If You Dare (39 page)

“So you are Courtland's,” a voice said from behind them. “The servants wrote telling me as much. But I scarcely believed them.”

Annalía whirled around, feeling dizzy. She'd stopped whirling, but her head seemed to delight in continuing. A tall, beautiful woman stood there. The woman in the portrait, Annalía realized with a gasp.

“I'm his mother, Lady Fiona.” She was very genteel as she offered her hand to Annalía, but her eyes were lifeless and dark. And suspicious. “And you are Lady Annalía Llorente. I attempted to garner information about you from Olivia”—she cast Olivia a puzzled glance—“but after tea I realized I'd somehow divulged more than I'd learned.”

When Olivia gave her a convincingly innocent expression, Lady Fiona returned her attention to Annalía. She tilted her head and examined her as if she were a stray—not cruelly but
with detachment. “I never thought of Court falling for a tiny Castilian. Even one as pretty as you. But by all accounts—and even by his own words—he has.” The woman's expression grew stern. “It matters naught. Lass, do you ken that you canna have him?”

Annalía, formerly the most gracious woman in social situations, the mistress of all decorum, promptly threw up all over the woman's skirts.

W
hen Court, Hugh, and Llorente rode up the plateaus to Llorente's home, they had to dodge villagers camping out, weaving around the clothes hanging on their lines, their children playing, and their goats grazing.

They'd learned that most of the deserters had been scattered and that small parties raided the valleys, forcing the villagers to come to the one place they could be safe.

Oddly enough, the place where the Highlanders were.

Court noted that at the first sight of plaid, Llorente's hands clenched so tightly on the reins they should've disinte-grated.

“And I believe Court's crew is in residence,” Hugh muttered.

At the front door, Liam greeted them, graciously showing them into the home. He slapped the seething Llorente on the back and said, “Any friend of Court's is a friend of ours. You look familiar. Do you like wine? Whisky? Just tell me whatever you need.”

Inside, Niall and still more men played cards, ate fruit, and
snacked on river trout grilled on slate, delicacies that Vitale, of all people, ensured they had plenty of.

Court's men saw him and cheered, asking, “Where's
our
bonny Andorran?”

This made Llorente's look of fury turn murderous. He yanked Vitale along to the other side of the room, and Court heard him demand, “I understand about the villagers, but how could you let these Scots overrun us?”

Vitale appeared sorry but unbending, his only concern about Annalía.

Court jerked a chin at Niall, and he rose. “Doona worry about old man Vitale,” Niall said as he joined them, slapping their backs. “Prickly sort till you save his arse from deserters enough times.”

“We need to discuss some plans with you,” Hugh said, all business.

“Well, there's a salon in the front we can go to.” Niall pointed out the direction. “By the dismal look on our Court's face, I think he'll be wantin' to avoid the study and the desk.”

Hugh raised his eyebrows, and Court scowled.

Niall again slapped Court hard on the back. This time in sympathy. “Lass steal your heart?”

Court surprised himself by answering, “I'll no' be gettin' it back.”

Hugh called for Llorente, who reluctantly followed them to the salon, looking dazed with anger. He sat silently and stiffly, appearing uncomfortable in his own home. Court knew no man had ever hated him as much as Llorente. He shrugged.

Once they'd all taken seats, Niall outlined the situation. “Andorra was chaos with people fleeing to high peaks and the deserters battling to escape when the main route to Spain was blocked. We've cleaned the countryside of them, collecting the bounties, but there's a group of about two hundred huddled down around Pascal.”

“How many Rechazados are left?” Court asked.

“We took out six in the shootout at the border.” Niall looked up to the ceiling, remembering. “Poor MacMungan, the younger one, lost an ear. MacTiernay got shot through his hand. A hole only as big as a beer stein, so it was no' too terrible—”

Hugh interrupted, “Seven more down in addition to that. Niall, we're leaving today to assassinate Pascal and take out the remaining Rechazados for good.”

Niall nodded in understanding. “And I suppose you rode here first because you want us to round up the remaining deserters? Make even more money?” He eyed him hard. “Only ‘cause you're family.” He glanced over at the silent Llorente, frowned, then turned back to Hugh and Court. “So what's brought down the wrath of the MacCarricks?”

Hugh answered, because Court could not. “One of the Rechazados shoved a gun to Annalía's temple and was seconds from killing her right before Court's eyes. Does things.”

Niall's face went cold in an instant. “Why did you no' say so? The crew will be furious.” He slapped his hands and rubbed them together. “It'll be a slaughter. . . .”

•  •  •

“Well, I've never been greeted quite that way.”

Annalía's hand flew to her mouth. She ran for a towel by the basin to wipe the woman's skirts—the only thing she could think of in a situation like this—but heaved again once there.

Olivia chirped over her shoulder, “I told you there was a new Scottish woman.”

Lady Fiona asked Olivia, “What is wrong with her?”

“Perhaps she's upset that Mr. MacCarrick has left her like this. She and Mr. MacCarrick, the Courtland one, traveled together—alone—for several weeks. Just the two of them. They became . . . very close.”

What was she babbling about? Maybe Annalía had gotten sick because Courtland's mother just brought into relief something she'd been struggling with since they'd gone.
Do you ken that you canna have him. . . .
Why not? When he was all she wanted in the world? She gripped the side of the table, squeezing to get herself under control.

Lady Fiona's voice was halting when she asked, “Are you saying? . . .”

Annalía turned then and caught Olivia nodding slyly as the woman studied her.

“I'm going to change my skirts,” Lady Fiona said, never taking her eyes from Annalía. “Olivia, dear?”

