“Be glad Matthew Harris didnae ask too many questions,” Coll said from the window, “and that he’s near yer size.”
“Nae near enough,” Niall protested, trying to extend his arms and then giving up the effort out of fear he might pull his own sleeves off.
“Yer hair willnae do,” his oldest brother observed, straightening.
“I’m nae cutting it. I’ll stuff it under the hat.” Picking up the green beaver hat, he set it on his head, grabbing stray strands of hair and pushing them up beneath the dome of the chapeau. He couldn’t change his hair color, but at least this way it looked a proper, gentlemanly style. “How’s this?”
He turned around, and Coll spent a long moment perusing his attire. “Aye. As long as ye’re nae face-to-face with anyone. Ye dunnae look like a poet with consumption.”
“Thank ye for that, anyway.”
His oldest brother continued gazing at him. “Ye certain about this? I reckon ye could find a lass who’s a lot less trouble.”
“Aye. Mayhap I could. But she’s my adae, and I’ll nae be without her.”
Heavy bootsteps pounded up the stairs outside the bedchamber, and Aden shoved open the door. “We’re ready,” he said, out of breath. “Saint Andrew, Niall, ye almost look like a proper Sassenach.”
“Nae need to insult me.” His heart began a hard, steady rhythm. A great many things could go wrong from this point forward. “And thank ye for this.”
Coll clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank us when ye’ve finished.”
Neither of his brothers had hesitated when he’d outlined his plan. Half of it was likely because of the mayhem it could cause, but the other half—and perhaps a bit more—was simply because they were brothers. The MacTaggerts. They always stood together.
Outside Gavin waited on horseback, the reins for the other three mounts in his hands. Not quite certain he could manage to climb into the saddle without splitting his trousers, Niall took his time swinging a leg over Kelpie’s back and settling in. Only then did he take a closer look at the groom. “That’s nae what ye’re to be wearing, Gavin,” he said, frowning.
“I asked Farthing, and he said ye gave me the wrong colors. I reckon I’ll get some fresh ones in a wee bit.”
“Ye brought a Sassenach into this?” Coll queried, his brow lowering.
“Well, they dunnae say ‘deas’ or ‘clì’ when they turn a team, and I knew it wasnae ‘starboard’ or ‘port.’ I deemed I should be authentic, aye?”
“So, what is it?” Aden asked.
The groom reddened. “‘Gee’ and ‘haw.’”
Niall snorted. “That sounds familiar.”
“How was I to know that, Master Niall? I’m telling ye, this London is nae a place for sane men.”
They set off south at a trot. “I appreciate ye making certain, Gavin,” Niall said over his shoulder.
As they reached Curzon Street, they headed right, then after a block or so turned down a short side street behind a wagon piled with what looked like old furniture. Gavin hopped to the ground, tossing his reins to Aden. “I’ll take a look, shall I? It’s bonny I’m nae dressed like a harlequin, I reckon.”
“Dunnae miss him, Gavin, or ye’re walking back to Scotland,” Niall warned him.
The groom looked offended. “I wouldnae do such a thing to ye, or stab my eyes with a needle.”
Patience, Niall reminded himself. The others had consequences to worry over as well, and none of the benefits he was looking to reap. “I apologize, Gavin. Off with ye.”
“There are easier ways to do this, ye ken,” Coll commented, edging forward with Nuckelavee just enough so he could see around the corner.
“A straight-up brawl, aye. That willnae gain me what I want, unless ye mean we should murder a man.” Niall flexed his hand around the reins. “And me killing a Sassenach lord isnae likely to aid me in finding domestic bliss.”
Aden snorted. “‘Domestic bliss.’ I reckon I’ll be after one of those empty-headed lasses, after all. I’ve a dozen lasses in the Highlands who dunnae expect me to sit in the parlor while they embroider.”
“And I hope ye find one who makes ye want to give up yer gambling just so ye can sit at home and watch her embroider,” Niall returned.
“The hell ye say.”
“Gavin’s waving at me,” Coll announced.
