by Scott, Tarah
Which of those tiny rooms held Elise prisoner? So close. Marcus envisioned forcing his way past the attendants who fed off the brutality they inflicted upon the helpless inmates. The image, however, was violently replaced by the realization that those men would hold him until Price arrived. Then any power embodied in the information he held would become worthless—and Elise would be lost forever. He closed his eyes in an effort to banish the thought but saw, instead, her frail form, lying on a thin pallet, hands crossed over her breasts in readiness for the coffin. He shook off the vision, then turned from the menacing asylum. He crept down the slope and returned to Justin and Steven.
Marcus scanned the empty road before whispering, "What has gone wrong?"
"Mayhap Ardsley took her out before we arrived?" Justin asked.
Steven shook his head. "No. You heard what our scout said when we arrived yesterday evening. Price hasn't been to the sanitarium."
Marcus started to speak, but Steven cut him off. "The surrounding area is being watched. Had anyone ridden cross-country, we would have been alerted."
"A single man could have slipped past your men," Marcus said. "Does Ardsley ride?"
"Quite well," Steven replied. "But he couldn't have approached the hospital without being spotted. As you have seen, Danvers is surrounded by open country."
"He would need a carriage for Elise," Justin said.
"Aye," Marcus agreed, "but if he didn't plan on bringing her to the meeting today, he would have come by horseback."
"If he doesn't need her at the meeting, he may not have come at all," Justin added.
"He has no hope of swinging the vote without her," Steven said. "He must bring her. Why keep her alive if he isn't going to present her?"
That was a question Marcus couldn't consider.
* * * *
Another day of living with the knowledge that Elise was locked in hell had worn Marcus beyond thin. The Single Penny's tavern door swung open and he snapped his attention onto the newcomer, his brother-in-law. His heart rate accelerated. The grim expression on the lad's face didn't bode well. Steven assessed the room in the same manner he had the day they'd met William Shelby, then pressed through the cluster of men milling near the door and shuffled across the room.
He slid into the seat opposite Marcus and without preamble whispered, "I'm a complete fool."
"What has happened?" Marcus demanded.
"We were so occupied with Danvers—so sure Elise was there—"
"Are you saying she is not?"
Steven shook his head. "No. Only that our knowing she is there created a distraction." He gave a harsh laugh. "If I didn't know any better, I would swear Price planned it." His mouth dipped into a deep scowl. "It occurred to me last night that I should question Price's servants."
"Wouldn't Ardsley stop you?" Marcus asked.
"If he knew, yes. There is little love lost between Price and his servants. The housekeeper, in particular, despises him." Steven halted and looked past Marcus. He realized the barmaid must be approaching with ale in hand. An instant later, she appeared at his right and set an ale before Steven.
"Any of that jackrabbit stew left?" Steven asked.
"Always got jackrabbit stew," she replied.
"Two," Steven said, and she left. He drank from his mug, then said, "Mrs Hartley is a jewel of a housekeeper and Price knows it. Every day, after lunch, she goes to the market. This afternoon, I met her there." Steven paused. "I've always wondered why she stays with Price. A woman with her skills could easily find another post. She doesn't live in terror of him as the other servants do.
"This is the only concession I have ever known him to make in his household. That, too, puzzled me. Price isn't a man to tolerate being questioned. Today, I discovered why she stays. Mrs Hartley has a son. He is now thirty years of age. About fifteen years ago, he killed a man in a brothel brawl. The dead man was a well-respected businessman. All these years, Price has been holding this over her head."
"Why tell you this after all this time?"
Steven gave a low grunt. "Two reasons, I suspect. One, she likes Elise. The second, once I told her Price was holding Elise captive she must have realized that there was a great chance I would deal with him legally. That would free her from Price's hold."
"Bloody hell," Marcus burst out. "You didn't inform her of my presence?"
Steven glanced around the tavern and Marcus cursed his temper.
