by Scott, Tarah
"My God," Marcus murmured. "Steven Landen is of no consequence—"
"If Price Ardsley has Elise," Justin finished for him.
"Why the bloody hell is her brother not here?" Marcus burst out. "Where did you get this information?"
Justin grinned. "There is always a disgruntled employee to be found." The earl returned his attention to the letter. A moment later, he looked up, shock written on his face. "My God, she shot her husband? Surely, it can't be true?"
"I believe every word," Marcus said.
Justin glanced at the letter. "You knew nothing of this? Of course not," he added.
Marcus gave a hollow laugh. "I knew I wanted her. Nothing else mattered."
The earl nodded. "Love blinds a man."
As does passion, Marcus added silently, then said, "I meant to leave immediately to find Steven, but if it is possible Elise is here—" he broke off, still unable to grasp the possibility.
"You must find the boy. He's the key to getting to Ardsley. I never met his sister. If our story is to hold any weight, it must come from you."
"But Elise…"
A glint appeared in Justin's eye. "I will find her."
Marcus grasped his cousin's shoulder and squeezed, then released him. "I'll depart tomorrow. We—"
The door opened and the waiter appeared, a plate of food in each hand. He approached the table and began to set Marcus's plate before him but halted, his gaze falling on the wine-stained tablecloth.
He straightened. "I shall replace the linen." He turned to leave, plates still in hand.
"Nay," Marcus said. "Leave the plates. We will live with the spilt wine."
The waiter looked as if he'd been asked to strip naked and run through the streets of Boston.
Marcus rested his gaze on him. "Leave the plates, lad."
The man did as instructed. "If you need anything—"
"We will call for you," Marcus cut in. "Until then, see that we aren't disturbed."
The waiter blinked, but gave a stiff bow and left.
Justin picked up his knife and fork. "I said you'd cut him to the quick."
"I'll be back well before Landen Shipping's next meeting," Marcus said. "Then I will cut Ardsley to the quick."
* * * *
Marcus slowed his horse in the dense forest and scanned the ground. The tracks in the soft South Carolina ground were less than an hour old. He glanced up through the trees. At most, the afternoon sun would be in the sky another two hours. At a sudden commotion in the trees ahead, Marcus jerked his hand to the musket in his saddle holster, but relaxed when a flock of bobwhite quail took flight. The leather fringes on the sleeves of the buckskin he wore swayed violently, then came to a rest as he focused again on the tracks and urged his horse forward.
Only a moment later he caught sight of two horses picking their way through the trees about seventy-five feet ahead. He looked closer. One of the horses was riderless. He'd been following the tracks of two men, where—the distinct sound of a rifle being cocked answered the incomplete thought.
"Take the musket from its holster and toss it," a male voice said from above him. Marcus hesitated and a strong "Mister" settled the matter.
He slid the Brown Bess musket from its holster and tossed it to the ground. "I'm not here to cause trouble."
The sound of the rifle's hammer being uncocked from above was followed by the light drop of the man from the trees onto the ground behind Marcus.
"You tracked me some distance before I realized you were on my trail," the voice said. "Not bad for an Englishman."
Marcus slowly turned his horse and found himself facing a young man dressed like himself, except the other's clothes bore testament of the wearer's time in the saddle. This was Steven Landen. Those deep brown eyes—and the challenge they held—were all too familiar.
"Scottish Highlands," Marcus said.
"Well, Highlander, what are you doing in South Carolina tracking me?"
Marcus glanced at the Baker rifle the boy held loosely at his side—not so loose he couldn't yank it into position before Marcus was upon him. Arrogant pup. But perhaps it was an arrogance born out of experience. The British-made Baker rifle was known for its precision aim, a very good reason for a US Army tracker to carry the weapon.
Steven's gaze shifted past him and Marcus glanced over his shoulder to see the rider he'd spotted a moment ago standing a few feet away. He saw now what he hadn't discerned before. The buckskin-dressed man was Indian.
Marcus faced Steven. "How did you discover I was on your trail?"
