The Scot and I (15 page)

With that, he left the room.

She had made him angry. If she had not known that he was made of iron, she would have said that she had hurt his feelings. At any rate, he’d certainly taken
her
measure. She
had
wanted to go downstairs to get the lie of the land in case she had to beat a hasty retreat. It was what she was trained to do.

She got out of bed and began to dress. It was when she was tying the strings of her petticoats that she realized her hands no longer hurt her. Turning them over, she examined her palms. He must have used a magic salve, because the angry red had faded to pink.

It must be a trick of the light,
she thought and reached for the taffeta dress.

 

 

I
knew you could not have murdered Mr. Dickens. You’re simply not that kind of man.
”

Her careless words had rocked him back on his heels. They’d carried more punch than the concussion he’d suffered when he’d fallen out of his tree house and landed on his head as a boy. In his business, that kind of trust was rare.

So why would she risk her life to rescue him one minute, then treat him as though he were her worst enemy the next? This was the thought that possessed Alex as he stomped up the stairs to the stable loft where Dugald had chosen to quarter himself.

He knew that she was brave and resourceful, but she was also stubborn. Couldn’t she see that things had changed between them? He knew that she was in trouble up to her neck. He could sense her fear. There was far more to her story than she had told Juliet or him. He was beginning to fit the pieces together, but he wanted Mahri to tell him not because he’d tricked her but because she wanted to.

Why?
The thought turned in his mind. Was it because this woman had captured his imagination from the moment he’d set eyes on her? And only moments ago, he’d felt that shock of recognition again? Did she know how desirable she looked in her transparent muslin nightgown that revealed far more than it concealed? How had she managed to erase those soft, feminine contours beneath her boy’s clothes?

The picture that formed in his mind had his groin tighten painfully against the fabric of his trousers.

He cursed fluently. He’d wanted Ariel, but not like this. Ariel was all fire and passion. She’d enjoyed provoking him to jealousy, delighted in flirting with other men. He doubted that Mahri knew how to flirt. Her appeal was subtle, a blend of innocence and worldliness. A man would never lose his head over her, as he’d done with Ariel, but he might easily lose his heart to her. The thought made him scowl.

He’d never told anyone the truth about Ariel or the “accident” that had claimed her life. Everyone believed what they wanted to believe, that on her death, his life had shattered, and he had withdrawn into himself. And everyone was right but for the wrong reasons. He’d learned that emotions caused too much grief. Feelings could lie. He was too astute, too wary, to fall into the same trap again, or so he’d told himself. But that was before he’d met Mahri.

He stopped right there. He’d known her for forty-eight hours. He wasn’t going to allow the softer feelings she evoked to rule his head. He needed a clear mind to get them out of the coil they were in.

What he should be thinking about was how to use his powerful gifts to bring a traitor and murderer to justice. And he would do it, but he’d keep Mahri out of it.

Dugald’s room was spartan, but it made an excellent lookout and, of course, there were horses at hand if he had to make a quick exit. How was a deerstalker connected to a woman like Mahri? His devotion, his loyalty, yes, and his sharp tongue when his mistress took needless risks raised all sorts of questions in Alex’s mind. Of one thing he was certain. Dugald trusted him, or he would never have left his cub in his care.

Thomas’s garments were hung on the backs of chairs to dry. Alex lost no time in delving into the pockets of the deerskin jacket. In a matter of moments, he held it in his palm, a cairngorm brooch set in an intricate gold setting, the brooch she usually wore on her tam.

He had no qualms about unlocking its secrets. Mahri refused to confide in him. He still didn’t know who she was. He couldn’t help her unless he knew what he was dealing with.

He covered the brooch with both hands and centered his thoughts on its sharp edges, its cool surface, and brought to mind how she kept fingering it, as though it was her secret talisman.

Behind his eyes, pictures were beginning to form. He could feel the heat of the sun beating on his face. His head was spinning, and a kaleidoscope of color surged in waves around him, then gradually receded.

Blurred shapes became more distinct. He saw a girl on a horse; a boy—her brother?—a year or two older, riding beside her. They were in a pasture, and a man and woman were standing beside a gate, watching them, waiting for the girl to take a fence.

“Go on, Mahri,” the man called out. “You can do it!”

The girl jerked round. “Papa! The fence is too high.”

“Nonsense! Go on! Make me proud of you.”

The woman—Mahri’s mother?—touched the man on the sleeve. “William,” she said, “Mahri is right. She is only a child.”

The man replied, “We’ll let her decide, shall we?”

Alex was appalled. Mahri’s fear was coming at him in waves. She didn’t want to jump the fence. He wanted to shout out to tell her not to do it, but he was frozen in place. He could feel Mahri tense. The next moment, she went thundering over the pasture. When she cleared the fence, she let out a whoop of laughter.

“I told you she could do it,” said the man. “We Scots thrive on a challenge.”

The scene disintegrated, and the shadows rushed in. Alex was shaking. He wanted to throttle the man, Mahri’s father, if he was her father.

All the same, he was baffled. There was nothing in that scene to throw light on the puzzle that was Mahri. She’d been afraid to take the fence but, at the end, when she’d cleared it, she’d been exultant.

What was he to make of that?

There must be something here that he was missing, else why did he have the vision?

This brought to mind his vision of Mahri accepting the dirk. He’d sensed her reverence. Now the dirk meant nothing to her. If she had turned on Demos, why wouldn’t she answer his questions?

He was still dwelling on that thought when he returned to the house.