Niall blew out his breath. Once they left this alleyway, there was no turning back. Amelia-Rose was worth this. But he still didn’t know the other side of the equation—if she would think he was worth this. “Let’s go,” he ordered, kicking Kelpie in the ribs.
Gavin stood in the middle of the street, gesturing like a madman. Aden tossed the reins of the gray gelding back to him, and the groom swung into the saddle like a man who’d been born to it. “They turned north,” he said. “Came out of the carriage drive like he was late for his own wedding.” He sent a glance at Niall. “Apologies, Master Niall.”
“Nae need.”
Three blocks up they caught sight of the coach, a big black monstrosity with the red-and-blue coat of arms of the Marquis of Hurst. “Aye?” Aden asked, gazing at Niall.
“Aye. Dunnae get yerself killed.”
With a swift grin Aden sent Loki into a gallop, Coll and Nuckelavee on their heels. Niall wanted to be the one taking the most obvious risk, but in the outfit he presently wore, he’d end up rolling about on the street with all his seams split. At least his brothers were dressed for battle.
Aden reached the rear of the coach, stood in the saddle, and grabbed onto the luggage straps at the rear to swing over onto the vehicle. Coll caught Loki, keeping just behind the vehicle as Aden scrambled onto the roof and then took a seat beside the coachman.
Having a wild-haired man in a kilt plopping down beside him must have scared the shite out of the driver, and the coach rocked sideways before it straightened again. At the next corner they turned, headed out of Mayfair and its crowds. As far as Niall knew, Aden wasn’t armed with more than the single-bladed sgian-dubh in his boot, but the middle MacTaggert brother could be very persuasive even barehanded.
They continued on for another twenty minutes, and while Niall didn’t see any movement from inside the coach, he knew Hurst was in there. He had to be, because otherwise none of this would work. Perhaps the fool hadn’t realized they’d left Mayfair for Whitechapel.
Aden had told him where they would be going, but as they left the opulent West End, Niall frowned. Wherever his brother had been going at night, it hadn’t been clubs or any high-end gaming establishments. Aye, Aden could do better than hold his own under most circumstances, but a man alone could always be bested.
Finally they turned up a dirty, trash-strewn street with boarded-up shops on either side and what looked like a pie shop on the corner. The coach stopped. Coll swung down from the black and yanked open the door. “Ah, yer lordship,” he said, reaching inside.
The Marquis of Hurst half fell out of the coach, stopped from falling only by Coll’s hand knotted into his cravat. “What is the—” He spotted Niall, and his jaw clamped shut.
“Good morning, m’laird,” Niall said, carefully dismounting. “Lovely day for a drive, aye?”
The marquis sent a quick look at their surroundings, his pale complexion taking on a gray hue. “There will be witnesses to anything underhanded, you scoundrel. Release me at once.”
Instead Coll dragged him over against the front of one of the closed shops. “Send yer lad down, Aden.”
The driver climbed down hurriedly but didn’t make any attempt to run. “Don’t murder me, if you please,” he said, raising his hands.
Gavin approached him. “We dunnae need ye, lad,” he said. “Just yer clothes. Strip. Now.”
The coachman looked toward his employer, and Coll thumped the marquis against the wall. “Tell him.”
Hurst squeaked. “Do as they say, Edward.”
Gavin and Edward stepped inside the coach and shut the door. Five minutes later they emerged again, Edward
in nothing but a long-tailed shirt, and Gavin dressed in a crimson coat, black trousers, and a black top hat. “I feel mighty conspicuous,” the groom muttered.
“Ye look bonny,” Aden said. “Come up here and take the reins.”
Doing as he was bid, he settled into the driver’s seat. Aden hopped to the ground and took the horses from Niall. “It’s up to ye now, little brother,” he said.
“Dunnae hurt him. Just … delay him for a bit.”
“We know yer plan.” He poked a free finger into Niall’s shoulder. “All the luck in the world to ye, Niall. We’ll see ye soon.”
All the luck in the world sounded like just the amount he would need. With a nod to Coll, Niall stepped into the coach and pulled the door shut. “Let’s go, Gavin.”
