She was the daughter of a wealthy, influential baron. Her father had issued Ogley an annual allowance. Her father’s money was the reason Ogley had been able to buy a prestigious command. And all of that because Brenda worshipped him. Ogley intended that nothing should take his place in her life. Not even his own child.
Bowing her head, Brenda murmured, “Yes, dear, of course I’ll do as you wish.”
As the footman opened the door to the master’s chambers, Ogley asked, “Lady Millicent, would you make sure my wife has a tray in our room so that she can join us later in the evening?”
“Of course!” Lady Millicent turned to Brenda in a flurry of concern. “Have you the headache? Could I send up a tincture too?”
While the ladies chatted, Ogley gazed at the magnificence of the MacKenzie master suite. He recognized wealth when he saw it. The large sitting room could be described only as magnificent, with chairs grouped around the fireplace, a writing desk stocked with paper, pens, and ink, a carpet so old the colors were faded yet so posh it still looked superb, and drapes of royal purple and gold. The carved table was adorned with an embroidered velvet runner and gold salver for calling cards. There Waldemar, dressed in a servant’s livery, unloaded Ogley’s war mementos from the bag he carried with him everywhere.
The door opened into the bedchamber, and inside Brenda’s maid stood beside the gilded bed, turning down the covers. The bed stood on a dais, as if the laird of the MacKenzies were some petty monarch worthy of worship. The royal purple and gold was echoed in the bedcurtains and the coverlet, and Ogley reflected bitterly that Hepburn must feel like a king when he slept there.
But Hepburn had given up the bedchamber to honor Ogley, and that made Ogley smile. Did Hepburn fear Ogley? Did he think to bribe him? Did little Lord Hepburn imagine that if he flattered Ogley that Ogley would forget Hepburn’s insults and play fair?
There was nothing fair about that night in London fourteen years earlier when a young, drunk Lord Hepburn had challenged the newly commissioned Ogley to a swordfight—and won. And laughed.
Ogley hated being laughed at. He had been the third in a poor, noble family of six rough-and-tumble sons, and it seemed he had always been the one who fell out of the tree or flipped off the sled or hid under the table and got caught. He had been the scapegoat for all his brothers, and he had hated it, retaliating by sneaking around and getting them in trouble. They in turn hated him. When he turned twenty and his father bought him the commission, it was the best thing that ever happened to him. He loved the army. Loved the uniforms, loved the formality and the chance to command lesser men who had no choice but to obey. He didn’t care if none of his fellow officers liked him. He was dashing and handsome, the ladies liked him, and he saw opportunity there.
Then Hepburn’s victory had made Ogley the butt of every jest by every officer in the army. Worse, Hepburn compounded his transgression by appearing the next day—and apologizing. The worthless blackguard apologized for being intoxicated and unforgivably rude, and that apology underscored one thing—that Ogley had been beaten in swordplay by a seventeen-year-old so drunk, he could scarcely stagger.
It wasn’t until Ogley had married Brenda and bought a new commission, a better commission, that the mockery had eased. Oh, some still whispered behind his back, but none of the lesser officers dared say anything, and when a superior officer had teased him…well, Ogley had learned how to get revenge on his brothers. Teaching a mere officer a lesson was nothing. A mere hiring of thugs to teach the officer better manners.
Of course, Ogley had been sent to the Peninsula in retaliation, but for a man of his talents, even that wasn’t so bad. He was out from under Brenda’s adoring, smothering gaze, and in the wreck left behind by the struggle between the French and English on Spanish and Portuguese soil, there were opportunities for profit.
Best of all, the elder earl of Hepburn had grown tired of his son’s frivolous ways. To put an end to Hepburn’s rowdiness, he’d bought Hepburn a commission. A commission that had sent Hepburn right into Ogley’s regiment.
Even now Ogley chuckled in remembrance. How delightful it had been to give the lad the most recalcitrant of men from the dregs of the prisons to tame, then demand that he lead them into missions from which they would never return. Hepburn always led them out…some of them. Their numbers dwindled as they were killed, but Ogley volunteered his regiment for another mission, and another, taking care that no one in command should know it was Hepburn who succeeded while everyone else failed. In the isolation of the Peninsula, it was an easy thing for a man with intelligence and time to write up the exploits as his own and send the manuscript away to be published. By the time Ogley resigned his commission, he had returned to England as a hero.