"I'm the best tracker this side of the Mississippi," Steven said with unabashed candor. "White tracker, that is."
"You are Steven Landen, then?"
The boy gave no indication Marcus had hit the mark, only continued to study him.
"We need to talk. Privately," Marcus added.
"Anything you have to say can be said in front of Joseph."
"'Tis about your sister."
Steven's nonchalant demeanor vanished. "My sister is dead."
"Nay. She was lost off the coast of Solway Firth, Scotland."
Steven's jaw tightened. He looked at the Indian. "Joseph."
Marcus didn't hear the man leave but knew he had when Steven swung his gaze back to him.
"You have any idea how many people have information concerning my sister?" Steven's expression turned speculative. "None of them ever tracked me through the wilderness. You must feel damn confident about your information. You have five minutes. I should warn you, however, if I don't find your story amusing, I'll kill you."
A melancholy warmth rippled through Marcus. "That sounds like something your sister would say."
Steven's gaze turned icy. "If you want to delay dying, don't bother with the amusing anecdotes."
"I will begin with this." Marcus reached into the front pocket of his buckskin jacket.
Steven pointed his rifle at Marcus. "Easy."
Marcus paused, then slowly produced his and Elise's wedding certificate from the pocket. He dismounted, then strode to Steven and extended the certificate to him.
Steven rested his rifle against the tree he'd been hiding in. "Don't think we're alone," he said as he unfolded the document, "I saved Joseph's life once. He can't return to his Chickasaw tribe until he returns the favor, so he's hoping like hell someone will try to kill me."
Steven scanned the document. A moment later, he looked at Marcus and gave a short laugh. "You got the name wrong. Elise is not a Merriwether."
"Nay," Marcus said, "she's a MacGregor."
Half an hour later, Marcus laid Elise's death certificate on the ground between him and Steven. The boy stared at the document. The fire they had built flickered off his pale face in the waning daylight. He lifted his gaze to Marcus.
"No death certificate was issued for Elise." He stared at Marcus for a long moment before saying, "I have no way of knowing if a word of what you say is true."
"Perhaps you do." Marcus retrieved the gold band from his front pocket. He laid the ring on the death certificate.
Steven looked at the ring, his brow furrowing in thought, then he picked it up and held it up to the firelight. Marcus watched him read the words etched inside the band—For all eternity—words he'd read a thousand times over the last month.
Steven set the ring back on the document and looked at him. "Why tell me any of this?" He nodded toward the death certificate. "She's dead."
Marcus took a deep breath. "Mayhap not." He produced the next piece of evidence: the notice of reward for Elise's body that had appeared in the Sunday Times.
By the time Marcus finished with the more bizarre half of his tale, Steven's expression had hardened. "I knew Price was a fortune hunter, but this goes beyond anything I suspected. Twenty-six percent of Landen Shipping remained held in trust for me until I reached twenty-one. When the shares became mine, Price wasn't pleased, but he still held controlling interest. Elise married Robert when she was twenty-one, four years befo
re she would come into possession of her inheritance. Not that it mattered; Robert controlled the purse."
"The woman you describe is different than the one I knew. Elise—" Marcus laughed, "She has done things many men would grow fainthearted over."
Steven picked up the stick he'd laid beside him earlier and poked the fire. "She never wanted for courage. That night on the Amelia, she surprised even me." Steven looked at him with sudden surprise. "Damn! Her journal."
Marcus tensed. "What?"
Steven plunged the stick into the ground. "Amelia's doctor instructed Elise to keep a journal in order to chronicle her illness. After she died, Elise began doing research. Actually, she began the research before Amelia died but, by then, it was too late."
"Too late?"
"Amelia was diagnosed with everything from heart trouble to nervous disorders. No one could offer a cure. You won't believe this, I wouldn't have believed it either had I not caught Robert trying to kill her, but Elise suspected Robert of poisoning Amelia."
Marcus went cold. "Bloody hell."
