Sebastian lay a warning finger against Prudence’s trembling lips. “Chin up, love,” he whispered. “You’re about to make the acquaintance of my merry men.”
Three
Prudence slowly turned to face the men. Kirkpatrick kept his arm anchored firmly around her waist.
The two men did not look merry at all, she thought. Even the sunlight quailed before the blond giant standing in the doorway. As he ducked under the lintel, the floor shuddered beneath the booted hams of his feet. He could only be Tiny.
He threw back his head with a laugh that shook the timbers. “I frighted ye, didn’t I? Ye taught me well, lad. Stealth before wealth.”
His long, ratty beard and halo of blond hair made him look more like a misplaced Viking than a Scottish border raider. Prudence half expected him to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to his longship. She pressed her back to Kirkpatrick’s chest, and his hand flattened against her stomach with a soothing stroke.
She recoiled farther as the puckish creature perched on the windowsill gave a nasal coo of horror. “Fer shame, Kirkpatrick, where’s yer mask? Ye mustn’t think much of the wee lovey, do ye? Shall I take her fer a walk now or later?”
Prudence thought he was the ugliest child she had ever seen. Then she realized he was not a child at all, but a young man, his features pinched to foxlike sharpness. His thin arms were strung with muscles like pianoforte wires. His lips smacked as he sucked the nectar from a honeysuckle blossom and leered at Prudence.
“That won’t be necessary, Jamie,” Kirkpatrick said. “The lass is blind.”
“Blind?” echoed the giant.
“Blind?” repeated Prudence.
Kirkpatrick pinched her sharply. She squinted obligingly.
“You heard me,” he said. “She’s blind. She can see nothing but a wee bit of light and a few shapes. That’s how she came to tumble down that hill last night.”
Jamie crumbled the blossom in his freckled fist. “And what was she doin’ on that hill? Pickin’ daisies?”
Before Kirkpatrick could answer, Prudence said, “I was having a picnic.”
Tiny’s brow folded in a thunderous frown. He crossed arms as big as birch trunks across his chest. “Bloody wet fer a picnic, weren’t it?”
Kirkpatrick gave her hair a warning tug. She ignored him. “Not earlier in the day. You see, I’d been lost for hours until your laird was kind enough to rescue me and bring me here … to his castle.” She blinked at the air a full foot down and three feet over from the source of the rumbling voice.
“Our laird?” hooted Jamie.
“His castle?” echoed Tiny.
Prudence felt around the floor, wincing as a splinter buried itself in her thumb. “I’d best get my things. Laird Kirkpatrick said one of you footmen would be kind enough to escort me to the road where I might await conveyance to my home.”
“Did he now?” Tiny frowned. “Our laird is the purest soul of generosity.”
Sebastian smirked. “So they tell me.”
Prudence rose. Jamie vaulted off the windowsill and into the hut. Sebastian’s jaw tightened, but he refused to let so much as a twitch of an eyebrow betray him. He knew they weren’t convinced of her harmlessness yet. He hoped to God she realized it as well. He folded his arms across his chest to hide his clenched fists.
Prudence took a tentative step forward, arms outstretched to grope the air. Careful not to make a sound, Tiny nudged a stool into her path. Sebastian flinched as her shin slammed into it.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said.
She felt her way around the table with a crescendo of convincing thumps. Just as her hand reached the back of the chair, Jamie snatched away her gown and held it gleefully aloft. Silver hairpins tinkled to the floor. He picked one up, bit the pearl, then tucked it between his lips.
Prudence felt each rung of the chair back, frowning with great perplexity. “I’m sure this is where I left my gown to dry.”
Jamie tossed the velvet into her face. “Here ye go. Must have slipped off.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice muffled.
She pulled the gown over her head. All three men watched avidly as she buttoned the bodice and tugged on her damp shoes.
Straightening, she clasped her hands together. Sebastian’s spirits sank as he realized what she was waiting for. If only the cantankerous cat would wander over and brush against her ankles. Tiny spotted the kitten at the same moment Sebastian did. It crouched behind one of the table legs, a cottony puff of a tail quivering in anticipation of pouncing on Tiny’s boot.
