My Seduction (21 page)

“Nothing, I fear. A rest in a dim room, and I shall be put to rights in a few hours. If you would please excuse me from dinner?”

“But of course. Merry,” he called to his ward, “help Mrs. Blackburn to her room.”

“No. I will only feel worse if I disrupt your dinner. Please.”

“If that is your desire,” the marquis said doubtfully, motioning for the footman.

“It is,” she said, and bidding the rest of the room’s occupants good evening, she followed the silent footman to her room.

It would have been tolerable except for that damn pink dress. The neckline accentuated the slender column of her neck, revealed the delicate lines of her collarbones, and displayed all too clearly her creamy bosom. If only he hadn’t known that a scant one inch below the edge was the mark his mouth had made on its snowy surface. But he did. Just as he knew the mark was fading away as surely as the time they had left together. Thank God. This was hell; hell complete with pleasant company, a superb chef, and the best wine he had ever drunk, but hell nonetheless.

It was a relief when Kate left, when he didn’t have to pretend not to notice every nuance playing over her expressive, piquant, and darkly beautiful face. When he didn’t have to pretend that his heart wasn’t thundering in his throat for fear that she would betray their intimacy and ruin her chances with the marquis. When he wouldn’t have to pretend he didn’t want her to do just that, wholly, with every greedy, selfish fiber of his being. He missed her as soon as the door shut behind her.

He forced himself to attend the others after her retreat, determined not to let any of his acts or gestures or omissions or anything untoward in his behavior give him away. The older man argued the merit of Napoleon’s regime with his nephew while the old lady added her opinions, occasionally calling on Kit to repeat some point. The marquis left the table once to go and see how Kate fared, and Kit had had to restrain himself from claiming that right, staring moodily into his wineglass. He did not think he could endure too much more of the marquis’s bonhomie or Kate’s responding blushes or his own tortured longing.

He still had a purpose. He clung tightly to that now, as though it offered a lifeline. He was finally free to pursue the goal he’d set for himself years ago. He’d start in Clyth, with Callum Lamont. If that proved fruitless, he would head for London and Ramsey Munro.

And afterward? He would rejoin the army. His men would need him. There was a war being fought and every week that passed he became more aware that his place in it, his part in it, was being filled by another officer, one who may not have his skills or his experience. Besides, he might yet be sent to India and there he might have a chance of scorching Kate’s memory from his soul or, he gave an inner shrug, save the empire in trying.

Dinner ended, and the marquis asked him to join him in the next room. Kit accepted, of course; those things you must bear, you did, and if a peer of the realm wanted to amuse himself by playing at commoner, Kit would be his man. For Kate’s sake. The marquis ushered him into an anteroom as the others adjourned to play cards.

“Do you gamble, Captain MacNeill?”

“Never, sir.”

“No?” the marquis looked surprised. “Thought you soldiers were all inveterate gamblers.”

“Only with our lives, sir. Never had anything else I could afford to lose.”

The marquis’s gaze sharpened. “I strongly suspect, Captain MacNeill, that you are a good deal more than you allow.”

“I am just a soldier, sir. Before that, I was nothing.”

“Are you? Were you?” The marquis moved to a sideboard and busied himself with a decanter and crystal glasses. “May I pour you a drink?”

Kit wondered what this was all about. “Thank you.”

The marquis poured an inch of brandy into two glasses and brought one to Kit. He tipped his glass in his direction, toasting him. Kit returned the salute, and in silence they drank.

“Shall we be seated, MacNeill? Ah. Good.” The marquis crossed one leg over the other. His boots gleamed black as a cormorant’s feather. “This debt you owe Mrs. Blackburn, might I ask the circumstances of it?”

Ah, so that was the way of it. “It is a matter of long standing, sir.”

“A personal matter?”

“Her father saved my life, and in doing so, lost his own. I vowed I would do whatever I could to aid his family.”

