“Leave me!” he yelled at James, so loudly that footman’s eyebrow shot up on his forehead and he verily ran out of the room.
Lord Nibley was almost afraid to touch the paper, afraid that it might confirm the suspicions that had been raging in him for the last month.
When he had woken up that horrible morning after the ball, sunrise barely peeking through the curtains as the maid frantically knocked on his door, Lord Nibley had immediately sensed something was wrong. He had known before the maid ever approached his door, before he had even opened his eyes.
There had been stillness, a quiet about the house that told him something was very wrong, a feeling that was confirmed when he let the maid into his room and she, in speech so rushed that he could barely make it out, told him that Bernadine was missing from her bed.
“I’ve looked everywhere for her, sir, but I cannot find her! She has vanished!” the maid said, her French accent growing thicker with distress.
When Bernadine’s absence was confirmed, Lord Nibley’s immediate thought had been this is my fault.
The previous night at the ball had been distressing for both of them. Lord Nibley had at first assumed that Bernadine had run away to finally teach him a lesson about controlling his prejudice-fuelled anger, but he had quickly rejected that idea. Bernadine could be brazen when she wanted to be, but she would never break his heart that way.
No, her absence had not been her choice. This was confirmed when the police inspector came and examined the room, pointing out signs that Bernadine had not been alone in her room the night before. Large, male footprints dotted the floor between the window and her bed, and there was a long rope affixed to the windowsill.
“Kidnappin’, I’d say, sir,” the cockney-mouthed inspector had told Lord Nibley. “We can make an inquiry, of course, but in situations like this one, we recommend the runners. They’ve ways and means beyond our own, sir. They’ll find yer girl.”
Kidnappers always had a reason for doing their deed, Lord Nibley knew. Money was the usual motivator, but as he went over the events of the night before, at the ball, Lord Nibley had worried that perhaps this kidnapping was not motivated by money, but rather, by revenge.
And that bloody Scottish brute was the culprit.
Lord Nibley had had no confirmation of this so far, and therefore had been able to prevent too much self-torture and flagellation. He was able to maintain hope that the kidnapping was in fact motivated by money, and that the kidnappers were simply biding their time, planning the best way to fleece the Nibleys of all their wealth. Lord Nibley would happily have paid every penny he had to have Bernadine back in his care.
But now, looking at the letter in front of him, from Scotland, the script on the envelope clearly male, Lord Nibley knew his suspicion was right.
That blasted brute has taken my daughter.
This was further confirmed when he finally, reluctantly, opened the envelope, the paper stiff in his hands as he read the words within.
The letter confirmed Lord Nibley’s worst suspicions: Donnan Young had in fact taken Bernadine from the house and kept her captive. But during this time, they had, apparently, fallen in love, and were now looking to get married, a decision which Donnan implied was mutual, but which Lord Nibley highly doubted.
No doubt he had been putting such ideas in her head and she cannot think for herself right now, he muttered, scanning his eyes over the rest of the letter’s contents.
Donnan had the hubris to ask for Jacob’s permission to wed Bernadine.
“Absolutely out of the question!” he shouted in disbelief to the empty room, his lonely voice ringing back to him and reminding him of how truly ridiculous his life had become.
He was tempted to shout again, louder and with expletives, when he read the next sentence. “I will also be so bold as to ask for a written apology for the heated words exchanged on your part that night, words that disrespected not only my person, but my people, my country, all of which your daughter, with her infinite charity and open heart, has seen fit to accept.”
This, above everything else, was what broke him. That sentence was what spurred him to leap from his chair, his movements so abrupt that the chair tipped backward and crashed to the carpeted floors. Lord Nibley did not look back at the sound as he ran out of the room, his eyes wide and crazed, shouting down the hall like a madman.
“James! Ready my curricle! I leave at once!”
He would go to Lord Hammilton’s. Thank god the man had just returned from a trip to his factories up north. Lord Nibley would need his help in deciding how best to defeat this Donnan Young, so that he would never bother his daughter again.
Hammilton had been his good friend for many years, since he had first taken his seat in Parliament. He had been his confidante when Anna died, the only person he could tell of his sorrows after her death. And he would know exactly how best to find Donnan Young.
They were friends, though Lord Nibley could not imagine why. It was clear to him that Donnan Young was the worst sort of scoundrel, immoral and caring not a whit for anyone but himself. He most certainly did not care about Bernadine. That man was no more capable of love than the rats that scurried the dirtiest parts of the London streets. And yet still, Hammilton valued his friendship, or at least he would until Lord Nibley laid out exactly what he had done to the girl Hammilton had so often referred to as “the daughter I never had.”
