Then again — he'd been held hostage in the last few years, hadn't he? Maybe the working class had had enough revenge for the time being.
One more room, she decided. She'd explored the majority of the ground floor at this point, avoiding the kitchens, and had identified that there was only the one staircase leading to the second floor — and probably an additional one over in the servants' part of the house — but she had no interest in going in there to be discovered. That meant that it was too risky to go exploring upstairs — she could be trapped if her access to the staircase was blocked in any way. And she wasn't going to risk being trapped here. Then again, she thought as she crept up to another ornate door — why were all the damn doors in this house closed? — she could probably be trapped here for days before anyone would find her. Maybe she should just find her way to a guest room, set up for a good night's sleep under the bed… nobody would find her, surely.
It was tempting. But she decided against risking it. It seemed a little bit like tempting fate, to sleep in the house you were robbing. She'd just finish figuring out if there was anything in this next room that was worth stealing, and then…
And then…
Scarlet felt her mind grind to a halt, as surely as though a wrench had been jammed in the seamlessly ticking clockwork of her thoughts. The room she'd stepped into was quiet and still, like just about every other room she'd looked in — except for a smaller informal dining room which she'd found close to the kitchen, where the footsteps of servants had been audible through the room. — This room, though, had an oddly somber atmosphere, even compared to all the others. It was also decorated in a much more minimalistic way — all the furniture in the place seemed to consist of a few ornate wooden chairs, arranged in the center of the room with the impression that they were there to be sat in while viewing the walls.
And no wonder. Because on every wall, reaching almost to the ceiling, were portraits. Dozens and dozens of portraits, all of them of glowering, distinctly medieval-looking people… she stared from painting to painting, taken aback at the sheer number of them. Many of them had the same hard green eyes, and she drew the logical conclusion that they were members of the same family. Of Weatherby's family, presumably… it wasn't likely that he'd have this bizarre shrine to anyone else in his manor, now was it?
She was so shocked by the sight that she didn't even close the door behind her — she simply walked around the room as though in a daze, staring at painting after painting. She could barely even bring herself to wonder how much they might sell for, presuming she could find a buyer… were paintings valuable? Were paintings of some English Lord's family valuable? She had no idea… and at any rate, the walls were so crammed with paintings that any blank space would be very noticeable.
It was when her eyes were skimming over several paintings that looked newer than the others that she felt her heart stop. For a second, she was honestly confused. Among all of these portraits… why was there a mirror standing here? But when she lifted a hand unconsciously to her face and the reflection's arm didn't move in turn, she realized her mistake. What stood before her, clothed in dark clothes like hers, with a pair of wide brown eyes just like hers, a slim, pixie-like face like hers, and a wicked, half-smile that she'd seen in the mirror a dozen times before a job… was a painting. But this wasn't a painting of some Weatherby family member.
It was a painting of Scarlet.
Chapter 13
She looked like her father. Scarlet had known that ever since she was a little girl — it was the number one comment she tended to get, especially when growing up with just her father, how much she looked like him. She could never see it, especially as a little girl. How could a five-year-old girl look like some thousand-year-old man? — Rationally, she knew he'd been barely thirty when she'd been born, but when you were a child, your parents were a thousand. Those were just the rules. — But as she'd gotten older, she'd begun to see what those kind strangers were saying. Her brown eyes, sure, those were his — but it was more than that, too. It was the shape of her face, the line of her lips… and other things, too. Her expressions. The way she moved, the way the light danced in her eyes, the way she pressed her lips together when she was annoyed… all of that she'd learned from her father.
And now she saw it all, clear as day, reflected in the painting in front of her. It was an undeniably good likeness. Whoever the Weatherby family were hiring to do their portraits, she hoped they were paying them well… even as her shock continued to clatter around in her mind. She couldn't help thinking of the dream she'd had her first night here, the way she'd come face to face with a reflection of herself that wasn't a reflection… the way she'd known, deep in her bones, that she was looking into the face of a dead woman. She knew that now, clear as day, knew that as she looked into the undeniably lifelike eyes of the portrait. It reminded her… she swallowed hard… it reminded her of her father's funeral.
Her father's funeral wasn't something she made a habit of thinking about. It was too much, too sad, too awful a day in her recollection. Barely seventeen-years-old, she'd been forced to stand there, smiling, and thanking people again and again… there was nobody else in the family to do it, so she'd had to step up. Make the arrangements. Pretend to be fine, pretend to be coping alright, just to make sure everything was done. She coped with denial, with letting herself go completely numb… and when the numbness didn't work anymore, she told herself it was all a scam, that her father had faked his slow, agonizing death and would be waiting to meet up with her at a pre-arranged spot once the whole scam had gone down.
And that had worked. She'd felt fine, more or less, for the entire day… she'd been able to fake it until she saw the body. Until she looked down and saw that care-worn face, not shriveled and pale as it had been in the hospital bed over the last few months, those horrible, hard months when she'd had to say goodbye with real meaning every time she'd left his side because she didn't know if he'd make it through the night… no. No, the mortician had worked some kind of magic, and her father was back. He looked almost healthy — there was a subtle glow of health in his cheeks, and his gently closed eyes and the slight smile on his lips made him look as though he was just sleeping.