Tiny bent double and shoveled the creature into his palm. He held it up to eye level, peering at its disgruntled whiskers.
Prudence squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears. She did not dare protest or reveal she knew he held Sebastian. He could easily snap the animal’s neck between two fingers.
A low rumble filled the hut. Her eyes flew open. At first, she thought the massive man was growling at her cat, then she glimpsed the grin on Kirkpatrick’s face. Tiny was purring.
He rubbed the kitten’s belly against his bristled face, his eyes narrowed to blissful slits. “I love cats. Me mum always kept one at the hearth.”
“I love ’em too,” Jamie said. “When there ain’t nothin’ bigger to eat.”
Prudence shuddered.
“Do the wee beastie have a name, lass?” Tiny asked her.
“Sebastian.”
Jamie snorted. “That’s a silly name.”
Sebastian winced. “Give the lady her cat, Tiny. Jamie, take her to the road. Take her directly to the road. Then come straight back. Do you understand?”
Jamie doffed his shapeless cap with a mocking bow. “I ain’t daft, me laird.”
Tiny tucked the kitten in Prudence’s arms.
“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Tiny.”
Prudence had to take one last chance. She felt her way along the wall until her toe touched Sebastian’s pallet. She knelt beside him, painfully conscious of the two pairs of eyes boring into her back. Her vacant gaze gave her the perfect chance to study him. She did not need to study him. His face was committed perfectly to her memory. She would see it each morning when she awoke and each night when she closed her eyes. Sunlight revealed tiny crow’s feet, but robbed nothing from his devastating good looks. She touched his cheek, committing its texture to her memory as well.
“Thank you for your kindness, sir. It will not be forgotten.”
He gave her hand a quick, hard squeeze. “That it won’t.”
She turned away before the tears could well in her eyes. Jamie offered her his arm. She stood there stupidly, ignoring it until he linked it in hers.
“Did ye ever hear the joke about the blind whore and the armless sailor?” he asked as he led her to the door.
Sebastian watched her go with a sense of triumph. Then the doorway was empty. The sun lost its sparkle, settling into the dull cast of mid-morning. He grimaced, deepening the brooding lines around his mouth.
Tiny propped his hip on the table. The wood groaned under his weight. “I feared for ye, lad, when I checked the old oak fer a note, but found none. I thought the law had got ye.”
Sebastian refused to meet the other man’s measuring gaze. Tiny knew him better than anyone did. They had run the moors together when they were boys. Tiny was the only one who had ever had the courage to place himself between Sebastian and his father’s fists. It had cost him two teeth and earned him Sebastian’s unswerving loyalty.
“Ye know D’Artan won’t like this one wee bit,” Tiny went on. “If the lass talks, it could be yer neck and his as well.”
Sebastian felt a cold mask fall over his face; the mask of his father’s face, the jovial ferocity he had always longed to smash. “No, Tiny. If she talks, it’ll be her neck.”
Tiny shook his head wearily and crossed the hut to squat down beside him. Sunlight struck silver as he tossed the hairpins in Sebastian’s lap. “Ye’d best treasure them. They’re al
l ye’ve got to show fer last night’s work.”
Sebastian waited until Tiny had gone to cut a splint before gathering the hairpins. He handled them reverently, as if they were tipped with something far more precious than pearls.
Jamie was the most unpleasant creature Prudence had ever encountered. She ached to be alone with her thoughts, but he chattered on blithely with jokes more suited for a brothel than a lady’s company. She edged away from him when he paused to scratch his crotch and spit. By the time they reached the road, he had dragged her into one wet bramble bush, two rabbit holes, and a tree trunk. Her shins, she knew, would be black and blue by the morrow, and her delicate skin itched already with what threatened to be poison sumac.
Jamie looked both ways down the deserted road, scratching his head. Prudence took a step backward, fearful something might leap out of the ragged mop.
“I hate to leave ye here all by yer lonesome,” he said. “Ye could be set upon by robbers. Ye know how robbers are. They love blind girls.” He leered at her. “Blind girls can’t kiss and tell.”
