by Fiona Neal
Regal in his Burgundy velvet banyan, her uncle stood in the doorframe.
“Deirdre, if you wish to evade me, remember to shun the creaking floorboard. It is a most reliable sentinel.” His keen turquoise stare riveted her to the spot.
“Why should I wish to avoid the one person I love most in the world?” She spoke truthfully about her affection for him, even though they often disagreed on matters of finance.
“Pretty words will not extricate you, my lass.” Despite the firm declaration, his expression softened somewhat. “You have deliberately set off after I expressly forbid you to venture beyond the gardens.”
“But you never explained your reasons, have you?”
Sir Robert MacLeod stiffened his stance. “Deirdre, you should accept some things on faith. Furthermore, you know the Earl and Lady Glenmuir—”
“Have been unavoidably detained,” she interrupted and suppressed a smile.
“You do not have the ‘sight’.” He shook his auburn head. “You could never have predicted they would be late.”
I merely planned their delay, Deirdre thought, slipping her hand through the slit in her riding habit skirt to beneath her panniers. The cache of jewels coins weighed heavily in her huge pocket. She must hide the booty until she could deliver it to Effie.
“Suppose they had arrived on time?” The silver strands threading the reddish hair at his temples gleamed, catching the light from the wall sconces. “You would not have been here to greet them.”
“Uncle, why argue a moot point?”
“Because your recent defiance concerns me,” he replied.
“It is not recent but an old matter, indeed.” She impatiently tapped the end of her riding crop on the floor. “As you often say, it is part of my perverse nature.”
“While we are on the subject of your chronic recalcitrance, I wish to conclude a certain business.” He extended his arm, gesturing for her to enter his apartments.
Dreading the interview, a chill of apprehension shivered through her, but a liveried footman hurried up the stairs, interrupting their confrontation.
“M-My lady, Sir Robert,” the man stammered out. “A servant from Lord Kilbraeton just arrived. The Flame has robbed them, and they were forced to recover their horses before continuing on. The man bid me inform you that his lordship will arrive within the hour.”
“The Flame!” her uncle exclaimed. He clutched his heart, and perspiration covered his face.
“Uncle, are you all right?” Deirdre grasped his arm.
“Aye,” he answered and nodded.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure.” Removing her hand, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Send a message to Lady Mary MacNeill to come here. The poor woman must not remain alone with this mad man on the loose.”
Neither poor, nor alone, Lady Mary had the wealth of Midas and a house full of servants, but Deirdre had no time to quibble with him.
“Uncle, let us continue this discussion later. I must prepare to meet our guests,” and hide the contraband in my pocket.
Deirdre exited his chambers and hurried down the corridor to her suite. Entering, she threw the bolt to prevent the intrusion of her maid, Morag. The heather-scented steam rising from the tub near the glowing hearth indicated the woman would soon return to help Deirdre bathe and dress for tea.
Dropping her riding crop on a chair by the wall, Deirdre rushed to her dressing table and removed a small key from its secret drawer. She opened the brass-studded chest at the foot of the rose canopied bedstead and unlocked the smaller wooden box inside. Then she withdrew the contents of the bulging pocket tied beneath her panniers. She dropped the sack inside the smaller box and locked it. Slamming down the lid of the chest, she replaced the key in the secret drawer and hurried to unlock the door.
Deirdre quickly unlaced the front of her riding jacket, doffing it and the boned jumps she had chose to wear beneath it instead of her more constricting stays. Similarly, she shed her over and under petticoats, panniers, shoes, and stockings.
A rap sounded on the door.
“Enter,” Deirdre called out.
“My lady, you have finally come,” Morag declared, a blonde curl escaping from her white mobcap as she bustled in. “When you did not return, I began to worry. I thought The Flame—”
“Uh, I heard...but Fergus and I went for a long ride. The fog delayed us.”
The elfin maid came forward, picking up the clothes when Deirdre let her shift slip to the floor and stepped into the tub.
“My lady, we must hurry. Una told me Lord Kilbraeton would arrive shortly. I’ll get your peacock-blue tea frock,” she declared, scurrying off to the dressing room.