The marquis straightened, his booted foot dropping with a thud on the floor. He leaned forward in his chair, regarding him in astonishment. “Why… you are one of those boys Colonel Nash saved! Grace told us all about it. Amazing. You were held captive for how long?”

“Twenty-one months.”

“My God,” the marquis whispered. “And this promise is by way of repaying the Nashes for their loss?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” the marquis murmured. “I can only thank you again for escorting Mrs. Blackburn to me.”

The wording was possessive, and Kit understood all too well that he was to comprehend just exactly that. He hated the marquis at that moment for his subtlety and even his kindness. But above all, he wanted to challenge him for her.

But he didn’t reply. He didn’t flinch. He’d taught himself to absorb the strike of the flail without a whimper. But the flail had never hurt like this.

He would leave tonight.

Kit found John in the process of picking Doran’s hooves. The young coachman looked up and greeted him. “Fine animal.”

“Aye.” He wasn’t in the mood to talk.

“Irish?”

“Aye.”

John set Doran’s foot down and wiped his hands on his leather apron. “Didn’t mean to pry, sir.”

“Sorry, lad.” It was not John’s fault that the evening had challenged the limits of what he could endure. “I have the devil’s own temper. Doran is a cavalry mount. Spent five years in India being patriotic.”

“You were in the cavalry, sir?” John asked, moving behind Doran and squatting down again. He eased his hand down the gelding’s fetlock and lifted his foot.

“Not me. The horse,” Kit said. “I bought him off an officer who’d just sold his commission.”

“I see,” John said distractedly.

Kit came to an abrupt decision. “What sort of man do you take the marquis to be, John?” he asked. The driver looked up, startled by such plain speaking.

“An honorable one, sir.”

“Fair?”

“More than most,” John said readily.

“Generous?”

“Well, he’s a proper Scotsman, sir, but no tenant of his will ever go wanting because he gambled, and no roofs on his lands will leak so he can wear the latest fashion. And there’s no piece of cattle in these stables the match of your Doran,” he said slyly, giving the gelding a friendly pat. “How much did he cost, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A bloody fortune,” Kit answered shortly. “But what sort of man is the marquis to those who offer him or his injury?”

“Not one to trifle with, sir.”

“How so?”

“Well, he called in the militia to deal with those that murdered Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch, didn’t he? And he’s sworn to see them brought to justice and so he will. I never heard his lordship make a vow he didn’t keep.”

Kit’s hand, buried in Doran’s mane, checked. “They were murdered?”

The coachman rammed his hand against his forehead. “Bloody hell, I thought she would have told you.”

“Mrs. Blackburn?”

“Yes. I told her myself, and right surprised I was to find myself being the first to do so.”

He disliked this. “Why wouldn’t the marquis write and inform Mrs. Blackburn that her cousin had been murdered?”

“I thought he had,” John admitted. “He wrote her several times. I know because I give ’em to the courier myself. Right surprised I was when I heard she was coming here, and I had the feeling that the marquis was surprised, too. But he’s a marquis, and I’m a coachman, and I’m not one to question my betters.” He looked at Kit as if trying to gauge whether he fell into that category. “Sir.”

“ ’Tweren’t a secret about the murders,” he continued. “I’m thinking that the courier got drunk in some public house and lost the letter the marquis sent.” The young coachman was probably right. “That would explain why Mrs. Blackburn came all this way, wouldn’t it?” John went on. “She might have thought twice about journeying so far if she knew a murderer was at liberty up here.”

“Yes. She might, mightn’t she?” Kit agreed cautiously. “I am surprised the marquis sent a carriage for her. He must have considered such a trip ill advised.”

John shrugged. “Who knows with women? Maybe she made the suggestion and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by saying no.”

Which may be exactly what had happened.

“Things being as they are, all’s well that ends well. Mrs. Blackburn is here safe and sound, and his lordship is set the militia on the villains’ trail.”

