by L. L. Muir
He turned to face her, ready to assure her he’d taken no offense, but she obviously read something different in his eyes. At the look of abject pity on her face, he turned away again. Lord help him, what had become of his acting skills?
She wrapped her hands around his arm and circled to face him. “It was unforgivable to treat you so callously. You, who seem to know me better than anyone still left on this earth.”
There were real tears on her cheeks, which he could not bear, so he reached up and dashed them away with his thumbs. His hands lingered along the sides of her face, but she didn’t pull away. And bending to place his mouth upon hers seemed an economic thing to do—a way to exact punishment and accept her apology all in a go.
It took the pair of them a good ten seconds to catch their breath afterward, but he couldn’t seem to release her. In fact, he didn’t try.
“I don’t even know your name,” she said, content to remain where she was.
“Connor.” He leaned forward a little and paused, giving her a chance to pull away, kissing her again when she didn’t. It was if those soft bits of flesh were meant to be pressed together there, in the orchard, with the fragrant fruits adding a bit of sweetness to their embrace.
“Connor,” she breathed against his lips. “In the carriage, on the way here from Broxdale Park, Lady Russell thought your name was Miles or Mitchell. Something with an M.”
Auch, so, the jig was up, was it?
He dropped his hands away, expecting her to react badly to the truth. “I am Connor Gray, not Lord Miles Gray, as Lady Grant believes me to be. I am no Scottish noble. In fact, there is little about my life that is noble.” He bobbed his head. “There you have it. Reason enough to flee.”
Instead, she smiled as if he’d just pulled a coin from her ear, or a certain playing card from his pocket.
“Well, you certainly play the part well enough.”
She missed the point, obviously, so he thought to warn her again. “And here ye are, standing alone in a secluded orchard with a common man.”
“Hardly common.” She folded her arms and started walking—deeper into the orchard. “Will you tell me about Lord Ashmoore and his friends?”
The foolish woman reminded Connor of an equally foolish lass from the 21st century who also refused to see him for the villain he truly was. And he’d begrudgingly loved her for it, as much as a man like him could love a wee, fanciful witch. As for the lass before him, he resisted such maudlin consideration with so little time left between them. By the next evening, he’d be a vague memory for her, and nothing more.
He remembered her question and tried to act casually as he caught up to her. “What could you wish to ken about those bulldogs that I might be privy to?”
“I assume they’ve convinced you to keep me away from Norleigh.”
He saw no reason to deny it. “Aye. They have indeed.”
“What do they suspect?”
“That ye mean to do something dangerous, to avenge yer brother’s death.”
“And they would be right. And what’s more, I will succeed. There are too many vulnerable young gentlemen out there who may well end up like Denny if Norleigh isn’t stopped.”
She glanced over her shoulder, as if she’d heard something, then resumed walking. Connor waited and watched until a fat robin flew from one tree to the next. Then he relaxed.
“He will goad them into gambling away all they have,” she continued, “only because he is jealous of the lives they enjoy. The man is a monster that will keep preying on anyone who has something better than he has. Anyone who is happy—” She grabbed Connor’s arm to turn him to face her. “Denny was a happy man! A handsome, happy man for whom life was going well. The golden son. Liked by everyone—everyone but Norleigh, who only pretended to be his friend, who will pretend to befriend another young fool, and another.”
He considered that for the first time, and it made his offer all the easier. “If ye mean to see the man dead, lass, I would rather I did the deed. I would not see ye hanged.”
“Dead?” She stepped back. “You think…Ashmoore and the others—they believe I mean to murder him?”
“Do ye not?”
Her mouth hung open with indignation. “He’s the murderer. He’s the one who drove Denny to take his own life as surely as if he tied the noose for him. I will not turn into the same monster in order to destroy him.”
Connor felt a right git, though she hadn’t seemed offended by his blithe offer of murder. Rather, she seemed more upset that someone would believe her capable of such violence.
“But lass, if ye don’t wish him dead, then how do ye mean to have yer revenge?”
She blushed and started walking again. “I will get him to compromise me. I will arrange for witnesses to happen upon us. Honor will demand he marry me. And once I am his wife, I will make him suffer for every day that he is alive while Denny is not.” She smiled as if she were proud of her plan, but he couldn’t ignore the way she clenched her hands against her stomach while she laid it out for him. “I will find a hundred ways to ruin him, to drive him to the despair he so deserves. And more importantly, I will keep him occupied with keeping his own damn from bursting so he won’t have time to ruin anyone else.”
They continued walking in silence until they came to the last of the trees. The hillside beyond was far too steep and the terrain too rocky for a lady in slippers to continue, so they stood there, staring up at the hill.
Mercy was the first to break the silence. “You understand, now, why I cannot let you come between Norleigh and me?”
“I understand,” he admitted. “But ye cannot waste yer life with a man whom ye hate, aye? No matter how much satisfaction ye might achieve from torturing the bastard, ye’ve forgotten that ye will know no happiness.”
She shrugged and lifted her chin. “Satisfaction will be enough. Others will be spared—”
“Ballocks!”
