Angelica took over. “For instance, for my arrival at the castle, I have to appear bedraggled, weary, and with my spirit crushed. I can’t wear this habit. Brenda and I will crease and dirty my old ballgown, the one I was wearing when I joined you. I’ll disarrange my hair. We want it to look like you’ve held me in harsh confinement all the way here. I can’t ride Ebony—we’ll switch her with one of the sumpter horses.” She glanced at Jessup. “As the countess doesn’t go into the stables, if Thomas holds Ebony at the rear until you can take the horses to the stables, that should be safe enough, but we’ll need to make the switch as close to the castle as possible, because Ebony won’t like being kept from Hercules.”
Jessup and Thomas nodded.
“And you’ll need to tie me to my saddle on the sumpter horse.”
Dominic frowned. “We don’t need to go to that extent.”
“Yes, we do.” She met his eyes. “If the countess sees you lifting me off the horse, trussed like some bedraggled prisoner of war with my hands tied before me, she’ll assume you’ve been treating me like that all along—which will imply that I’ve tried to escape at some point. She needs to believe that I tried but failed.”
Dominic’s frown grew black, but Mulley volunteered, “There’s some hemp in the bags, but I’m afraid it will redden your wrists, miss.”
“Perfect! My wrists will heal, and it’ll only be for a few miles.” Before Dominic could object, she rattled on, “We’ll need to hide my bags and the bandbox. The countess will be better pleased if I appear with nothing more than what I stand up in.”
Brenda readily said, “The bags will be easy enough, and we can wrap a horse blanket around the bandbox, make it look like a parcel.”
“Excellent.” Angelica looked at Griswold and Mulley. “There are two other things we should decide now. First, who at the castle should we take into our full confidence?”
On that point, the others had a tangential view, one with which Dominic agreed. “You can’t tell when you might find yourself in a situation where some clan member knowing what’s going on will prove vital. Clan works best when we’re working together.” It was decided that all those at the castle should be made aware of the charade; Dominic deputed the others to quietly spread the tale.
“Then the last thing we need to decide,” Angelica said, “is where in the castle I should be held. It must be a believable prison, but preferably not where the countess can gain ready access.”
“Not the dungeons,” Dominic growled.
“What about the room at the base of the east tower?” Mulley met Dominic’s eyes. “The one the secret stair from your chamber runs down to. There’s nothing in it but old furniture and boxes.”
“And a rickety bed.” Dominic straightened. “Yes, that will do nicely.”
A secret stair? How convenient. The words burned Angelica’s tongue, but she swallowed them. “Right, then.” She looked at the empty plates. “It’s time to get our charade underway.” She gathered her skirts to rise.
“No—wait!” Brenda waved her back and looked at Dominic. “There’s one thing we haven’t settled—well . . . two. The boys.”
Dominic didn’t swear, but from the way his jaw clenched it was a near-run thing. “I don’t want them witnessing even a minute of Miss Cynster’s and my pretence.” His tone was chilly, his gaze cold. “I won’t have them seeing me behave like that.” He looked at Angelica. “And I won’t have them seeing you behave like that, either.”
She laid her hand over his. “Of course not.” She sent a help me glance across the table.
Brenda grimaced. “You’ve been gone for weeks, so as soon as the gatehouse guards spot us and call down, the scamps will be up there, watching us ride in—”
“No, they won’t.” Jessup met Dominic’s gaze. “Day like today, those two will be out with Scanlon. I’ll go and meet them before they reach the castle. What should I say?”
“Mumps,” Angelica said. When the others all looked at her, nonplussed, she went on, “Mumps, measles, some contagious childhood ailment. Tell them the laird has brought a friend to stay, but said friend has developed some pox or other, and to make sure the boys don’t catch it, the laird wants them to stay in their rooms for the next few days, until the danger is past. They can go outside as they usually do, but they mustn’t go wandering inside the keep.” She looked at Dominic. “Will that do?”
He raised his brows. “It should.” He looked at Jessup. “Tell them I’ll come up and see them tonight, and explain.”
Jessup nodded.
Dominic looked at the others. “Anything more?”
Everyone paused, everyone thought, then they all shook their heads.
“In that case”—Dominic rose and held out his hand to Angelica—“let’s get on to the castle.”
Letting her confidence show, she smiled, placed her fingers in his, let him help her to her feet and over the bench, then, settling her hand in his, she walked out beside him.
They halted just beyond a hamlet called Tomich.
Dominic dismounted and came to lift Angelica down. “A hundred yards further and the gatehouse guards will see us.”
She leaned into his hands. “I won’t take long to change.”
Setting her down, he nodded south. “Go that way. Less chance anyone will see you.”
She handed him her crop and gloves, unpinned her jaunty cap and set that in his hands, too, then glanced to where Brenda was rummaging among the bags, searching for the pale teal ballgown and fichu. “I’ll start getting out of my habit.”
Turning, she picked her way into the trees bordering the lane; they grew so thickly that within a few yards she was effectively screened from the lane or anywhere else. Getting lost would be embarrassing; reaching a small clearing, she stopped and started unbuttoning her jacket.