* * *
Amelia-Rose wasn’t certain if she could actually still catch Niall’s scent on her pillow, or if it was just her imagination. Either way, her pillow was in her bedchamber, and she was in another room altogether. Perhaps she could ask for it, tell her mother that she could only sleep with her regular bedding or something.
A pillow hardly made up for being separated from him, but until she could figure out what to do next, it was all she had. She’d already tried going out the window, but the height was dizzying and she couldn’t make out a single foot- or handhold despite the fact that she knew Niall had made it up to the second floor somehow. But then he probably climbed all sorts of things, and had been wearing boots rather than very impractical slippers.
“You’re being very quiet today,” Mary observed as she put a last hairpin in place.
“Should I be singing a tune?”
“I … I apologize, Miss Amy. Amelia-Rose. I didn’t mean to offend.”
Amelia-Rose took a breath. “Of course it’s not your fault, Mary. Perhaps I should be singing. But I’ve been deemed untrustworthy and I’m being pushed into something I don’t want, so I’m irritated. Annoyed.” Angry. Furious. Desperate to speak to a man her mother was making every effort to keep from her.
“Lord Hurst is quite handsome, you have to admit. And such soulful eyes. I would imagine he writes poetry.”
“Yes. Lugubrious poetry, no doubt.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.”
Her door rattled to the sound of a key turning, and a footman allowed Jane inside the bedchamber before he closed them all in again. If this continued, the entire household would be locked in here before long.
“Good morning,” Jane said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I half expected to see you refusing to get out of bed.”
“I considered it,” Amelia-Rose admitted. “Going to luncheon with Lionel seems to be the only way I’ll find the sun on my face today, however.”
Jane cleared her throat. “Speaking of sunlight,” she said, pulling a folded handkerchief from her pocket, “I happened across this very recently. Isn’t it lovely?” She opened the kerchief to reveal a thistle flower, pressed flat and dried, but still a vibrant purple.
A thistle. Amelia-Rose stared at its reflection in her dressing mirror, before her gaze flashed up to meet Jane’s eyes. If she understood her cousin’s cryptic description, she’d seen Niall “very recently.” How recently? Last night? Had he tried to see her and found her window locked, only to be met by Jane? How could she ask without putting anyone at risk, and also taking into account that the footman guarding the door was very likely listening through the keyhole? “It is lovely,” she agreed aloud. “It has a meaning in the language of flowers, does it not? I can’t quite remember what it is.”
“I looked it up,” Jane returned promptly. “It means unity, endurance, and victory.” As she spoke, she emphasized each word in turn. “A rather warlike flower, really, don’t you think?”
“Definitely a flower to wear into battle,” Amelia-Rose replied. “Might I wear it today?”
Jane’s jaw jumped. “If you wish. The decision is yours.”
“The purple will show well with your yellow gown,” Mary agreed, fetching the flower from Jane and pinning it without ceremony to the front of the yellow-and-brown muslin, beneath the edge of the green pelisse she wore over the walking dress. “Even pressed it may prick you, though. Wouldn’t you rather wear a gem or a cameo?”
Whether by coincidence or the destiny of which Niall had last spoken, the flower settled just above her heart. “I’ll be careful. This should be fine.”
She wanted to hug Jane, and most definitely have a moment to speak with her in private, but firstly she wasn’t certain how private any conversation of hers would be for the next three weeks, and secondly she had no idea if Jane had reached the limit of her helpfulness or not. If delivering a thistle was as far as her cousin was willing to step away from Victoria Baxter’s good graces, then the less said, the better.
The very small chance existed that this thistle might have been Niall’s farewell, that he’d realized nothing he did could stop the inevitable. The announcement had appeared in the newspaper this morning, she knew, because her mother had shown it to her. Her future, writ in black and white, impossible to erase, and impossible to change.
Had Niall seen it this morning? Had it hurt him as much as it had hurt her? More? At least she’d known it would be coming. She doubted very much that anyone had warned him about it.
Her door opened again, and Amelia-Rose swiftly drew her pelisse over the flower, hiding it from view as her mother strolled into the room. “Lord Hurst’s coach is here,” Victoria said. “You will be polite at luncheon, you will profess your eagerness for the wedding, and you will not mention that … Highlander in any manner. Is that clear?”