His gaze lingered on Waldemar.
And no one dared tell the truth, certainly not Hepburn. Not as long as Ogley held Waldemar in his power. Ogley would have to be a fool to let Waldemar go—and Ogley prided himself on his cleverness.
Brenda slid her hand in his. “Isn’t the master’s suite marvelous?”
“It is indeed.” Satisfaction spread like oil through his gut, and he smiled at Lady Millicent. “I thank you, Lady Millicent, for placing us here.”
Lady Millicent fluttered like any spinster given a compliment. “It was my brother who insisted.”
“I hate to think he’s given up his room for us,” Brenda protested.
“No, please, don’t distress yourself.” Just like Hepburn, Lady Millicent spoke with that faint Scottish accent that betrayed inferiority. “My brother doesn’t sleep here. Since his return from the Peninsula, he has preferred to stay in a cottage on the estate.”
“That makes me feel better.” Brenda beamed.
Sometimes her kindheartedness gave Ogley a bellyache.
“Doesn’t it you, Oscar?” she asked.
No. He wanted to displace Hepburn. Putting his hand under her arm, Ogley held too firmly. As Brenda squirmed beside him, he said, “Lady Millicent, I beg your pardon, but my wife really does need to rest.”
“Of course, I’ll make sure I send up a tray.” With a brisk curtsy Lady Millicent left the room.
“That was abrupt.” Brenda tugged at his bruising fingers.
But decisively he led her into the bedchamber. He helped her onto the mattress. He kissed her forehead. To her maid he said, “Make sure she rests.” Leaving the room, he shut the door behind him.
Waldemar was supervising the arrival of their trunks. “Put the bags there by the door, lad. Ah, lassie”—he pinched the maid on the cheek—“t’ see a pretty lass such as yerself does me ’eart good.”
The footman grinned and the maid giggled. Everyone liked Waldemar, with his sandy-blond hair and his handsome countenance. His good-humored blue eyes glinted from beneath blond eyelashes and brows, and freckles marched across his nose. He looked like the picture of honesty and sincerity—as long as one didn’t notice his long, thief’s fingers and swift, catlike walk.
Waldemar had been dragged out of the mud of prison and given a choice between fighting for Mother England—or death. He’d taken the voyage to the Peninsula, of course, but once there, he’d tried to escape. Tried to avoid his duty. Been insolent and cocky. Nothing Ogley had done—not the thrashings, not the isolation, not even the branding—had changed him.
Then Hepburn came along, dashing, high-spirited, noble Hepburn, and Waldemar had chosen to follow him…into hell.
At least Ogley had done his best to ensure Hepburn was in hell every minute of every day, and he’d been successful. He counted that as one of his proudest achievements.
Now Ogley cleared his throat.
The maid stopped giggling. The footman sidled out the door. Waldemar straightened to a military posture. His smile disappeared. His mouth snapped shut.
“So how did it feel”—Ogley picked up his verbal dagger—“to see your old commander once again?”
“Passing fair, sir.” Waldemar marched to the table and placed copies of
Ogley’s book into a basket to be transported down to the drawing room later.
“He appears to have suffered no ill effects from his time on the Peninsula.” Ogley rubbed the gilding on the picture frame and considered whether he should buy some portraits to hang in his bedchamber.
“None whatsoever, sir.” Waldemar laid out Ogley’s belt and saber, his field decorations and his epaulets.
“Except for that scar on his forehead. It didn’t heal well. Did you notice?” Ogley poured himself a glass of brandy and pretended to be embarrassed by his lapse of memory. “But how silly of me. His scar matches the scars on your arms, the ones you got while rescuing him from that fire. How did that happen?”
Waldemar didn’t move. Didn’t lift his gaze. “I don’t remember, sir.”
Slowly and with great relish Ogley slid in the blade. “You’ll have to read it in my book.”
