Every Time with a Highlander (17 page)

Michael wiped the blood from his face. His nose wasn't broken, though it hurt like a son of a gun. The blood was coming from a split lip and a deep gouge near his eye. Bridgewater's signet ring had raked him. Thank God the beard hadn't come off.

He stood in the shadow of a tree at the edge of the grounds, having been escorted as far as the end of the carriageway by a footman.

The intrigue had won them the letter, whatever it happened to contain, but his attention was focused on the woman he'd left behind. Undine was both cunning and capable—if he'd learned nothing else in his few hours here, he'd learned that—but Bridgewater was a dangerous and unpredictable man. Michael wished he'd been able to pull them both to safety, but he also recognized that her work to embed herself in the relationship with Bridgewater gave her the right to decide which risks to accept and which to avoid.

His thoughts returned to the confection of happiness and pain their time in his bedroom had brought him. The warmth of her body under his. The gleam of her shoulder in the candlelight. The scent of her skin. And the hobbling pain of remembering the past.

It wasn't that he didn't think of Deirdre on a regular basis—hardly a day went by when her face didn't occupy some moment or other of his thoughts—or that he hadn't come to grips with her death in the fifteen years since the highway officers had knocked on his door. But in that instant, when Undine had asked if he was married, he'd felt like a crab being jerked from a happy scuttle across the sand into a pot of boiling water.

And the last thing he'd wanted to do was burden a women he'd just made love to with the tragic story of his dead wife's accident.

The candles in the drawing room were still lit. He wondered what sort of conversation Undine and Bridgewater were having or if they were speaking at all.

His stuffed his hands in his pocket and was instantly reminded of the other thing he'd stolen when he'd stolen that kiss.

The letter crinkled as he withdrew it. Undine would be furious when she discovered he'd taken them from her pocket, but while he'd been willing—with great reluctance—to leave her with Bridgewater, he'd absolutely refused to leave her holding the evidence of her treachery.

The night was too dark for him to make out anything except a large, loopy signature at the bottom. Though perhaps if he sneaked closer to the light—

He froze.

There, in the window, Undine and Bridgewater were bent in a lingering kiss.

His heart thudded to a stop. Undine lifted Bridgewater's hands to her cheeks and held them there tenderly.

Michael's arm fell, and the letter slipped from his hand.

The carriage bumped and banged over the rock-strewn road toward the home of Chieftain Hay. Michael stared at the paper in his hand blankly, as though the words were in Urdu. All he could see, even in the day's bright light, was Undine in Bridgewater's arms.

“Has the substance of the letter changed?” Serafina asked.

Michael started, realizing she'd been watching him, and folded the paper self-consciously. “No. It's still about affecting the vote on the treaty.”

“You look a wee bit raggit,” she said. “Even apart from that cheek and lip. Are ye under the weather?”

Michael shook his head. “Nae.”

Nae?
How odd. He'd only been in the borderlands a day, and already the crisp BBC pronunciations his vocal tutor had drilled into him at RADA were starting to relax their hold on his speech. As a young man immersing himself in his career, he'd come to use the sonorous BBC accent on a daily basis, as that was the way of trained actors and the theater, and he'd loved it. By the time he was twenty-five, his Lowland burr was gone—forever, he had thought. He'd become known for his mellifluous baritone, and it had helped define his career as an actor. Hell, that was one of the reasons they'd cast him as Orlando Brashnettle. Even in his dreams, he spoke in the resonant, upper-class sounds of his training.

But here, with Duncan and Serafina and the rest of Scots, it seemed as if his past self was awakening after a long slumber. Even Gerard, American by birth, seemed to delight in what turned out to be the tongue of his grandmother. If Michael stayed in Scotland much longer, he'd probably be downing Irn-Bru and rooting for the Hearts again.

“Now, there's a bit of a smile,” Gerard said.

“I don't like that Undine is still with him,” Serafina said.

“She's got a job to do,” Michael said. “We know from the letter a diversion is being planned, but we don't know where or what it is.”

“It's dangerous. That man is a—”

“It's her choice,” Michael said flatly. “For God's sake, can we let her do what she needs to do?”

The carriage fell silent. Michael felt like an ass. “I'm sorry. I'm…tired, I guess. We're all worried.”

“You're right, friend,” Serafina said, patting his arm. “Worrying doesn't help her or us. And she's a verra capable woman.”

“Scotland's filled with them,” Gerard said, poking Michael's boot with his.

“Besides,” Serafina said, “she'd never let Bridgewater near her. She despises the man.”