As much as Amelia-Rose wanted to argue, that would only see her locked into this bedchamber for every day of the three weeks remaining before the wedding. Better to cooperate and wait for a moment to send a letter or find a chance for … something. Anything. “Yes, Mother.”
“Good.” Victoria turned to look at Jane. “And you will make certain of that. If my daughter strays from my wishes, you will inform me, Jane. Heaven knows I don’t ask much of you, but you will do this.”
Jane stood and curtsied. “Of course, Aunt.”
“Then let’s not keep your husband-to-be waiting.” Standing aside from the door, she motioned for Amelia-Rose to precede her.
She descended the stairs, just resisting the urge to break and run for the open front door. Hughes the butler had aided her previously, but not anywhere in his employer’s sight. Today he might just as easily slam the door in her face as allow her into the street.
Lionel wasn’t in the foyer. Generally he appeared with a bouquet for her and one for her mother, which made Amelia-Rose wonder just how badly he needed the money—by way of a dowry—that would be transferred along with her to Hurst’s possession. She could see the rear wheels of his coach outside, then noticed the light drizzle. Ah, that would be it. Lord Hurst did not like raindrops ruining the shine of his boots or flattening his golden curls.
As her mother continued her entreaties and threats from the Baxter House doorway, Amelia-Rose hurried to the coach’s open door. A gloved hand in an olive-green sleeve reached out to help her inside, and she took the seat beside him. He offered a hand to Jane, as well, which surprised her a little. Previously he’d barely deigned to notice her chaperone. If she’d cared enough about him to have an opinion, that might have lifted it slightly.
“My lord,” she said, scooting as far away from him on the seat as she could, noting only that he was dressed as primly as usual and that he hadn’t bothered to remove his beaver hat even inside the coach. Poor fellow, his hair must have been a wreck already.
“Miss Baxter, how very delightful to see you again,” a voice in exceedingly proper English accents and sounding half an octave lower than Hurst’s replied.
“W—”
“A moment, please.” He leaned out and waved toward the front of Baxter House, then shut the door. Sitting back, he hammered his fist against the ceiling
of the coach. “Edward, let’s be off, my good man.”
Amelia-Rose stared at him. Even shadowed behind the coach’s closed curtains, the face looking back at her had more color to it than Lionel could manage in midsummer. The mouth was harder, the nose more elegant, and the brows had a slight, sardonic arch that even the hat low over his eyes couldn’t hide.
She lunged at him, dragging the hat off to reveal a tumble of disheveled brown hair and eyes of an impossibly light green. “Niall,” she sobbed, flinging her arms around him, kissing him over and over again. How he’d managed to appear in Hurst’s coach she had no idea, but at the mere sight of him all the ice in her chest melted into warm, hopeful heat.
He kissed her back, then held her away from himself. “I’ve come for ye, lass,” he said, his voice rough. “But ye need to decide if ye want to go with me. I’ve a faraway destination in mind, and ye may nae be able to come back here. Ever.”
Chapter Sixteen
Amelia-Rose sat back again, but kept her fingers twined with his. Niall didn’t want to release her at all; after what he meant to tell her, this could well be the last time he ever set eyes on her.
“Yer parents willnae consent for ye to marry me, ever. They’ve made that clear, and I cannae steal ye off to a London church firstly because ye’re nae yet twenty-one years of age, and secondly because we’d have to have the banns called for the next three weeks.”
“I considered that, too,” she replied, almost matter-of-factly. “My mother had the engagement announcement posted in the newspaper today. No pastor would read the banns for you and me, knowing that.”
“Aye. I saw the damned thing.” And had likely taught his mother a few choice words in Scots Gaelic in the process.
“I’m sorry,” she said, tears shining in her eyes.
“Lass, dunnae cry. Nae until I’ve said what I mean to say.” He knew what he wanted, what he needed. Whether she would want the same thing once she understood just what would be involved, he didn’t know. He hoped, but he didn’t know.
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