The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae

by Stephanie Laurens

  The dogs circled, then collapsed around Dominic’s and Angelica’s chairs. On walking up to the dais, Angelica hesitated, then looked at Dominic, waiting by his carver; realizing he wasn’t going to push her either way, she thought, then moved to the chair on his right—the one his countess should take. He smiled and seated her, then waved Devil to the chair on his left. Gavin and Bryce, immensely proud, were invited to chairs at the high table, Gavin, as master, seated on Devil’s left, with Lucifer taking the next chair along, while Bryce shyly slipped into the chair alongside Angelica. Gabriel smiled at him as he took the next chair along. The other Cynsters, with Breckenridge and Jeremy, were accommodated at tables in the body of the hall.

  The meal passed in near-riotous good humor.

  Looking out over the hall, Dominic registered how long it had been since his people had been not just this relieved, this free of care, but this free to be unrestrainedly happy. It was as if sunshine had suddenly slashed through clouds and bathed Clan Guisachan in warmth and light, and in all the emotions—joy, peace, and hope—that lifted hearts and set them winging.

  He glanced at the woman beside him—his twenty-one-year-old angel who had stood by his side and met every challenge fate had thrown their way. He’d thought of her as his savior-cum-bride-to-be, and she had been, still was, and surely would be.

  She was speaking with Bryce and Gabriel. Reaching out, Dominic closed his hand over hers, gently squeezed. Without turning to him, she shifted her fingers and squeezed back, then left her hand in his. He smiled, sat back, looked out over his clan, and quietly gloried.

  At the end of the meal, they retreated to the library—Dominic, Angelica, her relatives, plus the boys and the dogs—and they finally embarked on the necessary explanations. The first revelation, however, had nothing to do with them or their adventure; when Dominic handed around cut-crystal glasses of the clan’s whisky, an appreciative silence rolled over the room.

  The other men sipped, paused, then slowly, reverently, sipped again.

  Eventually, holding his glass to the light, examining the richly honey-hued liquid, Devil quietly asked, “Where does this come from?”

  Glass in hand, Dominic dropped into an armchair flanking the huge fireplace. “The clan’s distillery near the head of the loch.”

  The other men exchanged glances, then Devil clarified, “You own the distillery that makes this?”

  “Me—the clan.”

  “Hmm.” Devil sipped again, then murmured, “I have to admit that there’s a great deal the males of the family, at least, would forgive for such a drop.” Of course, he and the others had already seen enough of Dominic Lachlan Guisachan to know they’d be welcoming him into the fold with open arms and a certain relief. They’d been stuck on the track, helpless to do anything but watch as Angelica—having with her usual stubborn deliberation rushed directly into the jaws of danger—had come within a whisker of being flung to her death off the cliff. Dominic had raced far ahead, but to reach her in time he had to have made a superhuman effort—but he had, and he’d saved her. And her attitude toward him later had, for Devil and all the rest, set the seal on their approval. Henceforth, the bossiest, most stubborn, far-too-intelligent-for-her-own-good firebrand of the family was his responsibility. “Very well.” Reluctantly drawing his senses from their preoccupation, Devil looked at their host. “So where does this tale begin?”

  Dominic told them, explaining the background to their adventure much as he had to Angelica that first night. Given his pending connection to her family, and theirs to his, there seemed little point in over-observance of any social niceties. When they questioned, he answered, but in large part they followed his reasons without difficulty or dispute.

  Before they got halfway through, the boys were asleep. Angelica slipped away and summoned Mulley and Erskine to carry the boys to their beds; with sleepy, mumbled “G’nights,” they went.

  As the story of successive months unfolded, first Breckenridge and Richard, and later Jeremy Carling, helped Dominic fill the narrative to the point where he’d traveled to London, kidnapping Angelica his goal.

  “One question,” Devil said, fingers now steepled before his face. “Why didn’t you just ask us—the family—for help?”

  Dominic met his gaze. “If I had knocked on your, or Lord Martin’s, door, and asked to be trusted with either Heather, Eliza, or Angelica, in order to pretend to kidnap her, take her into the highlands, and pretend to ruin her so that I could convince my mother, who wanted revenge on Lady Celia for being my father’s obsession, to return the long-lost Scottish coronation cup to me, because if I didn’t have it to hand over to a coterie of London bankers on the first of July, I would lose my estates and my clan would be ruined . . . what would you have said?”

  Devil held his gaze levelly, then winced. “I see your point.” He waved. “Pray continue.”

  Dominic, now aided by Angelica, did, relating how he’d removed her from Lady Cavendish’s salon and taken her to Bury Street.

  At that point, Gabriel and Vane joined in, interspersing Dominic and Angelica’s actions with reports of how the family had reacted, and how ultimately their great-aunt had solved the riddle of just who Viscount Debenham was. But once they reached the highlands, the tale was Dominic’s and Angelica’s to tell, and while they recounted all the salient points, there were others they left untold.

  When it came to what they’d had to do to convince Mirabelle to hand over the goblet, Angelica merely stated that after several days of being exposed to her superb histrionic skills, Mirabelle had deemed her sufficiently ruined and agreed to hand over the goblet’s directions, at which point Langdon Baine’s role in the entire plot had come to light.

