Susan Johnson (10 page)

Standing, he dashed off three brief sentences, all couched in the form of commands. Scrawling his name at the end, he handed the folded sheet to Holmes. “Go to Lady Carberry’s first, and then find Coutts wherever he is and bring him back to me posthaste.”

He paced after that like a caged animal, his frustration and rage so violent even the pain in his arm was forgotten. He moved from wall to wall to wall in a pattern of tethered constraint—retaliation and vengeance racing through his mind.

As if he’d let her sacrifice herself to Argyll to save him or his family. Damn her, the notion was preposterous, that she should be some bloody martyr for them. The time had come to supplant all this refined maneuvering with some brute force, he decided. How
many men would he need to intimidate Argyll? Perhaps a few score. He’d have to make it clear to Argyll that Roxane wasn’t available.

As he would to Roxane as well—in short order.

Where the hell was Coutts?
he silently fumed, beginning to gather weapons for a surreptitious trip across the city. He put on a leather coat to cover and protect his bandaged arm, the required movements making him momentarily light-headed. Leaning against the wall briefly, he let the worst of the agony diminish before lifting his sword baldric over his head and easing it onto his shoulder. At least his sword arm hadn’t been injured, he gratefully thought, and even his injured right arm was capable of holding a pistol. But the activity necessitated several shots of brandy to dull the pain, and the bottle was half gone when Coutts appeared.

Robbie thrust the wrinkled note at him. “Read this and tell me what can reasonably or unreasonably be done.”

He was fully armed, Coutts noted with alarm, and his anger was palpable. It took some time to read the delicate script on the wrinkled paper. The countess had tried to explain Argyll’s offer at some length—her reasons for accepting, how the end was well worth the means, how her lawyers had assured her such an agreement was binding in court. And she tried as well to tell Robbie how much she loved him, although it was clear she’d struggled over the wording—several phrases had been scratched out.

“So?” Robbie curtly declared when Coutts finally finished, glaring at him with a dangerous fire in his eyes.

“You know what I’m going to say as a lawyer,” Coutts gently pronounced.

“Fuck, yes. But all the compromising and practical lawyer talk aside, you know Argyll can’t be trusted, even if the fact that he wants to bed the woman I love wasn’t fucking
unthinkable.

“How does she imagine I’d allow it?” Robbie went on, his voice harsh with anger, “Or that Argyll would even consider keeping his word? He’s faithless to the core, like Queensberry. She’s outrageously naive. I’m surprised.”

Coutts refrained from mentioning the obvious conclusion that Roxane wasn’t naive. It wasn’t his place to make judgments on the Countess of Kilmarnock’s motives.

“Go and talk to her,” Robbie gruffly said, “and explain all the legal reasons for this not being necessary. I’ll explain the others to her myself when I see her.”

“The countess may not receive me.”

“Try.” The single word was a command.

“I’d caution you against going out, my lord.”

“Thank you for the advice,” Robbie said with clipped impatience.

He was planning something, Coutts reflected, recognizing the dismissive retort, the impassioned gleam in his eyes. Johnnie Carre’s wild young brother was bent on wreaking vengeance on someone.

He’d have to see that Johnnie was informed as quickly as possible.

R
OXANNE RECEIVED COUTTS A SHORT TIME LATER
but, harried with the arrangements for her children’s
leave-taking, she listened only out of courtesy to his calm and valid explanations. At the end she offered her own frank question. “Tell me honestly, Mr. Coutts, can you assure me the Carres will win in court?”

His hesitation was all the answer she needed.

“You see,” she gently affirmed. “On the other hand,
my
way will have Argyll’s signature on a document restoring their titles and properties. My counselors have already assured me that should the commissioner sign such an agreement, the contract will stand up in any court in the land. Tell Robbie that.”

“He won’t care to hear it. He’s adamantly opposed to your actions, my lady. I can’t express strongly enough his degree of opposition. Even wounded, he’s quite likely to do something rash.”

Her hand came to her mouth, horror in her gaze. “Wounded? How badly? Tell me … tell me the truth.” A wave of terror rolled over her; Jamie had died from a putrid battle wound.

“A musket ball in the arm, my lady. He seems to be convalescing … in his own way.”

“Is he in bed?” she quickly asked, pale and shaken. “Has he seen a doctor? He should be in bed so the wound doesn’t fester.”

