TWENTY-SEVEN
SECURING A PLEASANT SITUATION
KIT LIVED. AGAINST THE gravest reservations and direst forecasts, he mended. True, for two days and two nights, he soaked in his own sweat, railing against unseen foes and exhorting phantom companions, but on the third day the bandages came away unmarked by blood, and they knew he would survive.
To the Murdochs’ great discomfiture, Kate insisted that Kit be brought into the small dressing room attached to her bedchamber so that she could hear him should he call out in the night. She would not leave his side.
The marquis came twice, the first time to see if Kate might require any assistance and the second to see her tending MacNeill and thus force himself to recognize that she was not his nor ever would be. It took but a few minutes. A third visit was never made.
Truth to tell, those at the castle soon forgot their misgivings about the nighttime proximity of the dark widow and the lean, grievously injured Highlander. They were occupied with their own concerns.
As Kit had foreseen, Watters had sent the militia, under the command of the soon-to-be-feted Lieutenant MacPheil, to rout Lamont’s gang at the croft and, from there, raid the inn at Clyth. Hidden beneath the bales of hay in the inn’s stables, they found crates filled with goods from wrecked ships.
In the days to come, it would be revealed that Captain Greene had been waylaid and killed by Lamont’s mysterious partner, the same man who then donned the identity of the fictitious Captain Watters and who, for a short time, had taken command of the militia. Of Captain Watters no more was ever seen. He disappeared, as did his wife, Merry.
The family honor thus impugned, scandal reared its ugly head. But the Murdochs proved a practical people, pointing out that Merry, though the marquis’s legal ward, shared no blood with them. They had tried their best to overcome the propensities of what could, in light of the situation, only be regarded as “suspect lineage.” It was hardly their fault if they’d failed.
“Blast your pet seamstress!” Kit declared. “These stitches itch like the devil.”
Kate looked away as Kit pulled irritably at the neck of his night shirt, exposing the muscular dark chest beneath the tame linen. He scratched at the sutures with which Peggy had sewn up the worst of his wounds.
“I suppose you would find a huge scar preferable?” she asked. It was the afternoon. Kit had just woken from his sleep to find her at his bedside, her embroidery hoop in hand, Grace’s open trunk at the foot of the bed.
She had taken up the pastime while he recuperated, telling him it was one of the few skills from a gentrified upbringing that one did not have to eschew in poverty. Indeed—she was thinking of devoting a chapter in her book to it. But now, she found herself studying each tiny stitch, in an attempt to avoid staring at Kit’s muscular chest. “You seem lamentably fond of collecting scars.”
He tilted his head, regarding her from beneath his lids. “Only if you find them interesting.”
The look in his eyes made Kate blush, and as she felt it would not be wise for him to become overly agitated—not to mention herself—she steered the conversation back to safer ground.
“The one I feel most sorry for in this entire affair is Merry Benny,” she said, rummaging in Grace’s trunk for a silver scissors.
“Why?” he demanded. “Because she will not be able to live as luxuriously as she’d anticipated? She is a murderess who has gotten away with her lover to live on his ill-gotten gains.”
“I am sorry for her,” Kate said calmly, clipping a silk thread, “because she is responsible for Grace’s murder, and she loved Grace. No, don’t look like that. She did. You did not see her when she spoke of how much she missed her. Not all love is decent and unselfish. It can torment and damn as well as ennoble and elevate.”
“Indeed.” His brow furrowed, and Kate knew he was thinking of his companions and the betrayal they had suffered.
The time had come. She could no longer avoid what needed to be said. She set down her embroidery hoop. “I suppose that as soon as you mend you will be leaving.”
He frowned more deeply. “Well, I can hardly stay here, can I?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“What did you mean?”
“Where will you go?”
“Back to the army. I have been thinking of late that I have eschewed my responsibility there too long. I am a good soldier, Kate. I am a good leader. I can… make a difference.” His skin grew dusky and in amazement Kate realized he was blushing. He also hadn’t mentioned seeking the man responsible for their betrayal. Kate’s gaze sharpened.
