Highlander Undone

by Connie Brockway

“But Ted, you know I would seize any opportunity to bask in your sister’s divine presence.” He held Ted’s gaze steadily a second before bowing deeply in Addie’s direction.

  “Really? Well, be careful you don’t get sunburn . . . the woman seems to be positively glowing today.”

  Addie swatted her brother on the arm and then, as if the impulsive act startled her, her eyes widened. “Stop roasting poor Jack, Ted. What do you want?”

  “I need you.”

  Addie lifted her brows questioningly. “What? Tea and cakes? Your pillow hasn’t been adequately fluffed?”

  “Children, children,” Jack scolded.

  Ted shifted his weight back and forth on his feet, the simple movement in this incredibly self-contained man conveying a wealth of unease.

  “Ted?” Addie asked, suddenly alert.

  “Miss Zephrina Drouhin has sent a note. She decided she must see the progress I’ve made on her portrait. She will be arriving shortly, sans mama, with her usual entourage.”

  “What entourage?” Jack asked.

  “A military one. Miss Drouhin positively exults in the company of Her Majesty’s armed forces.”

  “I see.” Addie had gone still. “When?”

  Ted pulled a watch from his trouser pocket and glanced at it. “Damn! Within the quarter hour. I am sorry, Ad. She is a presumptuous, spoiled, and willful girl but I cannot yet afford to send her to the devil where she belongs.” He sounded positively heated. His jaw had tensed and his entire posture bespoke anger.

  Jack was impressed. He’d never seen such an overt display of emotion from Ted.

  “It’s all right, Ted,” Addie said, but Jack noted the forced lightness of her tone.

  “I can’t have her risk her reputation,” Ted said. “Unfortunately your housekeeper has taken another day off and I can’t come up with an acceptable chaperone on such short notice.”

  “It’s all right, Ted. Really. This is exactly why you wanted me as your hostess and though I have avoided Miss Drouhin and her friends for the past week, this was inevitable. Indeed, I quite look forward to meeting her. No one could be as awful as you make her out to be.”

  “Don’t be too sure.”

  “Your Miss Drouhin is not a model then, but a lady?” Jack asked.

  “Yes. A young lady.”

  “Pretty?”

  “Fair enough if you like teeny, bright-eyed little pusses with unusually strident dispositions.”

  “Rich?”

  “Very.”

  “American,” Addie offered.

  Jack widened his eyes in feigned interest. “I’ve never met an American lady. I admit I didn’t know they existed. Mind if I tag along?”

  “Oh, yes. Please do,” Addie said eagerly.

  “Ted?”

  “If Addie will have you, I have no objections. But we’d best go now,” Ted said and, turning, disappeared into the dark hall.

  Nice picture, Phyfe. Like the colors. Pretty.”

  Young Corporal James Veitch clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels, lip out, brows down, studying a sketch Ted had abandoned against the wall. He reminded Addie of a bulldog: short, stout, and muscular. “Not that I would have such a thing in my house. Not manly enough, what?” His frown deepened. “I say, Phyfe. Do you think you could rig up some sort of sling and have me horse hoisted up here for me portrait?”

  Addie, caught off guard by this absurdity, cast a covert glance in his direction. He was a typical example of one of Her Majesty’s military officers: self-important and overbearing.

  “I doubt it, Corporal,” Ted said.

  Veitch made a disgruntled sound and resumed his wandering about the studio. “Where the devil—’scuse me, ma’am”—he nodded curtly in Addie’s direction—“are the lads and Miss Drouhin? Thought the boys said she was to arrive by two o’clock. It’s past three o’clock.”

  “We all must suffer Beauty’s whim,” Jack said, giving a refined sniff from where he stood idly swinging his monocle. “Though I must admit, I can’t see myself inconveniencing myself for some American girl.”

  “I’m sure of that,” replied Veitch, his gaze traveling disparagingly over Jack’s attire: his cobalt blue velvet jacket and buff-colored trousers, the hems turned up at the end, the soft stockette tied in a drooping bow beneath the soft collar of his shirt. In comparison, Veitch, some inches shorter, looked positively scrubbed, from his ruddy cheeks to his pomaded and curling ginger hair to the heavy, carefully trimmed mustache quivering above his thick lips.

