Highland Temptation (17 page)

Late that night, everyone had gone to bed but Emilia, Colin, and Major Campbell. Emilia was tired but she had no interest in retiring without Colin.

That afternoon, the Highland Knights had successfully apprehended Lord Chalmsworth. They'd spent the evening in intense conversation, discussing the arrest, Emilia and Colin's journey north and their encounter with Pinfield, and the Knights' plans for finding Pinfield and Kingsman.

It had been decided that a group of Knights—Ross, Mackenzie, and the new Highland Knights, Laurent Dupré and Max White—would head north using the same path taken by Pinfield in his pursuit of Emilia. They'd question villagers and farmers along the way, hopefully discovering where Pinfield went after encountering Colin and Emilia. The other Knights—Colin, the major, and McLeod—would stay at home along with the women, continuing the search for evidence and for any leads on Kingsman's whereabouts.

Now the major and Colin were relaxing, taking sips of whisky and discussing their plan. Emilia watched the two men carefully, observing how easy they were with each other. She suspected this wasn't the first time the two had stayed up together drinking whisky when everyone else had retired.

After a moment of companionable silence, Colin glanced at her, gave her a soft smile, then turned back to the major, clearing his throat. “There's something I wished to ask of you, sir.”

“What's that?”

“I ken we'll be busy in the next few days, but…” He reached over, grasping her hand and squeezing tight. “Emilia and I…we wish to marry.”

That got the major's full attention. He carefully set his glass of whisky aside. “Do you now?” he said softly.

“We wish to do so as soon as possible. Within the next few days.”

“You'll require a license.”

“Aye, I ken.”

The major's blue eyes turned to her. “Is this what you want, too, lass?” he asked her in a kindly voice.

“It is.” Her own voice was confident and clear.

Sadness lurked at the edges of the major's eyes. “Your fiancé has been through hell, but he has come through it.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“Hell still reaches out for him sometimes,” the major continued.

“I know that, too.”

“Do you?”

“She kens,” Colin said in a broken voice. “Since the first night after we left London.”

The major blew out a breath, but his expression remained kind.

“Colin's demons chase after him,” she said, “but they will not defeat him.”

“Sometimes that's not so certain,” the major said.

She stiffened. “It is to me. I won't let them hurt him. I'll fight to the death.”

“Ah,” the major said, visibly relaxing. “A fierce wee warrior, are you?”

“Dinna underestimate her,” Colin said quietly, squeezing her hand. “She has brought me back. More than once.”

The major nodded. “Aye. Good.”

“I won't bend,” Emilia said. “I'll fight them for as long as I must.”

“That might be a verra long time,” the major said.

“I know,” she said. “If that's the case, then I'm prepared for it. But that potential doesn't even begin to make me want to change my mind about this.”

The major looked at Colin with a raised brow, and Colin shrugged. “You said it, sir. She's a fierce wee warrior.”

For the first time, the major smiled. “I think that's just what you need. Tell me how I can help.”

“Would you be our witness?” Emilia asked.

The major turned the full force of his smile on her. “I'd be honored,” he said.

A week later, Emilia stood in Lady Claire's dressing room, her heart pounding. She hadn't been able to sleep much last night, and her nerves hadn't calmed since the moment she'd awakened, two hours earlier.

Today was her wedding day.

“Oh dear Lord,” Claire exclaimed, stepping back and looking her up and down, her hands clasped under her chin. “You're utterly beautiful.”

“Lovely,” Lady Grace agreed from behind Claire.

“I daresay Colin will lose his wits when he sees you,” said Esme, who was standing beside Grace, her feet planted wide on the floor to accommodate her large belly.

“Bonny as an angel,” Aila said from her perch on the bed.

Emilia gave the other women a shaky smile, then turned to gaze in the looking glass.

The dress that Claire had miraculously managed to procure for her in extremely short order was made of ivory satin and had a silver lace overdress. It was the most beautiful gown Emilia had ever seen.

She stared at herself. She looked like an ethereal princess. Almost unreal, with her miraculously tamed blond curls floating around her head. She traced a finger over the angry red scar slicing over her cheek—it didn't seem so ugly now that she was surrounded by such loveliness. The dress was tight around her middle, showing the curve of her waist to full effect. Real diamonds, borrowed from Esme, adorned her ears and throat. The skirt billowed out like a heavenly cloud.

She heard the crinkling sound of paper, then Aila came up behind her and set a crown of tiny pale purple flowers upon her head.