Waldemar said nothing. Nothing. He was as mute and expressionless as a dummy.
Ogley chuckled. “I do believe that at last you’ve become everything a commander could want in an aide.”
In a flat tone Waldemar said, “Yes, sir.”
In truth Ogley had at last seen clear signs that he had at last broken the man Hepburn called unbreakable. There was an emptiness in Waldemar’s eyes, a lack of expression on his low-class, tenement face. He had grown almost boring, but Ogley would never give him up. Never. Waldemar was his for life. Ogley had won where Hepburn could not. He intended to flaunt his victory beneath Hepburn’s hooked and insufferable nose.
“I imagine you miss Hepburn and all the grand adventures the two of you had together,” Ogley taunted.
Waldemar paused for a painful, telling moment. “I don’t remember any adventures, sir. I believe you were the one who experienced adventures.”
Strolling across to the window, Ogley swirled the pungent liquor in the glass. “Yes. Yes, and don’t you forget it. I’m the one who broke into the French armory and stole their ammunition. I’m the one who rescued Hepburn from the French prison after his foolish spy attempt. I’m the one who—” He broke off abruptly.
A shapely woman walked across the broad expanse of lawn below. Her glossy black hair had been pulled back into a chignon, and in it she wore a comb with a mantilla draped artfully around her face. He couldn’t see her features through the lace, but the way she walked—hands folded before her, pacing across the grass as if no emergency on earth could make her break into a run—reminded him of Carmen. It was that stately, sensual stride that had first attracted him to her, and this woman wore a scarlet gown in the same shade and style Carmen had so favored.
He blinked. But it couldn’t be Carmen. He’d left her behind without a backward glance when he’d returned to England and his wife. There was no way Carmen could have followed him here to a village in Scotland.
Seeing Hepburn must have brought forth memories better discarded.
Then the woman turned her head and stared.
“Christ Jesus!” Ogley jumped so hard, he slopped the brandy onto his clean starched shirt.
It was her. It was Carmen.
“Sir, is there something wrong?” Waldemar asked.
Ogley leaped away from the window. “Yes. You can explain that!” He gestured violently.
Keeping a wary eye cocked on Ogley, Waldemar walked to the window and looked out.
“Well?” Ogley snapped.
Waldemar cringed as if he feared Ogley would strike him. “I…don’t see anything, sir.”
Ogley shoved Waldemar away and stared outside.
It was true. She was gone.
Twenty
Only those who row the boat make waves.
—THE OLD MEN OF FREYA CRAGS
In the shadows of the trees Robert threw a brown cloak over Clarice and held her still. At the upstairs window he could see Ogley and Waldemar staring down at the lawn. Ogley slammed open the window, stuck his head out, and looked about wildly.
Quietly Waldemar surveyed the scene. Robert knew the moment he spotted them. They looked at each other. The two men nodded at each other in subdued satisfaction. Then, while Ogley yelled, Waldemar shut the window.
Waldemar had learned the skill of observation during his years as a housebreaker, and it was he who had taught Robert to look beyond the obvious. For all Ogley’s sly skills, he’d never learned that, and that was why, around the campfires, he was so often the butt of jokes.
Of course, it hadn’t mattered. He got his revenge in a million petty ways and one very big one. He always sent Robert out on the most dangerous missions, and now he held Robert’s best friend in eternal servitude. The situation was not to be borne, and Robert intended to end it here and now.
Keeping his arm around Clarice and the cape over her head, Robert said, “Walk with me. You can put yourself back together in my cottage.”
Obediently she followed him, and when the door shut behind them, she tossed off the cloak.
It was odd to see her standing there, familiar in her stance and her regal attitude, yet a stranger in her looks. Working from a miniature portrait of Senora Menendez, Clarice had made her features resemble Carmen’s to a frightening degree. Somehow she had darkened and lined her eyes, giving them an almond shape. Her mouth was redder, lusher, colored in the pucker of a kiss. She had created hollows under her cheekbones, and her chin looked broader. With the black wig and mantilla, and the addition of the scarlet gown, Robert thought—hoped—Clarice could pass for Carmen at close range if Ogley didn’t examine her too carefully.
