by L. L. Muir
It was a trick he might have learned from his father, what little he remembered of the man.
She offered a curtsy. He ignored it.
“If I said I was here to apologize, you wouldn’t believe me?”
He shook his head infinitesimally.
“Then will you believe I wish to dance?”
He lowered his brows in answer.
She sighed and stepped closer. His heart leapt with anticipation of her confession, for whatever it was, he would use it as blackmail to get that kiss.
“In all honesty, sir, I wish to make Lord Norleigh jealous. I thought you might find it diverting to help me do so.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Ye’ll owe me a favor in return, then.”
Now she was the suspicious one.
“I’m certain I’ll think of something. Something ye can live with.”
“Very well. I accept.”
He offered her his arm and led her to the open floor where couples were facing off. When the orchestra began, he was relieved. “I believe I ken the steps to this.”
She looked doubtful.
“And if I forget, I’ll just throw in a jig or two, aye?”
The lass laughed and relaxed a bit. And though they could do little more than smile at each other through the exercise, he felt as if they had become very familiar with each other by the time the dance ended.
“I thought of my favor,” he said, while they applauded the musicians.
She bit down on her plump lower lip, and braced herself for the rest.
“A stroll in the gardens.”
The lass pretended to consider it, but he knew she was really looking around for Norleigh. They both found him surrounded by a familiar foursome, and for the first time, Connor was grateful for their interference. Their faces bore the same expression they’d had when they’d first gone after Condiff—intent, but pleasant enough.
“Very well. A short stroll. In plain view.”
Connor pretended shock. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She didn’t believe a word of it, but smiled and slipped her hand around his elbow. Remarkably, standing so close to her, feeling her warm, mortal hand holding firmly to his arm, seeing the guarded truce in her eyes, he decided to do something he would have never done in his past life.
He would resist the desire to kiss her simply to prove she was wrong about him.
Or at least, he would try…
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I take it you know someone else named Gray,” he said, once they were on the garden path. The gardens themselves were arranged in a vast diamond pattern with a hundred different turns that might stretch a short stroll into a day-long adventure.
She nodded.
“Someone unpleasant, aye?”
She smiled and nodded again.
“Is he Scottish?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Then he’s no kin of mine.”
Mercy shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so. It was just a reminder, that’s all.”
“Would ye like me to murder the man for ye?”
He thought she would be shocked by his outrageous offer, but she only smiled. “He has already paid for his crimes, sir. But thank you.”
“Auch, I see. The wee lass can take care of herself?”
“Aye,” she said. “She can indeed.”
They walked in silence for a bit. He should have jumped at the chance to repeat her words to Ashmoore and his lot, but he knew he would not. Whatever there was between him and Mercy now belonged to them alone. And his thoughts wandered as he tried to remember something he might once have felt similarly possessive about. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what. Money, perhaps. But whenever that had been taken from him, he’d easily found a way to replace it.
“Who are you?” Her green eyes had turned almost black in the low light.
Connor leaned close and lowered his voice playfully. “I confess. I am a selkie.”
“From the Scottish fairy tales?” She glanced heavenward and shook her head.
“Aye. I am. And I have a mere forty-eight hours to win a lassie’s love so she will follow me back to my watery home. Or I will die of a broken heart.”
She was unfazed. “That’s a horrible story to tell children, by the way. Be careful whom you set your sights on, Selkie, or you may drown.”
“No doubt that is sage council for all—mind who ye love lest ye pay for it with yer life.”
She studied him so intently then, he wondered if he’d divulged too much about himself. So he sought to recover.
“But don’t mind me, lass. What would life be without someone to love, aye?”
She shook her head, dubious again. “Ah, no. Too late, my friend. You’ve already shown your true colors. And now I wonder if we don’t have much more in common than I might have suspected.” She studied his eyes again. “Will you tell me what you loved so dearly?”
It was a safe bargain to agree to, since he’d never truly loved anything. “Aye. If ye’ll tell me yer own secret.”
An invisible shroud of privacy hung around them while they spoke quietly in the midst of a crowd. He didn’t care who might be watching and wondering while he waited for her agreement.
Her brow furrowed, but her smile boded well. “Fine. But you tell me your secrets first. With whom, or what, did you fall in love, that it cost you everything?”
“Ye’ll not laugh at me, will ye?”
“I swear it.”
He glanced about and found far too many ears within hearing, so he turned her in another direction. Once again, they faced the mullioned doors open along the length of the stone terrace. They were still in full view of the ballroom at large, so she had little reason to worry. But the noise was markedly subdued. At least a dozen couples strolled down the center path through the lantern-lit gardens, another half dozen bent their heads together in private conversations, but still in full view of the others.
No reputations were in danger. He hoped she was disappointed.
“This is infinitely more suitable for conversation,” she said, “though I warn you I only indulge you because the man I am most interested in is having a private meeting. Once I have his attention again, you and I have nothing more to discuss. Is that understood?”