“I know.”

“And you're certain she's with him now, going north?”

“Aye,” Michael said. “To see some family friend of his who's ill. A Lord Morebright. They left just before dawn. I watched her get into the carriage. I watched them leave.”

Gerard frowned. “What time were you escorted out? Didn't you say it was before midnight?”

“I wanted to see if their plans changed. We'd need to be able to react.”

“You waited all night?” Serafina asked and exchanged a look with Gerard.

“It wasn't any bother.” Michael had been too numb to feel anything. He didn't know the layout of the rooms or which room was Bridgewater's, so every candle that had been lit upstairs had felt like the stab of the knife. And then the flames had been extinguished, and the pain grew worse.

He'd awoken at dawn to the sounds of the carriages being pulled in front the main entrance. Undine had descended like a queen on Bridgewater's arm, her hair in a thick braid that encircled the top of her head like a crown. Michael had watched as they'd climbed into the larger of the two carriages, a vehicle gleaming with polished wood and brass appointments. He'd watched as their trunks and servants were loaded into a smaller and simpler carriage. He'd watched as the vehicles pulled down the estate drive and took the ferry across the Tweed. And he'd watched as the convoy exited Coldstream proper and disappeared in the distance.

He'd wondered if she'd looked for him as the carriage had driven by. He'd had no sense of her doing so. It was as if whatever invisible connection that had existed between the two of them had evaporated. And even though he had no wish for her to accompany Bridgewater on his visit, her appearance on his arm and the man's pleasant demeanor meant he probably hadn't yet discovered his letter was missing. For that alone, Michael was grateful.

It was only then, when the carriage had disappeared from sight, that he'd sat down to read the papers.

By a request most urgent, you are to create a diversion at a time you believe the upcoming vote to be most likely to be shaped by such an event. Use the resources you deem necessary, though the diversion must in no way suggest the effort was preplanned or more than the result of an unexpected need to act. We depend on seeing the results of this action no later than Midsummer Day. Your service in this matter will not be forgotten.

The note was unsigned.

Midsummer Day. June 24. Less than a week from now. Michael drew his gaze from the increasingly barren hills outside the carriage window to the paper. It might have been an army order, but it wasn't an official one. He wondered why Bridgewater had kept it. Even locked up, it represented a danger if found—not to mention a risk to the mission.

Though the message was intentionally obscure, the “effort” to which the writer referred could only be an attack of some sort. That was what Michael had thought, and Serafina and Gerard had agreed when they'd found him waiting for them in the crumbling priory.

An attack on the Scots would fan the flames that already burned between the two countries to a ferocious intensity at a time when the Scottish lords were expected to vote on the treaty that would merge the two countries. Gerard and Serafina had described the river of secret money flowing from London to the noblemen in Edinburgh, bribes to cast their votes in favor of the union that was supposed to be a marriage of equals. But everyone knew, even in 1706, the union was going to turn into a snare that Scotland wouldn't be able to free itself from. And it hadn't, even three centuries later.

So why attack? Wouldn't that make the Scottish lords
less
likely to vote yes?

At first glance, yes. But Michael knew enough about history to know attacks weren't always what they seemed. History, they said, was written by the victors. If the English soldiers won, Bridgewater's story would be the one that carried the day. When he talked about it afterward, he could frame the attack any way he chose—the Scots attacked first, or the Scots had English hostages and he had been forced to attack, or the Scots had been planning some atrocity, but he'd found out first and stopped them. Sure, the Scots who survived, assuming some did, could contradict his version, but who in London—or, hell, who in the Scottish parliament already getting his pockets lined with English gold—would believe them? The attack might even seem to some to be just the sort of thing that would make it clear the clans needed to be brought under control by the invincible English army, something that could be easily done once the two countries were united.

“Michael,” Serafina said, rousing him from his distracted reverie. “Abby will help. She'll be able to shed light on what's going on. The clan chiefs hear everything that's happening in the borderlands. If there's something to be done, Abby will know what to do. And more important, she'll know what to do about Undine.”

There was nothing to do
about
Undine. She had to make her own choices. But there was one thing he could do
for
her, and he wouldn't be able to live with himself until he had. He'd taken the letter before she'd had a chance to look at it—and that might mean the difference between life and death for her.

“How much longer?” he said.

Serafina pointed beyond the carriage window to a castle perched high on the next hill that would have been at home in any gothic nightmare. “The seat of Clan Hay,” she said. “That's where Abby and the other clan chiefs are meeting.”

“It looks positively sinister.”

