“You haven’t learned your lessons, Jamie Graham,” he murmured, shoving his pistol back into his breeches. “A fallen man is a noose for the next man. And I’ve fallen hard this time.”
Jamie looked even younger sprawled in the grass, his lashes spiked over his freckled cheeks.
Sighing, Sebastian undid his bedroll and tossed the blanket over Jamie. “Sweet dreams, my lad,” he whispered.
He guided the horse in a prancing circle and thundered through the gate of the courtyard. He dared one look over his shoulder only to discover that Jamie and Dunkirk had been swallowed by the mist.
A lone figure crept through the alley. Fog swirled around his ankles. Light spilled from the bloated moon, caressing his silk mask, shading the set planes of his face with silver. Excitement stirred his blood, quickened his breath. A hint of the old thrill touched him as he slipped into the shadows, moving as one with the darkness, once again lord of the night, prince of thieves. But at the end of this journey, he hoped to steal not watch fobs or pound notes easily crumbled to dust, but a woman’s heart, as true and precious as gold refined by fire.
He eased himself into the tavern without a sound. Hazy moonlight drifted through a flyspecked window, staining his hair to gold. At such a late hour in such a sleepy, little village, the tavern was nearly deserted.
A toothless old man polished mugs behind the bar. Two men were engaged in a heated game of piquet at one table. A buxom whore straddled the lap of the younger one. The man’s hand crept past her dimpled knee and under her skirt, emerging with a new card. He tossed it on the table, winning the trick. As he gleefully swept the shillings into the woman’s lap, the other man swore in rapid French.
Sebastian smiled.
The barkeep glanced up, and his gaze was instantly transfixed by the mask, the swirl of the plaid around Sebastian’s shoulders, the wry smile on his mouth. Sebastian touched a finger to his lips and winked. The barkeep gummed a smile and went back to polishing his mugs.
The whore deftly shuffled the cards as the young Frenchman nuzzled her neck.
Before any of them could react, Sebastian swung one leg over the back of a chair and straddled it. “Deal me in, lass.”
The Frenchman dumped the woman out of his lap. She sprawled on the floor, scattering the coins. The other man fumbled for his pistol. Sebastian caught both of their heads and slammed them together. They slumped across the table like marionettes with cut strings.
Sebastian smiled at the whore and offered her his hand. “And deal them out.”
She could not help smiling back, even as her own hands scurried to gather the shillings.
Jamie blinked up at a sky washed with pearly light. A bird twittered nearby. Where the hell was he? He’d met more dawns than one with that question on his lips, but this morn there was no warm female wedged against his side, no fuzziness of his tongue to warn of a lost battle with demon ale. He lifted his head experimentally. His neck was stiff, his shirt and breeches damp with dew, but the rest of him seemed intact, even rested.
He laid his head on laced hands, content to watch pink wisps of clouds drift across the fading stars. His sharp chin nuzzled into the blanket on his chest.
An image abruptly filled his mind. Sebastian. The smile of an angel, the glint of moonlight on a raised pistol butt.
Ignoring his reeling head, Jamie leaped to his feet and sprinted toward the stable. He emerged with one leg thrown over a sleek dun mare, the other leg still dragging on the ground. He righted himself by gripping the mane with both hands. As he plunged down the slope, barefoot and bareback, his mad Highland cry would have chilled the blood of any Englishman.
The burn tinkled a merry welcome as Sebastian walked his horse into the clearing. The crofter’s hut crouched in the moonlight as he remembered it. He uncurled his stiff fingers from the reins and slumped in the saddle, too exhausted to move. For two days and two nights, he had ridden with little sleep and less food. He had even followed MacKay’s party for an hour yesterday, close enough to call out Prudence’s name. But he hadn’t. MacKay’s guards looked to be the type to shoot first and ask questions later. He didn’t intend to risk Prudence getting caught in the crossfire. When they stopped to spend the night in Edinburgh, he had changed horses and ridden on ahead.
If he could catch her before she crossed the border, he would. If not, he would march straight up to the door of Lindentree, MacKay and Tricia be damned, and demand to see his wife. Then all that would remain was convincing Prudence that she still wanted a stubborn, jealous, greedy Highland rogue for a husband. He sighed and dragged himself off the horse. Perhaps things would look better in the light of morning.
He tended to the mare with weary hands, rubbing down her heaving sides. She had been built for speed, not stamina, and he had pushed her hard.
He left her tethered to a tree and pushed open the hut door, hugging the plaid around him at a rush of chill air.
“Your predictability was always your downfall, my boy.”
