by Tarah Scott
Emma looked around, then whispered, “I am here to see someone.”
“You want to find your prince,” Molly exclaimed.
Emma shook her head. “Nae, I am here to help someone. Have you seen the major general?”
“The major general? He is your prince?”
“Don’t be silly,” Emma hissed when a woman looked their way. “Oh, Molly, you must trust me. Please, do not tell anyone I am here. I will not stay long.”
A couple stopped and each took a glass of champagne from Molly’s tray, then sauntered away.
“I do not think it matters how long you stay,” Molly said. “Once Mrs. Worsley learns you did not show up for work, she will discharge you.”
What did that matter? She had two men to take care of. “Never mind that,” Emma said. “Just don’t tell. Please?”
Molly smiled. “Of course not. You find your prince. Here.” She handed Emma a glass of champagne. “If you want to fit in, you must drink champagne.” She smiled, then sailed away.
Emma took a fortifying sip of champagne. The bubbles tickled her nose. She wrinkled her nose. She didn’t like champagne, at all. She scanned the crowded room for the major general. There were so many people and the room was so big, she wondered if she might not be able to find him. With a nonchalance she didn’t feel, Emma began a slow walk around the room. She would find the major general, show him Tory’s letter, then they would go straight to the jail and release Rhys. Rhys would be so relieved to learn that Tory lived. Might he suggest that they go to Portugal together to bring Tory home?
Fingers closed around her arm. Emma snapped her head up and met Lord Munro’s gaze.
“Emma, how fine to see you.”
Chapter Eleven
The door creaked open and Rhys pushed off the mattress to his feet. “About bloody time,” he muttered.
Ewan should have been here hours ago. Rhys took the three steps to the bars as a cloaked figure walked through the open doorway followed by the jailer. The tall, dark man wore trousers, not a kilt, and wasn’t Ewan. He strode down the aisle and stopped in front of Rhys’s cell.
“Release him,” he ordered the jailer.
“But, sir—”
“Lord Roxburgh,” the man interrupted in a cold voice. “Marquess Roxburgh, in case you have forgotten in the two minutes since I introduced myself.”
“Lord Roxburgh,” the jailer said, “I cannae release him. The major general himself has charged him.” The jailer shot Rhys a thin-lipped look. “He is a deserter.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth,” the marquess said. “Now, open the cell.”
“I can release him only by Constable Macdonnell’s order.”
“And by order of the magistrate.”
Rhys watched in fascination as the gentleman pulled a folded sheaf of papers from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to the jailer.
The jailer unfolded the paper, glanced at it, then handed it back to him. “I work for Constable Macdonnell. When he tells me to release the prisoner, I will.”
Lord Roxburgh sighed. “I am sorry you have decided to be difficult.”
“Difficult—”
The marquess rammed his fist into the man’s face. He fell sideways. Lord Roxburgh caught him as the keys the jailer held clattered to the floor. The marquess hauled the jailer over his shoulder, then kicked the keys through the bars at Rhys.
“Unlock the door, if you will.”
Rhys stared in shock.
“Christ, man, he’s heavy. Unlock the door.”
Rhys scooped up the keys and tried each until one opened the cell. He swung the door open, and Rhys was forced back when the marquess pushed past him into the cell.
“What are you doing?” Rhys asked.
“Being kinder than our jailer deserves.” He laid the man on the mattress, then exited the cell. “Don’t just stand there.” He motioned for Rhys to leave the cell. Rhys complied, and the marquess locked the door, then faced him. “Also, I am making sure he does not cause any trouble until our business is concluded.”
“Who the bloody hell are you?” Rhys asked.
“Sir Stirling James. Come along. Mister Dunn is not the only jailer.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and started down the aisle.
Rhys glanced at the jailer, then strode after the man.
A coach waited in the street, positioned to block a view of the jailhouse door. Rhys followed the marquess into the carriage. When Lord Roxburgh’s footman closed the door behind them, Rhys said, “Who are you, Sir Stirling James or the Marquess of Roxburgh?”
“Both.”
“Your title didn’t seem to do you much good tonight,” Rhys said.
“Not as much as I would have liked,” he agreed.
The coach started forward.
“Miss Bamfield sent word that the major general had you arrested,” Sir Stirling went on.
“That message was supposed to have gone to Ewan Fraser at Blackstone Abbey.”
He nodded. “Aye, it did. Ewan contacted me. He knew I was in a better position to help you.”
“Why would you help me?”
“Because I am a friend of Ewan’s. Why else? I also know you aren’t guilty of desertion.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
He chuckled. “Ewan told me—and I know Viscount Munro. I can well believe he is a coward.”
“At least someone has the sense enough to see through that bastard’s façade,” Rhys muttered.
“I am not the only one who sees William for what he is.” His mouth thinned. “I am, however, surprised at the major general. I thought John was a better judge of character.”
Rhys nodded. “I, too, am surprised the major general wasn’t more insightful.”
Stirling’s expression darkened. “The men who perished at Almeida weren’t the only casualties.”