“A doctor has seen him, of course, but he refuses to stay in bed. He’s headstrong, my lady, as you know.”

“Tell him he
must
stay in bed,” she ordered, “and he must have the dressing changed every day and he must eat well—broths and a little meat—and he needs sleep to heal. Tell him I insist.” She took a small breath to suppress her overwhelming apprehensions. “How does he look? Is he feverish?” she nervously queried.

Armed for battle wouldn’t placate her anxieties,
Coutts decided, so he opted for a less traumatic answer. “The earl doesn’t appear much indisposed by his wound, my lady.”

“Thank God,” she breathed, visibly relieved. “Bring him my prayers.” And after a moment of hesitation she added, “And my love as well.”

“Yes, my lady, I’ll convey your concerns and regards.”

“Tell him also,” she went on, her smile tentative, “I’ll see him again when he and Johnnie are back at Goldiehouse.”

Coutts refrained from mentioning she may be seeing him considerably sooner. He’d not been given permission to disclose that information, nor was he entirely sure Robbie would make his way across town undetected by Queensberry’s patrols. “I’ll tell him, ma’am.” He rose from his chair and bowed.

“One more thing,” she blurted out, ardent feeling overcoming discretion. “Tell him I haven’t forgotten The Ballad of Muirland Willie.’”

A
SCANT HOUR LATER, AFTER A RUSH OF PACKING
by the entire Forrestor household, Roxane conveyed her children, their maids, governesses, and nannies, along with an extra baggage cart, to the Carberrys, whose establishment had undergone a similar burst of activity.
⁷

Roxane and her children arrived in the sunny second-floor drawing room where Amelia’s children and several of their pets had assembled prior to departure. Two large deerhounds sprawled in the warmth of the sun streaming through the south
windows. A parrot greeted everyone coming into the room with a raucous “hip, hip, hooray” and other more indelicate words, while two black cats prowled the sofa backs, nervous in the heightened bustle of packing.

Amelia greeted them, her four children smiling at her side. “I told the children we’re in a rush, so they’ve promised to behave until you bid your good-byes.”

Her oldest boy pantomimed locking his mouth with a key, which generated a wave of giggles. But everyone settled down after a moment or so.

“Remember to help Aunt Amelia with the children, darling,” Roxane said to her daughter, Jeannie, “and write and tell me what everyone’s doing.” She kissed and hugged her oldest child.

“I will, Mama. And Auntie says Uncle has three prime new racers he’ll let me ride.” Her bright smile gave evidence of her pleasure. “When you come out to Longmuir I’ll race you.”

Roxie beamed, proud of her daughter’s equestrian skills. She was reminded of her own youth, when the world was still carefree and untroubled and her greatest pleasure was riding across the moors.

“Uncle David has the best jockey in Scotland from Ayrshire, so we’re going to lots of race meets.”

“I’m riding, too,” her eldest son, James, interposed. “Aunt Melie says I can race one of their horses at the meets.”

“Do be careful, darling,” Roxane murmured, moving to kiss her twelve-year-old son on his freckled nose. “Some of the jockeys ride for blood.”

“Mama.” He snorted in disgust. “I’m bigger than most of the jockeys already. I can hold my own.”

“I know, dear,” she murmured, thinking how quickly he’d grown. In a year, two at the most, he’d be off to university.

She still had her twin sons and Angus to mother for a few more years, she reflected, although the twins at ten were becoming more independent every day. They were ecstatic about going to the country, their excitement barely contained. Andrew and Alex, grinning from ear to ear, had their fishing poles in their hands so she received one-armed hugs from them.

“We’re going to fish
every
day,” Alex proudly declared.

“And at
night
, too,” Andrew added. “Aunt Melie says we can sleep in the crofter hut down by the loch and come to the house only to eat dinner.”

“I’m fishing, too,” her youngest piped up, his small fishing pole clutched in his pudgy fist.

“You boys help Angus,” Roxane suggested, bending on one knee to hug her littlest. Unlike her older boys, who were dark like their father, Jamie, Angus looked nothing like Kilmarnock. Instead he had Roxane’s red hair and the Forrestor features. She’d always considered God benevolent to disregard the Erskine blood when he’d sent Angus to her.

“He can’t sleep with us at night, though,” Alex and Andrew said in unison.

“Can too,” Angus protested, his lower lip thrust forward in stubborn resistance.

“Can’t either,” Alex rebutted.