“Besides,” he went on gruffly, “with a bit of luck, I might make something of myself.”
“I see.”
“Kate—” He took a deep breath.
“Yes?”
“Nothing.” He jaw clenched tightly for a second. “And you?” he bit out. “What about you?”
“I don’t know.” She tried to sound nonchalant. She doubted she succeeded. “Back to York, I expect. Or London.”
“What? Why?” he asked, sounding taken aback.
“Well, I haven’t much money—though I do hold out great hopes for the publication of my instructional book on how to live respectably while one’s fortunes plummet. I believe there is a ready readership—”
“Yes, yes,” Kit interrupted. “But what were you saying about going back to York?”
“As I was saying—” She eyed him sternly, daring him to interrupt. “I have little money, and while I suppose I could impose upon the marquis, I should hate to do so, as I”—she hesitated, trying to find some way to say this delicately—“as I believe he had certain hopes regarding our relationship that I find myself unable to encourage him in and told him as much.”
“You turned him down!?” Kit exploded, surging up against the pillows and wincing. She half rose from where she was seated, hating to see him in pain but he waved her back angrily.
“My God, woman,” he said, “you have spent days reciting to me the criteria that forms your idea of the perfect future, and as far as I can tell, the marquis could ensure you of each and every one: Safety. Security. A home. Peace of mind. Wealth. Are you daft?”
“I hardly had a choice,” she retorted defensively. “I can’t marry a man and spend the rest of my life closing my eyes every time he come near me, pretending—” No. She could not be that bold. Even under the most extenuating circumstance.
“Pretending what?” the blackguard asked. It wasn’t gentlemanly.
“Nothing.”
“No, please. I’m interested.” He regarded her like a great tawny lion. “Pretending what?”
She raised her brows, as if amazed she needed to finish the sentence. “Pretending that I… wasn’t there. What else would I be pretending?”
He didn’t hesitate for an instant. “That the marquis was me.”
Her mouth fell open and clicked shut. “You certainly give yourself credit.”
Kit pushed himself more upright. “I have to. I have to believe that you see something more in me than a man willing to forfeit everything in his quest for vengeance. For three years I’ve thought that all I wanted was to find out who gave our name to the French—but you have taught me to want something different.”
She held her breath, anticipation rising and beating like the wings of a trapped bird in her chest. “What is that?”
“A future,” he said, his gaze holding hers. “I always thought there must have been something fundamentally wrong within me that had made me blind to the character of the person who betrayed us. That by refusing to see this bastard for what he was, I had been complicit in our capture and imprisonment.
“But I have come to realize that whatever seeds of betrayal were sown in the past, were not sown by me. I did not fail. Whether the person I loved was real or not, worthy or not, doesn’t seem to be the question. A heart loves where it will. It does not ask permission.” He studied her with such an expression in his eyes that made her breath catch.
“You will not seek him anymore?”
His expression turned cold and implacable. “I cannot promise that. He threatened you. Someday he will pay for that, but not now. There is a war on and I am needed. I don’t have the time for revenge. I have come to believe there are more important things to fight for.” He gazed at her, his heart in his eyes. “Do you see? Do you agree?”
“Yes.” She could barely breathe. “Yes, I do.”
“Do you?” He looked dissatisfied lying so big and dark against the white linen sheets. So many scars. So many wounds.
“Before you fought Callum,” she said, “when you came into that room, you said you’d come because you remembered a reason why I shouldn’t marry the marquis. I have wondered what you meant by that.”
He looked embarrassed. “ ’Twas nothing. Stupid nonsense. I was being heroic.”
“I noticed.”
He stilled, his mouth curving in a self-deprecating grin that she found well-nigh irresistible.
“The reason I ask,” she continued, rising and moving slowly to his bedside, “is because an instant before you crashed through the door, I was thinking of you, recalling your face and trying to remember the last words you’d said to me.”
At that his gaze shot up to hers. “Why would you be thinking of me at a time like that?”
“Because I love you.”
In answer, he reached out and secured her hand, pulling her down into a crushing embrace against his bandaged chest. “Marry me,” he demanded hoarsely, pressing kisses on her eyelids and the corner of her mouth.