  “I mean, what’s the point? She has so many suitors already, or so I’ve been told. Why suffer the indignity of losing oneself in the crowd?”

  “Apparently, er, sir,” Veitch said, “you understand little. It adds to one’s consequence to be seen squiring Miss Drouhin about. Tremendously. All the officers vie for her attention. It is the thing to do.”

  Addie, her nerves fading as her amusement increased, fixed Jack with a disapproving stare. He was being appallingly mischievous at the corporal’s expense, baiting the poor, oblivious man like that . . . Poor man? When had she last thought of anyone in a red coat as “poor”?

  Jack’s gaze widened innocently, nearly making her laugh.

  Veitch peeked under a cover and Ted sighed loudly. “Please, Corporal. Some of them are still wet.”

  Guiltily, Veitch fell back and then, in a manner with which Addie was all too familiar, his discomfiture transformed into anger.

  “Well, sir. If you expect to paint my picture, you’ll just have to find some way to accommodate me . . . and me horse!”

  Good heavens, he wasn’t still going on about his horse?

  “Confound it,” he continued. “Managed to get me horse all the way from Bristol to Arabi. Don’t see why you can’t get old Charger up here.” The huff of indignation at the end of the pronouncement rippled his mustache.

  “You were in Arabi?” Jack had gone quite still.

  “Yes,” Veitch said shortly. “There was the small matter of a war going on. But perhaps you hadn’t heard, being otherwise occupied with your paints!”

  “Jack isn’t a painter,” Ted said.

  “Well, whatever bloody—’scuse me again, ma’am—however way he wastes his time.” He glowered at Jack, who contrived to look confused rather than insulted. Finding no joy there, Veitch looked around and caught sight of Addie.

  Immediately, she wished she’d kept her gaze discreetly lowered. The last thing she wanted was to attract a soldier’s attention. Any kind of attention. She fixed her gaze on her lap, but too late. Veitch stomped toward her.

  “Don’t see how I can have my portrait done without Charger. At least, not a proper military portrait. Don’t you agree, ma’am?”

  Addie glanced up. The corporal loomed above her, feet spread wide, barrel chest swollen, fists set on his hips. He stared down on her, willing her compliance. He would not leave her alone until she yielded. He would stand there for hours just staring at her with that horrible curl to his lips, knowing eventually she must forfeit. Her heart would race and her skin would grow damp and her vision—she swallowed hard, her hands clenched together on her lap.

  “Well, ma’am?” His voice boomed down from above her bowed head.

  Numbly, she felt herself nod in acquiescence.

  “See?” exclaimed Veitch. Having won, he turned and stomped back toward Ted. “Even your sister agrees, Phyfe!”

  “Yes,” she heard Ted say in an odd voice. “I see.”

  “Man learns to trust his horse,” he told her confidingly, happy now that he’d won. “His life often depends on his steed’s courage, heart. Indeed, a man’s fate is in his horse’s . . . his horse’s—”

  “—hands?” Jack whispered in her ear. She hadn’t noticed his approach. She’d been too caught up in Veitch’s aggression. Her shoulders, held so tightly they’d begun to hurt, relaxed. “I lay you odds, here and now, he will say ‘hands.’

  “Do continue, Corporal,” Jack said more loud
ly as he stepped from behind her chair, polishing the nails of one hand on a brilliant silk kerchief.

  The corporal looked him over contemptuously.

  “A man’s fate is in his horse’s hands, sir.”

  Jack turned his head slowly and met her eye. The unholy glee in them teased her own sense of humor back from hiding.

  “Any campaigner would say the same,” Corporal Veitch went on. “Not that you’d know much about that.”

  “About campaigns?” Jack asked. “I beg to differ, sir, but I have been most arduously involved in the campaign to free women from the oppression of the bustle. In fact, we are having a meeting on Saturday night. Men Against Bustles. If you would care to subscribe—”

  “Good God!” exploded Veitch.