Lathering a face flannel, Deirdre sighed, knowing her greatest challenge—avoiding this marriage—lay ahead. Her life, as well as that of Fergus, depended on it.
Yet, how strange it seemed that even after ten years, she still would have recognized Ian anywhere. Sandy hair queued back, he stood so tall, so powerfully built as his shoulders spanned widely in the jacket of beige wool. His strong jaw had clenched, and the nostrils of his straight, chiseled nose flared while his moss green gaze had burned with silent fury into hers.
A powerful sensation had seized her body, unnerving her and forcing her to back away. But fear had not caused her retreat. This feeling proved quite different, compelling and seductive, but Deirdre sensed its danger and instinctively withdrew.
The man was her mortal enemy and wanted to see her swing. Moreover, Lord Kilbraeton’s father had murdered hers. Surely, that was the cause of the fierce pounding in her heart.
* * * *
Clothes rumpled, Ian and Strathaven trudged through the huge door of Ballanross Manor, stepping onto the black and white marble squares of the graceful foyer. The cherry wood paneling and a great crystal chandelier banished the gloom of the misty afternoon.
“I never thought we would get here,” Strathaven confided softly.
“Nor did I,” Ian agreed, feeling tired to his bones.
“My lords, I am so glad you arrived safely.” Sir Robert strode toward the two men.
As his host came forward, Ian beheld the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life at Sir Robert’s side. Taller than average, she possessed full breasts, a tiny waist, and a cascade of deep red curls which tumbled over her white graceful shoulders.
Upon her approach, Ian’s gaze fused with hers, and he lost his breath. Her turquoise eyes, so like her uncle’s, shimmered like the Mediterranean off the coast of Capri. His body reacted immediately and powerfully.
Suddenly, he realized the woman was Deirdre. The coltish child had bloomed into a flaming-haired Venus who now drifted toward him in a cloud of peacock-blue taffeta.
Remembering his manners, Ian replied, “Thank you, Sir Robert. We are grateful to be here.”
“Very grateful,” Strathaven agreed.
Ian immediately moved closer to Deirdre. “My lady,” he said. “He took her hand, placing a kiss on its back. The intoxicating contact with her white, soft flesh caused him to feel as if his blood had turned to whisky.
Delighted, he watched a blush color her cheeks.
“W-Welcome to Ballanross, Lord Kilbraeton and Lord Strathaven,” she greeted them, her hand still in Ian’s.
Strathaven doffed his gray tricorn, giving her a sweeping bow. His antics caused her to smile. Ian’s chivalrous friend remained a favorite with the ladies.
“We just heard of your brush with The Flame,” Sir Robert continued, “but where is Lady Glenmuir?”
“The experience unnerved her,” Ian explained. “Her maid dosed her with a dram to calm her, but she is unharmed and will be along presently.”
“I, uh, am happy to hear her ladyship is unhurt.” Deirdre smiled diffidently, revealing her lovely teeth.
Her hand still in his, Ian felt her tremble slightly. “Thank you, my lady,” he replied, marveling at how the candlelight caressed the slim curved bridge of he
r nose, the delicate slope of her jaw, and the taper of her pretty chin. Uncontrollably, his fingers ached to do the same.
“At least the rogue refrained from hurting anyone,” her uncle commented.
“Our military escort searched the hills, but found nothing,” Ian reported. “It seems impossible, but the scoundrel and all his men just disappeared into thin air.”
“Likely, they took refuge in the cave,” Sir Robert speculated.
Deirdre’s eyes widened and she jerked her hand from Ian’s grip.
Poor lass, Ian thought. Talk of the bandit probably frightened her witless. “What cave?” he asked.
“It is half way up the brae opposite Ballanross Manor,” Sir Robert explained. “Actually, it is a tunnel which passes right through the brae. The end that faces the road is hidden behind an overgrowth of broom, but the trees camouflage it as well. I used to play there as a child. So did Deirdre.”
“That was how the scoundrels vanished so completely,” Strathaven remarked.
