My Heart's in the Highlands (27 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

A week later

Shrugging on his jacket, Ian made his way down the stairs, nodding to his guards as he passed.  It had been a week since the fire.  A week without further incident.  While that was something to be glad for, Ian also knew that something would have to change soon. 

Without the arsonist’s identification of Jennings as the agent who had hired him, there had been no progress made in finding conclusive evidence of Daphne’s culpability in the attacks.
  The week had been spent securing the grounds and vetting the estate workers.  It vexed him deeply that they hadn’t identified Daphne’s accomplice.  Knowing that a killer lingered in his home rankled, but short of firing the entire staff, Ian couldn’t come up with an absolute solution to that problem.

But the entire staff was also aware of the reason behind the recent questioning.
  They would be watching one another, and Ian’s hired guards were patrolling the castle at all hours now as well, keeping a watchful eye out for strangers and unusual movement.  They would not be caught unaware again.

Such vigilance had rid them of any further incidents.
  There had been accidents, but nothing suspicious.  While Ian was glad nothing untoward had occurred of late, he was also frustrated by the lack of progress in the investigation, by the need to lock his doors securely each night just to find a respite from the constant vigilance.

Life had become a series of watchful moments, of sickening anticipation.

He needed something to release them from the uncertainty that held the castle in its thrall.  Everyone was walking on eggshells, including Hero, and Ian knew she was as weary as he of waiting for something to happen.  Something to free them to live the life they were meant to live. 

The worst of it was that t
here was something Ian was missing.  He knew it but couldn’t put a finger on what it was.  The answer to it all.  It nagged at him like a distant voice calling at him, but Ian couldn’t understand the words.

And that frustrated him even more.

Following the sound of a piano being played, Ian turned at the bottom of the stairs and steered himself toward the music room.  It was a mournful sonata that perfectly suited the dark mood of the castle.  Hero had been subdued all week.  Her worry for him was palpable.  She feared for his life,  fearing rightly that Ian would sacrifice his life for hers if need be.  When they made love, she clung to him desperately.  Her nights were tormented by nightmares.

The entire situation was quickly becoming intolerable.
  He had promised her happiness not this misery. 

Pausing in the doorway of the music room, Ian
was surprised to find not Hero but Beaumont at the piano.  As lighthearted as the duke was, it was astonishing to see him play the somber work with such passion.  His deeply lined face creased with emotion as his fingers worked agilely over the keys, and it was easy to see from whom Hero had inherited her talents on the pianoforte. 

The last note sounded, lingering in the room
, and Beaumont sat frozen for a moment, staring at the music.  “Good morning, Harry,” Ian said softly.  “Well played.”

Beaumont looked up with a sad nod.
  “It is … was … Valerie’s favorite work.  I often played for her in the evenings before …  Lately, I remember more and more.  I cannot say I like it at all.”

Ian wondered what the duke meant by that.
  Had Beaumont’s "madness" merely been a way for him to cope with the loss of someone who apparently had meant far more to him than anyone had known?  There was no way to tell unless the duke chose to share such confidences with Ian, but Ian knew he would never probe into anything so personal without Hero present.

“Where is Hero?” he asked.
  He had risen early to oversee the installation of a new gate door in the dungeons before the tides came in.  Hero had promised to stay in the castle, but she hadn’t been above stairs when he had returned to change.  Ian had thought she would be with her father.  “Harry, have you seen Hero?”

“Yes, of course,” Beaumont told him as he began to poke out
with one finger a more tawdry ditty.  “We had breakfast together.”

“Where is she now?”

“She went shopping with her friends,” the duke told him.  “The ladies do love to shop, don’t they?”

Ian came to attention in the doorway at that.
  Shopping?  With her friends?  He knew Beaumont wavered between reality and fantasy, but he didn’t usually round the bend into utter fabrication.  Furthermore, Hero was well enough aware of the danger to either of them in leaving the castle unescorted.  She wouldn’t have gone shopping.  Surely not.  “Which friends, Harry?”

“Lady Corbin?
   Lady Spears?”  Beaumont shook his head.  “It is hard to keep them straight.”

Shaking his head, Ian turned back into the hall to look for Hero himself or find another of sounder mind to provide him answers.

