White copper clattered to the stone floor.

Agnes went weak with relief. Had she not recognized the sound and ducked, her head would be rolling across the floor. A chill swept through her, and dampness flooded her brow.

Auntie Loo murmured, “Oh, Father of Time, I heard no warning.”

The blame lay squarely with Agnes. She'd been distracted by thoughts of Edward Napier. Concern for the children had fallen behind her feelings for him. Even her awareness of Auntie Loo had fled.

Her attraction to a man had caused her to fail a second time. She fought the urge to cry. “I gave you no signal, Loo.”

As if she had not murmured the prayer, Auntie Loo calmly picked up the ancient weapon. “Death's door is closed to you, Golden One.”

Still reeling, Agnes shook her head to drive out the ringing of fear. “Lay the cause to fate, if you will. I say 'twas put in motion by my own foolishness.” She reached for the exquisite scabbard and passed it to her friend. “The children?”

“Sleeping through it all.” With hands that could as easily crack bones as set them, Auntie Loo sheathed the weapon. “What happened?”

Agnes wanted to embrace her friend, but a display of affection would embarrass Auntie Loo. So Agnes bolted the door, poured herself a glass of brandy, and told Auntie what had occurred.

“This assassin is patient.”

Agnes agreed. “Lord Edward's study was undisturbed, except for the dove, which was hastily placed.”

“You came upon him too fast. He heard the ringing of the alarm bell and left hurriedly.”

Praise the saints, she and Edward had moved quickly. “What else does the assassin want?”

Agnes was still pondering the question sometime later when Edward knocked on the door. Auntie Loo had retired. Agnes was alone. She capped the ink pot and threw the bolt.

His shoulders were drawn with fatigue, and her short sword dangled from his hand, but his gaze was sharp and apprehensive. “My children.”

She grasped his arm and drew him inside. “Safe and asleep.”

“I want to see them.” Pulling her along, he moved to the stairs. Manners appropriately forgotten, he took the steps two at a time. Agnes had to work to keep up with him.

At the first landing, the glow of a lantern illuminated the chamber she shared with Auntie, who lay on her bed facing away from them. The new wooden steps contrasted sharply to the ancient stone walls. Without pausing, he climbed the second staircase. Agnes grasped the lantern and followed him.

He stopped beside the sleeping Christopher. With a shaking hand, he reached out and touched the boy's head.

Mumbling, Christopher opened his eyes long enough to say, “Night, Papa.”

Sighing loudly, Edward walked around the partition. Close on his heels, Agnes watched him gaze at his slumbering daughter. Tears sparkled in his eyes. Seeing his tender expression, she thought of her own father. Lachlan MacKenzie had worn a similar look on the night dear Virginia had been born.

Agnes had seen that expression many times since and knew the sentiment behind it. Without conscious thought, she moved closer and rubbed his back. Lifting his arm, he drew her to his side and rested his cheek against her head. Heat poured from his body, purging the fear, and his chest heaved with every breath.

“My sweet, innocent Button,” he whispered.

Hannah stirred. Edward stilled. Agnes eased the lantern behind her and moved to leave. He followed. She waited at the landing while he took the light and examined the other exit to the tower—the bolted hatch in the ceiling that led to the battlement. A new hand ladder rested on the floor a safe distance away. If the assassin managed to climb the tower and to pry open the door, he'd face a drop of twenty feet to the stone floor. The small door in the common room downstairs offered the only entry to the tower.

The children were safe.

Agnes preceded him down the steps. In the common room she poured him a heavy measure of brandy. “Will you trade?” she asked, offering him a drink and indicating the short sword in his hand.

He yielded the weapon, accepted the tankard, and took a mighty swallow. The fabric of his long tunic hosted an array of twigs and stains.

“You've ruined your new clothing.”

“Man was not made to run in a dress.” With a scratched hand, he kneaded his neck and rolled his head.

Agnes felt an outpouring of affection for him. She pointed to a nearby bench. “Sit and let me help.”

He ripped off the tunic. Beneath it he wore only linen trews. Firelight glistened on his bare chest and arms, and she marveled at the true strength of him. He was a scientist and scholar, not a warrior shedding the garments of a civilized man. But the proof was there, displayed vividly before her. His hips were narrow, his belly nicely rippled.

“Agnes? What's amiss? Have you opened that wound?”

Again she'd fallen prey to softer feelings. The earlier lapse had almost cost her her life. No more, she promised herself. “Nay, my lord. I haven't a scratch or a bruise.”

“My lord?” He stared at her blankly. “We're beyond formalities, Agnes.”

“Then I wish to go back to them.” She tapped the bench with the tip of her sword. “Sit and argue the issue no more.”

“As you wish.” He dropped to the bench. “But you cannot always carry a sword.”