The younger man leaned closer. "Of course not. But the woman's no fool. She knew I was up to something. Nothing goes on in any household the servants don't know, sometimes even before other family members, and with good reason; they're smarter than the devil himself. Our stew is coming." Steven slumped back in his chair.
Marcus did the same as the barmaid set a bowl of stew before him, then Steven. She turned and headed back to the bar. Steven placed his elbows on the table and took another drink of ale before stirring the stew.
"Mrs Hartley knew that Price told the board Elise was here in America," he said, and took a bite of stew. "He's in the habit of having late meetings in his home with board members. Last night, a woman was brought in. She was dressed in black. Heavily veiled and heavily sedated. Price carried her to one of the guestrooms on the second floor. He wouldn't allow anyone into the room when he took her up. Half an hour later, he called for Mrs Hartley. Imagine her shock at seeing Elise in the bed, looking as if she had all but stepped into the grave."
Marcus's heart missed a beat. "How did he get her past us—we left Danvers too soon."
"Don't lose yourself just yet, MacGregor. I thought the same, but there was something wrong with Mrs Hartley's story."
"What do you mean?"
"She said a single candle burned on a table in the corner of the room. The covers were tucked tightly around the woman's shoulders. Despite the dim lighting, Mrs Hartley observed the emaciated neck and hollow cheeks of the woman—and her hair—you know how thick Elise's hair is."
"Aye." Marcus remembered well the silky feel of the thick tresses between his fingers.
"Mrs Hartley said her hair was so thin that her scalp was visible in places."
"'Tis but two months since Arsdley abducted her. How is it possible—"
"It isn't," Steven cut in. "The resemblance must have been strong for Mrs Hartley to believe the woman was Elise, but Mrs Hartley said the woman was barely recognizable as the Elise she had seen just a year ago. Elise lost weight due to the stress of Amelia's illness, but she was, overall, very healthy."
Marcus nodded. "The housekeeper thought Elise had been wasting away an entire year."
"Right." Steven took another spoonful of stew. "Consider," he said between chewing, "it's not yet two months since Elise disappeared. Had Price starved her to the point of shedding that much weight, her heart would probably have given out."
"The woman is not Elise." Marcus leaned back in his chair. "Why an impersonator? Why not simply incapacitate Elise?"
"I can only guess," Steven said, "but—"
"But," Marcus interrupted, "he will not risk her leaving the asylum."
Steven nodded. "Price is… canny." His expression turned pained. "Had I been more aware—"
"Nay," Marcus cut him off. "The man is clever and he can't have done this alone."
Suddenly, Langley's words came back to Marcus. "Ye have a spy, MacGregor." Price Ardsley had help. The truth hit like a landslide. The Campbells. Marcus recalled the day they attacked the women at the loch and the look on the Campbell warrior's face when Elise called out that Nell had been taken. The man recognized the American accent. They had come for Elise—for the second time. Marcus suddenly understood why they hadn't accosted her when they kidnapped her: the ten thousand pound bounty. But how had they known—more importantly, who at Brahan Seer had aided them?
"MacGregor."
Marcus shook from his thoughts at hearing Steven's voice.
"What is it?" Steven asked.
"Ardsley may not be as omnipotent
as he appears."
"What do you mean?"
"I believe some old enemies of mine were in league with him," Marcus said. "Elise had a bad habit of leaving Brahan Seer without an escort."
Steven paused in taking another drink of ale. "Brahan Seer?"
"Our home in the Highlands. She used to go alone outside the castle."
Steven grimaced. "I can believe she would be so foolish. Even as a girl, she drove Father to distraction, coming and going without permission."
"You are saying this is a fault of hers?"
The younger man barked a rough laugh. "MacGregor, if you're only now coming to this conclusion, I have no sympathy for you."
Marcus smiled faintly. "The woman can be a pain in the arse. She is mine, nonetheless."
"These enemies," Steven prodded.
"Aye. They kidnapped Elise once, tried a second time."
Steven regarded him for a long moment, then shook his head and took another bite of stew.