  They discussed Baine and his earlier attempt on Dominic’s life, and his likely motives, then moved on to the story of the goblet itself.

  Lucifer was fascinated, and so, too, was Gabriel. “If you’re agreeable, I’d like to see that contract with the bankers—I’ve never heard of such a thing, at least not couched in such a way. I’d love to study its structure for future reference.”

  Dominic agreed.

  Demon, having at Dominic’s invitation circled the room with the decanter, settled back in his chair. “Having heard so much about that huge horse of yours, I took a look in your stables. Your stableman showed him off to me—incidentally, that’s a nice part-Arab filly you have there, too. But I was wondering if you have any other horses of Hercules’s line?”

  Dominic hesitated, then admitted, “I’ve managed to locate two mares.” When Demon gave an excellent imitation of one of the boys expecting a treat, Dominic grinned. “They’re not at the castle but on one of the farms. I’ll show you them tomorrow.”

  Demon grinned back and toasted him. “Excellent.”

  Jeremy was already scouting the shelves. Breckenridge and Vane wanted to know about the crops and the herds. Richard asked about the hunting, which subject snared all attention for some time.

  Smiling, Devil sat back and let the others do all the necessary interrogating, even though he, and they, too, had already made up their collective mind. While they couldn’t openly approve of Dominic’s plan to reclaim the goblet, had they been in his shoes, every one of them would almost certainly have done the same, and if they were truthful, they might not have been able to pull it off—finding the way forward through so many twists and turns while walking the fine line between honor and dishonor—as well as Dominic had. They might not understand clan, but every man there understood family, and that sometimes one had to bend the rules to pull everyone through to the other side unscathed. If that’s what was needed, then that’s what one did; they couldn’t hold what he’d done against him. And wouldn’t.

  Sipping again, savoring the smooth, malty taste, Devil listened to the others, to Dominic and Angelica, watched the pair as they reacted to each other, and let his smile deepen. In “kidnapping”
Angelica, Dominic Lachlan Guisachan had made his own bed, and the entire family, Devil judged, would be far too pleased with the outcome to do anything other than help him lie in it.

  Finally, they came to considering the days ahead and making the necessary plans.

  Angelica suggested, and her brothers and the others readily agreed, that they should remain at the castle for at least the next day before setting out to ride back to London.

  Perched on the arm of the chair in which Dominic was sitting, she glanced at him. “We’ll need to remain here for the funerals. Mulley said they’ll be held three days from today.”

  His expression impassive, Dominic nodded. “If we leave the day after, we’ll still have plenty of time to reach London by the last day of the month. I’ll send word to the bankers to set up our meeting for the morning of the first.”

  “And we’ll take your traveling coach from Edinburgh—not the mail.” When Dominic’s lips eased and he inclined his head, she informed him, “We’ll need the larger coach because we’ll have the boys as well.”

  His eyes grew wary. “We’re taking them with us?”

  “Of course. They need to meet the family.”

  Richard sighed. “Before I left home, I was informed that after whatever transpired here was settled, I was to ride back to the Vale, and then together with my witchy wife, I was to travel to London—with the twins.” He looked at Angelica, arched his brows. “She said you would know why.”

  She looked around the circle, saw the same inquiry in most faces. “Well of course there’ll be a family dinner, probably on the evening after we reach town. And then, after Dominic hands over the goblet to the bankers, on the evening of the first of July”—she looked at him—“Mama and Papa, and Honoria, of course, will be hosting our engagement ball.”

  Dominic looked into her eyes, then raised his glass to veil his reaction.

  Eyes narrowing, Breckenridge pointed at Dominic. “You just sprung that on him.” He looked at Angelica. “Doesn’t he have any say?”

  Angelica retorted, “He’s already had his say. It’s my decision as to when and where.”

  “But . . .” Jeremy frowned. “Surely there’s no reason for it all to happen so fast?”

  “But of course there is.” Angelica frowned back. “First, everyone will be ready to quit town by the end of June—they’ll stay because of the ball, but not for longer. If it were held later, having everyone travel back for one major ball would be inconsiderate, not that everyone wouldn’t come, but that’s just not how things are done. Then there’s the summer celebration in August at Somersham, and we all go to that. Then in September, in case you’ve all forgotten, the family has three weddings, all of which need to be organized between now and then.”

  They all blinked; all looked a trifle stunned.

  Several mouths opened, then shut.

  She humphed. “Indeed. You know perfectly well that engagements and weddings are the province of the females of the family, and you can—” She broke off when Devil held up a staying hand.

  Then he reversed his palm, waved like a conductor, and he and all the others chorused, “Leave it to you and our wives.”

  Breckenridge and Jeremy had said “wives-to-be.”

  Angelica smiled. “Precisely.”

  Gabriel looked at Dominic. “Welcome to the family.”

  Dominic drained his glass.

  Later, when night had fallen and the keep had grown silent, Angelica lay in the big bed in the bedroom at the top of the east tower and watched her very own highland laird undress in the silvery moonlight—a sight she doubted she would ever grow tired of, not if she lived to be ninety.