She’d stepped out of her skirt and was hanging it over a branch when she heard a crack behind her. “Thank you.” She turned.
It wasn’t Brenda who’d brought her gown.
Dominic, his face rigid, halted a yard away. He held out his clenched fist, then opened his fingers. Her crinkled gown slithered down to hang from his thumb, the fichu crumpled with it. When she blinked, he said, “Brenda said you wanted it crushed.”
She nodded. “I did.” Reaching out, she rescued her poor gown, held it up. “That’s . . . very nicely crushed.” Rather than hand it back, she hooked it on a nearby branch.
Returning her attention to unbuttoning her blouse, she pretended not to notice that his gaze had lowered to her legs, presently clad in sheer stockings and her boots; with her chemise’s hem riding a few inches above her garters, there was a strip of naked skin on display . . . she wondered if it would distract him from his transparently less than happy mood.
He didn’t say anything. When she shrugged out of the blouse and glanced his way, he was watching her, but she couldn’t read anything from his face. “Here.” She held out the blouse. When he took it, she pointed to her jacket and skirt. “You can carry those, too, but they don’t require crushing.”
His lips thinned, but he gathered her clothes, draping them over one arm.
She wriggled into her gown, settled the bodice, reached for her fichu, then walked to him and presented him with her back. “Can you do up the laces?”
After a few seconds, she felt the first tug.
“I’m agreeing to this only because there is no other way.” His words reached her, low, frustrated, but also deliberate. Committed. “But that doesn’t mean I approve, or that I’m not . . . torn. Never in my life has there been anyone or anything that has meant as much as clan to me. You do. Having to choose between you and clan—”
“You don’t have to choose.” His fingers paused, and she went on, “As your countess-to-be, I consider myself clan—clan is now as important to me as it is to you. Just like you, I will do whatever
is needed to ensure the clan thrives—that’s what clan is about, isn’t it?”
A silent moment passed, then his fingers tugged at her laces again. “I don’t deserve you.”
Her heart swelling, she smiled. “Actually, you do—you just haven’t fully realized it yet.”
“Be that as it may, although during this charade there’ll obviously be times I’ll have to follow your lead, I will do whatever I must to keep you safe.”
“I know you will—I would expect nothing less from you.”
“We’re agreed on that, at least.” He pulled the laces through, started to tie them. “I know I have to trust you in this, trust you to know what you’re doing, and I do, but . . .” He paused, hands stilling, then she heard him drag in a breath. “It would help if you would promise that the instant you want to pull back, the instant anything frightens or offends you too deeply for you to go on, that you’ll tell me.”
He knotted the laces and released them. She turned as he lowered his hands. She looked into his face, an impassive, impenetrable mask, but the real man—the man who loved her—looked back at her from his storm-sea eyes. “I promise. If things get too bad, I’ll tell you.”
He exhaled. “Thank you.” He held her gaze. “There’s one more thing.” When she arched her brows, he said, “I can’t protect you if I’m standing behind you.”
She studied his eyes, considered what he was really saying. Negotiation being their key, she offered, “You can step in front of me, but only if there’s no other way. No other option. Agreed?”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then curtly nodded. “Agreed.” His features eased not one jot, but he stepped back and waved her through the trees.
Five minutes later, wrapped in a rough wool cloak Jessup had produced, the hood pulled low over her head and face, and with her boots changed for her ballroom slippers, she sat with her hands bound as loosely as possible to the crook of her sidesaddle, now perched on the oldest sumpter horse. Beneath the hood, loose strands of her hair wreathed her face and neck; she and Brenda had dusted her gown here and there with dirt, and used grass to stain it in several places.
With every element of her disguise in place, eyes locked on Dominic’s broad back, she watched as her wild highland laird led the sumpter horse and her on the very final leg of their journey, and into the battle to wrest the goblet from the dragon holding it, him, his castle, and his people to ransom.
Chapter Seventeen
The castle was far larger than she’d imagined.
Her first glimpse was of the top of the battlemented keep, then the lane curved north and a break in the trees revealed the massive gatehouse—twin cylindrical towers flanking a huge drawbridge, presently down. The clouds had thinned, allowing a suggestion of sunlight to filter through. The further they rode, the more of the fortified castle wall became visible, the expanse of gray stone exuding a sense of solid, rocklike permanence.
The castle reminded her of its owner—large, immovable, utterly dependable when it came to safety and security, and impressive in a viscerally powerful way.
The more she stared, excitement and delight welled, tinged with a certain awe. Also like him, this would be hers; this henceforth would be her domain.
A distant halloo rolled out over the trees. Dominic raised a hand in acknowledgment.
He’d told her the castle stood on an island and was reached from the loch’s southern shore via a smaller island; lowering her gaze, she saw reflected sunlight dappling the base of the castle wall. “Is the drawbridge in working order?”
Without turning, he replied, “Yes, but we rarely raise it. At night we lower one or other of the portcullises.”
Thinking of their charade, she schooled her body into a defeated slump but continued to survey all from beneath her hood.