“Heather?” she asked breathlessly.

“Aye. I found a bunch at the flower market.”

“Wearing heather is good luck,” Emilia said. “At least, that's what Colin told me.”

“Aye, and he's right. I made this for you so you'd have good luck on your wedding day and in your marriage for years to come.”

Staring into the looking glass once more, Emilia put her hand to her throat. “I don't…” She took a deep breath. “I don't even look like myself.”

“You do, too,” Claire said crossly. “You look like yourself. Beautiful—or as our husbands and Aila might say,
bonny
—Lady Emilia, dressed for the occasion of her wedding.”

“We should hurry,” Esme said. “We're five minutes late, and I'm sure the men are already at the church, waiting for us.”

Colin, the major, and McLeod had left the house early—goodness knew to where, but the ladies suspected to a pub for a fortifying mutchkin of whisky before the wedding.

Impulsively, Emilia turned back to the ladies, catching Claire's hand and smiling at all of them. “Thank you. All four of you. You have been so kind to me. You have given me so much, and I already think of you as my sisters.”

Lady Grace kissed her on the cheek. “We think of you as our sister as well.”

“I'm so glad you will be staying with us,” Esme said.

“Now, let's go to the church and make it legal,” Claire said.

Emilia squeezed their hands one last time. “Thank you.”

They went downstairs, Emilia thinking of her father, still being hunted by every authority in Britain, and how he would react to her marrying Sir Colin Stirling. Oddly, he'd never spoken to Emilia of her marrying. Or maybe it wasn't so odd—since she was such an embarrassment to him, perhaps he'd never believed a man would consider her worthy of marriage.

She pushed the thought of him out of her mind. Today wasn't for her father—it was for her and Colin. The Knights remaining in London had decided to set aside the ongoing search just for today in order to celebrate the joining, and she must do the same. No melancholy. No sadness or fear. Today was a day to rejoice.

The five ladies bundled into the carriage that awaited them on the street, leaving the house empty except for the servants. The wedding was to be held at St. George's in Hanover Square, which was Emilia's parish church. She had known the rector, Mr. Hodgson, since she'd moved to London after her mother's death, and the church had been one of the few places she'd found solace.

St. George's was a busy place for weddings, so busy in fact that weddings usually needed to be scheduled months in advance, but a last-minute cancellation had opened up a spot this morning for her and Colin, and she was pleased they would be able to marry at one of her favorite places in London.

The ride to St. George's from Westminster wasn't long, but the streets were dense with horses and vehicles this time of day, and when they reached Piccadilly, the carriage came to a dead stop. Aila opened the carriage's door to reveal John the coachman, an older, kindly man with a thick thatch of gray hair. Colin had told Emilia that John had held this position with the Knights for almost a year and had proven himself an extremely loyal employee.

“I'm so sorry, ladies,” John said, “but there's an overturned coal cart ahead, and it'll be some minutes before they're able to shovel it all up.”

“Oh, dear,” Grace murmured.

“There's an alternate route that might be faster.”

“Oh, please do take that route, John,” Claire said.

“Aye, my lady. I'll try.”

It took a few minutes, but the coachman managed to turn them around in the direction from which they'd come, and a minute after that Emilia felt a jolt, and she peeked out the window to see that they'd turned down the mews of a residential street.

“Oh good,” Claire said. “We're moving again.”

“But we're going to be quite late now,” Emilia fretted.

“D'you think Colin might worry you've jilted him?” Aila asked, her green eyes sparkling.

“No, I don't think so.” By now, Colin surely knew how steadfast she was in her commitment to him.

“What about you? Are you nervous?” Aila asked her.

Emilia grinned at her. Of all the Highland Knights' wives, Aila was the one with whom she was least acquainted. Aila and White had been away on their honeymoon when Emilia had first come to the Knights' house. Aila was very different from the other ladies—the only Scottish woman among them, and a commoner, though Emilia had heard she was a descendent of a Scottish laird. But none of the other women seemed to care about her lowborn status, and though the rules of society had been pounded into Emilia throughout her life, she found that once she stopped her ingrained habit of ordering people according to their rank, she didn't care, either. Aila was kind and fun-loving, whip smart and with a way about her that made people feel at ease.

“I'm not too nervous,” Emilia said. “I'm…happy and excited.” She'd known for some time that she was Colin's and he was hers; their handfasting had simply cemented their commitment. But this was solemnizing before God and witnesses the promise they'd made, and that made this the most special day of her life.