Then, hopefully, Hammilton would be just as incensed as he, and together they could make a plan of attack that ensured Bernadine’s safety and Donnan’s assured destruction. It was the only way Lord Nibley would ever be able to sleep again, knowing that man was incapable of ever again harming him or his family. Incapable, too, of getting within so much as a country’s distance from Bernadine.
Marry her. He scoffed as he stalked to the door, grabbing his hat and coat from James. He’d sooner cut off his own leg that let Bernadine succumb to such a fate.
* * *
“Lass,” Donnan whispered, wincing at the uncertainty in his voice. He was snuggled close to Bernadine in her bed, watching her read, the light from the candle at her bedside casting a golden glow on her lovely face, highlighting the honey highlights of her hair and the reddish tones of her cheeks.
He had been pondering exactly how to tell her about the letter to her father for days. He knew he ought to have told her about it immediately after sending it, or even better, before he had so much as sealed the thing, but nerves and trepidation had combined to prevent him from doing so. He had felt, as he held the envelope in his hands, that if he did not send it out that day, he never would.
Donnan did not consider himself a coward, had in fact never even associated the word with his person, but then, he supposed, that was what love did to a man. It altered him in ways he could not foresee. Donnan never would have expected written words to hold such power as to frighten him, but writing that letter was the single most terrifying thing he had ever done.
He was glad it was over, done with, sent out and hopefully even now in Lord Nibley’s hands, but the worst was not yet over. He still needed to tell the lass what he had done, and in many ways, that was almost more terrifying.
He had rehearsed countless conversations in his head, even going so far as to practice with Camdyn exactly how best to tell her he not only wanted to marry her, but had asked her father’s permission, admitted to kidnapping her and then, to add insult to injury, demanded an apology from the man for his foul words at the ball. The lad made a truly poor facsimile of Bernadine, actually falling asleep at one point while Donnan was in the midst of declaring his desire to marry her, and the rehearsals had done little to quell his nerves.
And despite the rehearsals and the contemplation, Donnan still had no idea what to tell the lass. Perhaps more importantly, he had no idea how she would react. He knew that Bernadine loved him. She had told him so often, both in words and actions. He knew as well that she was happy in Scotland; she had not once mentioned leaving sin
ce that first night they had shared together.
Since then she had in fact seemed to grow more and more a part of the castle and its daily life with each passing hour, until the presence of her in the halls seemed normal, natural and expected. What Donnan was not sure of was whether the lass was truly ready to give up her ties with England.
It was one thing to be happy with their situation as it stood, stealing nights together and living in a blissful limbo where obligations and social customs did not seem to matter, but was she really ready to accept a reality that left her residing in Scotland for the rest of her life?
He knew she missed her family, could see it in the way she sometimes stared off in the distance, a faint frown on her face. He also knew she had not written to them, the pen, ink and writing desk he had gifted her remained unused, so far as he knew. This suggested to him that perhaps she was not yet ready to marry her two worlds, as it were. She was not ready to give up what she had in England for what was in Scotland.
For me, he thought with a grimace.
Yet, what was done was done. The letter had been sent. He had to tell her about it and face the consequences. He could only hope they would be but few. After all, they had only recently stopped fighting, and while he loved seeing the lass fired up, he did not want to see that fire aimed at him again any time soon. He was not sure his heart could bear it.
Looking down, he realized that Bernadine had not heard him address her, engrossed as she was in her book.
“Lass?” he repeated, trying his best to make his voice sound as confident as he was able. Still, it sounded almost like a squeak to his ears.
“Mm?” Bernadine asked, not looking up from the book.
“Can I speak to ye a moment?”
“Can I finish this chapter? Lady Wilfred has just gotten to the duel and both guns are cocked. It’s all getting very exciting!” she said, her eyes glued to the page before her.
“As fascinating as that sounds for Lady Wilfred, lass, I really do need to speak to ye. Can the Lady wait, dae ye think?” he asked, trying to be patient. He loved how much Bernadine adored literature. It was just that at this particular moment, that love of hers was rather inconvenient. He needed to get the words out before they consumed him.
“Oh, I suppose,” Bernadine sighed heavily, putting her finger on the page and closing the book over it to mark her place. She sat up and turned to Donnan.
“All right. I am all yours. What is it you needed to speak to me about?” she asked, smiling innocently.
Och, I hope she still has that smile after I’ve said me piece.
Clearing his throat, Donnan decided to get it out now, rather than lessening the blow with pretty words and phrases. He was not very good at those anyway, if Camdyn suddenly falling asleep in the midst of his loving speech was any indication.
“Well, lass, I wrote yer faither a letter a few days ago. Tellin’ him we were in love. I confessed to kidnappin’ ye. And I asked for yer hand in marriage. I also asked for an apology for what he said that night at Lord Hammilton’s ball.”
Donnan looked at Bernadine, trying to gage her reaction, but her face was conspicuously blank.
“Lass? Did ye hear me?” he asked.
