A Pirate's Wife for Me (26 page)

"I understand. You don't want anyone to know." Harkness threw himself at Taran's feet. "Your Majesty, I knew you would return."

The strong smell of whisky permeated the foyer, and if this scene didn't end, and quickly, Taran feared he would be discovered on his first night. "Get up, man, you'll cut yourself on the glass."

"Your Majesty." Harkness's trembling hand groped for Taran's, and he pressed his lips on the back. "I've tried to keep faith."

Taran gave up. With the bloody-mindedness of a drunk, Harkness would believe what he wished regardless of Taran's denials. And Harkness's devotion touched him, reminding him of those days long gone when Harkness had been devoted to Taran's father, the king. So Taran said, "You've done a good job, Harkness, but now you should go to bed."

"Bed. How could I go to bed when you're back?" Harkness's shaking voice was slurred. "I must summon the maids and the footmen. I must prepare the house!"
"You can't do that. Remember? I don't want anyone to know I have returned."

"But I must do something to help you!"
Hmm
. Taran realized he could get information from Harkness. At least — perhaps he could. "You're right. I could use your assistance." Slipping his arm around the butler, Taran hauled him to his feet. "Harkness, could you give me a quiet, very quiet, tour of the house? Show me what has changed in my absence?"

"Everything has changed in your absence. Everything!" Harkness flung out a hand and waved it in a wide arc, and his voice grew louder. "None of it for the better!"

"Shhh!"

"Shhh!" Harkness repeated. "We don't want
him
to know you have returned. We don't want that devil, Davies, to know."

"We don't want
anyone
to know. Help me. Show me where Davies keeps his correspondence. Tell me who visited in the past year. Direct me to the firearms."

"Your Majesty, I would be honored. And you have asked the right man, for I am not the fool Maddox would like to believe." In an excess of drunken dignity, Harkness straightened his coat. "Let us go."

Go they did. They slipped through the moonlight in the foyer and walked — staggered — toward the huntsman's room. Outside the great double doors, Harkness called a halt. He fumbled with the keys that hung from his belt. He tried to put one in the lock. He dropped it once. Twice.

Taran waited, arms crossed.

At last, Harkness managed to insert the key and turn the lock. He flung wide the doors.

They crashed against the walls.

Taran froze and listened to the silence in the house.

No movement above or below.

"Everyone is truly gone," Taran said.

"No one wants to stay in this house — except me. I've been waiting for you … for so long … that I despaired…" Harkness choked up.

Taran put his hand on Harkness's shoulder. "You are a good and loyal servant. No one could ask for anyone as knowledgeable as you. But Harkness — you cannot have another drink."

"What?"

"I can't take the chance you'll tell anyone I'm back. That means I need you operating at the top of your capacities as a butler, as a spy, as the man who can confuse and delude the enemy. I need you, Harkness. Do you understand? I need you."

"I am yours, my king." Harkness's voice was fervent.

"I know I can depend on you." Taran wandered into the huntsman's room. The weapons were locked in glass cabinets, but glass never kept out a determined warrior, and… "Harkness, do you have the keys for these locks?"

Harkness sniffed. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Taran laughed softly. "You are a treasure."

They toured the house, upstairs and down, examining each room. On the second floor, Taran insisted they step out the back door onto the wide balcony to look far out over the magnificent, overgrown yard. There the rocky crag rose like a bleak stark finger pointing toward the eternal stars. "Harkness, the king has returned. When the battle is joined, is the beacon ready to light?"

Harkness swayed as he stared at the symbol of Cenorinian hope. "It will be, Your Majesty. In secret, it will be done."

"How soon?"

"Within the week. I can manage it within the week."

"Sooner. We need that beacon."

"Yes, sire." Harkness led Taran up steep, narrow stairs to the third story. "You want to know where Sir Davies keeps his correspondence." He chuckled darkly. "When people are watching, he uses the king's study, and while he does he strikes cruelly at the reminders of royalty." His voice wavered, then he hurried on. "It is his belief that sitting his common buttocks on the king's chair makes him important. But I'm the butler. I know where he keeps his
secret
papers." Harkness opened a shabby door into pitch darkness. Striking a lucifer, he cupped the small flame in his hand, and hurriedly lit the candle beside the door. Lifting the brass candle stand, he waved it around the room. A small desk sat in the middle of a worn rug. Cabinets and drawers lined the walls. "They're here. In this room with no windows. Sir Davies hates the light."

"Then he will soon enjoy the confines of his coffin." Taran checked the desk. It was locked. The cabinets were locked. The drawers were locked. Taran asked, "Do you have the keys for all
this?"

"No, Your Majesty. Only Davies holds these keys."

Ironic. On Taran's first night home, Harkness had in all probability led him to the place where Davies had placed the information Taran sought, and it was secure behind one of a hundred locks. Taran had seen how quickly Cate could work, but this … this would take time. And time they did not have.

Taran turned toward the door, and stopped.

Harkness stood like a statue, candle upraised, staring at him accusingly. "You
aren't
the king."

Now Taran had to proceed carefully. "Who do you think I am?"

Harkness's hand trembled. The candle wavered. "The crown prince. But he is dead."

"Why do you think that?"

"I was here when he was captured. I watched as they dragged him away to be delivered to the pirates." The candle trembled harder. "I knew … and I did nothing."

"Why not?"

"Because I am a coward." There was a world of self-loathing in those words.

