Scrubbing a hand over his whisker-shadowed jaw, Ewan nodded. “Fletcher could gain entrance to the bailey. I’ve asked the guards to be extra vigilant, but as they’ve never seen him, he could slip by.”
She snorted, startling the doves overhead. They flapped their wings and cooed softly. “I don’t think he’s that daring or courageous. More of a craven, lurking behind bushes and buildings. Attacking unsuspecting children and sneaking about causing havoc, all the while the coward makes sure he’s out of harm’s way.”
“Nevertheless, I must insist.” Ewan yawned again, and chagrin speared her. Mayhap, worried about Yvette, he’d slept little.
Sighing, she relented. “For how long?”
Days? Weeks?
“Until Fletcher’s caught.” He scratched his chin, his expression guarded. Did he expect her to kick up a dust?
Closing her eyes, she swallowed her protest and gave one weak half-nod. “How is Yvette?”
“Well, thank you. She slept through the night.” Relief laced his words. He’d been through much, too.
“I’m glad.” Hoping he’d take his leave, Seonaid puttered for a few minutes, annoyance tempering her movements.
But he continued to loiter, that same contemplative look sharpening his face each time she slid him a covert glance.
Finally, she could tolerate it no more. Arms akimbo, she slanted a brow askance. “Did you need something else?”
Lowering his head, he cupped his nape and sighed. “I think you should know, I asked Devaux to leave.”
“Why?” My, I sound quite unruffled.
“I believed it best. For you.” Ewan’s gaze faltered for an instant. “He isn’t free to marry, and I feared your affections might have become engaged. Have they?”
None of your business. Stop interfering in my life, just because you’re laird.
Lifting his head, he met her eyes directly.
At the moment, remembering Ewan was her beloved brother proved a Herculean task when she wanted to hurl something at him. She eyed the refuse wheelbarrow, then a wooden bucket.
Yes, that would do nicely.
Taking another deep breath, she braced her hands on Agnes’s and Milly’s pen and, shoulders hunched, tucked her chin to her chest. Whacking him wouldn’t solve anything, and she’d regret her actions later.
Maybe.
“Ewan, I’m striving to hold my tongue and control my temper, but you go too far. I’m perfectly aware Monsieur le baron de Devaux-Rousset has obligations in France. I’m also old enough to make my own decisions and guard my heart.” Facing him, she made a frustrated gesture. “I don’t need you to do either, and that you would take it upon yourself to demand he leave when he has scarcely two coins to rub together, is both uncharacteristic and uncharitable of you.”
How would Jacques live?
Did he have the means to let a room? Perhaps Oakberry had accommodations. Not likely comfortable ones. For a man of his station, having a reverse in fortune must be humbling. “You do know he isn’t flush in the pockets? That he invested heavily in the mine?”
Ewan replied with a sharp jerk of his head. “I extended him credit with the condition he take his leave this morning.”
She gasped and dropped the grain scoop. “You paid him to leave?”
Why hadn’t that occurred to her? That Jacques would accept a loan from Ewan and then bolt? Mayhap that had been his intent all along, to wheedle his way into Ewan’s good graces because he needed financial backing.
More fool she, then.
At once her conscience chastised her.
Threads of honor and decency ran deep in Jacques. Else he would’ve taken advantage of her chastity and wouldn’t have been committed to saving his family’s estate. He might have desperate need of money, but he hadn’t accepted it as a bribe.
Her focus gravitated to the window again where it looked like giant fingers had feathered muted pink, lavender, and peach streaks that spanned a purplish-cobalt sky.
Jacques left because he knew, or at least suspected, she loved him, and he couldn’t love her in return.
And because he required Ewan’s money.
The latter was indispensable. She wasn’t.
Outside the window, Douglas strode to the blacksmithy, and grinning, gave Niall a hearty hug. Douglas would marry her, but a man so worthy deserved adoration in return.
A penetrating calmness descended upon Seonaid and absolute certainty directed her. “Ewan, doesn’t Yvette correspond with friends in America still?”
