Highland Temptation

by Jennifer Haymore

  The team of horses made a tight turn, then lurched into motion, the carriage’s wheels wobbling as they moved unsteadily forward. The only sounds were the rickety movement of the carriage over cobblestones and the clomps of the horses’ hooves. Emilia watched John closely, worry twisting in her as she fingered the tiny flowers crowning her head. She’d brought this poor man into danger. It was up to her to keep him safe. She hoped that the Scottish superstition about wearing heather was right, because she needed all the luck in the world right now.

  “Are you all right?” she asked John softly.

  “Quiet!” her father barked. “Not another word, or I’ll silence you by force.”

  John wisely kept quiet but gave her the slightest of nods. Emilia glanced at the strange man at the other end of the seat from John. She recognized him as the bearded man who’d dragged her through the mud to her father at the abandoned farmhouse in Scotland. He bore a fierce expression on his rough face as he stared straight ahead. His clothes were dirty, as was his face; his hair—which was probably blond when clean—was dark with grease. He held his gun at the ready, clearly prepared to use it if need be.

  Then Emilia risked a sidelong glance at her father. He gripped the gun tightly, his knuckles white. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his eyes darted to and fro, seemingly anywhere but at her.

  He truly looked terrible. Older, somehow, even though it had only been a little over a fortnight since she’d last seen him. He had no access to his money or his property—it had all been seized by the authorities, leaving him with essentially nothing besides whatever he’d originally escaped London with. His clothes were dirty and bedraggled; his gray-blond hair oily, stringy, and thin; his skin pallid; his jowls hanging heavily from his jaw; and there was a yellowish gleam in the whites of his eyes.

  This man…Lord, it seemed almost unbelievable that he was her flesh and blood. But he was. He was. The thought made bile rise in her throat.

  He swung his head around to face her. He stared at her a minute before speaking. “I look like hell, don’t I, girl?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Well, this is your fault. Yours. You put me in this predicament, you traitorous slut.”

  She set her jaw, knowing speaking—no matter what she said—wouldn’t help.

  “And now that you’re here, you need to get me out of it.”

  She gazed at him, keeping her expression blank.

  He growled—actually growled, like some rabid animal. She had never considered her father a particularly stable man, but it seemed his short time as an outlaw had thrown him definitively over the edge of sanity. “Oh, I really wish I could strike that vapid look off your face, Emilia. But I won’t, because I need you looking clean and pure for when you proclaim my innocence.”

  She stiffened, but he didn’t continue. In fact, he didn’t speak again until the carriage came to a groaning halt and he nodded at his man. “Ye’re comin’ with me,” the man said, waving the gun at John, who followed him unsteadily out of the carriage.

  Emilia’s father gestured at the door. “Go on, then. Get out.”

  She did, stepping into bright sunlight on a street she didn’t know. She’d never been in this part of London. The air stank of something unfathomably disgusting—she had no desire to learn the source of that stench. The street was seedy, with rotting, peeling façades on the dilapidated buildings, and people dressed in rags skulking on corners.

  Her father slid out behind her and grabbed her arm. He nodded at his men, who nodded back in some unspoken agreement. Emilia made eye contact with John, who still looked bewildered.

  “Come, girl.” Leaving John and the men behind, her father yanked her through a nearby sagging doorway. Dragging her along, he traversed a narrow, dusty corridor then climbed a rickety set of stairs. Halfway down the first-floor corridor, he pushed a key into a rusty lock. He turned it, opened the door, and shoved her inside.

  The room’s smell was the first thing she registered—it was musty and dank, as if someone had left a wet blanket rolled up in a corner for a month. Then her eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was a small, single room—its only door the one she’d just entered through. A stove, striped black with coal residue, stood in the corner. A cot covered with dingy gray sheets and a rough-hewn blanket was pushed against the wall, beneath a single window covered with a plain red curtain that had faded to a brownish orange. A small square table bracketed by two wobbly chairs stood in the center of the room. A plate of what looked like the remnants of a breakfast of smoked herrings and eggs rested on the table, along with a half-empty bottle of brandy—her father’s favorite drink—and a single oil lamp.

  Emilia’s father pushed her toward the table. “Sit,” he growled.

  She stumbled to one of the chairs and did as she was instructed.

  Her father turned and bolted the door. She’d never felt so alone. So trapped. There had been no one in the corridor, no one in this room. She was imprisoned in this tiny, squalid space with her evil father, and no one knew where she was.

  He turned back to her, stared at her for a long moment, his lips twisting in that disgusted expression she knew too well.

  She thought of Colin, and the image of him in her mind bolstered her. She wasn’t disgusting. It was only her father’s warped, insanity-riddled mind that saw her that way.

  He stepped to the opposite chair, yanked it out, and sat, clapping the gun down on the table.

  She stared at it. The pistol was the only new-looking thing in this place, shiny and polished, as if its owner took great pride in this instrument of death.

  Her father leaned forward, his eyes burning with intensity.

  “I won’t kill you,” he said. “Or that old coachman.”

  She released a small, miserable choke. Why did she always disintegrate into something less than herself in her father’s presence?

  “On one condition,” he added.