“I will be someone someday, Kate. With you by my side, there is nothing I cannot accomplish. We cannot accomplish. I know the life I am asking you to lead will not be easy, but I swear I will devote myself to making certain you do not regret marrying me.”
He smoothed the hair back from her face, his look intent, his voice passionate. “Besides, if you say no, I’ll have to steal you away. You love me, Kate. You said it yourself.”
She realized with a little thrill that he meant it. But… he wouldn’t have to. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Today. Tomorrow. But where? I can’t ask—”
“Nor would I let you. We’re two days from St. Bride’s. There’s a group of monks there that’ll find great consolation in thinking you are making an honest man of me.”
She laughed and he smiled, his arms tightening around her, and it was then that she noted the small, new stain of blood on his bandage. He was so vital, so stalwart, one forget he was mortal. She pushed away from him, scrambling back and regarding him in consternation. “I’ve hurt you.”
He looked down, saw the stained linen and laughed. “This? Don’t be ridiculous. Come back.” He held out his hand.
“No. It has only been three days. I will not have you hurt.”
“I love you,” he suddenly whispered in such a bemused voice she smiled but then, abruptly shook her head.
“No,” she said sternly. “No. Lie back. Rest. Be well.”
She reached down for the embroidery hoop she’d dropped into the trunk and her hand caught in the hastily repaired lining of the lid, pulling the corner down. She bent to fix it, and as she did she noticed that the gold embroidered stars were all of a different size, slight but unmistakable, and that if the material were folded, as it was now, they aligned…
She straightened. Grace had embroidered this lining. Grace who, along with Kate, had shared those long summer nights with Kate’s father before the telescope and there developed a life long interest in astronomy. Grace whose belongings had included a telescope. Grace, who had sworn to Merry that she had sent a map of the treasure location. And so she had: a star map.
Kate straightened slowly, a smile dawning on her face. Kit would have his commission. He could have ten commissions if that is what he wanted and Charlotte could have her London season and Helena could leave the employ of that harridan.
There was still a war to fight. Still men who needed her husband’s leadership. They would still follow the drum to whatever place His Majesty sent them, because Kit MacNeill was a soldier. And she, the daughter of a solider, the widow of another, who a year ago would never have believed herself capable of committing herself heart and soul to such a man, had already done so and would have him no other way.
“Kate, what is it?” Kit asked. “You look right pleased with yourself. Come here to me, now.”
Whatever loot was heaped in whatever cavern or chamber, paled beside this treasure.
She went.
TWENTY-EIGHT
MARRIAGE IN THE BEST INTERESTS
St. Bride’s Abbey,
January 1802
THE BRIDE WAS BEAUTIFUL and the groom stern and watchful, his warrior mien only relaxing when his gaze fell unguarded upon his wife. They left St. Bride’s small chapel to find their footsteps cushioned on a carpet of dried rose petals, and Brother Fidelis beaming with pleasure. Kate was so touched by this demonstration of affection that she left her husband’s side and rose on her tiptoes to kiss the huge monk on his round, smooth cheek.
“The roses are beautiful!” she said.
“There’s lavender and mint, too,” Brother Martin said, elbowing his way through the little crush of monks congratulating the celebrants.
“Ah! I thought I detected some other wonderful fragrance,” Kate said
“I don’t suppose you’ll be happy until you’ve kissed me, too!” he said in gruff, disgusted tones.
“No.” Kate’s eyes sparkled. “I won’t.”
He resisted, but not much. “Silly, over-affectionate goose eggs, is all young women are today,” he blustered but scuttled forward quickly.
“There,” she said, bussing him soundly on the cheek.
“Ach,” Brother Martin blushed deeply and retreated quickly, his expression an odd mixture of amazement, disapproval, and pleasure. He turned to his fellow monks. “Now there’s no need for all of you to indulge this young lady’s secular whims. And when Father Abbot is done in the vestiary—”
“Father Abbot is done.” The straight-backed abbot of St. Bride’s descended the short flight of stairs. His brows rose at the sight of the floral carpet. “How… festive. Brother Fidelis, I presume.”