“Yes. Several in fact. One of Fairchild’s sons operates her shipping business offices there while the other twin gallivants ’round the world delivering supplies on his ship.” He straightened and opened the door for her. “Why?
With a renewed sense of purpose, she swept past. “Because I’m taking control of my life. I’m going to America.”
Chapter 22
Sore as hell from two and a half weeks of digging and hacking in Oakberry’s bowels made Jacques much more appreciative of the miners’ plight.
He rubbed the crook of his elbow across his sweating forehead, but almost as soon as he wiped the moisture away, more formed, running in sticky rivulets down his face and temples.
The first day, when he’d arrived ready to perform whatever task they set him to, the rugged lot raised their shaggy brows and exchanged skeptical looks. A few muttered oaths as well.
He wasn’t surprised they’d set him to the brutal labor right off. A test of his mettle. One he meant to pass.
They no doubt had assumed the fancy French gentleman wouldn’t soil his fine clothes or blister his hands. They’d been wrong on both accounts, and he’d earned their grudging respect.
After working side by side for a day, the men stopped whispering and slanting him wary looks. Now, they almost treated him as one of their own.
Except for his name.
Grinning, he lifted his pickaxe.
Hearing their thick Scots brogue butchering his name, Newton laughingly suggested they call him Laird Jock. And so he was dubbed.
There was something satisfying in working the mine, even more than spying, and certainly more than dallying with rum running as he’d dabbled in for a few months.
Newton had hired on the additional hands, and procured a new roll, jib, and steam pump with McTavish’s money, but so far, nothing more valuable than cobalt had been found.
Some days, Jacques cursed the mine for her stubbornness to produce an ounce of silver ore, like a virgin nun refusing a chaste peck on the cheek. And other days, he coaxed and cajoled, even prayed she’d share her coveted treasures.
At least mining for silver and cobalt proved far safer than collieries where the constant danger of dust, gases, and explosions lurked.
After seeing the men’s acceptance of Jacques, Newton offered to let him share his cabin. Le Manoir des Jardins it was not, but Jacques had a pallet to sleep on, food in his belly, and freezing water each morning to bathe with.
Nights proved worse as his mind returned over and over again to Seonaid. Her exterior hid a woman much more complex than she’d first appeared.
His musings inevitably strayed to a sensual nature.
Were her nipples dusky and swollen, or rosy and pert? Did she have more tempting moles hidden by her clothing? Would she be shy and quiet when bedded, or a wild temptress?
He laid a fierce blow to the rock he’d been working. The vibration radiated up his arms to his shoulders, the sound ringing in his ears in harmony to the other miners’ rhythmic strikes.
What was it about a person that they inevitably yearned for what they couldn’t have?
Revealing the truth to McTavish, about loving Seonaid, mightn’t have been the wisest course, but why prevaricate? Nevertheless, McTavish’s disapproval stung rather more than Jacques would have liked to admit.
Would McTavish feel differently if Jacques were flush? His French heritage wasn’t the issue, for McTavish was half-French. Perchance his reputation as
a man about town worried McTavish, and he didn’t think Jacques capable of faithfulness.
If gifted a splendid woman like Seonaid, only an imbécile sought another woman’s arms.
He hadn’t expected McTavish’s stipulation regarding the loan either.
Leave Craiglocky at first light and make no attempt to contact Seonaid again. And don’t tell her of our agreement.
When Jacques had seen the light in the outbuilding, he could’ve no more resisted bidding her adieu than cut his heart from his chest. In the end, the pain had been much the same. So, he took his anger and frustration out daily on Oakberry’s interior.
Soon, he and the others would quit for the evening, and tomorrow was Sunday—the one day the mine didn’t operate.
He’d be up at dawn, headed to Craigcutty to look for signs of Fletcher’s whereabouts. Jacques hadn’t received word from McTavish that the vicar—or whoever the hell he actually was—had been apprehended, and until he did, Jacques would spend every Sunday hunting the rat.
That had been Jacques’s one demand before he conceded to leaving Seonaid. McTavish was to keep him informed of the progress in capturing Fletcher.
