by L. L. Muir
Miss Kellaway’s mouth hung open while Connor asked a footman to bring him a clean glass, but he generously lifted her chin back into place without making a scene.
He introduced himself to the woman on his right, while his wine was poured. And when that duty was seen to, he turned back to Mercy. “It is nice to be dry again, aye?”
She ignored the small talk. “What do you plan to do when Lord Parnell returns?”
He shrugged lightly. “I noticed an empty seat down the way. He’ll have no trouble finding it.” The lass shook her head and applied herself to her plate. When her nose wrinkled a bit, he leaned close. “A bit of salt helps.”
He pushed the wee salt dish closer to her. Reluctantly, she reached for it.
When the piqued curiosity of the other diners faded, he felt safe to speak again. “I dinnae suppose ye’ve reconsidered yer plan?”
“I do not care to discuss it again.”
Since he couldn’t very well argue with so many others sitting close, he reached for another topic, just to keep her speaking. Her voice was much more pleasant than his last dining partner.
“Let me put a question to ye, Miss Kellaway.”
Her eyes widened with worry.
“If ye kenned ye had only one day left on this earth, and ye found yerself at this country party, what would ye do with that precious bit of time?”
Her brows pushed together over her nose.
“Here, now. It’s a simple enough question. A diversion is all. Dinnae fear that I mean anything by it, aye?”
She nodded, but her frown proved she didn’t believe him. “Are you talking about you? Or me?”
“Me. A man. If you were a man with only one day remaining.” He resisted the urge to look in Norleigh’s direction. He was still loath to share their conversations with anyone else, but especially that bastard.
“Well, with only one day left, I suppose I’d find a pretty girl and dance the night away.”
“A fine idea.” He grinned. “So? May I speak for the first dance this evening?”
She gave him a look of warning.
“Just the first. After all, I might find a bonnier lass…”
She laughed before she could stop herself, but eventually, she nodded. “Unless something unexpected occurs.” Then an awkward silence descended between them while dessert was served.
Beneath the table, Connor nudge her knee with his own, then pointed with his knife to a pair across the table and down a way. They were carrying on a conversation with their eyes alone.
“If we’d have been two other people,” he said in a low voice, “like those two…”
She watched the couple for a moment, then nodded discreetly.
“I would have crept up to yer balcony every night to watch ye sleep, until…”
He held her gaze. She bit her lip and blushed.
“Until the night I could finally lie beside ye…and watch ye sleep.”
She laughed quietly, but raised no argument.
“I expect ye sigh a great deal.”
She rolled her eyes. “And I suspect you snore, though we shouldn’t be discussing such things.”
“Nay. Ye’re wrong. In fact, I sigh a great deal myself.”
She laughed a bit louder and it garnered much more attention than he wanted. He simply wished they could converse alone. But since he couldn’t afford to waste opportunities, he pressed on.
“If we had been these other people, I should have liked to show ye the Highlands. Perhaps married ye there, on the shores of a glossy loch.”
“And I would have worn heather in my hair.”
The picture nigh stole his breath.
“And for our honeymoon, a trip to the fairy pools?”
He shivered, remembering how cold those pools had been in his youth. “Nay. Let’s give Italy a go.”
“That sounds infinitely warmer.”
He grinned. “I suppose we could hurry off to Gretna Green tonight, and be married by the blacksmith.”
Her smile fell away, and he realized he’d shattered the fairy tale, for Gretna Green and the blacksmith might be in her immediate future, but with another bridegroom at her side.
“Forgive me, lass.”
She smiled sadly and shook her head. “Hope is a cruel thing to offer me, when you know I cannot take it.” After a sip of wine, she turned her attention to the man on her left.
The large doors opened and the man whose seat Connor had taken stepped back into the room. Four burly fellows in Atherton livery shadowed him. He looked to the far end of the table, then scanned the length of it until he found Connor sitting in his seat.