Connor inclined his head, but gave no verbal promise. For the rest of the evening would be disappointing indeed if he never spoke to her again. And no matter how lovely the other forty-nine-odd women in attendance, he couldn’t imagine finding another lass as compelling as the one standing before him.
“Very well,” she said. “Do tell.”
Connor sought for a cleverer response than what came to mind, but he failed. So he spoke plainly. “Scotland.”
Her eyes lowered and she bit the corner of her bottom lip for a moment. The opposite corner of her mouth lifted slightly as if she enjoyed the puzzle presented in his answer. “Scotland, you say? You fell in love with your own country? And this is the tragedy that nearly cost you your life?”
Her interest was clearly waning, and if he didn’t think of a better way to explain himself, she might call foul and refuse to tell him anything of her own story.
“I…” He shrugged. “God as my witness, I fell under an enchantment. It is the explanation that feels the most truthful, I assure ye. For why else would a perfectly sane man volunteer to fight in a battle in which he had no stake?”
She nodded. “I see. You’re a soldier. That explains quite a bit. You might have been killed—”
“That is not it at all.” He tried again. “I am no soldier. I was brave for but a moment, got swept along for a pair of days, in truth, and lost…everything.” He nearly told her he’d lost his life.
“And you regret falling in love with Scotland. You’re angry.”
He smirked at the irony. “Indeed. I have been angry for a good long while, but angry with myself.”
The lass looked off into the distance. “For me, it has bee
n seven months. I don’t…” She looked at him then with true understanding. “I don’t even remember what I was like before then. Is it not strange, how someone else’s death can affect one’s own memory?”
He reached up and smoothed the worried frown from her porcelain brow. “Whose death?”
She swallowed with difficulty and he considered letting her off the hook, to keep her from reliving something that was obviously painful for her. But then he wondered if it might help her somehow to speak about her troubles.
A 19th century lass getting therapy from an 18th century ghost, compliments of a 21st century witch. None would believe it.
“In April, my brother…hung himself.”
Connor straightened and reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.
“I do not need consoling, sir. Truly.”
He nodded and moved slightly back, giving her a bit more of the space she seemed to require. Then he gestured toward a stone bench nearby. He sat only after she did, and when they each leaned back on one arm, like mirror images, it was as if they were connected in some manner.
“My brother was Lord Dennison,” she said finally. “He lost everything but his title in a whirlwind of gambling. And I know for a fact that, had I not loved him so completely, I would still have one heart and not two separate pieces that will never be united again.” She forced a smile. “So now you see why your Parable of the Selkie seemed to apply to me.”
“Aye. I do understand it. Though I hope ye’re wrong about yer heart never mending.”
“And I hope you are wrong as well, sir, about being brave for a day only. For sometimes, surely, a single moment of bravery is sufficient?”
Raucous applaud erupted from inside the ballroom and couples roaming the gardens streamed back toward the terrace doors.
“It is time,” Mercy said, and stood.
“Time for what?” He offered his elbow and hoped to keep her from fleeing him altogether.
“For everyone to separate. Tomorrow’s activities will be at Atherton Hall, Lord Dalham’s, and the last day at Lady Russell’s Broxdale Park. The guests are to be divided up between the three homes. I’m certain, as a relative of Lady Grant, you’ll be staying here at Sandhill.”
“Then the party isn’t over?”
“No! This was merely the first of three. I will have two more days… Or rather, we will all have two more days…of festivities.” She lowered her head and tried to hurry him along.
He tried not to count how many detours he might have led her down, through a maze of trees and shrubbery, where he might have tested his resolve. But with two more days, surely he’d find another chance…
CHAPTER NINE
A three-day party in the country. Two days still to go.
In terms of hours, Connor had more than forty left to him, if Soni granted him a full two days’ time. And though the thought of wasting any of those hours sleeping sounded foolish indeed, he could not deny that the heavy weight of his mortal body was already taking a toll. Either that, or someone had slipped him one of those pills that made a body sleep.
Lady Grant’s butler tried to steer him toward the staircase, where he would supposedly be sharing a room with two gentlemen. But after so many decades of sharing a grave with so many other male bodies piled on top of his own, he would be damned if he’d pile into a bed with two more.
So he suggested the butler give his arranged space to someone else and struck out for the kitchens, assuming it would be the best guess for locating a back door. He intended to find his rest in a barn, surrounded by the sounds and smells of creatures with four legs. Since a goodly portion of the guests had been sent off to the neighboring estates, the barn shouldn’t be too crowded. Or so he hoped.
He followed a footman carrying a tray heavy laden with dishes, and when the man led him into a butler’s pantry, Connor ducked away into the next room, following the heat of an untold number of ovens. A ribbon of cool air teased at him, and he knew must be near an open door.
Gads, his cousin had a lot of servants. And every one of them turned to watch his progress through the house. When their mouths opened to speak, he picked up his pace, and by the time he finally caught sight of an open door, he fairly ran through it.