Marcus liked the lad. "The board meeting," he said. "The vote is to be held at Ardsley's home tonight?"
"No, tomorrow. But the board members are to meet at Price's home tonight. I wager Price is going to let them see Elise in her sick bed then, when he presents the paper tomorrow—a paper signed by my sister—it will be a fait accompli."
"What time this evening?"
"Eight o'clock."
Marcus glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind the bar. Four fifty-five. "We have three hours."
Steven raised a brow. "If we show up and claim the impostor…"
"Aye," Marcus said. "If he wants my wife's fifty-one percent of Landen Shipping, he will have no choice but to return Elise to me."
"We should have stormed the damned hospital," Steven muttered darkly.
Marcus tensed, remembering all too well the strength of will it had taken to keep from hiring fifty men and raiding Danvers. Strength of will. Nay. Justin had been the voice of reason. They weren't in Scotland, Justin had reminded him. Here, Marcus was naught but a British subject on foreign soil. He had always thought of himself as a man of logic and not given to rash action. But, until now, he hadn't realized how much he relied upon his position as the Marquess of Ashlund—even more—the son of the Duke of Ashlund.
Ah, Ryan, my ancestor, how far our paths have diverged.
For the first time in his life, Marcus understood the true nature of Ryan MacGregor. All these years, Marcus thought he understood him—thought it was Ryan who demanded recompense for the wrongs done to the MacGregors over the centuries. But, in truth, how could Marcus, a man of wealth and position, understand a man who possessed nothing? A man who fought with the only weapon he had: his mind. Marcus laughed inwardly. How many years had he fought his enemies with the sword—the very thing Ryan had fought against?
Marcus turned his attention to his brother-in-law. "We are far from finished with Price Ardsley. We shall deal with him in a way that brings about his demise because of his own actions."
Steven's gaze intensified. "All I ask is that I be allowed to witness his end."
"Aye, lad," Marcus replied in a quiet voice. "You will be one among many."
* * * *
Marcus watched, concealed by the evening shadows among the trees, as the seventh carriage that night passed through the iron gates of Price Ardsley's mansion. The crunch of gravel beneath the carriage wheels grew fainter until the high and low seesaw pitch of cricket music again filled the quiet. Marcus's horse shifted beneath him and he gave the animal a soothing stroke. Steven's horse nickered softly, nuzzling his companion's nose, and Steven patted his shoulder.
Marcus looked at him. "What time is it?"
Steven pulled a pocket watch from the breast pocket of his suit. "Nearly eight," he whispered, and slipped the watch back into its place.
Marcus returned his attention to the mansion. "Is that the last of them?"
"Unless Brentley rode with one of the other board members, no."
"You are sure your vice-chairman will attend?"
Steven grunted. "Price would be glad not to have Brentley attend. Brentley is a thorn in his side. But Brentley has been chairman since the inception of the company and the other members would not attend a meeting of such importance without him."
Steven peered down the road and they lapsed into silence. The cricket symphony abruptly halted and, an instant later, the faint clop of hooves and turning of carriage wheels sounded on the public road up ahead. Marcus squinted until the outline of a coach took shape in the darkness.
"Brentley," Steven said.
The carriage passed through the gates and the darkness, once again, closed in around it. The nightlife sprang back to life. Still, Marcus waited several long moments, acutely aware of his companion's impatience before saying, "Now, Brother," and urged his horse from the cover of trees.
They slowed their horses through the gates and onto the gravel of the private lane. The cool air of fall brushed across Marcus's face, then snaked its way between his collar and neck in chilled fingers. The road wound through the grounds until, at last, a faint glow lit a beacon through the thick trees to the left. The road made a sudden left turn and the mansion came into view, two gas lights blazing on each side of the doors. No servant waited to greet them. All expected guests had arrived. Both men dismounted at the base of the stairs and hurried to the door. Steven entered with Marcus close behind. A butler appeared from a door at the end of the hallway carrying a tray laden with decanter and glasses.