She narrowed her eyes, hands on her hips. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ye heard me. Ballocks! Ye’re after vengeance, plain and simple, if ye’re willing to go through Hell just to make sure Norleigh takes the trip with ye. It’s a meaningless sacrifice to give up yer own future for a crime against nameless, faceless young men. A crime that may never be committed. Vengeance makes sense. The rest is ballocks.”
Her shock gave way to confusion, and then resignation. “I can see how you might think—”
“Ballocks,” he said again, though more gently. “But beware, Mercy Kellaway. Ye want revenge against a man that might not be strictly responsible for yer brother’s death.”
She curled her fists and gritted her teeth. “But he is! I know he is!”
“The guilty man is the one who tied the noose, aye? And unless ye can prove it was someone other than yer Denny who did it…ye might consider that yer true displeasure is with yer brother.”
Considering the harshness of his suggestion, he should have expected the slap. But it was Mercy who was most surprised by it. And judging by the sting on his face, she had to be feeling the same across her palm. It stole the breath from both of them.
“I loved my brother,” she said quietly. “I am angry at everyone in London who watched Norleigh destroy him but did nothing to stop it. And yes, I am angry with Denny. Perhaps angrier than I realized.”
Connor remembered the blond’s confession the night before. “It may help ye to know that some of this London-set are just as angry with themselves.”
She looked up sharply. “Ashmoore and the others?”
He nodded.
She took a swift, deep breath and let it out again. And when it was gone, she seemed a bit smaller. After a moment of studying the ground, she sighed again. “If I am honest, I should admit that I am most angry with myself.”
“Auch, lass, there is little a sister can do to stop an elder brother—”
“Not that. I couldn’t have stopped him. But I believed I knew him so well. And now, I feel like I didn’t know him at all. Th
e Denny I knew would never have been too ashamed to face me. There was nothing that couldn’t have been forgiven between us.” Her voice broke on a sob. “I thought he knew that.”
With one long step, Connor erased the space between them and engulfed her in his arms. For a long while, he simply held her and let her greet. But when an inordinate amount of tears began falling on his arm, he finally noticed it was raining.
“I have no plaid with which to cover ye, lass. We need to return and get ye out of the weather.”
She straightened and nodded. Her face was pink, her eyes red where salty tears had spilled unchecked over the rims. He turned her toward the house and wrapped an arm about her shoulders, but she stopped him with an arm across his chest.
The delay was made more frustrating by a cold gust of wind.
“You may be right, Connor Gray, but that changes nothing. I still mean to carry through with my plan. And I won’t take another step unless you give me your promise that you will not betray me to Norleigh or the others.”
“But lass!”
“Not another step.” Her face was hard again. Instead of tears trickling down pink cheeks, it was simply raindrops falling against cold rock.
He shook his head and tried to prod her toward the path, but she held her ground. And, as if to take her side in the matter, the heavens opened and fairly turned the skies over Atherton into a waterfall.
“Ye’ll catch yer death,” he shouted over the thunder.
“I will, if you don’t give me your word.”
He would never win against so stubborn a woman. “Ye have it. I’ll not share yer secret with a soul.”
“And you’ll stop trying to interfere?”
How could he promise such a thing? But the set of her jaw insisted that he do just that.
A tremor wracked through her frame and proved she wasn’t impervious to the weather, even if she had hardened her heart. So, for her sake, he relented.
“I will not interfere.”
She gave him a slight smile of thanks and took off running, mud flying up from her slippers as she hurried away. But the knowledge that she was rushing toward her own ruin was too painful to watch, so he followed at a slower pace, accepting the rain as punishment for his weak will.
Ashmoore was sure to kill him, either for the stolen embrace or for his silence. What Connor couldn’t decide was whether or not that was a lucky thing, for at least he wouldn’t have to stand about and bite his tongue while the lass walked happily to her doom.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
With the entire party sheltered from the storm beneath the roof of Atherton Hall, the twenty bedrooms strained at the seams with at least five guests each, huddled around fires as if it were the middle of winter. A steady stream of footmen marched up the stairs with dry wood and down the stairs with empty arms. And with so many pots boiling water for tea, every pane of glass in the house was covered with steam.
Mercy sat in a window seat, drew patterns in the fog with her finger, and tried to imagine she was somewhere else. The other four assigned to her room sat on benches and puffs and played cards on a small table that had been moved from beside the bed.
The weather led Mercy to memories of Christmas at Hedby and her favorite year of all, when Denny received a massive collection of toy soldiers the size of his thumb. Her own toys were all but forgotten when her brother invited her to play with his precious little figures. They could hardly be managed with a single pair of hands, and when she promised to follow his orders to the letter, she was allowed to help organize his war.
They’d warred for days without complaint from their parents. Day and night, food was delivered to them as if they truly were camped along the edges of a battlefield with too much at stake to go down to the kitchens for rations.
But the bliss began to fade when Denny tired of telling her what to do. She should have left then and gone back to her own presents, but she’d wanted so badly to impress him, a brother two years her elder. So she bragged she could lead her own army. No doubt Denny saw an easy victory when he agreed to let her try.