Taran now knew what to do, what to say. "If you had tried to prevent the deed, you would have been most horribly killed. What good would that now do the prince?"

"Perhaps none." Harkness gave a dry sob. "But I would not now be trapped in this torment of guilt. I would not now be speaking to a ghost."

"I am not a ghost. Look at me. Touch my hand." Taran moved close to Harkness and grabbed his fingers. "I have returned to take my kingdom from the usurper. And I appoint you the general of my household. "

Harkness collapsed into Taran's arms.

With one hand, Taran caught the candle. With the other, he supported Harkness.

"This isn't a dream … is it?" Harkness asked.

"It is real. But you must sleep so you are prepared to take command." Taran maneuvered him out of the room. "I depend on you, Harkness. You will not fail me."

"No, I will not. But I don't want to go to sleep if you're going to be gone when I wake."

"I won't be gone. I'll be here … hiding in plain sight."

"That's all right, then." Harkness sounded as sleepy as a babe. "As long as you have in truth come back."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Cate dreamed…

In the early morning, in Granny Aileen's miniature hut, Cate woke and gave a long, languid stretch, feeling a pleasurable fatigue in each muscle, a soreness between her thighs. A sense of accomplishment brought a smile tugging at her lips. At last, she had seduced and conquered Taran Tamson. He was hers. She would keep him forever on the Isle of Mull, her husband, her lover.

She could hear him moving around the hut, stirring up the fire, setting the water to boil. His footsteps moved toward the bed. She shut her eyes and pursed her lips, ready for his kiss.

Instead, he leaned over the bed, placed a hand on either side of her head, and said, "Cate, look at me."

Her eyes sprang open, and she saw … she saw Taran, dressed in his black traveling clothes, a lock of hair drooping over his forehead. She looked again, sure that she somehow must have lost her mind. But she hadn't. He even wore his greatcoat. Her voice had a squeak in it when she demanded, "Why are you dressed like that? What are you doing?

"I'm going back to my home."

"Back to …" She tried to feel relief, but something in his expression warned her devastation approached. "You mean to Mull."

"No, I mean to my home."

"Your home? You don't want to go there. You never even talk about it!"

That made perfect sense to her, but his lips tightened as if she displeased him. "I'm leaving."

"But you can't. We're married!"

"I know." Leaning down, he pressed a kiss on her lips, a kiss that deepened of its own accord. But he drew back. "I have to go back and claim my heritage."

She flung her hands around his neck to hold him. "But you've got a home with the MacLeans now."

"Did you think I would live off of your brother for the rest of my life?"

Of course, she'd thought exactly that. "Why not? He's a great laird. He would be glad of your support."

Taran shook his head.

She thought he looked older, somehow. The rage that constantly simmered beneath his surface had been transformed into resolve. And she realized — before their impetuous marriage, they hadn't talked about where they would live or how. She had assumed things that weren't true, and now she had a choice to make.

Taking her hands, he loosened them from his neck. "I'll come back for you."

She sat up and kicked the covers off. "No, you won't. I'll go with you."

She expected her pronouncement to be greeted with joy, not a flat, "You can't."

"Why not? A wife's place is at her husband's side."

"It's too dangerous."

"I'm not afraid."

He straightened. "You can't come!"

He made her so mad! No one told her what to do. "How are you going to stop me?"

"Your brother is on his way. I left him a note telling him where he could find you. Inform him that we're married and he won't want to kill you. Tell him I'll be back for you — if I can."

"What do you mean, if you can?" Taran was abandoning her. Her husband was abandoning her after only one night!

Taran straightened his shoulders. "I face great peril."

She wanted to laugh at him for his posturing.

But he was serious as a tomb. "I'll be back. I can't allow myself to fail."

Her plans were all crashing around her ears. Nothing was going as it should. She came to her feet wearing nothing but a blush of fury. "I'm going to follow you."

He looked. She saw his gaze linger on her breasts and her legs, and everything in between. Then he looked at her face, and in the kind of tone she occasionally heard from her brother, he said, "You're not."

Taran couldn't talk to her that way. He was not her boss. Putting her hands on her hips, she asked, "How are you going to stop me?"

He stared at her for a long moment.

She taunted, "I'm as good at tracking as you are. No matter where you are, I'll be right behind you."

He took a long breath. "I should have thought of that."

She enjoyed one moment of triumph.

Then he removed the coil of rope off the wall, the one Granny Aileen used to tether the cow, and Cate realized she'd pushed him too far. "You can't do that to me."

He reached for her.

She tried to duck under his arm.

He caught her, tucked his foot under her knee, and tipped her back onto the bed.

She tried to box his ears. She got him, too, on the right side, with a resounding thump that made him stagger slightly.

But he caught that wrist, sat on her. Sat on her! As if she were a wild colt to be tethered.

And he tied her to the headboard.

She gave a shriek of rage. She kicked at his back.

His expression was intense. He frowned in concentration as if she were a problem to be solved.

She raked her fingernails across one side of his face. He caught that hand and tied it beside the other one.

Then he stood and looked down at her, chest heaving, blood welling from four jagged gashes in his cheek.

"I'm your wife," she shouted.

He sounded exasperated and looked harried. "Then act like one and stay where you're told."

"I am Caitlin MacLean. I'm not a dog to stay meekly where I'm ordered."

"You are Caitlin … Tamson. You'll stay here, and I'll be back for you."

In a fury of rage and pain, she tugged at the ropes. "I'm not your wife. I will never be your wife. Not if you leave me like this."