“I’ll be fine. If you could just sit me down at the side of the road, I’m sure someone will come along soon.”
She resisted the urge to kick him as he led her to the middle of the road and pushed her to a seated position. “There ye go, luv. Sit right here in this patch of wildflowers. Ain’t they pleasant?” His gamin nose wrinkled. “Smell them now.”
Prudence could smell nothing. The muddy road sucked at her skirt. He must think she was blind and stupid, she thought. She smiled brightly at the nearest tree. “Thank you. You are a true gentleman.”
He circled her until he stood behind her. “I’ll be on me way now. Good day.” He ran in place for a moment, then stood utterly still, holding his breath.
Prudence began to hum softly, as would any genteel lady who had been left on a flowery bank to await the next coach. After three stanzas of “My Shepherd Is The Living Lord,” Jamie sighed in defeat and melted into the woods. Prudence did not stir. The morning sun lengthened toward noon.
Finally, she dared to peek behind her. Sunlight glinted off glossy foliage. The chirp of a lark broke the waiting silence of the forest. Seeing and hearing nothing else, she gathered her muddy skirts and fled toward the meadow.
A tousled head shot out from behind an oak. Hazel eyes narrowed, and Jamie muttered to himself as Prudence scaled a fence, her bedraggled dress a splash of purple against a field dotted with yellow buttercups.
He tugged his ears and chortled. “Damned agile for a blind lass, wouldn’t ye say, Kirkpatrick, me lad?”
He sprinted toward the hut, leaping rocks and dodging trees like the mad Highlander he was.
• • •
Prudence rolled through the window at the end of the upstairs corridor, blessing the iron trellis and weighted window sashes her aunt had chosen during her perpetual remodeling. Prudence’s own window had been latched. She pulled off her shoes and tiptoed across the parquet floor. Clipped footsteps echoed on the polished wood. She looked around frantically. Not a doorway or alcove in sight. She pressed herself to the wall as if she might somehow disappear into the elaborate scrollwork. Old Fish, the aged butler, rounded the corner, sucking loudly on his sunken cheeks.
He passed her by without a second glance. “Good morning, Miss Prudence. Your aunt sent word that she was off to London for a fortnight. She trusts you to amuse yourself.”
Prudence stared after his rigid back, her eyes huge, then looked down. Her skirt hung in tatters around muddy, scratched ankles, and the buttons of her dress popped like springs from loose threads. A tangled wad of hair hung over one eye.
Her shoulders slumped. She had just had the most extraordinary adventure of her life and not one soul had even missed her.
She slipped into her small room, no longer bothering to muffle her footsteps. The terrible silence of the house closed in around her. She had freed her kitten to cavort in the walled herb garden, but now wished she had brought him up for company. Hoping a soothing bath would lift her spirits, she rang for a maid. The cozy confines of her tent-bed looked tempting, too. It would be simple enough to plead a headache and spend the rest of the afternoon there. Heaven knew her aunt did it often enough. But her aunt was not always alone when she did it.
At that thought, pain burst through Prudence, so intense it was almost physical. She turned too quickly, sweeping a porcelain figure of the goddess Diana from her dressing table. The figure shattered on the floor, leaving only the jagged circle of a mouth to chide her for her uncharacteristic flare of temper.
Two maids dragged in the tin tub. They swept up Diana and took the clothes Prudence commanded they burn without betraying so much as a flicker of curiosity.
After her bath, Prudence donned a linen wrapper and sat at her dressing table. She dragged her hair away from her face in a severe chignon. Not a single damp tendril was allowed to escape. She anchored it at the nape of her neck, methodically shoving in the hairpins. Heavy hair, she thought. Impossible hair. It took powder poorly. It would not curl without scorching. How many times had her aunt suggested she chop it off and purchase a fashionable wig? If she refused, it was best that she wear it flat and close to her scalp so no one else would notice how impossible it was.
You don’t need poetry, Prudence. You are poetry.
The husky burr haunted her. She dug her fingers into her forehead as if she could somehow stop its echo. The highwayman had buried his face in her impossible hair. His warm, sweet breath had stirred the heavy coils. He had looked deep into her eyes and asked if he could touch her. She jabbed another pin into her hair, relishing the distraction of the pain.