“This looks ominous,” he murmured. Of course he had no fear of embarrassment. And he never apologized. So the only thing left was to wait and see what the other man might do to embarrass himself.
The five-man parade marched to his side of the table and down the length of it. It was no surprise when they stopped at Connor’s back.
“You’ll come with me now, Mister Gray.”
The woman to his right lifted her nose in the air. “Lord Parnell? You mean Lord Gray, do you not?”
“I’m afraid not,” the man told her. “He’s an imposter, actually, praying upon Lady Grant’s generous nature.” He stepped back and motioned for Connor to stand.
Connor stood while keeping his eyes on the dishes, but every nerve was focused on Mercy Kellaway, waiting for the slightest hint of regret. Alas, she made not a sound. He’d have heard it if she had, since the entire room had fallen silent.
But why waste all that attention?
He drank the rest of his wine, cleared his throat, and spoke to the company at large though the lass would know his words were for her.
“Beware of guilt, aye? ‘Tis the deadliest weapon. All blade. No hilt.”
His warning was met with blank stares. And as he allowed the large men to lead him away, he realized the person he’d really meant the words for was himself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Unfortunately, the party at Atherton Hall must have required a great deal of wine, for the small section of the cellar in which Connor had been secured for the past two hours had not a bottle left in it.
Cruel, that.
If he was to spend the rest of his brief mortality locked in a dim dungeon, the least his captors could do was provide him with enough wine to dull his senses, aye?
“But when have the English ever given a thought for a Scotsman’s comfort?”
His shout ruffled the flame of the single candle burning outside his makeshift prison and he decided a little light was more important than venting his spleen. So he moved back into the room and sat upon a sadly empty barrel.
He could have used a cool drink of something to ease the burning in his gullet whenever he thought about Mercy Kellaway’s betrayal. Of course, he tried to avoid thinking about it at all, but when he allowed his thoughts to drift where they would, they always returned to her and those deceitful, berry colored lips.
Had she planned to turn him in before or after she kissed him?
That thought made him look down at his chest, to see if there might be a gaping black hole that could explain the throbbing there. But no, even in the shadows, he could see he was whole.
What madhouse had he been imprisoned inside, while upstairs, a hundred people danced and laughed without care? And she among them.
No wonder she hadn’t wanted to commit to a dance with him, if she expected him to be removed from the party at any moment!
There he was, dwelling on her again. And in his stomach, a punishing pang—though that stomach seemed to have risen a bit and shifted to the left. If he possessed a heart, he might have worried the thing had been damaged.
Damn her for not trusting him. He’d given his promise to keep her secrets and stay out of her way! Why, for once, couldn’t an Englishwoman show a wee bit of faith?
Fool! Why did I show so much?
And Soni! She had to shoulder a bit of the blame as
well. If she’d restored him to his former self—his true self—he’d have never allowed those damned bulldogs to manipulate him as they had. He’d have walked away, shown them the bras d’honneur and found that maid just outside the kitchen door.
By the time Lord Dalham’s picnic started, he would have moved on to the second maid. And most importantly, he wouldn’t have been plagued with worry for a cold-hearted… Mercy Kellaway would have already landed Lord Norleigh and been happily on her way to a hasty ceremony, after which she could live as unhappily ever after as she pleased.
“And I wouldnae care!”
The dirt swallowed up his echo and the door hinges complained as the portal opened wide. “Typical,” Northwick said with a shake of his head. “You lock a Scotsman in a dry cell and five minutes later he’s managed to get drunk on the mere memory of spirits.”
The memory of spirits!
For a millisecond, Connor wondered if the foursome knew exactly who he was and from whence he’d come. But there was nothing on their faces but disgust and a touch of concern.
For him? What did they care?
The burly servant holding the keys looked as if someone had interrupted his dinner. “Lord Parnell was quite certain the man’s an imposter.”
