Tricia arched an immaculately drawn eyebrow. “A bit scandalous for you to entertain a strange man in a public coffeehouse, don’t you think?”
Prudence squelched an uncharitable thought about all the strange men Tricia had entertained in her bedchamber. “I’d say not. We are nearing the turn of the century, after all. Laird MacKay is both a pleasant companion and a gentleman.”
“He must find you a pleasant companion as well.” Smiling enigmatically, Tricia smoothed a creased scrap of paper on her knee. “I felt you should know, I have received two offers of marriage this morning.”
Prudence’s own smile was wan. “Two proposals before breakfast? Even for you, that’s quite a coup.”
“I have decided to accept one of them.”
Prudence’s smile faded. She had been waiting for this moment since Sebastian first disappeared. Tricia was ready to marry again and rid her household of her spinster niece. That was all right, Prudence assured herself. She would survive. She could afford a small house now, a few servants, books of her own. She would find contentment in living alone. And Laird MacKay had brought a daring and long-forgotten element back into her life—hope for the future. He was a wealthy man with an army of men at his disposal. With his help, perhaps she could find Sebastian and somehow make amends.
Tricia’s words startled her back into the present. “I’d barely had time to peruse the first offer when your rugged laird came bursting in with such an ardent plea that I couldn’t deny him an audience.”
Prudence frowned. Laird MacKay had made no mention of such intentions the previous night. She hadn’t even noticed him courting Tricia. “He seems a fine man,” she said weakly. “It would be easy to grow quite fond of him.”
“I’m relieved you feel that way. You see, Prudence, the proposals were not for my hand. They were for yours. And as your guardian, I feel it is long past time for you to wed. I will no longer tolerate your wavering. I insist you make a decision. Before the end of the week.”
Prudence stared at her aunt, her mind stumbling over the question she was afraid to ask. “If Laird MacKay made the second offer, who made the first?”
Tricia blinked in wide-eyed innocence. “Haven’t you guessed?” When Prudence mutely shook her head, Tricia popped another chocolate in her mouth. “Why, darling, the Viscount D’Artan, of course!”
Twenty-one
Sebastian Kerr was a desperate man. As his horse plunged down the mountainside, he sawed on the reins, throwing his weight back to keep from tumbling forward and being crushed beneath the beast’s shaggy hooves. His crude mask blinded him to the other riders, but the ground shook with the thunder of hoofbeats. He could smell their fear even through the smothering thickness of the burlap. The harsh rasp of his own breathing filled his ears. He longed to tear off the mask. It was little more than a sack cut with eyeholes—the sort of mask a scarecrow might wear, the sort of mask the hangman would slip tenderly over his head when he was caught.
Icy water splashed into the holes in his boots as his horse forded a swollen burn. The agitated shouts of their pursuers faded to the echoes of curses, as the Frenchmen chasing them drove their mounts to the edge of the cliff, only to discover their prey had vanished, borne on the sturdy wings of horses bred for the wild and rocky terrain.
Sebastian was the first to halt. He clawed at the strings of his mask and jerked it off, sucking in a deep breath of the cold, cleansing air.
A hairy hand curled around his bridle. “God’s land, Kirkpatrick, what are the Frenchies doin’ in the Highlands?”
Sebastian gave the furry paw a disparaging glance, keeping his voice deliberately cool. “How should I know? Why don’t you ride up and ask them, Angus?”
He had to look up to meet the glowering eye of Big Gus McClain. A dingy patch covered the bandit’s other eye.
Big Gus freed Sebastian’s bridle and spat in the burn. “Ye mumblin’ French in yer sleep and all, I thought ye’d be the one to know.”
The wind shifted; McClain’s stench wafted toward Sebastian, making him itch for a bath. He longed to steal away with the precious ball of soap he had pilfered from a crofter’s wife.
Tiny shoved his mount between the two men, grinning roguishly. “Everyone knows the French have a love of bonny music.”
Jamie’s nasal laugh rang out. The other men sniggered nervously. They had been tearing an organ out of a tiny kirk when the Frenchmen had approached.
“Or perhaps they’re just regular churchgoers.” Sebastian’s smile was politely ferocious. It whetted Big Gus’s suspicions that beneath his soft-spoken, clean-smelling exterior lay a man infinitely more dangerous than himself.