She opened a cherrywood box and drew out a pair of heavy spectacles, then perched them on her slender nose. Her father had taken time out from his inventing to fashion the pair for her.
Lifting her head, Prudence faced her reflection. The impetuous girl who had spent the night in a highwayman’s arms was gone. In her place was a plain woman whose features were too even to be given even the distinction of ugliness. Prudence Walker. Plain Prudence, dutiful daughter, sensible niece. Thick shells of glass hid her eyes. Even at eleven, she hadn’t the heart to explain to her papa that the blurred edges of life were sometimes kinder than clarity.
The mirror swam before her and her reflection turned as misty as gray eyes the color of sunlight on steel.
Four
The leaded glass window distorted the world into sparkling diamonds of green. Sebastian heard the door behind him open and close. Before turning, he shifted his weight to disguise how heavily he leaned upon his cane.
The Persian carpet muffled D’Artan’s steps. He seated himself behind the walnut desk as Sebastian faced him. The older man leaned back in his chair and steepled his bony fingers beneath his chin. A cryptic smile touched his thin lips. He did not offer Sebastian a seat. The study was devoid of all but the desk and D’Artan’s thronelike chair. Sebastian knew what D’Artan was doing. He would maintain his enigmatic silence until Sebastian started to babble. Sebastian was determined not to give him that satisfaction. He clenched the gold-claw handle of his cane.
D’Artan, however, knew Sebastian as well, if not better, than Sebastian knew him. The faint twitch of Sebastian’s fingers only deepened his smile.
His mellifluous French poured over Sebastian as smoothly as his silvery cap of hair poured over his scalp. “Your wound? Does it trouble you?”
“No. It’s nearly healed.”
Sebastian was lying. Before a hard rain, the throbbing of his ankle could bring tears to his eyes. He still awoke trembling and sweat-drenched from nightmares of the sunny morning when Tiny had rebroken the bone. The opium Tiny had forced him to smoke had dulled the pain, but not the memory. Nor had it dimmed the memory of a girl’s voice, as soft and alluring as velvet crushed against the nap. Sebastian did not care to speak of that night. He did not want D’Artan’s sneer to sully it.
He tapped his cane on the carpet. “Quite an
elegant retreat you have here.”
D’Artan crooked an eyebrow. “Lord Campbell was kind enough to grant me use of his country estate while he is residing in the city.”
“Still the darling of Edinburgh, are you? Playing upon Lord Campbell’s sympathies for the tragic French émigré fleeing the terrors of the revolution?”
“The British are notorious for their lack of imagination except when it comes to their own thick skins. They see in me their fate should the revolution cross the Channel.” D’Artan uncorked a decanter and poured two brimming hookers of Scotch. He handed one to Sebastian. “That’s one of the reasons I summoned you here. Lord Campbell’s admiration has finally culminated in something more substantial. I leave for London tomorrow for an appointment with the King. I’m to be elected to the British House of Commons and gifted with a tidy annual pension of five thousand pounds.”
Sebastian choked. The whisky seared his throat as he threw back his head and laughed. “Old George must be going daft again. How would the King and Lord Campbell react if they knew they were harboring not an émigré but a revolutionist, and that your tidy pension will be sent to Paris to buy gunpowder and guns?”
D’Artan shrugged. “No gunpowder. No revolution.”
“No revolution. No war with England. I doubt the King will be so hospitable when he finds his own country looking down the barrels of those guns.”
“The spread of the new order is inevitable.” D’Artan lifted his glass. “All for the glory of France.”
Sebastian hiked his own glass. “All for the glory of D’Artan. Just how high are your aspirations? Chief Citizen of Great Britain perhaps?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in an uncouth gesture he knew D’Artan would despise.
D’Artan drummed his long, tapered nails on the desk, eyeing Sebastian’s cane with distaste. “It was very unfortunate, this accident of yours. But not as unfortunate as the indiscretion that followed, eh? Your man spoke to me of a certain young mademoiselle.”
Heather and Velvet Page 4