“Of course he’s an imposter,” said the handsome blond with his nose in the air. “I hired him to pose as Lord Miles Gray. As I explained to Lord Dalham, we suspect there is a jewel thief among the party guests, and we hired this man to ferret him out.”
“Or her.” Harcourt fairly bounced on his heels, enjoying himself no matter what was afoot. Even in the dim cellar, Connor could see the ever-present glint of mirth in the man’s eyes.
It encouraged him to hope. “Ye’re releasing me?”
“Of course,” Northwick said. “We have to get you back to the party and assure everyone there that a mistake has been made. We have to find the thief.”
The blond rolled his eyes behind his friend’s back, probably unimpressed with his Northwick’s over-dramatization for the jailor’s sake. But further back, Ashmoore stood in shadows and silence, and the dark look on his face sent a shiver up Connor’s spine.
Did the man always look so menacing? Or did he know about the kiss in the orchard? Was he biding his time until he was free to tear Connor in twain?
Connor inhaled deeply and shook the previous night’s dream out of his head. The man wasn’t a mind-reader, after all. Was he? He shook his head again and resisted the urge to ask the brooding man if he happened to have any Muir blood running through his veins.
The men parted and allowed Connor to lead them out of the cellar. Northwick’s hand landed on his shoulder as if they were the best of friends. Harcourt and the blond grinned as if they were all just coming out of a friendly pub. It was all suspiciously chummy until Northwick’s words came back to him. He dared not pause, however, until he knew he was free for good.
“Did ye say ye’re taking me back to the party?” Connor asked out the side of his mouth.
“Yes. We’ll explain that Lord Parnell was duped, an unwitting accomplice to our little prank. And that it was just a party prank. With Stanley involved, no one will dare condemn it.”
“Stanley?”
“You know Stanley.” He pointed over his shoulder at the blond. “You just don’t know you know him. Stanley? May I introduce Miles Gray—”
“Connor,” he corrected.
“Forgive me. Connor Gray, may I introduce His Grace, Stanley Winters, Viscount Forsgreen, son and heir to the Duke of Rochester.”
Connor glanced back and met the man’s eye. “Hello, Stanley.”
The blond’s mouth lifted to one side. “Mister Gray.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Connor and his rescuers paused at the top step that led down into the ballroom, the dancers ceased in order to stare. Even the music died a dissonant death. And though Connor had known few self-conscious moments in his various lives, that was one of them. In fact, it was the heat of his own blush that embarrassed him all the more while Northwick told the crowd about their elaborate prank on their new friend, Lord Gray, who had been gracious enough to forgive them.
To a man, everyone appeared relieved while they laughed their patronizing laughs and applauded the royally handsome Viscount Forsgreen and his friends.
Connor looked at Northwick. “Now what?”
“Now you find Miss Kellaway and keep her on her toes, so we won’t be forced to.”
Connor tilted his head. “I don’t think so, mate. Prison has left me with a grand thirst.” He marched down the steps all but daring anyone to stop him, and made a bee-line for the dining room and the refreshments.
Oy, but he was going to get well and truly refreshed.
He waited for Lord Dalham’s man to locate a Scottish Whiskey when the looming form of Lord Ashmoore blocked out all light from Connor’s right side. But he refused to be cowed—until he remembered those kisses in the orchard.
Impossible! The man cannot read my mind! He knows nothing!
Connor forced himself to breathe normally when all his instincts told him to run. And judging by the way others seemed suddenly in a hurry to leave the immediate area, he wasn’t the only one who felt danger emanating from the man.
“Norleigh will not leave her be,” Ashmoore said, then pointed at a bottle and waited for his drink to be poured.
Connor swallowed with difficulty. “She’s probably over the moon, then.”
“She is not.” Ashmoore took his drink and walked away.
After his racing heart settled, Connor thought about what had been said. Norleigh was bothering the lass, and she wasn’t welcoming it? At first, he wondered if Mercy had changed her mind. But what did it matter if she was getting unwanted attention from a man and the bulldogs would do nothing about it?