“Aye. Regular churchgoers,” McClain echoed thoughtfully. “Maybe that they were.”
The men dared to shoot Sebastian half-curious, half-admiring glances as their horses milled into motion, churning the water to icy froth.
Big Gus and his men were the scourge of the Highlands. Even by Sir Arlo Tugbert’s exacting standards, they made the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick and his men look like fops at a tea party. Sebastian had been accepted into their ranks on the sheer menace of his reputation, but he had the sinking suspicion that if he didn’t rape a virgin or shoot someone in cold blood very soon, his own corpse might be auctioned off to the Edinburgh Medical Society. He wondered if shooting himself would count.
The thunder of the other men’s hoofbeats faded. Only Tiny remained. Sebastian’s gaze strayed to the harsh line of the ridge. “Something’s gone wrong, Tiny. Something’s gone terribly wrong or he wouldn’t have sent them after me. The bastard won’t give up this time. What if he’s changed his mind and decided he wants her dead?”
“Then she’s one dead lass, ain’t she?” Tiny’s voice roughened at Sebastian’s flinch. “Forget about her. She ain’t been nothin’ but a noose ’round yer neck from the moment ye laid eyes on her. Ye don’t owe her anythin’.”
Emotion sharpened Sebastian’s eyes to steel. Tiny had seen that look before, late at night when the others were snoring in their bedrolls and Sebastian stared moodily into the dying flames of the campfire.
“Oh, I owe her something. And if I ever get my hands on her again, I’ll give it to her.”
He kicked his mount into a canter, crumpling the mask in his fist. He would live and die in such a mask. If D’Artan didn’t get him, the hangman would. He had been a poor, deluded fool to let a lovely girl with husky laughter make him believe otherwise.
As Sebastian drew the mask over his head, the first snowflakes drifted out of the paling sky.
Prudence huddled against the coachman’s shoulder as a gentle slope lurched into a steep uphill trail. She slipped a hand out of her muff and buried it in Sebastian-cat’s silvery fur, flexing fingers stiff with cold. He rewarded her with an adoring purr, sheltered from the wind by her sturdy redingote.
Not even a blizzard would drive her back into the musty confines of the carriage. She had endured the first leg of the journey from Edinburgh with Devony’s stays digging into her side, Squire Blake snoring in her ear, and Boris slobbering on her knee. At their last stop, ignoring Tricia’s halfhearted protests, she had given her seat to Boris and chosen the company of MacKay’s laconic Scottish coachman.
The coachman reached out a steadying arm as they jolted through another rut. Prudence’s already battered hip struck an iron bolt, and she winced. They had been forced to stop twice earlier and push the lumbering vehicle out of the frozen ruts worn by the unexpected February rains. The last try had taken the combined efforts of the coachman, the two outriders, and all the occupants of the coach, including a snuffling Devony. Only Boris had been allowed to stay in the carriage. The Great Dane had poked his sleek head out the window like a visiting dignitary.
As they started up a slope gashed in the mountainside, the hooves of the outriders’ horses tattooed a crunchy beat against the thin quilt of snow. Prudence sent a cloud of warm breath floating into the brisk air. A primitive excitement stirred in
her breast at the beauty of this alien land. Jagged mountains split the bleak sky in misty peaks of blue and silver. On a slope across the glen, a herd of creamy sheep huddled, their inquisitive black faces turned to the sky. Far below, a loch twined through a narrow glen only to be swallowed by a swirling curtain of snow.
She shivered, thinking of Sebastian out there somewhere, lost in the wild majesty of the Highlands. But if he took the bait she and MacKay were so openly offering, he wouldn’t be lost for long.
Prudence considered their plan worthy of any of Devony’s sordid novellas. D’Artan’s proposal had only forced their hand. She didn’t know whether to giggle or cry as she imagined Sebastian’s reaction when he discovered she was traveling to wed Killian MacKay, his most despised enemy, within the fortnight.