Sebastian held up his hands in a silent plea as the pistol in his grandfather’s hand exploded into a searing ball of pain.
Prudence sat stiff in the sidesaddle, looking neither right nor left, her navy skirt draped in military precision over her legs. Sebastian-cat rode at her side, strapped into the wicker basket. Not even the teasing touch of the spring breeze could stir the severe wings of hair framing her pale cheeks. Her eyes were dry, so dry they burned at the prick of the wind. She hadn’t shed a single tear since two mornings ago when she’d pounded on Laird MacKay’s door. She’d fallen into the haven of his arms and sobbed against his plaid until there were no tears left and her body lay broken and exhausted, seeking only the solace of sleep.
She stole a glance at the man riding beside her. MacKay seemed to have aged since that night. The crags in his face cut deeper; his shoulders slumped. It was as if the flame in his eyes had been extinguished by her bitter tears.
As they rode past a sun-dappled forest, MacKay’s armed guards drew in around them. Their faces were set. The burly hands resting on their pistol butts warned they’d be no easy target for any highwayman.
The road flattened into a meadow. Prudence knew they must be nearing the Northumberland border. The tender trilling of a lark jarred her into opening her eyes to the aching beauty of the morning. Tender sprouts of new heather crept over the hills. The rich smell of the loamy earth tickled her nose. A dazzling orb of sunlight hung in a sky too blue to be anything less than a figment of some artist’s fevered imagination.
The breeze whispered through the swaying grasses and she imagined she heard her name, carried by the wind on a rich, plaintive note of longing. Her gloved fingers tightened on the reins. Never again would she be ensorcelled by a soft burr as bewitching and treacherous as this heartbreaking land. Soon she would cross the border into sane, predictable England where she would once again become sane, predictable Prudence. A pang of grief drove a searing wedge through her heart.
She heard it then, a wild keening like the distant skirl of bagpipes that set the hair at the nape of her neck standing on end. Two men thundered over the ridge, the first bent so low to his mount’s neck that he might have been a sinewy limb of the horse itself
The guards drew their pistols. MacKay’s gelding pawed the air as he reeled it around, forcing it between Prudence and the approaching riders. Sebastian-cat gave a dismal yowl from the confines of his basket.
Prudence heard her name again, carried not by wind, but bawled in the unmistakable cadences of Jamie’s voice.
“Wait!” she cried. “Don’t fire. They mean us no harm.”
MacKay gave her a doubtful glance, but trusted her enough to call off his guards. His men lowered their weapons with obvious reluctance, no doubt unnerved by the towering stature of the man on the second horse. The sun tinted his blond hair to white. He looked as if he could snap their necks with one hand, armed or unarmed.
Prudence’s chin jutted out, a first wild beat of hope smothered
by an overwhelming anger. Was she never to be left in peace?
Jamie drew his horse to a halt, his fists crunched in the mare’s tangled mane. MacKay’s men gaped. They had never seen a man ride a horse like that, with no bridle, no saddle, no reins. And barefoot to boot.
For once, Jamie’s eyes were devoid of any humor. “Sebastian needs ye.”
Prudence met his gaze evenly, and her words were tinged with ice. “I fear you’re mistaken. He made it very clear to me that he doesn’t need me. Those were his exact words.”
Tiny spoke up. “Ye don’t understand, lass. He left Dunkirk over a day ago. He was goin’ to meet ye at the border. So we traveled all our old roads between here and there and saw not a hair of him.”
“Perhaps you should check the Blake estate,” she said. “He might have stopped at Devony’s for tea or other amusements.”
With a disgusted snort, Jamie jerked his head at Tiny.
Tiny dragged open the letter flap of his saddlebag. “We found this in the old hollow tree where he used to leave messages fer us.”
Prudence unrolled the tiny scroll. Squinting at the elaborate script, she read it aloud, her voice dispassionate. “ ‘Duchess, your husband is my guest. Meet me at the old crofter’s hut. Alone.’ ” It was signed with nothing but a flourished D.
Prudence heard MacKay draw an agonized breath. She handed the note back to Jamie. “I have no husband. I have only a paper in my redingote signed by Sebastian Kerr, denying the validity of our marriage.”
Jamie went white. His freckles blazed. He pawed through Tiny’s saddlebag, then thrust his hand at her. “D’Artan left this for us as well.”
The green and black plaid dangled from his fingers. A muddy hoofprint scarred the soft wool. MacKay paled.
Prudence’s mouth compressed to a thin line. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you. Sebastian made it more than clear to me that I was no longer to interfere in his life.”
