DARE THE WILD WIND (29 page)

And frightened raising the subject would send her back into a new seige of despair.  A part of Brenna wished for nothing more than the refuge she had left.  But she had to do what she could for Fenella and, if it was in her power, save Iain.

"I want the jewels for Fenella," Brenna said quietly.  "Her father will never take her back into his house again.  And if Iain is still alive, they may buy his freedom."

Eleanore's look cautioned her against  misplaced hope.  "Greed has been known to thwart the King's justice.  But the Rebel army came too close to
London.  You mustn't place too much faith in bribery."

Thomas Wolcott arrived within the hour, and took his leave with a note Brenna penned to Fenella and directions to their inn on
Paradise Street.  He returned shortly after nightfall, alone.

His expression sent a flash of foreboding through Brenna.   "I'm afraid I don't bring the news you hoped for.  Your friend wasn't at the inn, and no one could say where she's gone.  The mistress of the inn told me she went off days ago with a man she met.  That she'd decamped with all your baggage."

"That's impossible.  Fenella would never do that."     

"The innkeeper said she told her she was weary of service, and the man she went off with would keep her in proper style."

The last chilled Brenna.  "Fenella was only posing as my maid.  Something is terribly wrong."  She reached for the bell pull to call the maid.  "I have to dress.  We have to go back to
Paradise Street." 

Thomas put out a hand to stop her.  "There's nothing more you can learn there."

She saw reluctant evasion in his eyes.  "You're holding something back."

The regret and apology in his expression confirmed it.  His shoulders rounded, as if deception was an unaccustomed weight.

"I thought it best to tell you what the creature told me.  I'd hoped it would be enough."

His face made Brenna's heart sink to her stomach.

"I didn't believe the tale the innkeeper told any more than you.  I decided to make a show of taking my leave and watch for a chance to question the servants in the scullery.

"None of them would cross her, but the wench who brought your meals slipped out just as I was ready to go.  She told me your friend was abducted."

"Abducted?" Brenna repeated.  "Why?"  Fenella had no money, no family to ransom her. 

Wolcott flushed.  "There are elements who trade in girls like Fenella.  Fair
skinned women bring a high price in Africa and the Caribbean.  If you'd returned to the inn, you'd have met the same fate."

Numb shock crept through Brenna.  "We've got to go after her.  We've got to stop them."

"If that was possible," he said quietly, "I wouldn't have returned to
Grosvenor Square empty  handed."  He paused.  "Miss Strath was taken away by night, and a dozen ships sail from London on every tide.  There isn't any way to know which ship she was on.  And she was abducted days ago.  By now, whoever took her is beyond the reach of English law." 

He gave Brenna a moment to take in the truth of what he said.  "You were fortunate the bawd who ran the inn needed time to barter over your price.  And fortunate the poor girl who brought your meals despises her mistress."

Brenna thought of th
e girl who had served them, of her homely, pock marked face and the dragging club foot that forced her to climb the stairs of the inn a step at a time.  Her afflictions had protected her, but nothing had shielded Fenella.  How could they have been such fools, such lambs to slaughter?

"You mustn't take the blame on yourself," Thomas broke in.  "
London is a sinkhole of vice.  Count yourself lucky you escaped."

Brenna turned an agonized face toward him.  "Am I so lucky?" she demanded.  "Is it better to live when the man I love is dead?  When I led a friend into a hideous trap?"

Thomas moved to comfort her.  "Lady Brenna, nothing you could have done could have changed what happened.  We're all of us in the hands of fate."    

She flung herself away.  "Oh, not
all
of us," she shot back. "Your master the Earl doesn't bow to fate."

His reaction was incredulous.  "My lady, surely you don't blame the Earl for what happened to Miss Strath?"

She turned to confront him.  "Not for what happened to Fenella," she acknowledged tightly.

"But it was the Earl who took
Cam prisoner at Culloden Moor."  She went on in a cold, bitter voice.  "If the Earl hadn't ordered Cam into irons, he'd still be alive.  He'd be free.”

Wolcott's mouth opened and closed before he could speak.  "If the Earl hadn't interfered, Lord MacCavan would have died on
Culloden Moor."

Brenna stared at him, disbelieving.  But Wolcott's outrage was clear. 

"The burial squad would have finished him on the battlefield.  When the Earl found Lord MacCavan, they were ready to run him through."

Brenna was s
ilenced for a moment.  But her memory of Drake's hostility toward Cam tempered her first stunned response.  "So he ordered him taken prisoner."

"Better a prisoner than a corpse.  Lord MacCavan couldn't have crawled from the field.  Drake saw to it he had medical treatment in camp and again aboard the
Hornet
.  He saved your Scotsman's life."   

Chapter 18

It was a spring morning that rendered all of London's fogs a distant and suspect memory.  Drake drew in a breath of the soft warm air.  The sky was a bright bowl of blue overhead, and Saint James Palace cast a cool shadow across the Mall and its manicured emerald grounds.  The sweet smell of blooming roses and new trimmed grass all but disguised the rank odor of offal in the streets and the faint but distinct reek of emptying sewers and decaying fish carried from the banks of the Thames.   

Court functionaries and sycophants in jewels and silks swarmed up the palace steps and crowded the footpaths in the park, eager to seize an advantage while the King was in residence.  The scare the Pretender had given him had accomplished what little else could.  George the Second had uprooted his court from
Hannover and returned to England to defend his throne. 

Someone called Drake's name.  Lord Dalmoral bore down on him with the confidence of a familiar, Lord MacBeal in his wake. 

The sight of Malcolm was enough to spoil the fine June day.  When he had sent word to Brenna's brother, he had urged him to make all haste to
London.  Now Drake's dislike surfaced again.  He hadn't wanted to summon Malcolm from Scotland, but Brenna couldn't remain in London alone and unprotected, and Malcolm was her only kin.  All the same, Malcolm was the last man Drake wanted to deal with today.