Which was good, Kit thought, and just what a decent man would do, and proved how far from decency he himself stood; if it had been his kin who had been murdered, he wouldn’t have bothered sending for aid, he would have hunted the bastards down himself and doubtless brought ruin on any number of innocent people in the process.

The marquis was not like him. That could only be good for Kate. It wouldn’t be long before Parnell offered for her, no matter what she thought. He’d only had to spend a few minutes in the marquis’s company to realize that, despite Kate’s apparent blindness to it, the marquis of Parnell was, and probably always had been, a little in love with her. Time could only make his attachment deeper. More passionate.

Kit wanted to beat him bloody.

Every instinct drove him to claim Kate Blackburn for his own. But he wouldn’t. He would find something better within himself. She wanted stability and security and wealth. He could provide none of those things.

How in the name of all that was sane could he have let last night happen? Because for one brief night he wanted her to be his. And a brief night was all he would ever have. She’d been a temporary wayfarer in his world; she did not belong there, and Kit could not gainsay the evidence of his eyes: the marquis was wealthy, well respected, and mindful of his responsibilities, and he cared for Kate.

She would do well here. It was everything she wanted. And he had to get away.

“I’ll be back, ready to leave in a few hours,” he told John.

The coachman looked up mournfully. “You can come back in an hour, or two hours or ten, but if you have a care for this animal you’ll not be riding him out this day or the next.”

Kit checked. “What do you mean?”

“There was a stone wedged between his sole and his frog, sir. Wee thing it were, and I dug it out, but there’s a bruise there, and I wouldn’t advise riding him for a day or two.”

“Hell and damnation!” The young driver cringed. Kit cursed again, before emitting an evil laugh. “Well, why not? Why bloody not?”

“Sir?”

“A day, you say?”

“At least. Two would be better. I wouldn’t risk laming him.”

“Nor would I.”

He left the stables, heading back to the castle, cursing the fate that held Kate Blackburn just out of his reach, but not out of his sight.

As once it had held Douglas Stewart.

Le
Mons Castle,
July 1799

The guard entered the stinking dungeon and waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Then he looked around until he spied Dand, sitting listlessly with his back against the wall. “Where are the rest of your friends?”

Kit straightened. Across the room he saw Ram, his shoulder jammed against the wall as insouciantly as if he were in a London gentlemen’s club, as Douglas threaded his way through the crowd, toward the front.

Kit moved more slowly, in no way eager for the next few minutes. They were bound to be painful. Ram, too, hung back. A half-dozen more guards had entered the dungeon. Kit disliked the sudden show of strength.

“Yesterday our guillotine malfunctioned!” the head guard cried dramatically. “But”—he held up his hand as if to soothe fretful complaints, though no one had made a sound—“after many hours of labor we think she is now fixed. Of course, we will not know until—well.” He smiled deprecatingly. “You understand, eh?”

A low, panicked mutter ran through the mob.

“So.” He rubbed his hands together. “We need a volunteer. A… Scottish volunteer. In fact, we insist. And if one does not volunteer, we will take all.”

Dand froze where he sat. Ram jerked straight, and Kit began pushing his way through the crowd toward Douglas, who was still moving toward the door.

“Who would like to volunteer to aid us with our little problem?”

“I’ll go.” Douglas’s voice reverberated down Kit’s spine like death’s own toll.

“Ah! Very good—”

“No!” Dand launched himself forward, but the guards were ready, knocking him to the ground while another pair took hold of Douglas and shoved him out the cell door. Kit burst through the mob at the same time as Ram, just as the cell doors swung shut.

Kit raced to the tiny window set high in the wall and jumped, pulling himself up by the bars and staring out at ground level. Through the milling throng of bloodthirsty spectators’ legs and feet it was impossible to see him.

“Douglas!”