  “Wh-what condition is that?” she breathed.

  “You will repudiate all your claims against me.”

  She sucked in a breath. “I-I’m not sure if I can,” she admitted.

  “You can, and you will. The bastards are going on your testimony alone; none of the ‘evidence’ they’ve found will hold up in court.” He pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You are responsible for this. You are responsible for the deaths of two great patriots.”

  She looked down, knowing he was referring to Mountebank and Blaketon. “They would have been caught eventually,” she said, a rare, albeit small, stand against her father’s words.

  “No!” he screeched. “They wouldn’t have. They were safe, as was I. Our alibis were airtight. Whatever happened to those false royals could never have been linked back to us, but for your flapping tongue.”

  She was silent.

  “I am giving you the opportunity to make this right, Emilia.”

  She gazed at her hands, her fingers twisting in her lap.

  “Look at me, girl.”

  She did, slowly dragging her gaze up to his pallid face.

  “I am your father.”

  She stared at him. A man who claimed to be her father yet had never treated her with any affection, any fatherly love. Who’d chipped away at her body and confidence until she’d felt like a shell of a woman. Thank God Colin had opened the door to her humanity until she’d brimmed with life once again. But even after this short time in her father’s presence, she felt him leaching it away, dragging her life from her with his words, his actions, his very existence.

  She despised him.

  And yet…he was her father. He’d given her the semblance of a lady’s life. All the finery of a viscount’s daughter. He’d given her life itself, the very blood that ran through her veins.

  “You must make this right.”

  “H-how?”

  “You will go to the authorities and tell them that you fabricated the entire story. That it was a lie.”

  “They’ll never believe
it,” she told him.

  “You’ll make them believe you.”

  “How?”

  “You will tell them that you’re a bad girl, that you were angry with me for some minor wrongdoing, and to take revenge you spread vile untruths about me. You will prostrate yourself to me and to the world. You will beg for forgiveness.”

  She stared at him blankly. It was too late for all that.

  Undeterred, he continued. “You will tell them you were angry with me. That I wouldn’t buy you a dress…or…” His eyes lit with an idea. “No, you will tell them that I refused to let you marry your Scot—what’s his name?”

  She pressed her lips together. She wasn’t going to hand over Colin’s name for her father to use as a weapon against either of them.

  “Tell me his name, Emilia.”

  Some unknown stubbornness welled up within her. “I won’t,” she said softly.

  He lifted his hand as if to strike her, and she flinched away. He gripped his hand into a fist and lowered it, sighing raggedly. “Fine. You can tell the authorities, though, can’t you? That’s what you’ll do. You’ll tell them you wanted to marry Mr. So-and-so, but I was against the match.” He leaned closer, his palms flat on the table. “I am against it, Emilia. I’ll not see my daughter marrying some Highland heathen.”

  It wasn’t for him to refuse or accept. She would marry Colin, no matter what he said.

  If she survived this day.

  She closed her eyes in a long blink, thinking of Colin waiting for her in the church. Was he still waiting, or did he know she wouldn’t be coming? Surely by now Mr. Hodgson would have moved on to the next scheduled wedding. It was a busy day for him. Three weddings and a christening, he’d told her. Her and Colin’s wedding had been the first order of business for the day.

  “So you’ll tell them that,” her father said. “Tell them that in a fit of pique, you decided upon revenge, for if I was arrested I couldn’t stop your marriage. Tell them you and your man made up an elaborate story of treachery and betrayal. Tell them you didn’t believe it would go so far, that you didn’t think anyone would really believe it, just that it would distract me long enough for you and the Scot to elope and disappear.”

  “If they believe me, then he will be arrested and charged with slander with malicious intent.”

  Her father shrugged. “That is of no import. All that matters is you convince them of my innocence.”

  “And what if I can’t?”

  “You will.”

  She was a terrible liar. Even if she tried her best, she wasn’t certain that she could convince anyone of her father’s innocence at this point.

  “And if I succeed, will you let me go?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll allow me to marry…the Scot?”

  “I’ll let you do whatever you want. As long as you don’t cross my path again, I’ll leave you alone. But I shall never forget your betrayal. I shall never call you daughter, nor shall I leave you a cent of my fortune or speak with you again.”

  She gazed at him, unsure of whether to believe him. He’d never promised her anything in her life, and she wasn’t certain how seriously he took such promises.

  “And will you continue with the plot against the princes?”

  He snorted. “I think it’s quite safe to say that whatever plans I had regarding the royal family have been eviscerated. There will always be a finger of suspicion pointing at me. If I survive this disaster, I’ll have no choice but to dig my head into the sand and be a good little politician from now on.”

  “What happens if I don’t do it? If I refuse, or if I do it and they don’t believe me?”

  Her father looked meaningfully at his gun. “I’ll kill the coachman and I’ll kill you,” he said simply. “And then I’ll kill your Scot.”

  Chapter 24

  Colin shifted from one foot to the other, impatient. He’d been waiting for what felt like forever, but the ladies still hadn’t arrived.

  He glanced at the major, who withdrew his pocket watch and raised a brow. “They’re half an hour late.”