  The windows on both sides of the room were uncurtained; she’d opened the casements on both sides and discovered that the breeze that then blew through carried the heady scents of the roses blooming in the rose garden circling the tower’s base.

  Finally naked, Dominic turned and walked toward the bed, his stride fluid and graceful, and the moon paid homage, gilding his broad shoulders, skating over the broad muscles of his chest, rippling over his abdomen, and glinting off the dark hair adorning his magnificent body.

  Lifting the covers, he sank into the bed alongside her; she let the dip in the mattress roll her toward him. Propping on one arm, he slid the other around her, gathering her close.

  Placing a hand on his chest, she stopped him before he kissed her and all chance of conversation fled. “Your knee. I wondered if you’d injured it again when you leapt down to the ledge, but you haven’t been limping.”

  Eyes devouring her face, he shook his head. “No. I thought it would jar again, but it didn’t. It feels stronger than ever—well, at least since I fell into that ravine years ago.”

  She smiled. “Good.” She had a reason for asking, something she was planning, but it wasn’t yet time to tell him about that.

  “I take it that you announcing to your relatives the date for our engagement ball means you have, finally, agreed to marry me.”

  “I can guarantee you’ll be entirely safe in assuming that to be the case.”

  “Thank heaven for that.”

  “You never seriously thought I wouldn’t agree.”

  “No, but I did wonder what your price would be.”

  She hesitated, then told him, “You paid it today. Abundantly, extravagantly, in more ways than one.”

  He continued to watch her, as if waiting for elaboration. She looked into his eyes, and even though his face was in shadow she could still feel the emotion investing, infusing, the gray-green. Quietly marveling, lifting her hand, she traced her fingertips down one lean cheek. “You would willingly have died to spare me today.”

  He turned his head, pressed a slow, heated kiss to her palm. “And I will die for you tomorrow if that’s what fate demands.” His lips quirked. “But you won’t let me.”

  “Not today and not tomorrow. You’re mine, and I have no plans to surrender you, not to fate or any other authority.”

  His lips curved. “I thought that was my line.”

  “It can be ours—I’m willing to share.”

  “So am I.” He gazed into her eyes. “Forever and always, all I have, all I am, is yours, angel.”

  “And I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine, to the end of our days.”

  He bent his head and she drew him down and their lips met in a slow, achingly tender caress.

  In the silvery moonlight, with the scent of roses wreathing about them, they revisited all they were, all they’d already found and claimed, and boldly, brazenly, beyond joyously, set out to claim it again.

  Confidently they reached out, and together touched love and made it theirs again. Drew it in, wrapped it about them, held it to their hearts again.

  Drank it in and rejoiced, reacquainting themselves with each other’s bodies in slow reverence and exquisite harmony.

  With unwavering commitment, they reaffirmed their faith in all that had grown between them, in their togetherness, their closeness, their soul-stealing intimacy.

  Their celebration was simple, but unrestrained. They had won all their hearts had ever desired, yet both knew their most stunning victory hadn’t been on the physical plane.

  They’d both needed and had sought, and had ultimately been rewarded with the greatest prize in heaven or on earth.

  They loved.

  Loved, worshipped, and strove until they reached that pinnacle where love itself, pure and sharp, shone like the sun.

  And its beauty shattered them.

  Broke them, fused them, forged and remade them.

  Two bodies joined. Two hearts beating as one. Two souls in perfect communion.

  Then the grace of love swept over them and filled them, settling to lie in the moonlit night the gentlest of benedictions upon them.

  Sinking back to the bed, settling
in each other’s arms, they reached for love and held it close.

  They had made love theirs, let it thrive in their hearts, acknowledged and accepted. They had ceded love free reign, of their hearts, their bodies, their souls, and through that act had been gifted with its shining truth: Love won and embraced was the ultimate joy, and the ultimate triumph.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Three days later, Angelica stood beside Dominic in the tiny graveyard of the local kirk in the nearby hamlet of Cougie and watched three coffins lowered into three graves.

  The new laird of Clan Baine, Langdon Baine’s much younger brother Hugh, had arrived at the castle the day after the deaths. He’d been under no illusions as to his older brother’s infamy. “He got it from some of the elders who’d always resented Clan Guisachan’s better lands and greater wealth, and used to preach the old ways, saying we should simply take what we wanted.” Hugh had shaken his head. “Even when those elders passed on, Langdon wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  Hugh had thanked Dominic for sending his brother’s body home. For his part, Dominic had offered to aid Clan Baine should they require it, and Hugh, in particular, in taking up his unexpected lairdship.

  They’d parted as neighbors resolved to the common good.

  As part of that joint aim, they’d agreed to hold a combined church service, by mutual accord attributing the three deaths to an unfortunate pact between unstable personalities, thus, they hoped, limiting the scope for any further feuding.

  Mirabelle, Countess of Glencrae, was buried first, in a plot beside her husband’s stone-encased grave. The congregation then shifted to the Baine section, where Langdon was laid to rest, then everyone moved back to the Guisachan area to watch McAdie’s coffin lowered into the ground.