But how was she to know that war was such an easy game? And how could she have guessed that besting her brother would end with him boxing up the figures and never bringing them out in her presence again?
She hadn’t seen him as a poor loser then. He’d simply been the brother she adored who would never be truly impressed with her again.
When their parents died within two years of each other, they’d leaned on each other. He’d defended her to Father Gray and lost that ally, but it only seemed to strengthen their connection. Denny became Lord Dennison in truth, and she’d learned how to run the household so he could spend that first year in London without a worry.
The following year, when she’d joined him for her first Season, she’d expected a joyous reunion. But she was shy and awkward around his friends and embarrassed him with every turn. It had been a relief to them both when he suggested she return to Hedby and try again the next year.
Once she was home, however, she began to feel like just another tin soldier that had been added to the large case on his shelf. So she declared war upon her timid ways. It wasn’t easy, of course, but she forced herself to get involved in the community of Hedby. She learned names and faces, discovered pockets of need and neglect and rectified them, and found she had a gift for befriending people.
By spring, she had categorically rid herself of her timid ways, ready to finally amaze Denny with her accomplishments…when his body was delivered home. It took her months, but she’d pieced together enough information to know that Norleigh had drawn her brother into a life of gambling and taught him how to ignore his losses. Norleigh was the last to see Denny alive, knew her brother was horribly drunk and inconsolable, but had some excuse for not seeing his friend safely home.
Or so he claimed…
And Mercy had been robbed of the chance to finally impress her brother. Denny was gone, but it was she who had been robbed. Connor Gray was right! She was after her own revenge, not Denny’s!
And if her brother had lived? If she’d have come to London that season, not for revenge, but to prove she could be welcomed into Society, would her brother have been as amazed as she’d hoped? Or was the vindication Norleigh had stolen from her just another phantom?
Had she been wrong about it all?
And what of Father Gray? She had so enjoyed the revenge she’d exacted, but would Denny have been as pleased as she imagined? Now that her memories were so close to the surface, she remembered how much her brother had loved the church ruins.
Would he have been happy to have them reassembled around his grave? Or would he have been heartbroken?
“Oh, Denny,” she whispered against the glass, and the lines she’d drawn were erased by her breath. “Forgive me.”
A maid came to the room to announce that supper would be served earlier than expected, and dancing and cards would follow as planned. She added that the rain was expected to clear and they were all to pray that the weather would be fine for the next morning’s hunt.
The cards were put away and the ladies helped each other dress. Mercy plucked her slippers from the hearth where they’d been drying, and while she waited for them to cool, she wondered if a certain Scotsman had managed to dry out as well. He’d looked so fine in his gentleman’s clothes—which reminded her of his confession, that he was not truly the Lord Gray everyone thought he was.
It hardly mattered, of course. It wasn’t as if he’d been wooing young women with tales of his vast Highland estates or promises of generous allowances.
No. He’d been wooing no one but her, and all he’d wanted from her was a kiss or two. Poor man. If she didn’t keep her cards close to her vest, so to speak, he would be none too pleased to learn that she still sought revenge…
But this time, for Denny.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The possibility that supper might be Connor’s last meal did little to make it more palatable. Oh, t
here was nothing particularly wrong with the food—salt could hide an array of dishes—but the seating arrangements got his gorge up.
The elderly woman to his right had a feather attached to her head that completely blocked his view of Mercy Kellaway. And she kept whining about the food being bland, which only embarrassed the footmen and made the seated guests turn away from them both.
After the sixth repeat of the same complaint, Connor was grateful no one was watching while he reached over the woman’s head, plucked the feather from her hat, and sprinkled a generous portion of salt crystals over her plate, all while she fussed with the napkin on her lap.
He caught half a dozen footmen chuckling behind their white gloves, but at least no one of importance would be banning him from the table.
His dinning partner tasted her food again and he found that her sudden appreciation for the meal was just as annoying as her grumbling had been. What he really wanted was to hear every little breath, every sigh, and every word that tripped from the tongue of the woman at the opposite end of the table.
Thankfully, the table itself was wide enough to make speaking over it nearly impossible. The rain sprayed the windows and encouraged everyone to talk louder, which meant that Norleigh and Miss Kellaway wouldn’t be sharing conversation, even though they were seated across from each other. But still, that consolation was not enough to help his appetite.
He watched as the lass produced an envelope and passed it to a footman. His chest jumped in hopes that the letter within was meant for himself, but the young man walked it down the table a piece and handed it to her cousin, Condiff. After the man read the message, he strode to the lass’ side and spoke with her for a moment, then returned to her seat.
A footman pouring wine between guests blocked Connor’s view, but when he stepped back, a gentleman sitting on Mercy’s far side stood and left the table.
And what Scotsman worth his salt wouldn’t jump at the opportunity?
He was out of his seat and making excuses before the other man had even left the room. He ignored the inquisitive glances while he made his way to the empty seat and lowered himself onto it.