The servant returned cheerfully with a familiar bottle, but Connor waved it away and headed for the ballroom. He spotted Miss Kellaway, in a peach and green gown, shaking her head at Norleigh. And while she was smiling, it wasn’t genuine.
Connor stepped onto the dance floor to make better time and heard someone mumble, “There’s a good Scot.” A glance over his shoulder proved it had been Stanley, but Connor pressed on, weaving around dancers, careful not to get in the way.
“Miss Kellaway,” he said, not caring if he was interrupting. The relief on her face was gratifying indeed, but he maintained an oblivious expression on his face. “Ye haven’t forgotten yer promise, have ye? I’m sorry I wasnae here for the first dance, due to Lord Forsgreen’s prank, but I hope ye’ll honor the promise in any case, aye?” He looked at the frustrated Lord Norleigh and waited for introductions like a gentleman.
Mercy did the honors. “I am sorry, my lord,” she told the man, “but I did promise.”
“I can hardly resent a woman who keeps all her promises,” he said, and inclined his head.
The lass laid a shaking hand on Connor’s arm and he led her to the edge of the dance floor where they kept their backs to Norleigh while waiting for the current dance to end.
“You seem less than pleased to see me, my lord,” she said, looking straight ahead.
“Dinna mock me, lass. Ye ken verra well that I am no lord.”
“I promise I said nothing to give you away, sir.”
“And what about that letter ye passed to yer cousin? Whatever ye spoke to Condiff about, the other fellow must have overheard.”
“That letter was a request for my cousin to…make amends for a mistake I made before I came to London. I did something out of spite, when I had mistakenly believed I was doing it out of love for my brother. But you helped me see that was not the case.” She paused for only a moment. “Please believe me. Someone here must know the real Lord Gray and shared his concerns.”
A likely story. “Then why are they not coming forward now?”
She shook her head. “No one would question a future duke. So you are safe as long as he is here.”
Connor glanced
in the direction of his benefactor and wondered if the party guests were familiar with middle finger gestures. After considering the trouble it might stir, he decided not to test them.
“Then ye betrayed me not?”
“Never.”
“Because ye fear I would betray ye in return?” He turned to watch her reaction.
She met his eye. “That is not why.”
For once, he decided that he wouldn’t ask her to explain herself, instead, preferring to believe what he wanted to believe, that she was too fond of him to do such a thing. It was a fact, he had thought so before, in the orchard, after she accepted him as a common man, and allowed him to kiss her—twice.
He hadn’t noticed the music stop. In fact, it was difficult to concentrate on anything other than the living, breathing lass with her hand warming his arm. But somehow, he managed to lead her onto the floor for their promised dance and not embarrass either of them.
~
There seemed to be no color theme for the night’s festivities, but even though the ladies wore an array of colors, none seemed to draw his eye like Mercy Kellaway. Even the pale topaz of her necklace failed to catch his attention until he thought it best not to stare at her face so long at one go.
The swirl and twirl of the dance floor gave them a false sense of privacy, though they had to speak quickly and sporadically as the dance steps moved them together and then away again.
“I hope this doesnae alarm ye,” he said, “but…a verra, verra long while ago, I would have been considerably more interested in the gems around yer neck than in yer kisses.”
“My kisses?” The sparkle in her eyes and the roses on her cheeks led him to believe she had missed his confession altogether. “And now?”
He stared at her lips outright until he was certain she knew the answer. Then he replied anyway. “The only gems I see are on yer cheeks, in yer eyes…and presently awaiting the moist touch of yer tongue.”
He watched her struggle against his suggestion while they took their turn dancing in the center of the quadrille. She even bit her lips together to keep her tongue from escaping. But once they were back at rest, apart from the others, she turned her head away. When she turned back, her lips glistened.