That had broken her utterly. Because in looking at him, in seeing such a perfect restoration, all doubt had been removed. He was gone. She couldn't speak, couldn't breathe — she had returned to her seat, numb and shaking, and when the funeral director had called on her to speak, she'd simply shaken her head, knowing in her heart that she wouldn't be able to. The woman had moved gracefully on with the service, and Scarlet would always be intently grateful to her for that.
And it was that feeling that she felt, now, looking into this undeniably familiar face. The face of a dead woman. A beautiful fake, of course, but it was easy to make a fake beautiful. There were tears dripping down her cheeks, Scarlet realized as one broke free and splashed on the tile beneath her feet. How long had she been crying for? And what was more, how long had she been standing in this bizarre museum of portraits of dead people? She couldn't shake her eyes free from the woman's face, from that smile, the shine in her eyes. She looked so happy. So alive. Did she know that she'd be dead soon? In a matter of years, if not months? All because she'd fallen pregnant. All because she'd decided to risk her life to bring another into the world. What had happened to the baby? Scarlet wondered suddenly. Had the child lived? Had the babe's mother's sacrifice at least achieved that much? No, she thought. Kieran would certainly have mentioned if his child had lived on.
"It's true," she whispered, hardly daring to believe it. Part of her had thought Kieran was stitching her up… or at the very least, that he was exaggerating her similarity to her dead ancestor, or whatever it was. Surely, they couldn't be that alike… but they were. Sure as anything, the portrait she was looking at could well have been painted of her and she'd not have known the difference. All the way down to the mole on her left cheek… she raised a hand to it, surprised again whe
n the portrait's hand didn't move, too.
So magic was real. Curses were real. Witches were real. And —
"Emily!"
She spun on her heel, disoriented, and reacting on instinct to the sound, not to the name… though when her mind caught up, she recognized it. She recognized, too, the sound of breaking crockery. There, in the open doorway, stood a man, his green eyes wide with shock — and at his feet was what looked like it had once been a cup, liquid spreading from its shattered remains. He was a man in his late thirties, perhaps, and even without the context clues, Scarlet would have recognized him as Lord Weatherby in a heartbeat. Didn't his portrait hang right next to hers?
"Emily," he said again, his voice hoarse, his eyes wondering. Heedless of the broken crockery beneath his boots, he took a few hesitant steps toward her, reaching out with one hand encrusted with jewels, she noticed — even at the height of shock, she couldn't miss such an obvious target toward her face. Feeling like she was in a dream, she responded, taking a couple of steps toward him, as though responding to an invitation… and then he was hastening across the space to her, all but shouting that name, that name that she knew wasn't hers… but just for now, she was willing to take.
"I can't believe it," he breathed as he came up close, slowing. For a moment she'd been certain he was about to embrace her, but instead he simply lifted a hand and touched her cheek, a wondering expression on his face. "Oh, Milly. Your lovely hair."
The only difference between her and the portrait… a long blond braid hung down the woman in the portrait's back, mostly hidden from view. She raised a hand self-consciously to her own pixie cut, aware that it wasn't exactly a common cut in this day and age.
"Arabella told me you were dead," Weatherby said, his voice still hoarse.
That accent… she realized it was the accent she'd been doing a poor job of imitating for the last few days. Posh, upper class, genteel… she was speaking to a wealthy man, the voice told her that even if the estate and the jewelry hadn't. It didn't even occur to her that her pockets were full of his stolen goods as she stared back at him.
"The baby… she said you'd died after a long fight; despite everything the best doctors could do. What happened? Was she misled? How did you survive? Emily — speak to me."
That tone cut through her shock like a hot blade through butter and she felt herself grimace. That was the tone, yet again, of a man who had decided to tell her what to do. "Don't boss me around," she snapped, reflexive, feeling childish but defiant — and too late, realized that she'd neglected to affect her accent, that her real voice — her hodge-podge of just about every accent in the United States — had come through. Was it too much to hope that Lord Weatherby hadn't noticed?
It was, she realized, her heart sinking at the look of realization on his face. Realization… and disappointment. Wait — what? "You're not Emily," he said faintly.
"No, I'm not," she said, narrowing her eyes. Would it have been better to play along, to pretend to be the dead cousin, maybe see if she could leverage it somehow… no. No way. She could tell from their brief interaction that Lord Weatherby wasn't the kind of cousin who was just going to let his long-lost cousin do as she please. If she pretended to be Emily, she'd be stuck here. Coming clean was her only option. But why did it feel like he was way ahead of her?
"I should have expected this, I suppose," Lord Weatherby said heavily, turning to cross to a chair before dropping his bulk into it with a long-suffering sigh. "No need, Baldric," he added loudly, and she jumped as she realized there was another figure in the doorway.
This one was considerably more foreboding than Weatherby, clad in black with a blade in his hand and a calculating look on his face. She sized him up in an instant — this was a real fighter, not some privileged dandy like Weatherby. His manservant, maybe? Hadn't the tailor mentioned something about some second-in-command? The man was studying her with a combination of shock and recognition on his face, and he shook his head as he sheathed his blade and headed to his Lord's side.