“Aye, well that's just how I felt when I married Max.”

“You weren't nervous, either?”

“Not at all. I was…” Aila hesitated then laughed softly. “I was impatient. The vicar was late to the wedding—we married in the Westminster house, you ken—and I gave him a firm talking to when he arrived, let me tell you.”

“I must say,” Grace said. “I could almost see smoke curling out from your ears, you were so furious.”

“It was hilarious,” Claire added. “You were bright red throughout the recitation of vows. I honestly considered fetching a bucket of water in case you burst into flame.”

Aila scowled. “Honestly, that man was rude beyond measure. I think he didna like us.”

“Oh, don't pay any attention to Mr. Bennington,” Esme said in her quiet, low-pitched voice. “I have known him all my life, and he's never been on time to anything I can remember. He's also an incessant grouch.”

Just then, the carriage jolted to a stop so abruptly that Claire and Grace, who were sitting in the rear-facing seat, went flying into Emilia, Aila, and Esme. There was a flurry of skirts and exclamations as everyone got their bearings and found their seats again.

“Good heavens!”

“Are you all right, Claire?”

“Ouch!”

“Oh, dear, did you hurt yourself?”

“I'm quite all right.”

“Why are we stopped?”

“What happened?”

Emilia didn't participate in these exclamations, because her chest had gone so tight, she couldn't have spoken if she'd tried. The panic that roiled through her was instant—a response to the danger she'd been in so many times before.

He's here. He's here.
The two words drummed in her head over and over again. She wanted to curl into a ball, disappear, become someone else. Anything to not face the horror she was certain was outside.

The door to the carriage banged open, and the ladies' heads all whipped around to see the source of the dramatic movement…except Emilia's. She turned slowly, her neck moving as sluggishly as an old, rusty hinge that required oiling.

It
was
him.

Of course it was.

Her father stood there, disheveled and dirty. His haggard face was livid with rage. He pointed a pistol at all of them, but his gaze homed in on Emilia. She cowered back, unable to help this instinctual response at the sight of her father with that murderous look on his face.

“Come with me now, Emilia,” he growled, “and no one will get hurt.”

She stared at him, unable to move, paralyzed with fear.

“Nay, I think not! Emilia'll be remaining right here with us,” Aila said in a clear, stentorian voice.

Her father's eyes—gray-blue like her own—narrowed on Aila, who happened to be sitting closest to the door. Before Emilia could blink, she heard a loud
thwack!
and suddenly Aila was on the carriage floor, gasping in pain, water streaming from her eyes even as they sparkled with a fiery temper. The other ladies gasped, and Grace reached down to Aila, helping her up.

“This is none of your concern,” her father spat out. “Lady Emilia is my daughter and she belongs to
me.
You should be thankful I haven't had you all arrested for kidnapping.” He returned his gaze to Emilia and waved the gun at her. “Come, girl.
Now.
”

Emilia glanced at the other ladies. Aila was trembling visibly—Emilia couldn't tell if it was from anger or fear, but she worried that Aila might do something that would get her shot. Claire's and Grace's blue eyes were wide with terror, and Esme looked resigned. When Emilia glanced at her, the other woman gave her a small, encouraging nod as if to say,
You have no choice but to go…but don't worry, we'll find you later.

Emilia wasn't sure there would be a later. But she was sure of one thing, her father was so desperate, he wouldn't hesitate to use that gun on her friends. She couldn't allow that.

“I'll come,” she managed to say, though the words sounded like a frog had croaked them out. “Just…please, don't hurt anyone.”

Her father glanced to the left and the right, then waved the gun again. “Hurry.”

She stood, and ignoring the soft murmurs of the other women, she stepped toward the carriage door. Grace grabbed her hand, and she turned to see the other woman looking imploringly at her. “No,” Grace whispered. “Don't.”

“I must.”

She extricated her hand from Grace's and stepped out of the carriage. Her father grabbed her arm but he waved the gun toward the inside of the carriage once more.

“If you hurt her, you bastard, I swear, I'll—” Aila's words were cut off as her father slammed the carriage door.

“Come. Hurry.” He tugged Emilia to a shabby, worn, and crudely painted carriage that was parked behind the one she and the other women had been in.

Two other men appeared from the front of the Knights' carriage, one of them holding a gun to John the coachman's head as he pushed him along.

One of the men jumped onto the second carriage's perch. Emilia's father shoved her into the carriage, then stepped in behind her, John and the other man following closely. The inside was just as shabby as the outside, the leather seat torn and jagged, the windows cracked, and everything covered in a thick layer of dust. It was like the thing had been stowed away for fifty years and had just been plucked out of the scrap pile this morning.