Once they reached Strathnaver and MacKay’s castle, the plan was simple. She would have the coachman drive her around in MacKay’s carriage, alone and unprotected, until Sebastian found her. Then all she had to do was calmly and rationally convince him that MacKay was not the wicked ogre he believed, but only a kind old man haunted by a lifetime of regrets. A man who had the riches and resources to help Sebastian build a new life free from both the shadow of his grandfather and his past. And free from her if he chose. Her cool plot always faltered at that point. She gave Sebastian-cat a hard squeeze. If their wild scheme didn’t work, she feared she and MacKay would have only regrets to share.
She refused even to consider that Sebastian might have left Scotland altogether, spirited away by either D’Artan or the law. Or that he might strangle her before she had a chance to explain.
Her heart plummeted as the coach took a dive, then thumped to a halt with ominous finality.
Tricia slammed her parasol into the coach roof. “Onward, driver. Give the horses their heads.”
“I’d like to give ’em yer head,” the coachman muttered.
He climbed off his perch, tipping his hat to Prudence in apology. She clambered down after him with Sebastian-cat draped over one arm.
The coachman wrenched open the door. “Everybody out,” he barked. “That slobberin’ beast as well.”
It was not Boris, but Squire Blake who first emerged, sheepishly rubbing his eyes.
“Well, I never—” Tricia huffed her way out with Devony treading on her skirts.
The ribbons of Tricia’s Leghorn hat streamed in the wind. The winter light was not kind to her complexion. Hectic patches of color stained her cheeks and nose. Powder gathered in the faint crevices around her eyes.
The coachman pointed into the coach. “Him too, or I ain’t pushin’.”
“But my big fellow might get his wittle paws all dirty,” Tricia crooned.
Prudence’s spirits sank. If they had to walk, Tricia would doubtless ask her to carry the dog.
Boris proved to be as stubborn as the coachman. Squire Blake hauled on his emerald-studded collar, but the dog would not budge. Only Tricia’s coaxing finally moved him. Prudence watched in doleful silence as the last of the tea biscuits disappeared down his yawning maw. He padded out and sniffed at Sebastian-cat, then licked his rubbery chops. Prudence hoped they weren’t to be without food for very long.
With the help of the outriders, they managed to jog the coach into a rocking motion. With a sickening creak, the wheels tilted, throwing the coach deeper into the rut.
Tricia swore at the coachman. He bellowed back at her. Boris caught the coachman’s coattail between his yellowed teeth and tugged. Squire Blake tried to soothe them all while Devony burst into tears, wailing that wintering in Scotland was the most ridiculous idea anyone had ever had. If Prudence had chosen to wed that nice viscount instead of some Scottish savage, they could be jaunting through the south of France right now.
Prudence sank down on a rock. Icy daggers of wind dried the sweat on her brow. She pulled her shoulder-cape tight around her shoulders, chilled by the memory of D’Artan.
On the day her betrothal to Killian MacKay was announced, a pale mask had dropped over the viscount’s face, his tension revealed only in the pinched creases around his lips. He had packed and vanished from the Campbells’ that same afternoon.
An eerie cry echoed over the mountains. Prudence stiffened. The others fell into silence. A quivering ridge of hair stood erect on Boris’s back.
“A wildcat?” Prudence asked hopefully.
The coachman refused to meet her eyes. He reached behind the leather seat for a battered musket as the outriders mounted and drew their own weapons. “Aye, lass. The wildest of ’em all. Into the coach, ladies.”
Squire Blake dove after Tricia and Devony. The coachman caught the waistband of his breeches and hauled him back.
He thrust a squat knife into the squire’s trembling hand. “Highlanders don’t fancy Englishmen, but they do fancy Englishwomen, if ye take my meanin’. ’Tis no matter to me if those fancy bits of baggage get what they deserve, but I’d hate to see that nice little lass torn apart by a pack o’ Highland rogues.”
He turned to find Prudence standing behind him, her face drained of color, but her eyes sparkling with a fevered excitement. The coachman handed her into the carriage without a word.
The door slammed. Boris’s eyes gleamed eerily out of the darkness. Prudence stuffed Sebastian-cat into the deep pocket of her redingote. It was a much tighter squeeze than it had once been. The Great Dane growled, fouling up the close air. After the icy purity of the mountain, Prudence felt as if she were smothering. Tricia stared blindly ahead, her face expressionless.