Then he spied them, across the yard, the executioner leading Douglas up the scaffolding to where the guillotine squatted, the crowd jeering and shouting. They were wrapping a black scarf around his eyes, and now they shoved him to his knees. The sun glinted off something bright and—

“No!”

TWENTY

MAKING ONESELF AGREEABLE TO THOSE WHO ARE IN A POSITION TO OFFER AID

MORNING CAME, AND WITH IT Kate discovered that the fictional headache she had pleaded had become a fact. She shrugged into her dress without much thought to her appearance, her thoughts on Kit MacNeill. He was leaving. Maybe even today.

The door to her room suddenly opened, and Merry Benny swept into the room. “I came to see if you need anything.”

“No,” Kate said. “Everything is quite in order. Thank you.”

The girl’s gaze fell on the stack of dresses Peggy had brought, and she rushed across the room. “Those are Grace’s!” she declared. “I should have them.”

“Yes. Of course.” Kate had to remind herself of her former sympathy for the girl. “Since my clothes were ruined, the marquis offered their use to me during my stay. You will have them as soon as I am gone.”

“Oh. Of course. I…” At least, the girl had the grace to look embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to sound so greedy. It’s just that I have so little left of Grace that I begrudge anyone else having her things.”

She eyed the dress Kate had donned. It was white-and-lilac striped batiste with small puffed sleeves and a delicately embroidered band of deep purple satin tied beneath her breasts. “Grace embroidered the sash herself,” she said. “She was so talented with a needle. She could take the most common-looking item and in a few hours make it exquisite.”

“You were very close to my cousin.”

“I considered her my best friend,” she answered softly.

“You must miss her greatly.”

“Yes.” She looked around. “Is this the trunk Grace sent you?”

“Indeed, it is.”

“Would you mind if I looked inside? There are a few things of hers that were missing from her room. I assume she sent them along to you. I would like them. They are nothing of value except to me.”

“Of course,” Kate answered.

Merry did not need further encouragement. She lifted the trunk’s lid and began emptying it, carefully looking over each item before dropping it to the floor. What with the careful examination of each thing, it took a long time, but gradually a pile of Grace’s belongings rose at Merry’s feet.

Kate had retreated to the window seat to watch, unwilling to intrude on the girl’s grief but not wanting to quit the room. Finally the trunk was empty. Merry peered into it with a dissatisfied air.

“Is that all?” she asked. “There are still some things missing.”

Kate nodded in agreement. “A good deal, I am afraid. The same thieves that ruined my dresses ransacked Grace’s belongings. There were some books that the thieves defaced and which I gave to the marquis to see if he might repair. The embroidery box is here, but the hoops are broken. Several snuffboxes, a clock, and all of the medicine vials were shattered.”

The girl shook her head petulantly. “No. None of those things matter. Perhaps a pastel painting or Grace’s diary?”

“There was no diary. And those”—Kate gestured to the folio of now scattered watercolors—“are the only artistic pieces.”

“A jewelry box?”

“I’m sorry.”

The girl glared at her, as though suspecting her of keeping something back. “I know you are very poor. Grace told me as much.”

Kate, in the process of rising, froze.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you kept something for yourself. As Grace’s only blood relation, you deserve it. But I can assure you that whatever it is means a great deal more to me, and I would be more than willing to see you adequately compensated for it.”

“There is nothing.”

At the chill in Kate’s voice, Merry stretched out her hand imploringly. “I have offended you.”

“You sound surprised,” Kate said icily. “Perhaps you are accustomed to being accused of theft. I am not.”

The girl turned brilliant red. “Of course I’m not. Please.” Her lips trembled. “I miss her so very much.” There could be no doubting her sincerity. “She is gone, and I have been left behind.”

Nothing the girl could have said could have done more to secure Kate’s sympathy. She knew what it felt like to feel abandoned and angry.

“I understand,” she said, coming to her with her hand outstretched.

“No!” Merry said, backing away. “You can’t possibly understand, so don’t say you do!”