"The spitting image, isn't she?" Weatherby said conversationally, turning to Baldric as though Scarlet wasn't even there. "It never fails to surprise me… but didn't old MacClaran warn us this was likely to happen?"
"I don't love being talked about in the third person," Scarlet said coldly, folding her arms across her chest. "An introduction might be nice."
"Oh, of course. Where are my manners." Weatherby didn't sound particularly repentant. "I am Lord Weatherby, which you probably know, as you've broken into my bloody estate, haven't you? This is Baldric," he added, gesturing to his servant, who sketched a neat little bow while shooting his lord a sidelong look.
"Sir Baldric, actually, of London," he said formally, and she realized his accent was a lot rougher than Weatherby's. She liked this man instantly, liked the apologetic half-smile he gave her and the 'sorry about him' gesture he made toward his lord as he did it. Maybe she could get him onside for the robbery… first things first.
"My name is Scarlet," she said, omitting her surname out of habit more than anything. It wasn't like anyone here would associate Adams with crime. Wouldn't associate it with anything, probably… she felt a pang of grief at that. Strange, to think her family was so far away… and yet, at the same time, wasn't it true that she was surrounded by family? Emily was her ancestor, wasn't she? No… not exactly. At least… no, she couldn't think about it right now. Not surrounded by what could definitely turn into enemies if she didn't play her cards right.
"You've got that awful accent that the rest of them have, of course," Weatherby said wearily, rubbing his forehead, and she concluded that he'd figured it out from her American vowels, not even bothering to take offence at the insult. "You're … my word. You're the spitting image of my cousin Emily. People are going to talk, aren't they, Baldric?"
"Your cousin?" She folded her arms across her chest, very interested in getting more of this story from someone who wasn't Kieran. Was playing dumb the best way to go? Maybe if Lord Weatherby thought she was stupid; he'd reveal more of what was going on. She didn't trust that Baldric, though. He looked canny. Better not overdo the dumb blonde act. "Who's that?"
"You're looking at her portrait, aren't you? It was seven years ago that she died… damn fool of a girl," Weatherby said, shaking his head. "She came out to stay here with me for a spell. Her parents hoped that it would calm her down a little, some time in the wilds of Scotland. She was making too much trouble back in London, you see. Refusing to entertain suitors, running away from home in the dead of night, all kinds of nonsense. They'd hoped that out here there'd be no big city attractions to catch her attention and she'd somehow learn to be sensible. The joke was very much on them," he said with a dry little chuckle. "She ran off with the first great hulking Scotsman she met, and the rest was history."
"How do you mean?" Simple questions seemed to be enough to bait him into telling the whole story — sure enough, he barely looked at her as he continued. Baldric's sharp dark eyes were on her, though, glimmering with amusement, and she had an awful suspicion he knew exactly what she was up to. He wasn't trying to stop her, though. Why did it feel like he was on her side… like he was just as amused by the stuffy Lord's behavior as she was?
"Oh, the classic tale. Stormy love affair, a whole lot of nonsense, she … well, she fell," he said, wrinkling his nose as if disgusted by the very idea of pregnancy, "and then we had to deal with it. She could have at least had the good grace to marry the man, save us at least a little bit of shame."
But Kieran had called Emily his wife… had they kept their marriage secret from even her family? Something about that amused her, and she fought back a smile at the thought that Emily had refused them even the knowledge that her child hadn't been conceived out of wedlock. "Who was he?" she asked, wanting confirmation of what she knew was true. "Who was the man she ran off with?"
"Why, Kieran bloody MacClaran, of course. Silly old fool," Weatherby said, rolling his eyes. "Baldric, fetch me
another cup of soup, will you? And the guards. We'll have a lot to see to before the evening's over, I'm afraid."
Chapter 14
Why did he want guards? Scarlet felt her hackles go up immediately, scanning the room. There — a small window on the far side, open to catch the evening breeze. Worst case scenario, she had her escape route planned — and she knew already that she could leap the wall if she needed to. Leap through the windows, jump the wall, lose herself in the darkness and the trees that stood beyond it. Easy. But her curiosity wouldn't let her go, not yet. She wanted to know more… wanted to hear more about Kieran and Emily, about what had happened.
"She died, you said?" she pressed, wondering if Kieran had told her the truth about Emily's death. "How?"
"Childbirth, so I'm told," Weatherby said absently, his expression emphasizing how much he didn't want to know any more details of that particular process. Imagine being brought into the world by a miraculous process — then wanting to know nothing more about it. Even Scarlet, who had had a gripping fear of pregnancy for as long as she could remember, didn't find it disgusting… she knew a lot about it, in fact, probably more than most as a result of her fear, her determination to learn as much as she could so that she could keep herself safe. The arrogance of a man like Weatherby, whose mother had gone through so much to give him life, then turning his back to sneer at the process… well, it didn't endear him to her, that was for sure.
Baldric had gone out into the corridor, presumably to fetch the guards — Emily knew she didn't have much time. "So you're told?"
Highlander Guarded: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander In Time Book 10) Page 9