“Yes, Lady Fiona.”

“Do not”—she raised her hand in a stopping gesture—“let her go anywhere.”

As the strange woman bolted out of the doorway, Olivia called, “As you wish, milady.” Her voice was so saccharine, Annalía nearly emptied her stomach once more.

When they were alone, Olivia said, “You need to clean up,” then took her shoulder and ran a wet cloth over Annalía's startled face.

She did it hard enough that Annalía asked, “Have you never done this before?”

“Of course, everyone was so kind in Pascal's household, always caring for each other. What do you think?” She handed her a cup. “Rinse your mouth out.”

Annalía quickly did.

The woman swept in directly after. “Now, Lady Annalía—”

Olivia interrupted to say, “Pardon me, but she likes to be called simply ‘Anna,' since it sounds more Scottish that way. And of course that's what Mr. MacCarrick calls her.”

Annalía swung a lowering glare on Olivia.

“Of course, Anna.” Lady Fiona looked so pleased, so
touched, that Annalía didn't correct her. “So you and my son became close?”

Absurdly, Annalía looked to Olivia to answer. When Olivia nodded, she said, “Yes, Lady Fiona.”

“You care for him?”

“Yes.” Her eyes began watering. She loved him. So much her heart pained her all the time. She put her nails into her palms to stop herself from crying.

But Lady Fiona's sharp-eyed gaze flickered over her hands. “And it was only you and my son, together for all those weeks on the road?”

Olivia answered for her in a conspiratorial tone, “It's been just her and your son since then as well. He's exceedingly proprietary about her. He hit her brother when he tried to take her from him.”

Annalía rubbed her clammy forehead. “What are we really discussing here?” she asked much too tartly.

“Lady Fiona is trying to determine if Courtland MacCarrick was your only lover.”

She gasped in shock. “Of course he was!” she blurted, too late realizing what she'd just admitted. She was humiliated, her face flaming in front of Lady Fiona. She turned on Olivia, telling her with her eyes,
Rat. Weasel. All low animals . . .
Wait, why was the woman trying to determine that? It wasn't her business. “With respect to you, I must say this is a private matter that I will not discuss.”

“But it's no' wholly private.” Lady Fiona approached Annalía to stroke the damp hair from her forehead in a maternal gesture. “For this family your baby means so much.”

“Què?!”

•  •  •

After swift preparations, the entire band rode out, arriving near Ordino late in the night. Niall's men were to remain outside
the city waiting in ready while Court, Hugh, and Llorente slipped in.

The three found a vantage where they could assess the Rechazados' camp—an old stone manor high on a mountain cliff. “If I can find a fracture,” Hugh said, scrutinizing it, “I can take the top of the mountain out.”

“How are you going to get up there?” Court asked, scanning the mountain from the bottom to its sheer top.

“Scale it. I'd planned to anyway, to make sure only Rechazados were inside.”

“Are you going to be able to scale down quickly enough?”

Hugh faced him with a shadow of a grin. “I'm bettin' on yes.”

Llorente finally spoke to them to ask, “Do you need one of us to go with you?”

“I work better alone,” Hugh said. He always said that.

Hugh slapped Court on the shoulder and said to Llorente, “You have the
privilege
of protecting them now. Doona hesitate tonight or you'll fail. And if you get my brother killed . . .” He leaned in toward him. “Just doona get my brother killed.”

After slinging his ropes over his shoulder, Hugh carefully stowed his volatile explosives. With a nod, he casually said, “When you hear the bang, then.”

Court and Llorente set out after he left and advanced to a smaller town house, not nearly as grand as he'd seen Pascal in last. “If Olivia has led us astray,” Court began, “I'll return to England and kill her myself.”

Llorente scowled. “She wouldn't lead us astray. See? Why would there be guards otherwise?”

Three guards did front it. “You goin' to be able to take down one?” Court asked.

Llorente pulled out his pistol. “I can do what I need to.”

Court shook his head. “No' a chance. It's got to be quiet and quick. Ever slit a man's throat before?”

“Not exactly.”

Court's brows drew together with realization. “Kill anybody before? A single deserter?”

He grated,
“No.”

“Oh, bloody hell, Llorente,” Court muttered. “You might've mentioned this earlier.”

•  •  •

Annalía paced, occasionally kicking the bed, sometimes affecting a Scottish brogue to mock MacCarrick.
“I canna get ye with bairn, Annha.”
She didn't care that Lady Fiona stared on in bemusement.

“My dear, he truly believed it. And it
was
true before you.”

He'd said he couldn't, and since her courses were irregular and often came late, Annalía had never even considered this possibility. Yet now it was an actuality. “I am no expert, but I know a man can't be . . . he can't be . . . fruitful with only one specific woman. Things like this cannot happen.” This curse nonsense made her head hurt. If Fiona hadn't appeared so sad, so remorseful when she'd related it, Annalía would have laughed.

“But it has. There must be something among the last two lines about binding with the right woman, or finding her.”

Annalía didn't believe in the supernatural. Her father had always told her in a derisive tone, “Why do people bring the supernatural into the equation when they can't even control the natural? Only a fool would.”

“Please, I don't want to hear any more about the book.” Annalía was already half delirious.

Fiona insisted, “If you'd just go downstairs and touch it, you'd feel there is something there, some power.”

“Of course there'd be power,” Annalía conceded. “Because
clearly the book was written by
elves,”
she breathed with wide eyes.

Fiona chuckled, then appeared startled that she'd laughed. Annalía figured she'd laughed in the years before this as much as her sons had.

Olivia rolled her eyes at Annalía, then asked, “Lady Fiona, will you tell Ethan?”