“Go, go!” her father called, closing the door then banging the carriage ceiling with the butt of the pistol. She moved across the seat, as far from her father as she could, as John and the other man took their seats on the rear-facing bench. John sat across from her, blinking hard, his bleary eyes watering heavily. He looked confused, as if he was trying to hold on to consciousness.

The team of horses made a tight turn, then lurched into motion, the carriage's wheels wobbling as they moved unsteadily forward. The only sounds were the rickety movement of the carriage over cobblestones and the clomps of the horses' hooves. Emilia watched John closely, worry twisting in her as she fingered the tiny flowers crowning her head. She'd brought this poor man into danger. It was up to her to keep him safe. She hoped that the Scottish superstition about wearing heather was right, because she needed all the luck in the world right now.

“Are you all right?” she asked John softly.

“Quiet!” her father barked. “Not another word, or I'll silence you by force.”

John wisely kept quiet but gave her the slightest of nods. Emilia glanced at the strange man at the other end of the seat from John. She recognized him as the bearded man who'd dragged her through the mud to her father at the abandoned farmhouse in Scotland. He bore a fierce expression on his rough face as he stared straight ahead. His clothes were dirty, as was his face; his hair—which was probably blond when clean—was dark with grease. He held his gun at the ready, clearly prepared to use it if need be.

Then Emilia risked a sidelong glance at her father. He gripped the gun tightly, his knuckles white. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his eyes darted to and fro, seemingly anywhere but at her.

He truly looked terrible. Older, somehow, even though it had only been a little over a fortnight since she'd last seen him. He had no access to his money or his property—it had all been seized by the authorities, leaving him with essentially nothing besides whatever he'd originally escaped London with. His clothes were dirty and bedraggled; his gray-blond hair oily, stringy, and thin; his skin pallid; his jowls hanging heavily from his jaw; and there was a yellowish gleam in the whites of his eyes.

This man…Lord, it seemed almost unbelievable that he was her flesh and blood. But he was. He
was
. The thought made bile rise in her throat.

He swung his head around to face her. He stared at her a minute before speaking. “I look like hell, don't I, girl?”

She didn't answer.

“Well, this is your fault.
Yours.
You put me in this predicament, you traitorous slut.”

She set her jaw, knowing speaking—no matter what she said—wouldn't help.

“And now that you're here, you need to get me out of it.”

She gazed at him, keeping her expression blank.

He growled—actually growled, like some rabid animal. She had never considered her father a particularly stable man, but it seemed his short time as an outlaw had thrown him definitively over the edge of sanity. “Oh, I really wish I could strike that vapid look off your face, Emilia. But I won't, because I need you looking clean and pure for when you proclaim my innocence.”

She stiffened, but he didn't continue. In fact, he didn't speak again until the carriage came to a groaning halt and he nodded at his man. “Ye're comin' with me,” the man said, waving the gun at John, who followed him unsteadily out of the carriage.

Emilia's father gestured at the door. “Go on, then. Get out.”

She did, stepping into bright sunlight on a street she didn't know. She'd never been in this part of London. The air stank of something unfathomably disgusting—she had no desire to learn the source of that stench. The street was seedy, with rotting, peeling façades on the dilapidated buildings, and people dressed in rags skulking on corners.

Her father slid out behind her and grabbed her arm. He nodded at his men, who nodded back in some unspoken agreement. Emilia made eye contact with John, who still looked bewildered.

“Come, girl.” Leaving John and the men behind, her father yanked her through a nearby sagging doorway. Dragging her along, he traversed a narrow, dusty corridor then climbed a rickety set of stairs. Halfway down the first-floor corridor, he pushed a key into a rusty lock. He turned it, opened the door, and shoved her inside.

The room's smell was the first thing she registered—it was musty and dank, as if someone had left a wet blanket rolled up in a corner for a month. Then her eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was a small, single room—its only door the one she'd just entered through. A stove, striped black with coal residue, stood in the corner. A cot covered with dingy gray sheets and a rough-hewn blanket was pushed against the wall, beneath a single window covered with a plain red curtain that had faded to a brownish orange. A small square table bracketed by two wobbly chairs stood in the center of the room. A plate of what looked like the remnants of a breakfast of smoked herrings and eggs rested on the table, along with a half-empty bottle of brandy—her father's favorite drink—and a single oil lamp.