Eleven

Mahri straightened and stretched her aching spine. She was in the kitchen, preparing what would pass for the evening meal. It wasn’t an onerous task, because there weren’t many mouths to feed. Everyone was still clearing up after the flood. None of the servants had returned, and the Cardnos had gone off to Ballater, supposing the bridge was open, to gather as much information as they could on what was happening up at the castle. It also gave them the opportunity to call on Mrs. Dickens and her family to offer their condolences.

Mrs. Dickens and her family.
The chance thought made her wince. She was still pondering what had happened there. It seemed beyond belief that anyone else had been involved in Dickens’s murder except a member of Demos. What was becoming patently clear was that everyone connected to her was in danger. She’d dragged them all into her web of deceit, even Alex and Gavin. Colonel Foster was still trying to track them down. According to Dugald, the colonel was convinced they must have gone into hiding close by, and he was determined to find them and arrest anyone who gave them shelter.

They couldn’t stay here, not for long. Yet Gavin was in no condition to travel. She and Dugald could slip away, but it seemed a cowardly thing to do.

The thought depressed her, and she absently stirred the batter in the bowl on the table. She couldn’t slip away, because Alex Hepburn wouldn’t allow it. Sometimes she felt that they were comrades, but when she really thought about it, as now, she felt more like his prisoner.

She beat her batter with enough force to send droplets flying to her face. She gasped, then reached for a damp cloth to clean up the mess. She shouldn’t take her anger out on her pancake batter, but that man really tried her patience. By his own admission, he was well-known to Foster and his men, yet for the last three days, he’d been working outside, brazenly showing his face as he helped Dugald repair the damage the storm had caused. He had a three days’ growth of beard, and he thought that would fool any unwelcome visitors into believing that he was a common laborer out to earn a few extra shillings.

And it worked. That very morning, two soldiers had appeared, nosing around and asking questions. They’d taken her for the maid of all work. She’d fussed over them and poured them a tankard of ale, all to allay their suspicions. She’d had the shock of her life when Alex sauntered in.

He’d come for a drink of water, he said, bold as brass, and after exchanging a few words with the soldiers in broad Scots, he sauntered out.

That man had the luck of the devil.

Her luck, on the other hand, was running out. How long before her father caught up to her?

Her mind was numb from so much speculation. It was her job to produce something edible from the few staples that were left in the larder, so she had better get on with it. If she hadn’t taken on the job, they would have all gone hungry. No one knew how to cook except Dugald and herself, and Dugald was busy. She didn’t mind. She liked cooking. Her fondest memories as a child were of helping her mother bake bread on Cook’s day off. Mama believed that every female should know how to cook.

She didn’t want to go down that road, so she concentrated on the matter at hand. She’d prepared a vegetable pie and was now in the process of making pancakes with a hot strawberry sauce to go with them.

The batter was too thick. She had to thin it with milk. Clutching her bowl to her middle, she walked to the pantry and pushed through the door. It took her only a moment or two to add the milk, carefully stirring the batter with her wooden spoon to test its consistency. That done, she retraced her steps and came to a sudden halt.

Gavin was there, in her kitchen, sampling the staples she had set out on the table. At her entrance, he looked up with a lopsided grin. Mahri knew all about lopsided grins and masculine guile. In her role as Thomas Gordon, she’d mixed with notorious rakes and philanderers. Not only had she learned from observing them, but she’d tried a few tricks of her own just to pass muster.

He was only a year or two younger than his brother, though he seemed much younger, a smidgen handsomer, and far more easygoing. And definitely more charming. He had the kind of smile that was calculated to soften any female’s heart. She listened to her heart. It was as slow and steady as the clock on the mantel.

“Mahri,” he said, almost blinding her with his grin, “or should I call you Miss Robson?”

“Cousin Gavin,” she responded, raising her brows a little, “I think you are supposed to call me Mary.”

“Ah yes, I’d forgotten.” He pulled up a kitchen chair and eased slowly into it. “We have not had the opportunity to exchange more than a few words since you rescued me from”—he gave a faint shudder—“that vile hellhole in Balmoral. May I say, ma’am, that I shall be forever in your debt?”

Well, maybe her heart was speeding up a little. He did have a charming smile. “You should thank Dugald,” she said. “I just followed his orders.” When he shifted in his chair and groaned, she said quickly, “Are you all right? Can I get you something? You really should be resting in bed, you know.”

He palmed his side. “Perhaps I’ll have a wee tot of whiskey to dull the pain. To tell the truth, I’m bored with my own company.”

Mahri fetched the tot of whiskey he’d asked for.

He downed it in one gulp, smiled, and handed the glass back to her. “If only,” he said, “someone would read to me or play a game of cards with me to pass the time.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Cardno would be happy to read to you.”

“Yes, but she’s not here, is she? And she has this peculiar idea about Juliet and me. She keeps asking when we’re going to be married.”

Mrs. Cardno, in Mahri’s opinion, had been well primed by Juliet. She liked the lady immensely. She seemed young and spry and up for anything. Mother and daughter were well matched and a formidable obstacle to the lures of a well-practiced rake. The trouble with Gavin was, rake or no, everybody liked him, and that made him a menace.

“You’re bored, and you don’t have enough to do?” said Mahri, oozing sympathy.

“That’s it in a nutshell, ma’am.” He flashed another beguiling smile.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, Cousin.”

With that, Mahri deposited her bowl of batter in his lap and told him to keep stirring. The look on his face had her pealing with laughter. A moment later, Gavin joined in.

The slam of the kitchen door had both their heads whipping round. Alex stood on the threshold with a scowl on his face.