Fresh air, with a wee nip to it. Just the stuff.
He paused in darkness and filled his lungs with it, ignoring the fact that it was, in fact, English air and not Scottish.
A warm spot of orange glowed bright to his left and he turned to find two maids helping themselves to a footman’s pipe. The young man’s smile fled when he noticed Connor, but the maid holding the pipe wasn’t bothered in the least. She took a long drag on the stem and blew the smoke his way.
When had he last smelled tobacco smoke?
By the tilt of the woman’s head, and the lift of a brow, he recognized the invitation. Except for Miss Kellaway and a few others, the maid was as pretty as any of the ladies in the ballroom, in a 19th century way, and seemed to have all her teeth. Of course, in his day, the state of a woman’s teeth hadn’t been much of a concern. But after his centuries on the moor, he’d seen too many pretty smiles on the telly, and even in his ghostly form, his preferences had changed.
Forty hours left, and he had yet to kiss a pair of rosy lips…
But something kept him from accepting the invitation, and that made no sense to him a’ tall. He regarded the second maid, hoping to find her more inspiring than the first, and found her pretty, round, and just the sort he had come looking for…
The footman laid a hand around that one’s waist to let him know she was spoken for. But there was worry in his eyes, as if he suspected the lass would follow Connor if he so much as asked.
Connor gave his head a slight shake to let the fellow know his claim wouldn’t be challenged. But in his mind, he was ranting at himself for turning away the opportunity. A half dozen, at least. That had been his plan. And if he simply took what was on offer, he’d be well accomplished by morning!
But no.
Disgusted with himself, he headed for the outbuildings. But due to the traffic of horses and the men putting them to bed, he realized the barn would be overcrowded after all. So he struck out between two buildings, setting his sights on the field beyond. An arm for a pillow, and his plaid wrapped around him, he’d be asleep in no time at all.
He left the clatter of the yard well behind him, his feet feeling heavier with each step he took. And when the sounds seemed distant enough, he stomped in a circle, judged the softest spot for his bed, and dropped his belt. The plaid wrapped well around him, and when he settled between rows of plants and laid his head on his arm, he felt as if he’d become part of the earth again. But each deep breath reminded him that he was still above it.
His eyes closed. The plaid warmed. The sound of his own breathing lulled him away like the sound of ocean waves. And there in the limbo between wake and sleep, he was too weak to fight the truth—that if Mercy Kellaway had been standing outside the kitchens with come hither in her eyes, he could have stayed awake all the night long.
He cursed how time had changed him. Or perhaps it had been the years haunting the moor with so many honorable men. But never in the life of Connor Gray would a willing lass have been left to her lonesome by the kitchen door.
He had half a mind to go back and fetch her.
Half a mind, but no enthusiasm.
Damn!
CHAPTER TEN
Mercy couldn’t have planned it more perfectly.
Sitting opposite Norleigh in a dark carriage while the two older couples nodded off on each other’s shoulders practically left them alone in a dark room. But because of their company, Mercy was safe from any advances the viscount might wish to make. All she had to do was keep his attention, keep him wishing, so she stared at him in silence.
In the thick shadows, he couldn’t see that she was seething with hatred, not simmering with anticipation, as he might assume.
“I’m certain you’ll appreciate Lady
Russell’s accommodations,” he said quietly. “I’ve been her guest on two other occasions, and while she keeps the genders in separate wings, she does not lock us in…”
Mercy said nothing. She only stared into his eyes until he finally fell silent and stared back. No doubt he believed they were still communicating. But she knew he could not be plotting her downfall as she was plotting his.
She’d stared down her own conscience in the same way—ignoring it outright until it finally ceased prodding her.
Would she regret what she was about to do? Certainly. But what she would regret more would be doing nothing to punish the man.
No. The murderer.
After nearly a half hour of torturing the man in silence, they arrived at Broxdale Park where Lady Russell was hosting more than a third of the revelers. They waited another ten minutes before their carriage was close enough to disembark. But during those ten minutes, with the light from dozens of carriage lanterns, she was able to see the effect her torture had created.
Norleigh’s eyes flashed with excitement. Though the other passengers had roused, he could hardly take his gaze off her, raking her from nose to knees while he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
She smiled to one side, in earnest for once, while she appreciated her work.
Yes. She had him now. And if she remained patient, she would have her revenge before the end of the party.
“I am anxious to see Broxdale’s famous fountains in the morning,” Norleigh said loudly as he helped her from the carriage. Then he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “The fountain is in the back garden. Meet me there in an hour.” Then, louder, “We had best hurry off to our beds or we shall sleep through breakfast.”
The two older ladies hurried off toward the grand entrance, excited by the prospects of either sleep or food, it was hard to say. Their sleepy husbands toddled along with their eyes half closed. Norleigh prodded her on with a hand on her back. She imagined he would have nipped at her heels like a border collie if he could have managed it discreetly.