Emilia's father pushed her toward the table. “Sit,” he growled.

She stumbled to one of the chairs and did as she was instructed.

Her father turned and bolted the door. She'd never felt so alone. So trapped. There had been no one in the corridor, no one in this room. She was imprisoned in this tiny, squalid space with her evil father, and no one knew where she was.

He turned back to her, stared at her for a long moment, his lips twisting in that disgusted expression she knew too well.

She thought of Colin, and the image of him in her mind bolstered her. She wasn't disgusting. It was only her father's warped, insanity-riddled mind that saw her that way.

He stepped to the opposite chair, yanked it out, and sat, clapping the gun down on the table.

She stared at it. The pistol was the only new-looking thing in this place, shiny and polished, as if its owner took great pride in this instrument of death.

Her father leaned forward, his eyes burning with intensity.

“I won't kill you,” he said. “Or that old coachman.”

She released a small, miserable choke. Why did she always disintegrate into something less than herself in her father's presence?

“On one condition,” he added.

“Wh-what condition is that?” she breathed.

“You will repudiate all your claims against me.”

She sucked in a breath. “I-I'm not sure if I can,” she admitted.

“You can, and you will. The bastards are going on your testimony alone; none of the ‘evidence' they've found will hold up in court.” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You are responsible for this.
You
are responsible for the deaths of two great patriots.”

She looked down, knowing he was referring to Mountebank and Blaketon. “They would have been caught eventually,” she said, a rare, albeit small, stand against her father's words.

“No!” he screeched. “They wouldn't have. They were safe, as was I. Our alibis were airtight. Whatever happened to those false royals could never have been linked back to us, but for your flapping tongue.”

She was silent.

“I am giving you the opportunity to make this right, Emilia.”

She gazed at her hands, her fingers twisting in her lap.

“Look at me, girl.”

She did, slowly dragging her gaze up to his pallid face.

“I am your father.”

She stared at him. A man who claimed to be her father yet had never treated her with any affection, any fatherly love. Who'd chipped away at her body and confidence until she'd felt like a shell of a woman. Thank God Colin had opened the door to her humanity until she'd brimmed with life once again. But even after this short time in her father's presence, she felt him leaching it away, dragging her life from her with his words, his actions, his very existence.

She despised him.

And yet…he
was
her father. He'd given her the semblance of a lady's life. All the finery of a viscount's daughter. He'd given her life itself, the very blood that ran through her veins.

“You must make this right.”

“H-how?”

“You will go to the authorities and tell them that you fabricated the entire story. That it was a lie.”

“They'll never believe it,” she told him.

“You'll
make
them believe you.”

“How?”

“You will tell them that you're a bad girl, that you were angry with me for some minor wrongdoing, and to take revenge you spread vile untruths about me. You will prostrate yourself to me and to the world. You will beg for forgiveness.”

She stared at him blankly. It was too late for all that.

Undeterred, he continued. “You will tell them you were angry with me. That I wouldn't buy you a dress…or…” His eyes lit with an idea. “No, you will tell them that I refused to let you marry your Scot—what's his name?”

She pressed her lips together. She wasn't going to hand over Colin's name for her father to use as a weapon against either of them.

“Tell me his name, Emilia.”

Some unknown stubbornness welled up within her. “I won't,” she said softly.

He lifted his hand as if to strike her, and she flinched away. He gripped his hand into a fist and lowered it, sighing raggedly. “
Fine.
You can tell the authorities, though, can't you? That's what you'll do. You'll tell them you wanted to marry Mr. So-and-so, but I was against the match.” He leaned closer, his palms flat on the table. “I
am
against it, Emilia. I'll not see my daughter marrying some Highland heathen.”

It wasn't for him to refuse or accept. She would marry Colin, no matter what he said.

If she survived this day.

She closed her eyes in a long blink, thinking of Colin waiting for her in the church. Was he still waiting, or did he know she wouldn't be coming? Surely by now Mr. Hodgson would have moved on to the next scheduled wedding. It was a busy day for him. Three weddings and a christening, he'd told her. Her and Colin's wedding had been the first order of business for the day.

“So you'll tell them that,” her father said. “Tell them that in a fit of pique, you decided upon revenge, for if I was arrested I couldn't stop your marriage. Tell them you and your man made up an elaborate story of treachery and betrayal. Tell them you didn't believe it would go so far, that you didn't think anyone would really believe it, just that it would distract me long enough for you and the Scot to elope and disappear.”