  “I’m so sorry,” the vicar said. “But even if they were to arrive right now, I’m not certain I’d have time to perform the ceremony.”

  “Give them a few more minutes, will you, Hodgson?” the major said.

  The vicar sighed, shoved on his spectacles, and went back to scribbling notes from a text at the podium.

  Just then, there was a flurry of activity at the front door to the chapel, and Colin straightened, looking up in anticipation.

  The door was thrown open, and a pair of women rushed in. Their bonnets were askew and their skirts were bunched in their hands, showing their ankles. Their cheeks were flushed and their skin glowing with perspiration.

  He’d seen right away that neither woman was Emilia. Both were blond, like her, but without her tight curls. One was much taller, and the other, while a similar size, had a different-shaped face.

  “Claire!” the major said, concern ripe in his voice as he hurried toward the smaller woman. “What happened?”

  It was Lady Claire, Colin saw. And her sister, Lady Grace.

  Claire took a deep, gasping breath. Clearly the ladies had been running, and that fact alone made Colin’s heart kick in his chest. “Emilia…”

  “Where is she?” Colin asked. Now all three men surrounded the two ladies, the major with his arm around Claire.

  “Lady Emilia…” Grace took a gasping breath. “She was…kidnapped. From the carriage.”

  “What?” McLeod shouted.

  “It was…Lord Pinfield,” Claire panted.

  Colin’s fingernails dug into the flesh of his hand. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t seem to find anything to say. Emilia…kidnapped…

  “Where’s Esme?” McLeod demanded.

  “And Aila?” the major asked.

  “They’re still with the carriage,” Claire said.

  “Where?” the major asked.

  “It happened off…Piccadilly…near Air Street…the mews…but it doesn’t matter where, because they left that place. Aila and Esme followed them,” Grace gasped out.

  “What the hell?” McLeod roared, his eyes bugging from his skull. Colin didn’t blame him. If his pregnant wife were chasing after a known treasonous murderer, he’d be livid, too.

  “If you please, sir,” the vicar said sternly from somewhere behind them. “This is a house of God.”

  Everyone ignored him. “Aila said they’d meet us back at the house. John—” Claire heaved in a breath. “They took him, too. I don’t know why, but I think…I think they hurt him. I saw them through the window, and John wasn’t walking quite right.”

  The three men exchanged an alarmed glance.

  “All right.” The major squeezed Claire’s arm gently. “Let’s go home, then.”

  McLeod and Colin were out the door of the church before the major had finished the sentence.

  —

  Negotiating the busy streets at a painstakingly slow pace, Colin feeling like he’d rather jump from the carriage and run, they arrived at the house almost half an hour later.

  Aila and Esme weren’t there.

  “Damn bloody hell!” McLeod shouted, as soon as they realized Aila and Esme hadn’t come home.

  “They’ll be here soon,” Claire soothed, her confidence clearly exceeding Colin’s and McLeod’s by leaps and bounds.

  There was little for the men to do but wait. Colin wanted to go search for Emilia, but he wouldn’t know where to begin to look for her. Aila and Esme were his best hope for finding her.

  The major opened the cabinet that contained their guns, and the men grimly prepared their pistols and muskets. Colin was just finishing loading his musket when Grace burst through the door to the study. “They’re back!”

  The major, McLeod, and Colin rushed into the corridor. McLeod stalked toward Esme, catching her in his arms and holding her to him. “Never scare me like that again, do you hear?” he muttered
into her dark hair.

  “I’m fine.”

  Aila faced them, her hands on her hips. “We chased them all through London.” She pursed her lips. “This city possesses the most terrible tangle of streets. I dinna ken where, exactly, they were, but I recall the route, and I’ll tell it to you. They stopped at a tenement on a street called Red Lyon Alley, just north of the most enormous and foul sheep pen I’ve ever had the displeasure of smelling. I stopped the horses and watched from the corner. I didna dare follow them down the street. ’Twas narrow, and they would’ve seen us. But I can describe the place. ’Tis quite a short street. You’ll find her, but I dinna ken how long he’ll keep her there, so you must hurry.”

  “It was in a part of London I have never seen,” Esme added, her dark brows furrowed. “Near Holborn, I believe…? Perhaps a bit north. In that area, in any case. It was quite a depressing and squalid location.”

  Colin nodded.

  “Aila drove all the way there, while I remained inside the carriage,” Esme said proudly. “I’d no idea you could manage a team of horses like that, Aila.”

  Aila shrugged. “They’re biddable beasts.”

  “Did anyone see you?” the major asked her.

  “Nay.” She shook her head, frowning. “Their carriage was a rotten piece of junk. I believe the driver was consumed with trying to keep the thing from falling apart and paid scant attention to what was happening around him.”

  “Let’s go.” Colin buckled his second scabbard to his belt as he headed to the back door. The major took his sgian dubh, his dirk, and two pistols. Colin had all those weapons plus a musket strapped to his chest. It was as if he were going to war all over again. But this time, it was for Emilia. Not even the demons could interfere with this mission.

  He’d reached the stables when the major caught up to him. “I’m going with you. McLeod’ll stay with the women.”

  “You should stay with them, too.”