  “Indeed! My sentiments exactly! All those contraptions enslaving our sisters and mothers and—”

  “Are you mocking those of us who have fought to liberate real slaves?” sputtered Veitch and, without waiting for an answer, went on. “I have had the honor of serving with men who were willing to lay down their lives to free these black pagans from the chains that bind them. Real chains. Not some . . . some . . . fashion thingy!” He puffed out his chest. “Real men, sir! Men sworn to the service of bringing order to chaos and morality to heathen ignorance.

  “We keep the world a decent place. And in our ceaseless efforts there are only a few things a man can depend on. God, the Queen, his fellow officers, and his horse. An officer needs a good mount,” he finished triumphantly.

  There was a moment of stunned silence during which Addie tried valiantly to keep her lips still though they quivered with the effort. And then, quite clearly, Jack said, “Hell, I know I’m always on the lookout for a good mount.”

  It took a few seconds for Veitch to comprehend Jack’s outrageous innuendo and when he did, he turned a magnificent scarlet. In a trice, he closed the distance between Jack and himself, grabbing Jack’s orchid-colored lapel and hauling him toward his outthrust face. Or rather, he tried to haul him. Jack was apparently a good deal heavier than he looked.

  So, Veitch tried shaking him; Jack didn’t shake.

  Almost casually, Jack wrapped his fingers around Veitch’s wrist. The corporal’s face expressed a mixture of incredulity and discomfort, but he was not about to be shown up by a mere artist. He was a soldier, after all.

  He raised his free hand, curling his fingers into a fist—

  “Corporal!” Without thinking, Addie bolted to her feet and thrust herself between the two men and, splaying her hand flat against Veitch’s chest, pushed him away. “I do not know what has precipitated your current behavior,” she lied. “But please, sir! Unhand Mr. Cameron.”

  Utterly flustered by her intervention, Veitch dropped his hold of Jack’s lapel. Slowly, Jack released the corporal’s wrist.

  “How charmin’ of you to be concerned for my safety, Addie,” Jack drawled, his burning blue gaze fixed on Veitch’s face.

  “Stop it, Jack,” she said tightly. The slender artisan didn’t have any idea how close he had come to getting hurt. Had he ever even felt a hand raised to him in anger? Did he know the physical pain of having been beaten? The guilt of having it happen? She didn’t think so and, by the Lord, she didn’t ever want him to know.

  It had all happened so quickly that Ted was still on the other side of the room, his lame leg making speed impossible. He was watching her intently, his worry and frustration evident by the dull flush rising in his cheeks.

  Veitch stepped back and Addie snatched her hand away from him as if burned.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am.” He bowed. “This person made a certain suggestive remark. That he did so in the presence of a lady merely compounds the offense. But I would not offend you by giving him his due here. I will seek a more suitable place and time for that.”

  “I am sure you misunderstood Mr. Cameron’s statement.” Her words, though soft, were nonetheless clear and firm, even though she was shivering as she said them.

  “I’m not,” Ted said. “Sure you misunderstood Jack, that is.”

  “You are not helping, Ted,” Addie ground out angrily.

  “Really, old man,” Jack said to Veitch in his most officious tone. “I was only trying to join into the esprit de corps. You know, all us fellows with all our mounts.”

  “Worse and worse,” muttered Ted, shaking his head sadly.

  Veitch lurched a step in Jack’s direction and Addie slipped between them again, her back against Jack’s chest.

  “Mr. Cameron is a guest in my home, Corporal,” she said. “You are my brother’s potential customer. I would urge both of you to remember your respective positions.”

  Veitch’s lips flattened with distaste at her boldness. She didn’t care.

  “Bravo,” Jack whispered, his breath warm in her ear.

  Without another word, Veitch turned on his heels and stalked from the room.

  “Well, there goes a customer,” Ted said.

  Not one day into London and already he was punching holes in his masquerade. Once again his emotions were running riot, ruling his actions. The damnable part of it was that, given the same choices, he didn’t know if he’d do any differently.

  He’d been unfazed by that preening ass Veitch’s contempt but when the great huffing bore had taken a stance looming over Addie and thundering in her ear, his disinterest had evaporated. Her face had paled and her gaze had raced, like a trapped thing, about the room.

  He shouldn’t have interfered. Veitch was a member of the Black Dragoons. While he was low enough in rank to have scant dealings with troop deployment and strategy planning sessions, he might have known something. Some snippet of conversation, some story, which he might have been induced to relate in order to feed his vanity.