"I learned of her suspicions from the journal. By then, Robert was gone." He gave Marcus a frank look. "Despite how I felt about Robert, if I hadn't walked in when he was strangling Elise that night, I would have attributed her suspicions to… well…"
Marcus clenched his fist. "If the bastard were alive, I would kill him myself."
Steven gave a cold laugh. "I would have done it long ago."
"Aye," he said. "I wager you would have."
Steven laid the stick back on the ground beside him. "Price being in Scotland and that bounty don't prove Elise didn't die in the carriage accident."
Marcus held his gaze. "Three months ago, Ardsley told the Landen Shipping board of directors that Elise was here in America."
Steven went white.
"Are you all right, lad?"
"When Elise married, I gave her my shares in Landen Shipping."
Marcus gave a slow nod. "The stakes are even higher. Ardsley has begun negotiations for a large loan to Landen Shipping. He wants to expand the shipping routes."
Steven started. "What?"
"He began negotiations six months ago."
"How can he hope to make the vote without me?" Steven's lip curled up in a derisive twist. "Of course."
"Aye," Marcus said. "He would not need you if he has Elise."
Chapter Nineteen
Marcus strode into the Single Penny tavern with Steven behind him. Marcus glanced back at his young companion. They'd spent seven days on the road and the boy looked none the worse for wear. No one would suspect he wasn't a regular in the establishment. The deception went beyond the rough clothes he wore. The metamorphosis from upper-class gentleman to the rough, bawdy character ready to yank his knife from its sheath and open the gullet of any man who looked in his direction was complete. Steven certainly wasn't the typical wealthy American.
The boy's gaze rested for an instant on a table in the far corner of the room, then moved on. Marcus glanced in the same direction and realized he had seen Justin sitting with another man. Even in the shadows of the dimly lit room, Marcus understood what had snagged Steven's attention. Despite the rough clothes Justin wore, the way his manicured fingers curled around the beer mug he drank from gave away the fact he wasn't a typical river rat.
Steven looked at Marcus. Marcus gave a small jerk of his head and Steven followed as he strode to the table. Justin set the mug of ale on the table and looked up at their approach. Marcus slid into the seat to his right. Steven circled the table and took the seat to Justin's left.
"Marcus," Justin's cultured English accent remained evident despite the hoarse quality he injected into his voice.
"Justin," Marcus greeted in a thick, Scottish brogue.
"Meet William Sheldon of the Boston police department," Justin said.
"Shhh," Sheldon hissed, ducking his head down.
"Mr Sheldon," Justin said, "tell my friend what you told me."
Mr Sheldon looked about. He sat back suddenly and Marcus would have urged him on, but a tavern maid approached the table, two ales in hand.
"Good evening, gentlemen," she said, setting an ale before Marcus, then going around William to place the other in front of Steven. She straightened, saying, "You have a choice of jackrabbit stew or roast pig."
"Jackrabbit stew, my girl, all around," Steven spoke up.
Marcus hid his surprise at hearing the guttural accent Steven employed and nodded to the girl in assent when she looked at him. She started for the bar at the back of the room and Marcus focused on William.
"Lad," he said in low tones, "proceed with your tale, if ye please."
William cast a nervous glance about the room, then leaned forward. "Your friend here," he nodded toward Justin, "promised the remainder of the fee."
"Aye," Marcus said. "Whatever he agreed to, you'll get."
"If you don't mind, sir," William said, "I'll have my payment now."
Justin pulled forth a small pouch and set it on the table. William reached for it, but Marcus laid a hand on his when it covered the pouch. "The money stays where it is until I've heard what you have to say."
William nodded, and Marcus withdrew his hand. William released the pouch and placed his elbows on the table. "There's a place up north, a hundred and fifty miles or so, Bainbridge Hospital. A month ago, a man incarcerated his wife there because she believes she was Cleopatra in a past life."
"And what makes ye think this woman is the one we are looking for?" Marcus asked.
"The description your friend here gave. The woman is dark haired, late twenties and slim of build. The man is much older and seems to fit your description. He's rich, sure enough."
William sat back and Marcus saw the tavern maid approach again, tray in hand with four bowls of stew on it.