“I warned Papa we shouldn’t have come to Scotland,” Devony said. “I’ll probably be ravished by that Dreadful Scot Bandit again.”
“Not if I can help it,” Prudence replied evenly. Her heart slammed against her rib cage in a wild song of hope.
“Why, I might even be ravished by an entire gang of bandits!” Devony added cheerfully.
The high-pitched wail came again to be answered by another, then another. The pounding of hooves roared nearer. A musket cracked.
“No,” Prudence whispered.
She had envisioned a dramatic cry of, “Stand and deliver,” followed by surrender. It had never occurred to her that Sebastian’s men might shoot the nice coachman, or worse yet, that the nice coachman might shoot Sebastian.
“No!”
She flung open the coach door, eluding Tricia’s wild grab for her skirts.
She spilled into the road in a tangle of petticoats. Her hands flew up to cover her face as hooves pawed the air above her head. She rolled to the side, cradling Sebastian-cat from her weight, then crawled frantically away, dodging the thrashing forelegs of one horse and the heaving belly of another. A filthy hand skittered across her hair. She ducked away. The man snarled a curse.
Her spectacles dangled from one ear. She grabbed them and bounded to her feet, jumping up and down to scan the melee for a glimpse of a blond giant, a carrot-headed elf, or a dashing highwayman in plaid and kilt.
Hulking goblins churned to and fro, hurling oaths and firing their pistols in the air. One of the outriders’ horses, riderless now, plunged down the hillside. A motionless hump of lace lay beside one of the coach wheels. Prudence realized with horror that it was Squire Blake. The coachman went down under one blow of a blunt club. A squat creature leaped from his horse and ripped the carriage door off its hinges. He ducked into the carriage and reappeared with a shrieking Devony thrown over his shoulder. Her long blonde hair streamed down his back.
Prudence didn’t realize she was screaming herself until a brutal hand caught her hair. “Stop yer yappin’, lassie, or Big Gus’ll give ye somethin’ to yap about.”
The man forced her head back and thrust his face into hers. The stench of his breath choked her. Beneath the shapeless mask, Prudence saw no eyes, only a bulbous, milky film. A new scream tore from her throat. Sebastian-cat clawed his way out of her pocket and darted between the flailing legs of the horses. Ignoring the tearing pressure in her hair, she lunged after him.
&nb
sp; As the butt of a pistol came down on the back of her head, Prudence realized too late that she had caught the wrong bandit.
Twenty-two
Lulled by the rocking jolt of the horse beneath her belly, Prudence slipped in and out of consciousness.
When the rocking stopped and the rough hand anchored at the small of her back vanished, she started awake. A rush of disorientation was replaced by creeping dread as she remembered what had happened. All of her fears flooded back, intensified by the blurry darkness, the cold, and the brusque cadences of strange masculine voices.
Her hand went instinctively to the chain around her neck. Mercifully, her spectacles were still there, tangled in her hair.
She slipped them on. A ragged Highlander squatted before a pile of brush. He glanced at the horse and caught her somber gaze. A leering grin twisted his mouth. The first crackle of flames sent light spilling over his face, illuminating a puckered slit where his nose should have been. The man gave a menacing rumble of laughter as Prudence flung herself off the horse.
She hit the ground running. The formidable dark shapes of Highlanders and trees blended as she fled from one cluster of men to the next, searching for Tricia or Devony. Mocking laughter followed her. Fires sprang up in the clearings between the trees, throwing an eerie web of shadow and light over the bandits’ camp. She stumbled over a rolled blanket, biting back a shrill scream before realizing the hand that clutched her ankle was only a gnarled branch. She spun around and crashed into a broad chest.
A burly ogre caught her elbows and wet his lips with a hearty smack. A patch covered his right eye. “Miss me, darlin’? Big Gus was comin’ right back. I wanted to get our blankets spread. A pretty wee thing like ye shouldn’t have to sleep on the ground.”
A man behind Big Gus guffawed. He jerked his thumb toward a gaping hole in the hillside covered by a tattered fur curtain. “He won’t like it. Ye’d best tell him afore ye go spreadin’ anythin’.”
Heather and Velvet Page 23