After breakfast that morning, Hero had gone to confer with Mrs. Potts over the menus for the day and see to the delivery of a new shipment of linens that she had ordered from France even before her original departure from Cuilean almost a year before.

The diversion was a
pleasurable one, following an unpleasant week.  Thank God for her father, she thought.  Without his good humor, Cuilean would have been a veritable mausoleum with everyone tiptoeing about as they were.  The word was out among the staff, and everyone was on guard following the fire.  The estate’s perimeter and gates were so heavily guarded she was surprised that this shipment had gotten through.

It was strange how
quickly time flew.  From her mother’s death, to Robert’s, to now.  Just a year ago, Hero had sat with Jennings and the factory’s representative looking over their new line of bed and table linens edged with a new machine-made lace.  They had been incredibly beautiful and made only for custom orders with silk embroidery and monogramming.  When she had placed the order, Hero had had no way of knowing that she would lose her husband within the week and her home within months.

Now the order was delivered and she was once again at home and
the mistress of Cuilean.  It was curious how fate steered a person.  “They are lovely, Monsieur Girard,” Hero complimented the agent as she ran her hand across the fine work Girard had laid out for her in Mrs. Potts's office.  “Just as you promised.”

“Again I apologize for the long delay in delivery, Madam Ayr,” Girard said in his light accent.
  “I must admit we had put the order on hold following your husband’s death.  It wasn’t until your Monsieur Jennings contacted us several months ago on Miss Kennedy’s behalf that we continued.  This castle has seen many troubled times, non?”

“You are quite right, monsieur,” she nodded.
  “I do appreciate you bringing them personally.”

“It was my pleasure, madam,” he
said and bowed.

“I’ll just call in Mrs. Potts to see them put away,” Hero
said, stepping to the door.  “Then tea, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid I cannot let you do that,” Girard said lightly.

“Call for tea?”

“Non, madam, call for help.”
  Girard opened his jacket and pulled out a pistol, training it on her.  “My apologies.”

“Monseiur Girard, whatever
…” Hero stopped, her eyes widening as the door opened and a woman slipped inside.  “Daphne!  What is the meaning of this?  How did you get in here?”

“
I came in Girard’s carriage, obviously, but I think you also know very well what the meaning of this is, Hero,” Daphne said snidely.  “Come, don’t pretend stupidity now.”

Hero shook off her surprise and crossed her arms over her chest, keeping a wary
eye on the gunman.  “You think that if you kill me Ian will have you?”

“I would prefer not to, Hero,” Daphne surprised her by saying.
  “It is not my first choice at all, but I will if you don’t do as I say.”

“Which is?”

“You’re going to ride along with Girard and myself and take a very long holiday on the Continent,” Daphne explained.  “I want you out of here.  I want you gone so you cannot ruin my plans any more than you have.  Come now, we must go.”

“You don’t think I’ll just meekly follow where you lead, do you?” Hero asked incredulously.

“If you want your father to live, you will,” Daphne threatened.  “If you want Ian to live, you will.”

“You’re mad,” Hero said.
  “Ian will never be yours.”

“When you’re gone, he will be,” Daphne insisted.
  “After some small time has passed, he will see that he was mistaken in his infatuation with you, and he and I will wed.”

“He couldn’t do that even if he wanted to
, because we …” Hero bit her tongue to cut off the words.  Apparently Daphne did not know that the wedding had already taken place. She didn’t know that even if Hero disappeared Ian could not legally wed another.  The last thing Hero was going to do was provide Daphne and her henchman with a reason to pull the trigger on her.

“He will!” Daphne screeched, calming when Girard shushed her.
  “Now, will you come along peaceably or not?”

Hero knew she should agree for the sake of others within the castle but couldn’t bring the words of concession to her lips.
  She couldn’t simply relent to such insanity.  Her mulish resistance didn’t seem to surprise Daphne at all.  Indeed, reluctant respect seemed to light her green eyes.

Daphne
shrugged.  “I didn’t really expect capitulation but I have come prepared.”  With that, she drew a small bottle and a cloth from her pocket.  Uncorking the bottle, she doused the cloth and approached Hero while Girard did the same, holding the gun to Hero’s head. 

“Just take a few deep breaths, Madam Ayr,” he said encouragingly. “The choice is really out of your hands.”

“What are you getting from all this?”