Kate did not take offense. Since her arrival, the girl’s mood had vacillated wildly: one minute seemingly lost and vulnerable, the next, bitter and combative. Very much like Kate herself had been the year of her husband and father’s deaths.

The girl wiped at her cheeks. “If only I could read her last words. See if she spared me any thoughts at all.”

“Are you certain that would comfort you?” Kate asked carefully.

“I suppose it might only make it worse,” the girl whispered, her hands twisting at her waist. “But I would like to know she was happy before she died. That would be a comfort.”

Undeniably, a bond existed between them. Both had lost loved ones to violent, unnecessary ends. But where Grace had been a victim of crime, Kate’s father had volunteered for his death. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. Still, she would have liked to know her father’s state of mind before he died. Had he been looking for some means of testing himself, or had his death truly been a matter of circumstances, as Kit seemed convinced it was?

She wished her father had written something so that his family might have comforted themselves with the knowledge that in the days before his death, he had thought of them with pleasure and, perhaps, pride. But her father had never been much of a correspondent, so she would never know.

And neither would Merry.

“I am truly sorry, Miss Merry, but Grace sent no additional letter to me. Only the one saying that she and Charles would soon be moving to London and asking if I would store her things in anticipation of their arrival.”

“Did you keep the letter?” Merry asked.

Kate shook her head. “No. It was quite short. A matter of a few lines.”

The girl wrapped her arms around her waist, staring unseeingly out of the window. Across the courtyard, Captain Watters appeared, his gold epaulets flashing in the morning light. He looked around the courtyard, and seeing Kate and Merry standing at the upper window, smiled and bowed deeply.

“If it comforts you, the marquis has every confidence in Captain Watters,” Kate said. “After meeting him I, too, feel he is a man who will not stop until he has achieved his purpose.”

Merry colored faintly. “He is an extraordinary man.”

The militia captain had evidently made a conquest of the girl.

“And here I thought you only admired the smugglers,” Kate said, hoping to tease her out of her sadness. It worked.

Merry gave a derisive scoff. “Mr. Murdoch mistakes me. I don’t admire smugglers. They are unspeakably low.” She waved her hand airily. “Oh, at one time I might have imagined them an object of romance in my mind.”

“Callum Lamont?”

Merry glanced sharply at Kate. “He has a certain coarse appeal,” she admitted. “And a certain presence.”

Kate tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“There are leaders, and there are followers. The former are few, the latter many.” Her gaze was drawn once more to Captain Watters crossing the courtyard with four men at his heels. “Like the captain there.”

“A good man,” Kate said approvingly.

Merry looked at her pityingly. “Don’t be naive. Goodness has naught to do with it, Mrs. Blackburn. It is the will of the leader that describes the movement of the led. Most men will follow the strongest leader and live by whatever rules he adopts.” She let out a small sigh. “Goodness rarely stands against strength.”

“You are concerned Callum Lamont may prove too formidable a foe for Captain Watters.”

Merry shrugged.

“Having met both men, I can say with every confidence that Captain Watters could not fail to inspire more men to his purpose than Mr. Lamont to his,” Kate said. “So according to your own philosophy, in this instance the good must win as well as the strong.”

The girl’s gaze fixed on Captain Watters’s manly figure with undisguised admiration, and Kate felt relief on the Murdoch family’s behalf. Obviously Merry had traded her infatuation with Callum Lamont for a more acceptable idol.

“It’s true that one must believe Captain Watters will achieve whatever purpose he undertakes,” Merry murmured. She looked around at Kate, slyness stealing into her expression. “Your Captain MacNeill looks like he might have been such a man.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Kate replied.

“Wouldn’t you?” Was there a trace of disbelief in Merry’s voice, or simply scorn? “Well, I daresay I’ve kept you from your toilette long enough,” she said and without any further word, hurried out of the room as Kate stared in bemusement at Grace’s belongings still littering her floor.