"What fortune to find you here," Malcolm said, his voice carrying halfway down the Mall.  "I called at your
London house, but your majordomo informed me you'd gone to the country."

Heads turned to stare, exactly as the strutting fraud intended.
  Elated at publicly demonstrating his connections to an earl, he rested a hand on the hilt of his sword with the air of a cavalier.

"I returned last night," Drake said shortly.  He had made a brief trip to Wellingbroke, his estate in
Surrey.

"You remember Charles Godwin?" Malcolm asked.

Drake managed a civil nod.  Lord MacBeal had been a guest at Dalmoral's ill
fated gathering at Lochmarnoch Castle, the only English  born landholder present.  And as sorry an example of a man as Drake could have found anywhere in the realm.

"What brings you to
London, Godwin?"

He straightened a little from his habitual hunched posture, and arranged his skeletal features in what passed for a smile.  "His Majesty has declared the estates of the Rebel chiefs forfeit.  I've come to offer  my services as a factor."

How quickly the ravens scented carrion.  "How many estates do you hope to acquire?" Drake inquired sardonically.  The Crown would retain title to the estates, but management of them would be lucra
tive, with ample opportunity to discreetly loot.  Drake caught a faint defensive flicker in Godwin's lashless, obsidian eyes. 

"Only land that borders my own holdings."      

"Charles and I are bringing similar petitions to the King," Malcolm said.  "He seeks steward
  ship of Glencannon lands, and I've offered to oversee the estate attached to Cairn Creath Castle."        

Lord MacCavan's hereditary seat.  An alliance by marriage hadn't satisfied Dalmoral.  Without the risk of combat and his own neck, Malcolm meant to lay claim to all that Cameron MacCavan had possessed.  And the irony would likely be lost on the King, who could very well grant his request.  The man repelled him.  It was plain Malcolm was less anxious to retrieve his sister than to win control of a forfeited estate.    

"What of Lady Brenna?" Drake asked.  "Do you find her in recovered health?"

He had been absent from
London for the last three days, and Drake had avoided another confrontation with her.  It was clear his presence was an unneeded strain.  In her mind, he would forever be tied to the memory of Lord MacCavan's execution.

"Recovered enough," Malcolm answered with a twist of a smile and a short, dismissing laugh.  "But happily subdued."

"I trust Lady Wittworth explained how ill she's been."

"My sister has the constitution of an ox.  My object in
calling on you was to express my gratitude for your efforts on my behalf."

Drake refrained from reminding Malcolm he hadn't acted for his benefit.  "I simply saw that Lady Brenna received proper care."

"And I mean to thank you."  Malcolm gestured toward a public house just beyond the park.  "Come and have a tankard of ale."

Drake had no desire to drink with Malcolm or Godwin.  "No need for thanks," he said with a glance toward the headquarters of the Horse Guards.  "I have an errand to attend."     

"Surely  you won't cheat me of paying my debt to you?"  His tone was both aggrieved and cajoling.  "At the least I owe you the assurance my sister won't trouble you again."

Chilled, Drake halted as he turned.  What punishment did Malcolm have in mind for Brenna?  It was one thing to maim a horse, another to harm a woman of Brenna's rank.  But Dalmoral had demonstrated he could be savage when he was crossed. 

Drake forced a smile.  "I wouldn't want it bandied about
London that I fail to collect a debt," he said.  "Lead on."

The Boar and Crown was a tavern dating from the Restoration, with a fireplace the height of two men and a timbered ceiling blackened by a century of smoke from the candles that guttered on its squat oaken tables.  They ordered a round of porter and stout, with a platter of Stilton and cheddar and a crusty loaf of bread.

Drake steered the conversation back to Brenna.  "With MacCavan dead, I doubt your sister will cause you any more difficulty."

"I salute the change MacCavan's death has made in her," Malcolm said, taking a swallow of his stout, "but I don't intend to rely on her show of grief."

His indifference made bile rise in Drake's throat.  "She was only a lovesick girl.  Foolish, to a certainty, but underneath I think she has a measure of sense."

Malcolm's expression turned venomous.  "Brenna has blackened the Dalmoral name.  She's made me a laughingstock all over
Scotland."

"Surely not so far as that," Drake said dryly.       

His sarcasm was lost on Malcolm.  "Before she ran off like a serving wench, my benighted sister had suitors by the score.  Now no man in the
Highlands will have her."  Godwin shifted on the bench beside Malcolm, and Malcolm sent him an apologetic glance.  "Forgive me, Charles,  if I speak the truth.  My sister has always been a thorn in my side, but even a shrew can be bartered to advantage if she's a beauty.  Until she hared off to London and destroyed her reputation."

Drake couldn't argue the last.  Brenna had damaged her chances for a decent match.  Gossip about her adventure would follow her to
Edinburgh, even to the Isle of Skye.  She would never be able to live it down completely.  The best refuge Brenna could hope for was a marriage that removed her from her half  brother's control. 

"In time most scandals die," he said.  "And your sister won't be resigned to any marriage for some time to come."

Malcolm responded with a contemptuous laugh.  "I'm done with any cavils from Brenna.  And fortunate in a friend like Charles."

Something curdled in Drake's stomach. 

"I count myself fortunate," Godwin broke in with a grotesque, satisfied smile.  "I've long admired Lady Brenna, and I prize her beauty, even if I don't always relish her sharp tongue."

Drake stared at him, sickened and disbelieving.  Malcolm couldn't seriously consider giving Brenna to Godwin. 

"Brenna won't annoy you again.  Once my sister is wedded and bedded, she won't be a bother to anyone, apart from Charles."