Bernadine was silent, her eyes glazed over, looking lost in thought. Her mouth was moving, however, forming soft words to herself her lips barely moving as she muttered.
“Lass, I cannae hear ye,” Donnan said, growing more and more worried. Bernadine was not a silent woman. She was, in fact, one of the more talkative females Donnan had ever met. It was one of the things he liked about her and seeing her so taciturn made him shiver with fear. A quiet Bernadine was most certainly not a good sign.
“Lass?” Donnan asked, beginning to feel rather stupid for repeating himself so much. “Bernadine, did ye hear me? Come, love, say somethin’. Yer givin’ me quite the fright!”
Finally, at that, Bernadine’s eyes cleared, turning toward him. He saw in her blue irises a fear so acute that it made his blood run cold.
“He’s coming,” she whispered, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. “He’s coming for me.”
Chapter 20
“I understood not a word of that, Lord Nibley,” Lord Hammilton said, standing in the doorway of his study. There was a gobsmacked solicitor sitting in a chair behind him, which told Lord Nibley that Lord Hammilton had been in the midst of a meeting when he interrupted him. Lord Nibley recognized the man in the chair from various meetings and councils in London, but he did not greet him. There was no time for such pleasantries.
“Bernadine is in Scotland with that beast Donnan Young and he kidnapped her and now wants to marry her and wants me to give him her hand and an apology! There is no simpler way to explain it!” he yelled, waving the letter from Donnan in his hand and not caring that he sounded like a lunatic escaped from Bedlam. Why was Hammilton being so obtuse? He had explained the matter twice now, yet the man was looking at him like he had grown a second head.
Was he deaf? Did he not see the letter in Lord Nibley’s hand, proof that Donnan Young was exactly the beast that Lord Nibley had accused him of being that night at the ball? Did he not understand the severity of the situation?
Does he not realize what true danger Bernadine is in?
“All right, old fellow. I believe I understand some of what you said, and you can explain to me the rest. Why don’t you come in and take a seat and we will sort this out,” Hammilton said, laying a gentle hand on Lord Nibley’s shoulder, taking the letter from him and leading him into the study.
“Michaels, I’m afraid we ‘ll have to continue this meeting another time. As you can see, I have a more important matter to deal with at the moment,” Hammilton said to the solicitor rising out of his chair.
“Of course, of course. Send me a note and we will reschedule,” Michaels said, bowing slightly to Hammilton before turning to Lord Nibley. “Lord Nibley, I do hope you find your daughter. Have you contacted the Bow Street Runners? They’re devilishly good at finding people. Why, my sister Henrietta’s husband went missing and they —”
“Of course I called them, you bloody fool! Do you think me an imbecile? Now get out of here so we can attend to business!” Lord Nibley shouted at the man.
He watched Michaels scurry out of the study and followed him, slamming the door behind him so loud that the noise echoed in the hall outside. It was improper and rude, and he did not care.
“Now,” Lord Nibley said, striding back to Lord Hammilton and slamming his hands down on the man’s desk. “What are we going to do?”
“First of all, you are going to take a seat,” Hammilton said, gesturing to the chair that Michaels had just vacated. “And then I am going to ring for tea and read this letter. After I have examined its contents, you are going to calmly explain to me exactly what you know. Only then can I accurately decide what to do to best help you get Bernadine back to England,” Hammilton said, pulling a bell near his desk before rounding the desk, taking a seat in his chair and unfolding the letter.
“Tea? By Jove, Hammilton, there’s no time for tea. That brute might have married Bernadine already, and at this very minute be taking her virtue, ruining her for all other men. Bernadine, my only daughter. The one you claim is practically like your own child. Do you honestly expect me to stir milk and sugar into a cup and partake in a few biscuits while such horrors are happening to my child? My only child?”
Lord Hammilton looked up from the page and cleared his throat. “I think you are being somewhat overly dramatic, my friend. I have known Laird Young for many years. He is a morally upright man who abides by the very same codes that dictate English high society. I highly doubt he kidnapped Bernadine, and I doubt even more that he would marry the girl without your permission. Else, why would he have written to you asking for it?”
Lord Nibley opened his mouth to interject, but Lord Hammilton held up a hand to stay him. “Please, let me read the letter. I need to be as informed as you if I am to help.”
The smell of black tea and freshly-made biscuits calmed him somewhat, and he gratefully took a cup of milky, sweet tea from the maid, accepting a few biscuits as well. He had never finished breakfast, leaving his toast half eaten on the dining table back at Harrow House, and he found that he was rather famished now. Agitation did make a body hungry.
Lord Nibley had finished two cups of tea and three biscuits and was growing anxious again when Lord Hammilton finally looked up from apparent contemplation and spoke.
“I do not understand.”
Daring the Highlander: A Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 15
