Amanda Scott (35 page)

His hand still grasping Bridget’s arm, Sir Renfrew said in a false, easy tone, “Kintyre don’t approve of the union, Parson, and that’s plain fact, but it need not concern us tonight. Lady Bridget loves me and I love her, and we are going to be wed.” An edge crept into his voice that made the parson turn pale. “If ye canna remember the marriage lines, I will find me another parson.”

The parson looked narrowly at Bridget. “Art thou truly willing, lass?”

Pinkie stared hard at her, terrified that Bridget would continue to think of no one but herself. Marriage to Sir Renfrew might be a terrible fate, but women often married men they hated, and had done so throughout history. Besides, the ceremony was no more than that There might still be time to save Bridget from the worst of its consequences. But if she spoke now and Sir Renfrew got rid of the parson—perhaps even murdered him—Michael would be next, and maybe Pinkie herself.

B
RIDGET FLICKED PINKIE A
glance, then said quietly, “I am willing.”

Pinkie reached toward the desk to steady herself, and the parson glanced at her curiously. “Is aught amiss with ye, my lady?”

“Nay, sir,” she said. “We have not eaten since this morning. I daresay I am but a trifle hungry.”

Clearing his throat, Sir Renfrew said, “There will be supper aplenty when the ceremony is done. Get on with it, Parson.”

“She is quite young, sir, and learning that her brother does not support this marriage must give second thoughts to any man o’ the cloth. I’ll no refuse to perform the ceremony,” he added hastily, “but I would feel better about it if I knew you had made arrangements to protect the young lady in the event of your death. Surely you have drawn up proper settlement papers.”

“Nay, then, I have not,” Sir Renfrew snapped, “but your point is a good one, Parson. I’ll willingly do that little thing.” When the parson smiled and waited expectantly, Sir Renfrew grimaced and said, “Verra well; I’ll attend to it at once.” Striding to the desk, he sat down, yanked a sheet of paper from a drawer, and dipped a pen into the inkwell, beginning to write without even testing the nib. He dashed off two or three lines, scrawled his signature, sprinkled silver sand over the whole, then got up and handed it to the parson, growling, “Will that do ye, sir?”

Reading swiftly, the parson looked up and said with surprise, “This be quite generous, Sir Renfrew.”

“Aye, well, I’ve no intention o’ dying yet a while, and I mean to get a few stout sons on her afore then, but it will do for now. Get on with the ceremony.”

Fifteen minutes later, declaring Sir Renfrew and Lady Bridget husband and wife, the parson frowned a little when Bridget visibly resisted her husband’s kiss, but did not speak of it.

Straightening, Sir Renfrew said dismissively, “I’d invite ye to stay to dine with us, Parson, but ’tis nearly dark, and there’ll no be a moon yet a while, so I ken ye’ll be wanting to get home. Here’s a bit toward a new kirk roof,” he added, handing him a small purse. “MacKellar, see that Parson gets home safe, but first tell MacIver to serve our dinner. Then he’s to dismiss the servants and take himself and his wife off away for the night. I want to be alone with my bride.”

“Aye,” MacKellar said. “Then I’ll no see ye again till the morning, m’self.”

“Tell the lads to keep a sharp eye on the bay for visitors though, especially any coming from Mingary way,” Sir Renfrew added. “They’ll come by water if they come, for they’ve no had time to come by land.” When MacKellar had gone, he turned to Pinkie and said, “Mrs. MacIver can show ye to your bedchamber, madam. We ha’ no need for more o’ your company this night.”

“I want her to dine with us,” Bridget declared boldly.

“Do ye, then, lass, and what will ye give me an I grant your request?”

Bridget glowered but made no move to stop him when he took her chin in one hand and tilted her face up. He kissed her lips again, taking his time, clearly savoring the fact that although she did not respond, neither did she dare resist. At last he released her, then turned again to Pinkie, saying with a courtly bow, “We’d be honored an ye would join us at table, madam.”

Despite Bridget’s frequent and rather frenetic attempts to stir conversation, dinner was a somber affair, and although she clearly hoped to prolong the meal, Sir Renfrew seemed as eager to bring it to an end. He had commanded the servants to set all the dishes on the table at once—along with two bottles of wine—and then leave; so they served themselves, and the meal took less time than usual.

“I’ll bank down the fire,” he said, drinking off what remained in his wineglass before getting to his feet and walking unsteadily to the fireplace.