“Aye, Father Abbot.”
“And me, too, Father Abbot,” Brother Martin said.
“Thought it cause to put on a bit of pomp, the young wolf being tamed by the pretty widow,” Brother Fidelis explained. All around them the other monks nodded vigorously.
“Young wolf?” Kate whispered in an aside to Kit.
“Tamed?” Kit whispered back and both smiled.
“You were going to say something, Brother Martin?” the abbot said smoothly.
“Only that there wouldn’t be any need for any of us to be creeling the groom,” Brother Fidelis said piously, referring to the Scottish custom of lading the groom with a sack of rocks, and sending him forth in the village where his friends would add to the sack until the bride cut him free of his burden. Likewise there would be no beddin’ the bride as the traditional role called for women to prepare the bride in her chambers.
Kate could not say she was disappointed. She was only happy the banns had finally been read three times and they’d finally been married—though who in this place was likely to object to their marriage, she had indignantly asked the father Abbot. He had replied with a stern, implacable silence. These past three weeks had seemed endless. But tomorrow they would be leaving St Bride’s as man and wife and tonight… She looked shyly up at Kit and the blackguard, as if reading her thoughts, smiled—and yes, it was a wolfish smile and no, it did not look tame. A wash of warmth swept through her upon seeing and interpreting that smile.
“Kate! Kate!” Kate turned around as a pair of horses pulling a closed carriage entered the churchyard. A young woman with gingery hair half protruded from the window, wildly waving a lace kerchief.
“Charlotte!” Kate cried, breaking from her husband’s side and running toward the coach.
“For the sake of decorum, come back inside!” she heard Helena say and then the door was opening and Helena was emerging, all calm and grace, her lovely face alight with a warm smile, and from behind her shoved a small dynamo in layers of mink-trimmed gray velvet, her arms already out-stretched to embrace Kate.
Charlotte flung her arms around Kate’s neck and squealed. Helena, ever circumspect, stopped and awaited her turn, looking about at the multitude of brown-robed men, trying to hide her curiosity.
“We’ve only just arrived!” Charlotte said. “We came all the way from London! The marquis sent his barouche to Helena and a letter relating the most extraordinary tale and bidding us come to Castle Parnell at once.
“So Helena fetched me from the Weltons—we were halfway to Brighton, don’t you know, and so put poor Helena out terribly—and to Castle Parnell we came, only once we arrived, we found out you’d come here, to this abbey, and were being wed!” Charlotte babbled, her eyes wide. “To that Scotsman! And not the handsome one either, but to that frightening-looking fellow you—”
“Ahem.”
Charlotte whirled around, only to find the “frightening-looking fellow” looking down at her, one brow cocked inquiringly. She gasped. He smiled—charmingly, Kate thought.
“My new little sister,” Kit purred. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance again.” He sketched a bow, and then his gaze moved beyond the wide-eyed Charlotte to Helena, her composure in no manner disturbed by the odd circumstances in which she found herself.
“Miss Helena, I am delighted.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“As you can see, regardless of the marquis’s ‘tale,’ whatever that might be, your sister is in perfect health. As you can also see, it is now my honor and privilege to see she remains that way.” His gaze held Helena’s questioning one for a long instance. “And I shall. Or die doing so.”
“Oh, my!” Charlotte breathed waving her hand at her flushed cheeks. “I begin to see why you married him.”
“Charlotte!” Helena chided her baby sister. “Some decorum!”
“Why?” she glanced around at the monks, and then whispered, “Would they even know decorous behavior?”
“To some small degree,” a smooth voice answered.
They turned as Abbot Tarkin came toward them. “Ah! I see your family has arrived.”
How had he known? Kate wondered but then her curiosity was replaced with happiness.
“We have prepared a little celebratory feast for our newlyweds. Perhaps you would like to adjourn to the dining hall?”
“You are too kind!” Kate exclaimed.