Rhys recalled the men in the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh, so many far less fortunate than him. He was in no mood to care about the major general’s reasons for believing Munro. “I must see someone.”
“Do not fret over Miss Bamfield,” he said. “I have sent someone to guard her.”
“I will not leave Scotland without talking to her, my lord.”
“Call me Stirling,” he said. “No one said anything about you leaving Scotland.”
“A survivor of Almeida is in England. I must find him. Only he can attest to Munro’s cowardice.”
“There is a survivor on his way to Scotland even as we speak.”
“A survivor—on his way here?” Rhys leaned forward. “Who? How do you know this?”
“Because I know the man. Not well, mind ye, but well enough to like him. I believe you know him, as well. Tory Bamfield.”
Rhys felt as if a fist had been driven into his gut. “You are mistaken,” his voice went hoarse. “Tory is dead.”
“In fact, he survived and was recently released from a Portuguese hospital.”
Rhys’s hands clenched. “He died in my arms.”
Stirling’s gaze gentled. “You thought he was dead. He wasn’t.”
Had he heard right? “I-I left him on the battlefield to die?” Rhys whispered.
“From what Bamfield tells me, he was all but dead. It was only by miracle that the gravediggers noticed he was still breathing—though that was barely the case.”
Rhys shook his head. “I should have paid better attention. Grief and anger blinded me.”
“Indeed?”
Rhys narrowed his eyes. “I am no fool. I know what you are saying.”
He laughed. “Do you?”
Rhys resisted the urge the punch him. “I know what grief and anger does to a man. But I still shouldn’t have left him.”
“I will leave that for him to decide,” he replied without rancor. “I imagine Miss Bamfield will be happy.”
“Aye,” Rhys grunted.
“You cannot believe she will hold you responsible?”
“Of course,
she will.”
“You do realize that by carrying him off the battlefield, you saved his life.”
“What? How do you know that?” Rhys demanded.
“Bamfield told me. It’s likely that had you realized he was alive and tried to save him, that someone would have killed you both.”
He was probably right, which only made Rhys all the angrier.
The carriage came to a halt and Stirling eased the window curtain aside and looked out. “We have arrived at Miss Bamfield’s home.”
The door opened and Rhys followed Stirling from the carriage. A woman walking up to a house on the right slowed to stare. Rhys locked gazes with a man who approached from the shop.
“Angus,” Stirling greeted the man as they neared.
They stopped when they reached one another. “Stirling,” Angus said. “She isnae here.” He handed Stirling a small piece of paper. Rhys read the note:
Ewan,
I am working at the infirmary today. If you arrive and I am not here, please look for me there. I will return this afternoon.
Emma Bamfield
Stirling looked at Rhys. “Is it not late for her to be working at the infirmary?”
“They have the fundraiser ball tonight. She was to work in the kitchen for the party.” Rhys shook his head. “I do not know where the party is being held.”
“Munro’s mansion.”
“Bloody hell,” Rhys cursed. “Surely, she wouldn’t be foolish enough to work in Munro’s kitchen?”
“I suppose I shall be attending the party after all,” Stirling said. At Rhys’s questioning look, he added, “I received an invitation, but had a conflict.”
“You may see to your other engagement. I will fetch her,” Rhys said.
“John will be there, as will Munro. Perhaps the time has come to settle the accusations against you.”
“At a ball? For all to see?” Rhys paused, then nodded. “Let us make haste, man. If Munro learns Emma is there, I may end up in jail again, this time for the crime of murder.”
Twenty minutes later, Rhys entered the ballroom at Munro’s mansion with Stirling. The orchestra played a minuet. A year ago, if anyone had told him he would be attending a ball at Munro’s home, he would have decried the idea.
Candlelight blazed so brightly, Rhys had to squint. “I am surprised he hasn’t burned the house down.”
“William does like to flaunt his wealth,” Stirling said.
Rhys looked sideways at the man. He was coming to like Stirling.
“It might be best if we find the major general first,” Stirling said.
“You find the major general. I want to be certain Emma is well.”
“As you wish.”
“Stirling,” a female voice called.
They turned as a buxom woman in her fifties approached.
“Baroness Trent.” Stirling grasped her hand and bowed over her fingers.
“You naughty boy,” she said. “You said nothing about being here.”
“It was a last-minute decision,” he said. “Baroness Trent, may I introduce Viscount Northwick.”
Rhys winced at hearing the title, but grasped the woman’s hand and bowed as he’d done a thousand times before in his life. “Baroness.”
She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “How gallant. Where did you find him, Stirling?”
“Blackstone Abbey,” Stirling said. “You will forgive us, Baroness, but we must speak with the major general.”
“Of course,” she said. “I expect a dance from you, Stirling. And you as well, young man.”
“Of course,” Stirling said, and she sailed away.
Stirling said, “I will find John. You make sure all is well with your lady.”
“My lady?” Rhys blurted. “I never said—”
“You didn’t have to.” Without another word, Stirling turned and started away.
Rhys was all too aware of the stares sent his way. He wasn’t dressed for a ball. He ignored the stares and stopped the first waiter he saw to ask directions to the kitchen. The man looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, but directed him, nonetheless. Minutes later, Rhys entered the kitchen. The bustle came to a halt. Rhys didn’t see Emma amongst the servants.