Until the cur was imprisoned or dead, Jacques couldn’t rest. And he assuredly couldn’t leave Scotland. Not when Fletcher posed such peril to Seonaid. He could do that for her; make sure she never feared the wily, deranged cleric again.
A whistle’s shriek pierced the air, carrying into the shaft.
Quitting time. And dinnertime.
Not having eaten since half-past five this morning, he was ravenous.
Ham-fisted Laise pounded Jacques’s shoulder, nearly knocking him flat. “I be so hungry, I could eat a bull by meself.”
“Only one?” Jacques quipped, gathering his tools.
Laise guffawed, revealing a missing front tooth. “Aye, empty enough to swallow two whole, that I be.”
Considering the quantity of food the hulk downed at every meal, the exaggeration wasn’t altogether unbelievable.
Stepping into the line of miners filing from the shaft, Jacques fished his once pristine handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his face. Seonaid still retained the other two as well as his coat.
Would she keep them as tokens to remember him by? Or would she vent her anger and hurt by chucking them into the rubbish pile?
Thoughts of her tormented him, her marred face, the sorrow in her eyes as she bravely bid him goodbye. Who would she marry? McLean? Another clansman? Or perhaps a peer?
So nurturing and gentle, she’d make a wonderful mother and a thoughtful wife. How he wished he were the man who would see his seed grown in her belly and welcome their children into this world.
He’d like to plant that seed too.
Tripping, he plowed into Laise’s broad, sweaty back. “Pardonnez-moi.”
Laise grunted a guttural response.
Jacques best turn his thoughts away from Seonaid, at least until he was alone.
His stomach rumbled embarrassingly loud.
Most likely mutton stew for dinner again, along with oat bread, and ale. The humble fare tasted delicious, but he did occasionally crave the delectable dishes his chef—former chef—prepared. Louis had departed with the other servants and now probably cooked gratin dauphinois or coq au vin for a fussy demoiselle.
Striding out the mine’s entrance, Jacques inhaled deeply. He’d learned to appreciate simple things such as fresh air, cleanliness, and a hot meal.
The Highlands held a provincial, rugged beauty far different from France’s intoxicating allure, but the scenery and people enticed in a rustic, untamed way, nonetheless.
Varying shades and heights of gray, brown, and green trees rose against the craggy, boulder-strewn hill. Narrow paths, like a nest of gargantuan snakes, coiled through the trees, ’round the mountain’s base, and led to the cabins and the mining camp perched serenely below.
Men scurried about the encampment, stacking powder kegs, watering and feeding the mule teams. A few unloaded supplies and rations from two wagons before the cookhouse.
A movement amongst the stout trunks drew his attention. Probably a red deer or a miner seeing to his personal needs. Not a lot of privacy in the shaft to attend to that sort of business.
That night, his belly overly full, Jacques reclined on his thin pallet, covered in coarse blankets and listened to Newton’s sonorous snores. In his mind, he strolled through le Manoir des Jardins’s rooms, one by one.
He entered the dark, rich paneled library dominated by a grand desk and chair. He vaguely recollected his father bouncing him upon his knee there.
Wandering the rose and jade, plant-filled solarium Mère had adored, he heard her bevy of birds—long since dead—chirping and tweeting and inhaled the blossoms’ sweet perfume.
And meandering the wide terrace at the château’s rear, he conjured an image of him and Jeanette as small, indulged children playing with their dogs.
Closing his eyes tighter, he mentally ambled into another room. Only this one wasn’t empty. He wasn’t alone.
Seonaid lay upon his wide bed, her ivory skin glistening in a dozen candles’ shimmering light. Her lustrous sable hair lay spread upon golden sheets, her eyes narrowed to slits as she opened her arms and legs to him.
Shouting and cursing roused him sometime later.
Minutes or hours might have passed since his sensual musing seduced him into slumber’s arms. The sky remained blanketed in pitch-blackness, but loud pops, like gunshots repeatedly firing, rent the peaceful night.
“Bloody hell.” Newton scrambled into his clothing as Jacques came fully awake. “Laird Jock. Wake up!”