“Thank you, Sir Robert,” Ian answered. “I shall send one of my servants to inform Lieutenant Pickering.
Ian took note that Deirdre’s lovely complexion paled considerable. Obviously, The Flame’s proximity frightened her.
“Oh, oh, oh heaven help me!” Aunt Barbara exclaimed.
Plumed hat and wig askew, a footman on each arm, Lady Glenmuir staggered into the large entry, her serious-looking lady’s maid following in their wake.
Pity wrung Ian’s heart. His childlike aunt never hurt a soul. “There, my lady,” he said. “You will be as right as rain after a rest.”
Deirdre stepped forward to greet the woman. “Lady Glenmuir, I-I am so sorry.”
“Oh, Lady Ballanross, I have never been more terrified in my life. Her eyes wide with fear, the woman’s heavily rouged jowls quivered. “I need my bed.”
“Of course, my lady,” Deirdre reassured her. “We have your suite ready for you. Shall I have a tea tray sent to your chambers?”
His aunt brightened, as she usually did, at the mention of food. “Oh, that would be lovely, Lady Ballanross. Half dozen scones with butter and marmalade would do wonders for my recuperation.”
“Certainly, my lady,” Deirdre said and turned to the old servant standing by. “Please show Lady Glenmuir and her maid to their rooms and make sure they have hot water bottles and hot bricks. There is a definite chill in the air.”
Deirdre turned back to Ian and Strathaven. “I am sure you wish to rest after your journey, my lords. We serve tea at four in the drawing room, but if you wish, I’ll order a tray sent to you before then.”
“I prefer to bathe first, my lady.” Strathaven kissed her hand. “I should hate to sit in such lovely company with the grime of the road on me.”
“I agree.” Ian chuckled, amused by his friend’s gallant manner. All bark and no bite, Strathaven carried a broken heart under his cheerful façade.
“Then if you will excuse me, I shall join you later.” Deirdre departed in a rustle of peacock blue silk taffeta and a trail of heather perfume.
Ian thought he could not have asked for a more desirable bride. Not having seen Deirdre in so many years, he had harbored some qualms about the marriage. Now he eagerly anticipated the union.
* * * *
Her guests settled, Deirdre hurried to her bedchamber, still shaken that her uncle had revealed her hiding place to Ian. Before changing their clothes and returning to Ballanross by way of the forest, she and Fergus had left their disguises and all the flintlocks there.
Furthermore, she always felt guilty about frightening her unwilling benefactors. Now, witnessing Lady Glenmuir’s distress just increased her shame.
“Deirdre,” her uncle called as she passed the open door to his suite. He walked to her. “We must continue our discussion.”
Dread filled her heart because she knew what must ensue. Still, she swept past him into the huge room, her shoes sinking into the cream and blue Aubusson carpet. The dancing fire in the hearth cast a rosy glow on the blue damask covering the walls of the bedchamber, but did nothing to dispel the cold fear in her heart.
Her uncle walked to the graceful mahogany secretary by the leaded casement. Reaching into one of the cubbyholes, he withdrew a cylinder of paper tied with a red ribbon.
Recognizing the marriage contract, Deirdre wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt.
“Lass, you should have been married years ago and already graced the Ballanross and Kilbraeton nurseries with heirs. But I let you persuade me to delay those happy events because you were so young, and I could not bear to let you go. But this union will heal a great rift between our two families.”
His touching words wounded Deirdre all the more, knowing she must gainsay him.
He set the contract down on the desk and walked toward her. “Your departed mother wanted this marriage for you very much.”
Her uncle spoke truly. Though only six years old when her mother died, Deirdre remembered her mother expressing that wish many times before the woman made her untimely demise. But Deirdre never understood how Jeanne MacLeod could forgive the family that killed her husband.
“It is imperative that Ian marry,” her uncle continued. “He is the last of Alasdair’s children.”
“Then let him marry a woman who will be glad to take him to husband. I am a countess in my own right with my own fortune. I need no husband to make a profitable match.” Why was Uncle Robert so insistent, so desperate lately for this union to take place?