“Can we help ye, sir?” asked a stout woman he suspected was the cook.
“I am looking for Miss Emma Bamfield. Is she here?”
The woman’s mouth thinned. “She did not show up tonight. I will report her to Mrs. Worsley.”
Rhys looked around the kitchen. “No one here has seen her?”
No one moved. Rhys cursed under his breath and left the kitchen. Once back in the ballroom, he scanned the room for Stirling. He had to return to Emma’s home. Maybe she simply hadn’t returned from the infirmary. Was it possible she was still there? Why would she stay there and not report for duty tonight?
A serving girl carrying a tray stopped beside him. “Champagne, sir?”
He shook his head.
“Are you sure, sir? Emma had some earlier.”
He spun to face her. “You saw her?”
She nodded. “She came as a guest.”
“A guest? Why?”
The girl shook her head. “I dinnae know. She said she had to see someone.”
Munro.
“You have not seen her since?”
“Nae.”
“If you do, tell her Rhys is looking for her.”
She nodded.
“Have you seen Lord Munro?”
“Earlier,” she said.
“If you see him, do no’ tell him I am here.”
“Oh, no, sir. I do not like Lord Munro. I know I shouldn’t say it, but there is something not right with him.”
“You are right there, lass. If you see her, please find me and tell me.”
“I will try.” She moved on.
Again, Rhys scanned the crowded room. Emma was so small, he could easily miss her amongst the taller men. Find Munro and he would find her.
“Lord Northwood?” a woman called. “Rhys Macleod?”
Damnation. He’d been recognized. He sidestepped a plump woman walking with a man and hurried around the dance floor.
“Rhys?” the woman called again, and he angled down a nearby hallway.
A woman’s cry from a room deeper down the corridor caught his attention. He hurried forward. Which room had the sound come from? He tried the first door on the right, but the room was dark and empty. The same with the next and the next door on the left. The fourth door was lit by a single fat beeswax candle on the desk. Munro struggled with Emma against the wall to the right of the cold hearth.
“Rhys,” she cried.
Munro looked over his shoulder. His eyes widened. He released Emma and faced Rhys as Rhys reached them. Rhys rammed a fist into Munro’s nose. Munro reeled backwards. Emma leapt aside in the instant before Munro crashed into the wall, then toppled to the floor.
Munro swore. “I will see you hanged.” Clutching his bleeding nose, he struggled to his feet.
“You will not live long enough to see me hanged.”
Rhys seized his lapel and drove his fist into Munro’s belly. The man doubled over and fell to the carpet wheezing. Rhys reached for him. A hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around. Rhys drew back his fist, then froze at sight of Stirling.
“I see you found him,” Stirling said.
“Rhys saved me,” Emma said.
Others crowded into the room
“What’s this?” a commanding voice sliced through the air.
The major general stepped through the crowd, his keen eyes locked on Rhys.
“Madness,” Lord Munro choked. “My honor has been slighted by—”
“You have no honor,” Emma cut in. “I have a letter from my brother.”
Rhys tensed. A letter from Tory?
“He is witness that it was Lord Munro who deserted his men on the field, not Rhys Macleod,” she said.
Munro’s mouth flopped open like a fish.
“Who is your brother?” the major general demanded.
“Lieutenant Bamfield,” Stirling said. “He is en route here now from Portugal, John.”
“What have you to do with this, Stirling?” the major general asked.
“Perhaps we should speak in private.” Stirling nodded at the crowd behind the major general.
The major general looked over his shoulder. “Everyone out.”
The guests cleared the room and Stirling closed the door.
The major general faced Munro, who had gained his feet, and held a handkerchief to his nose.
“What is this about, William?” the major general demanded.
“Macleod finally got someone to back up his lies, that’s what it is about.”
“My brother was there.” Emma pulled an envelope from her reticule and gave it to the major general.
He withdrew the letter from the envelope and read. His brow furrowed and he looked up. His gaze pinned Munro. “It says here that it was you who deserted the field, not Macleod.”
“Lies,” Munro hissed, but the major general looked at Stirling.
“You know this Tory Bamfield?” the major general asked.
Stirling nodded. “I do.”
“He is trustworthy?”
“He is.”
The major general’s eyes returned to Munro. “I will post guards here at your home. Try to leave, and they will have orders to shoot you.”
“That is ridiculous,” the viscount sputtered. “You know me, John. I am no coward.”
“Until you told me that Macleod had deserted his men, I hadn’t known him to be a coward, either. Count yourself fortunate that I am not incarcerating you as you demanded I incarcerate him.”
“Sir,” Rhys said, “Lord Munro was assaulting the lady when I broke in.”
The older man’s face tightened. “Is this true, Miss Bamfield?” he asked her.
Emma turned and showed a torn sleeve Rhys hadn’t noticed. Rhys took a step toward Munro.
“Hold, Captain,” the major general ordered.
Rhys halted.
“Stirling,” the major general said, “would you call in two of my men, please?”