“Aye, well, that might be part of how it's earned its name. It's called
Nimheil Faobhar
.”

The dozen or so Gaelic words Michael had learned from his grandfather consisted mainly of mild obscenities and different ways to describe an idiot. None of them sounded like the words she'd just said. He shook his head.

“It translates roughly as ‘poisoned knife-edge,'” she said. “Most people just call it ‘Black Blade.'”

Gerard lifted his palms and gave him a theatrical grin. “Great place to start a war, am I right?”

Undine tapped her fingers silently to preserve her solitude. Bridgewater napped on the carriage seat across from her, his head drooping so far down his shirtfront he ought to have suffocated. And yet he breathed on.

She knew what Michael had done and why but found herself unable to decide exactly how she felt about it. When she'd reached into her pocket after Bridgewater's unsettling kiss, she'd felt betrayed. Who was Michael to decide what risks she took? And yet the motivation behind it was clear. She wasn't used to having someone worried for her safety, let alone having someone with the skills to actually protect her.

Michael was a curious man. He knew little about the time she'd brought him to. He had no title, no colleagues, and no money, at least not here. His career was telling actors what to do. Yet he had proven himself capable of powerful magic that included not only love spells, but also the ability to turn himself into whatever sort of person it took to manage a situation. His guises were extraordinary—she herself hadn't recognized him. And each seemed mainly to depend on bodily changes—posture, voice, movement, accent, and phrasing—rather than costume or face paint.

Talents. He had many.

She felt her cheeks warm.

Aye, she'd enjoyed their joining. He'd been a caring lover as well as skilled, and the heat she felt while thinking about it reminded her how potent the spell was that still remained. In truth, she wished it didn't have to end.

All spells end. You of all people know that.

They were either fulfilled, which ended them instantly, or they slowly lost their strength. Spells that damned the unlucky to a life of ugliness or one trapped inside the body of a crow or pig only occurred in stories. Real spells depended on the power of their makers, but they never, ever lasted longer than a few months.

She, in comparison, was a fairly weak spell caster. The magic she possessed came from a book that had belonged to the woman who'd taken her in when she'd returned to northern England. The processes detailed in the book had given her the means to produce magic, but she lacked the inherent power most skilled magi were born with. That was why her spells were often imperfect.

“Undine, what
are
you thinking about?”

Bridgewater, still muzzy with sleep, eyed her. “Only my pleasure in seeing parts of Scotland with which I am not familiar.”

He snorted. “Aye, cold and empty. 'Tis quite enthralling.”

“I'm drawn to that which is sometimes unappealing to others. How long might we be staying with Morebright?”

He regarded her with interest. “Is there a reason you ask?”

“Simple curiosity,” she said. “I know he's ill.”

“Aye, well, I'll know more when I see Simon's condition. Do you see anything more regarding the road?”

For an instant, she didn't know what he was talking about. Then she remembered the promise she'd given him. She closed her eyes self-consciously. The easy blue waves had grown more dispersed, but nothing calamitous came into view.

“No,” she said after a moment. “The journey will be safe.”

“There's also a church on his estate—if you don't mind being a Scottish bride.”

She'd forgotten about the wedding, and the reminder made her stomach knot. “Of course not,” she said lightly. “I should be happy to be married to you under any country's flag, though I do wonder why the need is so urgent given that the papers that needed to be signed—the ones that awful Mr. Beaufort was supposed to be bringing—are not in your possession and are unlikely to arrive again until at least a week after your letter reaches your solicitor in London.”

The mention of Mr. Beaufort cast a moodiness onto Bridgewater's countenance. While he had appeared to find her blameless for last night's kiss—she was in fact blameless for
both
kisses, but of course, Bridgewater would assert there was no blame to be found in the kiss he perpetrated—a certain coolness had crept into his behavior. She was half tempted to talk him out of his ill temper but decided that letting it slip away on its own meant she might enjoy a few moments of peace.

“My feelings about a wedding haven't changed,” he said. “Have yours?”

“My feelings haven't changed either. You'll recall I'd told you quite clearly I wished to wait until my head caught up with my heart.”

He crossed his arms and looked at her. “You are a bewitching woman, Undine. I'm astounded you agreed to be my wife.”

There was the slightest friction in the words, as if the smile on his face couldn't quite coexist with the sentiment he was expressing. The hairs on her neck stood on end, and she waited for a follow-up comment, but none came, and after a beat, the hairs relaxed. She nodded her thanks and turned her attention to the landscape beyond the window, hoping to return to happier thoughts.