His dark eyes lit.
  “Ah, madam, the rewards they are many, you see?”

“I can double whatever she is paying you!” Hero cried as he grabbed her arm and turned her against him.
  Daphne twisted Hero’s other arm and pressed the cloth over her mouth and nose.  Thrashing her head from side to side, Hero fought to dislodge the cloth but could not fight against the two of them.  Her body tingled then numbed.  Her vision darkened and her head swam. 

Just before darkness claimed her, Hero felt Girard
’s lips at her ear.   “Non, madam, you cannot.”  And then to Daphne,  “Careful, ma chère, she must walk from here, not be carried.”

The cloth moved away
, and Hero inhaled deeply.  Clean air brought light to her vision, but Hero’s head remained thick, her thoughts scattered, as if she’d just drunk a whole bottle of wine herself.  She staggered to the side, but Girard caught her arm and hooked an arm around her waist.  Vaguely she heard him instruct Daphne to make sure the way was clear, and within moments, Hero was inside Girard’s closed carriage, which had been waiting for him in the north courtyard inside the rampart walls.

To her surprise, one of her own grooms came to the carriage window. “
Dickie’s at the gate right now fer ye, Miss Kennedy.  Yer clear through if ye go now.”

“Thank you, Ranald,” Daphne
said, smiling prettily up at him and running a finger down his cheek.  “Gather him up after I’ve gone and come to me in Ayr for your reward.”

“Aye, miss.”
  Ranald cast a regretful look at Hero but shrugged and turned away.

“How many?” Hero slurred.
 

“How many of your faithful servants have come to my side?” Daphne asked with a little laugh.
  “Don’t fret for Lord Ayr, Hero.  The rest of his staff are loyal, and in time I will have their loyalty as well.”

The horse leapt into action and Hero’s nearly limp body slammed back against the seat, her head hitting the carriage wall so hard she saw stars
, not only at the pain but also at the shock of what she had just learned.  Not only was Daphne behind all this but she had Hero’s staff at her beck and call.  Young Ranald had been here for years.  His father had run the stables for more years than Hero had been about.

And Dickie.
  A lad of about twenty.  His mother had worked in the kitchens for just as long.  These young men, Hero thought.  These young, impressionable men had somehow been seduced from their loyalty to the castle they had grown up in and won over by Daphne’s persuasive charms.  Had there been more?  How could she have not known?  “Just them?” she asked.

“I told you,” Daphne answered.
  “Just the lads I needed to get you out of there.  They are so easily impressionable.  Not real men.”  She slid her hand up Girard’s thigh with a siren’s smile.

“And Jennings?”

“Ah, well, Jennings is another matter entirely,” Daphne told her.  “Funny, all he really wanted was the power.  He’d had a taste of it before Uncle Robert married you and had it again when you left.  With the promise of more, he was all mine.”

“You are a vile woman, Daphne,” Hero ground out.
  Her head was beginning to clear now, and the feeling was returning to her extremities.  She needed to do something.  But what?

“No
t vile,” Daphne retorted sharply.  “
Determined.
  Determined to take for myself what life has not provided.”

“I think you t
ook Charlotte Bronte’s work too literally,” Hero said, looking out the window as the gravel drive carried them across the lawns and toward the aqueduct that marked her last true chance for help.  If she didn’t get out of the carriage before they left the estate, she might very well be dragged all the way to France.  God only knew what future awaited her there.  “It was fiction, Daphne, not a bible.”

“It was truth!” Daphne shouted, waving off Girard’s attempts to calm her.
 

There!
  Hero saw it then.  Dickie might be manning the gates, prepared to let Daphne steal her through, but there were others, dozens of others, patrolling the grounds.  She could see them, a pair of her huntsmen on horseback heading away from the drive.

With the gates just a few score feet away, Hero used all of her strength to thrust herself out the window and screamed for help at the top of her lungs.
  “Thomas!” she screeched as loud as she could.   “Andrew …”  Hero gasped as Girard grabbed her around the waist and yanked her back in, but she threw her head and shoulders back against his face and screamed once again,  “Help!”

The coachman whipped the horses into a run in an attempt to get away
, tossing Hero and Girard back against the cushions.  Daphne, in the rear-facing seat, fell to the floor with a curse. 

There were shouts.

A gunshot.