Angus’s bottom lip began to tremble.

“Jamie will stay with you one night, won’t you, Jamie?” Roxane queried, gathering her five-year-old into her arms, fishing pole and all.

“Angus and I will stay in our own fishing hut,” Jamie offered, accommodating his mother’s wishes.

“Our
own?”
Angus exclaimed, instantly appeased.

“Now apologize to Angus,” Roxane ordered, her gaze on her twins.

“He can stay if he
wants”
Alex relented.

“He can swim with us,” Andrew volunteered. “He just cries at night when he’s away from the house, that’s all.”

“I won’t cry,” Angus promised, confident of his grown-up status in the comfort of his mother’s arms.

“Why don’t we all stay there occasionally,” Amelia proposed. “Being outside at night with plenty of company will be less frightening.”

“I don’t want to sleep outside,” Jeannie protested. “And I know Julia doesn’t, either.”

“You and your cousin needn’t, dear,” Amelia replied, knowing how her daughter and Jeannie, so close in age, preferred sitting up and talking all night.

Roxane smiled at her daughter, who at thirteen alternated between her love of active sports and the more feminine pastimes of young womanhood. “Now mind Aunt Melie and Uncle David,” she said one last time, “and when I come to Longmuir in a fortnight you can tell me all you’ve done.”

“Don’t be away
too
long,” Angus pleaded, hugging his mother tightly.

“I’ll come as soon as I can, darling.” Kissing his plump cheek, she set him down. “Now all of you give me a last kiss until I can see you again.”

The four Carberry cousins were impatiently waiting near the door, their deerhounds in hand, and Roxane’s
final kisses were given in a flurry of childish conversations and thunderous barks.

A
FTER THE LAST WAVE AND BLOWN KISS, WHEN
the children had all run off to the carriages, Roxane turned to Amelia. “I’m not sure they’ll wait for you, so I shan’t keep you. I can see myself out.”

“Miss Wade can monitor them for a moment,” Amelia replied, an odd constraint in her tone. “Before you go, I’d like you to look at a new credenza I bought.” Touching Roxane’s arm, she signaled her to silence with a finger to her mouth. “It’s in David’s study.”

Roxane glanced at her sister-in-law in puzzlement, but Amelia only moved toward the arched entrance to the room. “I need your advice on how best to use it,” she went on in a conversational tone. “You remember that Florentine painted piece at Amluxen’s we were both admiring.” Brows lifted, she emphatically nodded her head, her black curls bobbing with the vigor of her gesture.

Responding to her obvious pantomime, Roxane said, “Of course I remember,” her voice bland, her curiosity piqued.

“I’m using it temporarily for David’s books, but I was thinking of moving it into my bedroom and putting my lingerie in it, or I could use it in the dining room for the silver or the delftware. I’m not sure … exactly what to do with it, so let me know what you think might be most appropriate … or useful.” She rambled on, obviously nervous, the pitch of her voice too loud in the quiet of the corridor.

Reaching the study, she opened the door and gestured Roxane in. She quickly followed, shut the door behind them, and hastily turned the key in the lock as though the fiends of hell might be breathing down their necks.

“What in the world is going on?” Roxane looked at her friend with misgiving. Queensberry’s threats covered a large territory.

“You have a visitor.” Amelia glanced from Roxane to a shadowed alcove between two great banks of bookshelves. “And keep your voice down,” she ordered, speaking to whomever was concealed there. “The servants might hear.”

Receiving no answer, she walked toward a doorway to an adjoining room. “Don’t stay long. You’re putting everyone at risk.” She turned back to Roxane, her mouth set in a hard, tense line. “I’ll wait for you in the drawing room.” She exited the study, the scraping sound of a key turning in the lock evidence of the degree of danger her visitor posed.

Roxane had first realized the visitor’s identity when the faint scent of citron had drifted to her, and torn between fear for Robbie’s safety and joy at seeing him, she rushed toward him, an irrepressible excitement racing through her.

“What the bloody
hell
did you think you were doing?”

The quiet savagery in his voice stopped her in her tracks, and when he stepped from the shadows, the violence of his expression shocked her. A vicious, cruel mask overlaid his handsome face. His hand was on his sword hilt as though they were enemies. “Did you
think I’d say thank you for your kindness and go on with my life?” he ground out. “Or wait patiently for Argyll’s fucking leftovers?”