She set a bowl before each of them and looked at the men. "Anything else?"
"That'll be all," Steven said, and hunched over his bowl. He began clinking the spoon loudly against the side of the bowl.
The woman turned as he took a hearty mouthful. William gulped a spoonful of stew. He chewed, his gaze following her until she was out of hearing range. He took one more bite of food as two men passed, headed for a nearby table.
William pushed the bowl forward. "As I was saying, the man is rich. He's left strict orders that no one is to visit his wife and she is to be kept under heavy sedation."
Marcus's hand balled into a fist and, before realizing it, he started to push to his feet.
Justin grasped his shoulder and shoved him back into his seat. "Easy there, my fellow," he said, his voice all amusement. "You would think it was your own wife there instead of—well"—Justin flashed a grin—"you know how it is, Mr Sheldon, when a woman cuckolds a man."
William nodded. "Indeed, I do."
"Seems the lady was burning both ends of the candle," Justin said. "It's my guess her husband is teaching the wench a lesson far beyond that you could serve up, my boy." He gave Marcus a hearty clap on the shoulder.
Marcus slumped back into his chair. "She didna' cuckold me," he muttered in a sullen a voice, and looked at William. "'Tis no' enough to be sure she's the one."
"She is the most likely one."
Marcus exchanged a glance with Justin. "What do you mean 'the most likely one?'"
"There's another woman, but she doesn't seem a good fit. A raving lunatic. Has nightmares about a child who was poisoned—"
Marcus started. Justin straightened and Steven dropped his spoon into his nearly empty bowl. William looked from one man to the other.
"Where is this woman?" Marcus demanded.
"Twenty miles outside of Boston in Danvers Sanitarium."
"Danvers?" Steven repeated in a loud voice.
Marcus shot him a warning look.
Steven lowered his voice. "That's an asylum for the criminally insane."
Marcus felt the blood rush to his head.
"What are her circumstances?" Justin cut
in.
"Her father brought her," William replied. "She suffers from delusions that her child has returned from the dead." William shivered. "Most of the men working there fear her. There's nothing like the fear of the devil to put the fear of God into a man."
Or the fear of a courageous woman, Marcus silently added.
Minutes later, Marcus stepped from the tavern onto the dimly lit street between Justin and Steven. Once out of sight of the tavern, Marcus looked at Justin. "I am the spurned lover?"
Justin grinned. "You weren't anything until I thought you would do poor William in."
"Who is this William?"
Justin gave a deprecating laugh. "A Boston law-enforcement officer."
Marcus addressed Steven, "What do you know of Boston law enforcement?"
"I don't know William, but many Boston police officers are in a position to know information like what he told us."
Marcus nodded. "Where does Landen Shipping hold its board meetings?"
"The Brill Building, downtown Boston," Steven answered.
Justin said, "Ardsley will have to transport her from the sanitarium to the meeting,"
"Aye." Marcus replied. "Only, we will meet him long before he reaches Boston."
* * * *
The sun peeked over the horizon. Not a single traveler had appeared on the road leading to Danvers Sanitarium while they lay hidden under the cover of darkness. Marcus tapped Justin on the shoulder and signaled that he would return momentarily. He slipped from the trees overlooking the road east of them, crept through tall grass, brambles, and bush up a hill. The wildly growing foliage ended abruptly. Across a vast manicured lawn, the view of the sprawling, ivy-covered, brick building—his first in the light of day—chilled him to the bone.
The pointed towers and peaked gables had lost the haunting look their silhouettes projected in the twilight hours and became, instead, the bared teeth of The Witches' Castle. A shudder ran through him. What sort of twisted mind had built a sanitarium on the spot where John Hathorne, the most fanatical judge of the Salem witch trials, once lived?
Marcus's heart hardened at sight of the iron-barred windows. He brought his gaze down to the stone steps of the front entrance. Marked on both sides by wrought iron railing, they lead up to a circular, covered porch. Columns supported the porch roof on either side. He looked again at the windows, studying one, then another, of what seemed an endless array of cells.