“Deirdre, there is another advantage to this marriage. It allows you to receive the jewels from your grandmother’s estate before you reach your majority.”
According to the terms of the will, Deirdre would take possession of the treasures when she came of age or married, whichever event occurred first. Once they became hers, she planned to sell some pieces, paying everyone she robbed, erasing the crimes she and Fergus perpetrated. The rest of the jewelry would serve as a fund to help the poor without the interference of a husband. But a marriage would change all that.
“That is a cheap bribe, Uncle Robert. Even if I do not marry, the jewels become mine in a year anyway, and they stay mine! Furthermore, you know very well that if I wed Ian, the jewels become part of my moveable property, and as such, will fall under his control.” And she had no intention of letting that happen. “You could have prevented that from happening by restricting them from his dominion when you and the lawyers wrote my marriage contract.”
“So you can bankrupt yourself by selling them off to help every crofter who passes our doors?”
“It is you who’ve chosen to impoverish me of all control by forcing this marriage!” she rejoined, her voice increasing in volume.
Instead of raising his voice he answered quietly, “Deirdre, your mother and I gave our word.” Sighing, he sank into one of the two armchairs flanking the hearth.
“To the man whose family killed my father? Why? No one will tell me the reason.”
“I have explained that: to bind the wounds of our families. Furthermore, I gave your mother my sacred promise.”
“I suspect that is only part of the reason; yet, you force me when you know my feelings?”
“Deirdre,” he said, his voice ringing ominously, “we are honor bound.”
Undaunted, she continued, “You are bound by honor. I had naught to do with the agreement.”
For a fleeting moment, she considered telling him she was The Flame. That would convince him to forget about the marriage, but the revelation would make him her unwilling accomplice, subject to fine, imprisonment, and death.
“You are the last of your line as well, Deirdre. You know your responsibility.”
“So I must give up my dreams to be used like some mindless brood mare. Perhaps you would like to explain the reasons why you never married. What of your responsibility to the House of Ballanross?”
He leapt of from his chair, eyes ablaze with anger. For the first time in her life, her gentle uncle grab
bed her shoulders and shouted, “Never speak those words! Do your hear me? You are my heir—my only heir!”
Unexpectedly, he released her. Clutching his chest, he grimaced. “Deirdre!” he croaked as he fell back into the armchair.
“Uncle Robert!”
Chapter Two
“What is wrong, Uncle Robert?” she cried.
Her heart slamming, Deirdre bent over him, as sweat beaded his ashen face. Fingers shaking, she loosened his stock. Never before had she seen her uncle this vulnerable. In fact, apart from a slight sniffle, Deirdre never remembered him falling ill at all. Lids closed, he sighed deeply.
Deirdre hurried to the washstand. Wetting a towel, she squeezed it then applied the dampened cloth to his forehead. “Uncle, I am going to send for Dr. MacDonald.”
His eyes opened. “Nay,” he said and caught hold of her wrist.
“But, Uncle Robert—”
“The spell is passing. They always do.”
“Always?” she asked, horrified. “Do you often suffer from these attacks?”
“Nay, not often,” he replied on short breath.
Deirdre surmised he was minimizing the seriousness of his condition. Was he gravely ill? Had he and Dr. MacDonald conspired to conceal his illness? He hid so many other things from her— information about her parents for one.
Suddenly, panic gripped her. Uncle Robert could die!
Perhaps his illness accounted for the reason he insisted on this match with Ian. Maybe he dreaded leaving her unmarried, alone, and in his opinion, unprotected in the world.
Deirdre stepped to the bell-lever, tugging it frantically. She did not care what he said. She wanted the physician—now.
“Deirdre,” he said.
She returned to him, swallowing back her tears. “What is it, Uncle?”
“You must sign the marriage contract and wed Ian Campbell,” he gasped out. “I’ll do anything!” Only please do not die. Later, she intended to extricate herself from the match; but now, she must ease his mind.
“Call Duncan MacLeod, Deirdre. Your signature should be witnessed.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Deirdre hurried to answer it.