Having encouraged Bridget to drink two glasses of wine, he had drunk much more of it himself, so Pinkie was not surprised to see him look a bit tipsy.

He took the poker that hung on a hook beside the huge fireplace, nudged the logs apart with it, and poked them toward the back. Then, after three unsuccessful attempts, he put the poker back on its hook and turned back to his bride.

“We’ll go upstairs now, my love.”

Bridget stayed where she was.

“Lass, dinna mak’ me fetch ye. I’ve the night and all to tame ye, and I doubt that ye’d want her ladyship to witness your submission to me here and now.”

Visibly swallowing, her face draining of color, Bridget rose from her chair and moved toward him. Her hands shook, and she hid them in the folds of her skirt.

“Ye’ll come upstairs with us, madam,” he said to Pinkie. “The servants ha’ gone, but I’ll show ye where ye’re to sleep.”

He reached for Bridget, and when she shrank from him, he grabbed her and put an arm around her shoulders, urging her toward the doorway into the hall. When he glanced over his shoulder, Pinkie stood as if to follow obediently. Satisfied, he returned his attention to Bridget.

Hoping he would not look again, Pinkie caught up her skirt and sped silently across the carpet to the fireplace. Snatching the poker from its hook, she concealed it in the folds of her skirt just as Sir Renfrew glanced back. She smiled, saying, “I do not mean to dawdle, sir. This skirt is long for me and a trifle awkward.”

“Then snatch it up, lass, and hurry along. I grow impatient to enjoy my lovely bride.”

She would have liked to run up behind him and hit him with the poker as he crossed the hall with Bridget, but she knew that on the marble floor he would hear her heels. On the stairway, his head was too far above hers, and in any case, she risked hitting Bridget if her aim were not true, for he continued to cling to the girl.

Upstairs, he paused, pointing to a door just along the corridor from Bridget’s room, and said, “That be your room there. I’d meant to ha’ the lads put ye in a less pleasant one, and lock ye in, but I’ve better things to do than take ye there myself.”

“I am grateful for your kindness, sir,” Pinkie said quietly.

“Aye, I’m a charitable man. Take yourself off now, and dinna be thinking that because there’s no lock ye can escape in the night. When my lads catch ye, and they will, I’ll use my riding whip to school ye no to do it again. Then I’ll give my lass a whipping, too, for being so foolish as to invite ye to dine with us.”

“Good night, sir,” Pinkie said, keeping her dignity with difficulty as she passed them, and carefully shifting the poker from behind her skirt to the front.

Glancing back to find his stern gaze still upon her, she went into her room and shut the door. Then, pressing an ear to the oak, she listened until she heard a squeak from Bridget, followed by the solid clunk of the other bedchamber door closing. Slipping off her shoes, and moving as slowly as she dared to prevent making any sound Sir Renfrew might hear, she carefully opened her door again and stepped out into the corridor.

Her impulse was to go straight to Bridget’s room, but she knew that would be foolhardy. First, she had to be sure no servant had stayed in the house to clear away the dinner mess. Carrying the poker in one hand and holding up her skirts with the other, she ran silently along the corridor to the stairs, and looked down into the hall.

No one was in sight, and several candles were guttering in their holders. Surely, if any servants had remained in the house, they would have checked to be sure their master had light enough to find his way upstairs. And if they knew he had gone up, they would have cleared the table before leaving. She stood listening for several moments, but the only sound she heard was a crack of sparks from the room where they had dined. She had left the door open when they left.

Hurrying back to Bridget’s door, she put her ear to it and listened. She could hear the girl’s voice, but the door was thick and she could not make out her words.

Still listening, striving to remember where furniture stood inside, she silently set down the poker and kirtled her skirts under her bodice. Then, picking up the poker again, she grasped the doorknob and began ever so slowly to turn it.

At that moment, Michael, Chuff, and Cailean were somewhere northwest of the Isle of Man in the Irish Sea. Although the men had managed to find a ship leaving on the first tide from Bristol, and the shift of winds to the west had given them speed for their first day’s sailing, they did not enjoy the luxury of a private vessel. The ship they boarded in Bristol was bound for Glasgow, with ports of call at Holyhead and Douglas.