They had waited in the trees, Clarice enveloped in the brown cloak. Knowing Ogley as he did, Robert was sure the colonel would want to look over the estate and gloat that he held the lord of the manor in his power. Ogley had done just that. When he had looked out the window, Robert had said, “Now,” and Clarice had taken her stroll.
When Ogley had leaped away, Robert called her back and she ran to him. She still didn’t know why she was doing this, but she no longer asked. Thank the Lord, for Robert didn’t want to tell her. He didn’t dare take the chance that she would refuse to hoodwink the man she believed to be a hero.
Tomorrow they would tighten the thumbscrews with another appearance, and with Clarice’s help and the grace of God, by this time two days hence Waldemar would be on a ship in Edinburgh harbor.
With Clarice’s help and the grace of God…
She stood watching Robert with eyes that saw too much. “Could I ask you a question?”
Inevitable, he supposed. “Of course.”
“You were in Colonel Ogley’s command. What did you think of him?”
He lifted his eyebrows. That was not the question he had anticipated. “Why do you ask that?”
“He’s not what I expected. I thought he would be a man out of the normal, a great man occupied with great things. Instead, he’s…he made me uncomfortable. He leered at me.” She searched for the words as if she feared she wasn’t making herself clear. “In front of his wife.”
Hepburn nodded slowly.
Which seemed to tell her all she needed to know. “So he isn’t the hero we all want to worship.”
“Worship him if you like.” Taking her by the waist, Hepburn pulled her close, wanting her heat to warm him. “But love me.”
Although she yielded, her body pliant against his, still she asked, “It’s Colonel Ogley for whom I’m performing this charade, isn’t it?”
She was too acute. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I looked up to see who was gazing at me from the house.”
Aghast at her daring, he asked, “You looked?”
“Yes, I looked. Don’t worry so.” She placed her hand against his cheek. “I have a mirror. I know I was successful in making myself look like her. I fooled him, didn’t I?”
Yes. Ogley’s behavior had made it clear that he did think he’d seen Carmen. Robert nodded, enjoying the caress of her hand against his skin, the stroke of her thumb against his lips. “You fooled him. I always knew you
would.”
“So the game begins.” Freeing herself, she walked into the bedchamber and shut the door behind her.
He looked at the cottage that had seen so much of his misery on his return. The two rooms had been used thirty years before for the overflow guests who came to his mother’s parties. The living room and bedroom were of generous proportions, and were handsomely furnished and decorated, if a little old-fashioned. He had been comfortable living here alone, and now, with the advent of Colonel Ogley, Robert was able to use his isolation to good advantage.
When the door to the bedchamber opened, the Princess Clarice he recognized stepped out with her pink day dress loose on her shoulders. Coming to him, she turned her back. “Will you finish buttoning me?”
The buttons at the top of the gown gaped open, showing him a smooth expanse of golden skin, the ridge of her spine, and the cool column of her neck. He didn’t want to button her; he wanted to unbutton her, to take right now what she’d promised him. If you want me, I’ll have you, she had said. Then she’d added, For now.
He wanted that act of joining with her even before he had done his duty. The woman was a peril to him and his intentions.
On the other hand, the base of her neck, with its tendrils of wispy curls, tempted him, and what was the harm in one kiss?
Clarice felt the touch of his lips against her skin and closed her eyes on a wave of bliss and triumph. With a little twisting and turning she could have fastened her own buttons, but she needed the reassurance that she was more to Robert than a mannequin and a charlatan. She needed to know that she attracted him as he attracted her. And she wanted his kiss…all of his kisses.
He moved close against her, his body heating hers. His mouth opened against her skin, and he tasted her as if she were cream and he were a cat. His lips slid down her spine, lingering on each vertebra, sending chills down to her toes. She swayed with the onset of passion and wondered how this man had so quickly accustomed her to his touch. She was like an instrument who, until she met Robert, had played discordant music. Now, as his fingers glided across her bare skin, she could play a symphony and each note would vibrate in perfect tune. But for him. Only for him.
Some Enchanted Evening Page 18