“Que se passe-t-il donc?” The overseer didn’t speak French. Jacques lurched upright, his focus riveted on the window. “What the hell has happened?”
“Somebody’s lit the powder,” Newton shouted, clomping down the stairs.
Only taking the time to yank on his shirt and pantaloons before stuffing his feet into his filthy boots, Jacques tore after Newton.
Men scrambled every which direction, pulling equipment and supplies away from the mine shafts, filling buckets with water to extinguish the fires set to wagons, carts, and a few of the cabins.
Breaking into a run, he charged toward the virgin shaft where the new roll and jig were. The steam pump hadn’t been needed yet, and its placement a hundred yards away from the current peril was one less worry.
If something happened to the other two pieces of equipment, though, he could abolish any hope of making something of Oakberry.
And it wasn’t simply about him anymore, either. These men, their families, all depended upon the mine. Many had mined coal before, and not a man wanted to return to that treacherous profession.
Sprinting toward the equipment, Jacques yelled, “We have to move the roll and jig. Hitch the mules. Hurry.”
He skidded to a halt upon spying a half-dozen or more kegs stacked within the shaft’s entrance. Flames licked from the cribbing and the vertical support beams as well as snaked along a thick black powder trail leading directly to the equipment.
On the equipment.
Merde.
Squinting, he tried to see through the billowing smoke. Powder kegs also lay under the roll and jig.
Sabotage.
Someone had done this deliberately.
Wheeling around, he waved his arms at the oncoming men. “Stop! Go back. She’s going to blow.”
Lungs burning, he lengthened his strides into a full sprint, frantic to outrace the igniting powder’s evil red streaks.
The explosion’s deafening force tossed him high into the air, the scorching blast searing his spine and pelting him with debris and shrapnel. He plummeted to the earth several feet away, ribs cracking, shoulder wrenching, and his head slamming onto the frozen ground.
Blurry blackness swirled, weighing him down as he spiraled in and out of consciousness. Squinting, he blinked to clear his vision of the blood oozing down his forehead, to see the frenzied men t
alking above him. He couldn’t hear them, merely felt searing, agonizing, paralyzing pain.
Everything had been destroyed.
Injured as Jacques was, the truth didn’t escape him. He’d gambled and lost. He’d failed. Seonaid would never be his. He’d nothing to live for.
Forgive me, Seonaid. I shall always love you.
Far above him, the sky gradually parted, and a hazy, undulating image appeared.
Blazing pain stabbed Seonaid in the shoulders and the back of her head. Moaning, she stretched, but her spine felt afire, and a crushing force squeezed her ribs.
Jacques’s bleeding face floated across her dream, and in an instant, she awoke.
“Nooo! No! Please, God. No.”
Leaping from her bed, she sprinted to her door, and after fumbling with the handle, yanked it open. Running the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the runner, she yelled at the top of her voice, her horrified cries carrying through the maze of corridors.
“Wake up! There’s been an explosion. Ewan. Mother. Father. Jacques is hurt.”
Doors flew open as her family spilled into the halls, pulling on banyans and night robes, or holding candles, their faces twisted with worry. Hurried footsteps echoed along passages as Dugall, Duncan, his wife Kitta, and their twins, Alasdair and Gregor, ran from their wings. Kitta immediately set to lighting the hall sconces.
Weeping, Seonaid raced to Ewan, still seeing Jacques broken and prostrate on the ground, a hellish fire roaring in the background, and the sky lit with flying debris. Gut-churning fear tearing at her middle, she grabbed Ewan’s arm. “He’s hurt, Ewan. Badly hurt.”
Mother rushed to her. “Who is, chérie?”
“Jacques.” Pride didn’t matter anymore. Seonaid didn’t care if everyone discovered she loved him. Drawing in a breath torn ragged around the edges from fear, she swiped at her tears. “We have to help him, Ewan. Please. I love him.”
These past two weeks, she’d tried to tell herself she’d been infatuated with Jacques, nothing more. That once she arrived in America, she’d forget him. The self-deception hadn’t worked.
Scandal's Splendor (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Book 4) Page 19