The only thing that reconciled the two men to booking passage with its captain was the latter’s assurance that he would help them find a vessel at Holyhead bound for Fort William, which lay at the head of Loch Linnhe; and he had been as good as his word. Their present ship had sailed within an hour of their arrival at Holyhead, heading into the North Channel. It would stop only at Oban, at the south end of Loch Linnhe, before proceeding to Fort William.

Michael had no intention of going so far, however. He had friends in Oban and knew he would easily find a boat there to carry him through the Sound of Mull to Mingary. There he could gather armed men to accompany him to Dunbeither. In the meantime, he had to contain his soul in patience.

The winds continued to blow steadily from the west, and although he would rather have had one strong and steady wind from the south to give them the greatest speed, he knew the westerly winds would not slow them unduly, and they were far more favorable to their progress than more winds from the north would be.

Chuff had had the forethought to bring a pack of cards, and the two men passed many hours playing piquet. The first night, Michael had slept fitfully, and endured yet another recurrence of his dream. There was a difference this time, however, a stronger sense of urgency than he remembered feeling before. If he knew its exact cause, the knowledge eluded him, for he seemed able only to think of making speed. He knew that she was at the castle, and if he did not get there in time, she would die and his future would die with her.

Then, as he was thrashing his way through a forest overgrown with bracken and shrubbery, and filled with strange and horrible, howling beasts, where the ground beneath his feet was likely to open up and swallow him if he put a foot wrong, suddenly the darkness vanished. Sunlight streamed through two tall windows, and he was alone in his bed with Penelope warm and snug beside him.

He reached for her, felt the soft, smooth skin of her bare shoulder beneath his fingertips and felt himself grow hard in anticipation of possessing her. Gently, he pulled her toward him, and she turned with a happy little humming sound. Her eyes opened, and she smiled. Filled with love, he moved over her, bent to kiss her, and awoke to find himself on his stomach clutching the narrow wood frame of the too-short, too-narrow cot attached to the bulkhead in his cabin. It was pitch dark, but he knew he was no longer dreaming, for he could hear Chuff’s even breathing in the bunk above his, and Cailean’s snuffles from the floor beside him.

Fear that he had been refusing to acknowledge swept over him. His stomach clenched, and his throat felt raw. After all she had done for him, he had failed to protect her when it mattered most. Even if he succeeded in finding her, would she—could she—forgive him? How, after reading Bridget’s note, would she believe he had never thought of her as tainted by her parents? How would he convince her that he had had to fight against falling in love with her from the moment she had stepped out of the sedan chair and smiled at him, or that he had long since stopped fighting.

If Sir Renfrew dared to harm her, he would do worse than kill the man. As for his sister, who had gotten them all into this with her peevish, spoiled ways…But he pushed that thought away, just as he had since leaving London, whenever it had stirred in his mind. It was not Bridget’s fault alone that she was what she was.

Still, Michael thought, if Sir Renfrew succeeded in marrying the wicked brat, he wished him joy of her for the short time he would stay alive to appreciate it.

The doorknob squeaked, and Pinkie froze, her ear still hard against the wood. Sir Renfrew was talking now. From the tone of his voice, he was issuing commands. She could discern no hesitation, no pause to indicate that he noticed the doorknob’s movement or heard the squeak.

Inhaling deeply to steady her nerves, she turned the knob till it would turn no more. Knowing that this door, unlike the one on her bedchamber, might possess a lock or bolt, although she did not recall one, she pushed gently.

“… and ye’ll no get your way here by giving way to tantrums, lass. I am more likely to put ye across my knee and skelp ye till ye do as you’re bid.”

“You’re a horrid, horrid man!”

“Aye, sure, but I am your husband nonetheless, and I’ll have your obedience. Now, take off that gown unless ye want me to rip it from ye.”

Pinkie could hear their voices clearly, and she thought Sir Renfrew sounded as if he hoped Bridget would force him to rip off her gown. He also sounded nearer the door than Bridget, which was as Pinkie had hoped, since it meant he would be facing away from the opening door.

Trusting that Bridget would have presence enough of mind, despite her predicament, to hold her tongue if she saw the door move, Pinkie pushed it until the opening was wide enough for her to see one of Sir Renfrew’s shoulders a few feet away. The bed was against the wall to her left, and Bridget stood near its foot, her frightened gaze fixed on Sir Renfrew. If her eyes flicked toward the door, Pinkie could not tell, which meant Sir Renfrew was even more unlikely to have noticed. She pushed the door wider and clutched the poker tightly.