“Oh, do let’s!” Charlotte enthused. “I am famished.” She linked her arm through Kate’s, and then Helena’s, and they fell into step behind Brother Fidelis, who, still beaming and chattering happily, led them toward the dining hall.
“More women. Why don’t we just reassign our charter as a nunnery?” Brother Martin muttered from behind them.
Kate looked around for Kit. He was standing beside the abbot, his head bent near the older man’s, his expression concentrated. But upon seeing Kate look back, he smiled and called out, “Entertain your sisters, my love. I will join you shortly.”
Kit turned back to the abbot, his genial expression fading. “Where is he?”
“In the chapel,” the abbot said quietly. “He saw you wed.”
“The hell you say. How did he know?”
“I sent word. A rose. He is the only one to answer. At least as far as I know.”
“But why send a rose?” Kit asked, his gaze flickering toward the dark entry to the chapel.
“You said you needed to know who betrayed you. I thought this might provide you with an answer.”
“Aye. I thought I did, but past sins don’t seem so important anymore. Especially as they’re not mine.”
“Then perhaps I have made a mistake. By all means, move on. As you pointed out, if he was the one at the ruined castle, and he wanted to kill you, you would be dead. He didn’t. If he is the one who betrayed you.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“Kit.”
“Don’t worry, Father Abbot. I’d as soon not incur my bride’s wrath by spilling another’s blood today,” Kit said with a grim smile and left, heading into the chapel.
Inside it was cool and dark, the smell of incense still hanging subtle and smoky in the air. It took a second for his eyes to adjust and—
—the point of the épée pressed lightly against the side of his throat.
“And here they’d told me you’d become a soldier,” a once familiar voice drawled. “God help the country if this is the best—”
Kit sidestepped, ducking his head and lifting his elbow at the same time, knocking the small sword away as he moved in closer. Within a split second the small sword was back at his throat, but this time his own dagger’s point was pressed hard against his antagonist’s belly.
“Touché,” Ramsey Munro said softly, his brilliant blue eyes glittering.
“You look bad, Ram,” Kit said conversationally. “Worn out.”
Ramsey shrugged apologetically. “I fear you are right, Kit me lad. But you look blooming with health. Must be the bride’s influence. Bonny girl there. My blessings on the union.”
“Does that mean you don’t intend to try to kill me?”
One of Ram’s black wing-shaped brows rose. “Well, now, that would depend on whether you were trying to kill me. It’s a miserable life, I confess, but mine own.” He smiled with the same urbane suavity he’d possessed even as a lad.
Slowly, Kit withdrew the tip of his dagger from pricking Ram’s stomach. Just as slowly, Ram dropped the tip of his épée.
“Tell me, Ram. I won’t kill you if you did, for the love I bore you as a lad and for the love I know you once bore me. But I need to know, did you betray us to the French?”
Ram cocked his head. In the shadowed confines of the chapel his face looked unworldly beautiful, like a weary warrior saint. “No.”
“Good.” Kit tucked his dagger away.
“I suppose this means that you too are blameless.”
Kit snorted. “Hardly, but of that particular sin I am innocent.”
“Then that means—”
“Dand.”
“Or Toussaint.”
Ram nodded thoughtfully.
“Kate and I board a packet out of Portsmouth next week. By month’s end I will be on the continent with my new command. I don’t have time to go looking further for answers.”
“I have the time.” Ram smiled. For a long minute the two men met each other’s gaze. Whatever they saw there pleased them both.
“If you should ever need me…” Kit said gruffly. “You know how to contact me?”
“Aye.” Ram smiled suddenly, and his face softened, and he was once more recognizable as the brother of Kit’s youth. “I missed you, Kit.”
“And I you.”
“So much for sentiment. Now, you’d best get back to your bonny bride, Kit MacNeill,” Ram said, “before she finds a better man.”
Kit grinned. “Luckily all the men at St. Bride’s are sworn to a life of celibacy.”
“Not all the men,” Ram said. “Luckily for you I have a penchant for the fair maidens.”
“Luckily for you,” Kit corrected him smoothly.
With a laugh, Ramsey Munro disappeared back into the shadows.