"Sir!" he cried, rattling the tray.
"Simons," Steven replied, and started up the grand black walnut stairway to his right.
"Sir," Simons called again as Marcus followed Steven up the staircase.
"I'll see myself to the second floor," Steven called over his shoulder.
The tray was set down with a clatter and was followed by the light tread of feet on the stairs behind them.
"Simons is persistent," Steven said in a low voice, taking the stairs two at a time.
The staircase followed the wall straight up to the second floor. The landing turned sharply left at the top. Marcus strode down the corridor alongside Steven, who stopped at the fifth door on the left.
"Sir," Simons called from the landing.
Steven reached for the doorknob and Marcus saw his hand shake.
"Lad," he said, gently.
"Sir!" Simons cried, his voice nearly hysterical. "You know how Mr Ardsley does not like strangers upstairs." Simons had nearly reached them.
Steven looked at Marcus, gave a single nod, then said as he pushed open the door, "He's no stranger, Simons; he is my brother-in-law."
The words "brother-in-law" rang in the silence of the bedchambers.
Simons hit the doorframe with an audible slap. "Mr Ardsley, sir," he said between heavy breaths, "I tried stopping them."
Marcus locked gazes with the powerfully-built golden-haired man who stood nearest the bed. He looked to be about ten years older than himself. He outweighed Marcus by twenty pounds, but his fit frame testified that he wasn't a man given to excessive drinking or any such habits that would quicken the infirmities of age. Cold blue eyes stared back at Marcus. Here, at last, he understood what Elise so feared.
"I am—" Simons began, but Price Ardsley said in a quiet voice, "Go along, Simons. We're fine." Price shifted his gaze to Steven. "Steven, I wasn't expecting you."
"I am sure," Steven remarked.
Ardsley focused on Marcus, and said, "Sir?"
His tone was quizzical, but Marcus understood the flicker of expression that had said, Lord Ashlund, you are a surprise.
"Pardon me, Gentlemen," Marcus said, and brushed past the men who stood in stunned silence. He felt Price's eyes settle on him as he sat on the bed beside the woman Price claimed was Elise. Marcus took her cold, limp hand in his and lifted it to his lips. "Elise," he said in a choked whisper, then gently lay her hand upon her breast. Sliding his arms beneath her, he lifted her, bed covers and all, from the
bed.
A chorus of protests sounded as Marcus turned toward the men gathered in the room.
Chapter Twenty
Elise felt herself lifted into a sitting position. Next came the familiar cold rim of the metal cup against her lips. Do not drink, she warned herself silently. The thirst doesn't matter. Her mouth felt like sandpaper, parched from lack of water, but the laudanum-laced water held a greater fear than death. She allowed her head to loll to one side. A meaty hand cupped her cheek and forced her into a more upright position. Liquid dribbled past her lips and into her mouth. She kept mouth and throat muscles lax and, despite the cold of the liquid as it trickled down her neck, none made its way down her throat.
"She can barely sit up," a coarse female voice said. "Why does she need more?"
"'Tis the doctor's orders," came the all-too-familiar Irish brogue of Ramsey.
"Bah!" the woman said. "If you want to waste your time forcing it down her throat, do so. I have better things to do."
The cup left Elise's mouth and the hand released her face. Again, she allowed her head to loll to one side.
"You're right," Ramsey said.
Her head was laid back on the pallet.
"They will dose her this evening. She's not likely to come out of this stupor before then."
The woman laughed. "She's not likely to come out of that stupor ever."
"How is the bleeding?" Ramsey asked.
Elise tensed inwardly, calling forth every ounce of strength not to react openly to what she knew was forthcoming. She felt her skirts lifted, then cool air washed her legs as the woman drew back the fabric. Elise bit back tears when her legs were spread, though only slightly this time.
Soon, she told herself, soon. If I can convince them for just one more day that I don't need the laudanum, I will find a way out of this madhouse.
There came a prod to the rags between her legs, and the woman said, "Not so bad."