  Jack shook his head at his folly. Addie’s shoulders were still pressed against his chest, her form marking him as clearly as a firebrand. He wanted to surround her with his arms and pull her tighter against him. It was an effort just to keep his hands by his side.

  She had stood up for him. She had spent nearly an hour staring at her hands and mumbling words at her lap, but when she had thought he was in danger, she hadn’t hesitated to interfere. His heart beat thickly in an inextricable rhythm of guilt and pleasure.

  “I’m sorry, Ted.” She stepped away from Jack and his hand lifted without conscious volition, as if to plead for her return. He let it drop at once. Of course.

  “Makes no difference. Besides, I really can’t have a horse stomping around up here, leaving road apples on the carpet and eating the wax fruit.”

  Addie dimpled. “But, Ted, you always promised me a pet.”

  “Sorry. Can’t have it. Charger stays in the stables. Along with his master, I’ll warrant. We’ll just have to be content with Jackie here.” He turned an innocent smile on Jack.

  “Jackie is, of course, honored to oblige,” Jack replied placidly.

  Finding no joy to be had teasing Jack, Ted sighed. “Where the deuce my real client is, I would dearly love to know.”

  “Why, we’re here, Mr. Phyfe,” an amused voice announced.

  Miss Zephrina Drouhin knew how to make an entrance, Jack would grant her that. Tiny, laughing, absolutely self-confident, the golden, green-eyed beauty entered the studio with the regal certitude of a newly named princess. She twirled about, motioning the small coterie of guardsmen huddling in the doorway with a finger.

  Jack froze, scanning the faces of Miss Drouhin’s red-coated attendants. Some of these men might well be on his list: John Hopper, Miles Neyron, Paul Sherville, William Lobb. They alone had had the opportunity and authority to “arrange” for troops’ delays, arrivals, and deployment.

  “Do come in, gentlemen,” Miss Drouhin was saying, “I am not sure Mr. Phyfe has adequate seating but perhaps his artistic eye can arrange you in a seemly fashion about his studio. What say you, Mr. Phyfe, can you find uses for my friends?”

  Ted watched her blandly, but Jack could have sworn there was a
small sneer to his lips as he inclined his head in her direction and bowed.

  “I would very much like to tell your friends where to go,” he said smoothly. Miss Drouhin frowned, apparently not sure what to make of his words. He went on, “How kind of you to appear at my poor abode. Finally.”

  Zephrina smiled and dropped her mantle to the floor. One of her soldiers leapt forward to retrieve it and draped it over his arm. She took no notice, her bright gaze on Ted. “Not angry with me, are you, Mr. Phyfe? I was under the impression that the princely sum your portraits command might go far toward compensating for a few minor inconveniences.”

  “My inconveniences are, of course, included in the price. My sister’s, however, are not.”

  “Your sister?” With an expression of childlike inquisitiveness, Miss Drouhin twirled about, her gaze lighting with interest on first Jack and then Addie.

  Jack glanced over to gauge Addie’s reaction to the American girl. She wasn’t looking at Zephrina at all. Her face was pale, and her eyes were black and wide with fear as she stared at the doorway and the man who stood in it.

  She’d known she would see him again. It was inevitable. But nothing could have prepared her for the wave of loathing and fear that rooted her to the ground, leaving her slack-jawed and trembling. Paul Sherville had been the sole member of Charles’s odious companions to not only have known about Charles’s treatment of her but to have sanctioned it, sniggering at impromptu spectacles of her humiliation. How many times had he goaded Charles to “take his wife in hand”?

  Black-haired and handsome, barrel-chested and hirsute, he strode forward and captured her unresisting hand. He raised it to his mouth and pressed cold, damp lips to her knuckles.

  She recoiled, trying to tug free of his grip. He smiled, retaining his hold. The room tilted and her vision telescoped. The background drone of the polite introductions dwindled to an insectile buzzing, leaving her alone in a darkening circle with him.

  Abruptly, he released her hand. She snatched it away, burying it like a bruised thing in her skirts.

  “Addie,” he said, “how enchanting to see you again.”