Ten minutes later, they reached the loch’s shore and crossed a wooden bridge to the smaller island, the clop of hooves echoing loudly over the water. Unable to help herself, she looked around more openly, using apparent panic to disguise her curiosity. Shaped like a rounded crescent moon sailing in the lee of the castle walls, the smaller island was covered with grass, a smattering of low shrubs, and a few stray trees. The bridge from the shore gave access to the eastern end, while the castle’s drawbridge met the western end, forcing anyone who wished to enter the castle to parade the entire length of the smaller island in full view of the castle walls.
While they did precisely that, she surveyed the island the castle dominated. Far larger than the smaller island, it appeared a heavily wooded, elongated oval with the castle occupying its center, the stone walls vertical to the waterline, leaving treed areas to either side, not sculpted parks but wilderness. The wilds of Scotland came right to the castle’s door, a fact emphasized by a majestic backdrop of mountains, their peaks barren and brown, the lower slopes thickly timbered.
Surrounded by the primitive glory of Scotland, the castle was one of the most romantic sights she’d ever seen.
As far as she could tell, these were the only two islands in the loch. Since they’d turned off the main lane several miles back, she’d glimpsed no habitations for either man or beast.
They were approaching the drawbridge. Dominic glanced at her, met her eyes. “Ready?”
From within her hood’s shadows, she flashed him a grin, tipped up her chin, but didn’t alter her dejected pose. “Lead on.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then faced forward. Seconds later Hercules’s hooves drummed on the drawbridge’s planks. The sumpter horse followed, carrying her into her new life. She looked up as the cool shadow of the gatehouse’s arch engulfed her, and suppressed a shiver, a premonition, but of what she had no clue.
They emerged into the faint sunshine bathing the bailey.
Never on returning to his home had Dominic felt so alert and tensed for battle. Yet the familiar sounds and scents greeted him; familiar faces swarmed around, bright and cheerful, all pleased to see him as he walked Hercules across the bailey to the keep.
He tried to smile and nod in response, but before he’d covered half the distance to the steep keep steps, the brightness dimmed as those in the bailey noticed the bedraggled figure lashed to the saddle of the horse he was leading. Their expressions, at first curious, grew puzzled, questioning.
Leaving the others to provide the answers, resisting the urge to glance back at Angelica, he rode to the steps, dismounted, and handed Hercules’s reins to the groom who’d come running.
Features set, he glanced up at the raised porch—just as his mother came hurrying out through the open double doors. Halting in a swirl of dark skirts at the top of the steps, she stared—in surprise, in disbelief—at his captive.
Turning, he walked to the side of the sumpter horse, reached up, and lifted Angelica down. Whispered, “That’s her at the top of the steps.” Setting her feet on the cobbles, he released her.
She stumbled against him—an act—then wrenching back with a choking sob, she looked wildly around as if contemplating fleeing.
Gritting his teeth, he set his hand to her back and turned her to the steps.
She stumbled as if he’d pushed her, nearly falling.
He caught her elbow, had to grip more tightly when she ineffectually struggled. Didn’t have to feign the irritation in his “Stop it, you witless woman!” He thrust her at the steps, then was forced to haul her up them while she pretended to resist, to hang back, flashing her bound wrists in case anyone had missed them. Courtesy of her struggles, her cloak fell open, revealing her soiled gown.
She’d warned him she was an accomplished actress; he hadn’t realized she’d meant she was this good. She almost had him believing . . . which made it easier for him to play to her lead.
With a flourish, he swung her onto the porch and released her so she staggered to a halt facing his mother. He looked at Mirabelle. “You wanted a Cynster sister ki
dnapped and brought here. Allow me to present Miss Angelica Cynster.”
Mirabelle’s gaze locked on Angelica’s face, still shadowed by her hood. “Indeed? You’ll permit me to verify . . .” Reaching out with both hands, Mirabelle pushed back the hood.
Angelica sniveled, then looked up, displaying a tear-stained, abjectly terrified face. She stared at Mirabelle.
Mirabelle’s eyes widened. Her gaze swiftly scanned Angelica’s features, then lowered, taking in her wrecked gown, her bound wrists, before rising once more to Angelica’s face, to her eyes. Mirabelle smiled. “My God. You’ve actually done it.”
The quality of her smile turned Dominic’s stomach.
Angelica flung herself at Mirabelle, grasping Mirabelle’s hand between hers and breathlessly imploring, “My lady! Countess! You have to make him see sense.” She bobbed a crude curtsy, deftly converting it into a supplicant’s begging pose. “You have to make him let me go!” Her weak tone suggested she’d endured horrors and was likely to faint from the effects of her travails.
Dominic shifted and she shrank away from him; clenching his jaw, he glared, stepped behind her, caught both her elbows and dragged her up and away from his mother. “You don’t understand, sweetheart.” Holding her in front of him, his voice harsh, beyond cynical, he said, “The countess is the reason you’re here.”
Swinging her around, he pushed her toward the gloom of the keep’s foyer. Ignoring their utterly fascinated audience, he stalked after her.
His mother, overjoyed and avid, scurried after them. “That’s really Angelica Cynster!”
The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae Page 33