Jamie’s lip curled in a snarl of contempt.
Tiny laid a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “I tried to tell ye she wouldn’t help. She doesn’t give a damn about him. Never has.”
Jamie hurled the plaid into her lap. “I hope it keeps ye warm at night, Mrs. Kerr, fer it’s all ye’ll have left of Sebastian once D’Artan gets through with him.”
With a piercing cry, Jamie steered his horse in a circle, shoving his way heedlessly through the guards. Tiny cast Prudence a last condemning look before following. The steady beat of their mounts’ hooves rocked the turf as they pounded toward the horizon.
Prudence ran a hand over the soft wool in her lap, unable to meet MacKay’s searching gaze. Her meticulous fingers caressed the rich material until they caught in the jagged, blackened hole near the hem.
Prudence and Laird MacKay rode in silence, their guards a wary phalanx around them. Sebastian’s plaid still lay across her lap. When MacKay glanced at her, she could feel the measuring heat of his concern, but carefully kept her expression stony.
He cleared his throat. “You know, lass, if you wanted, I could ride back and—”
She swayed in her saddle, and he quickly caught her elbow. She pressed her fingertips to her temple, knowing her pallor was convincing, for it was genuine.
She leaned against him. “My head … it just began to pound. It must be the sun.”
MacKay fumbled for his canteen. She clutched his arm, gazing at him with quiet despair. “The Blake estate is just ahead. Could we stop for a rest? I’m not quite ready to face my aunt. She’ll have so many questions …”
He patted her hand. “Of course, my dear.”
Without asking her leave, he tossed her reins to one of the guards and lifted her into the saddle in front of him. He tucked Sebastian’s tartan around her shoulders. She buried her face in it, as he urged the gelding forward, blessing the sheltering folds for hiding the sudden heat in her cheeks.
A row of servants gaped as the Blakes’ butler led Prudence and MacKay into the dim coolness of the entranceway. Prudence clung to MacKay, her head bowed, and stumbled as they reached the foot of the stairs.
The loquacious young butler informed them that Miss Blake was in London for the season and the squire had ridden over to visit the countess at Lindentree.
But, of course, he would be more than happy to provide rooms for Miss Walker and her guest to refresh themselves. After he had shown Laird MacKay to the room next to hers, he even dared to touch Prudence’s hand. He was quite sympathetic to her plight. He had read about it in all of the newspapers. Prudence had no inkling that she had become such a celebrity while she was gone.
“Would you care for some chocolate?” he asked. “Or perhaps some piping hot scones with clotted cream and kippers with—”
She smiled wanly. “A flask of brandy and a cigar, please. Immediately.” She closed the door in his face.
It was a long moment before his footsteps moved away down the corridor. Prudence darted to the window. No trellis. She grimaced at the sight of the thorny rosebushes below. The room overlooked the back of the rambling Tudor house. She could see MacKay’s guards smoking and leaning against the stable wall. A lazy furl of pipe smoke uncurled on the morning breeze. The sun glinted off their pistols.
A shy tap sent her scurrying back to the door. The earnest butler stood there, brandy and cheroot in hand.
“I’ve heard the Scots are an unpredictable, savage lot,” he whispered, gazing at her as if he expected her to throw off her clothes and break into a wild Highland jig. Prudence was half tempted to oblige him just so he’d go away.
The excited hunger in his eyes gave her a better idea, though. She caught his forearm and jerked him into the room. “You’re quite right. The Scots are a mad race. And that man in the next room is the maddest of them all.”
“The pleasant gentleman with the white hair?” He frowned at the connecting door.
Prudence snorted. “A clever disguise. He is the savage who abducted me. He’s returning me to my aunt’s estate in the hope of extracting a ransom from the poor dear.” She dragged the butler to the window, peering around the drapes with theatrical stealth. “See those men out there? Those are his henchmen. Skilled assassins, every one of them.”
“Oh, my. Oh, my!” His voice sank to a whisper. “You don’t mean he is … he can’t be … not the—”
Her smile was deadly sweet. “The Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick. In the flesh.”
A shuddering wail escaped the butler. “What shall I do? I’m new to this post. I wouldn’t have gotten the position at all if Devony—I mean Miss Blake—hadn’t recommended me. Only a week on the job and I’ve let a vicious felon into the house.” He stared at her hopefully. “Do you think he’d leave if I offered him the silver?”
Prudence lowered her voice, using its husky timbre to contemptuous advantage. “Leave? How would it look on your record if you let the most notorious highwayman since Black Jack Jones escape from your grasp?”
He tugged at one of his wig curls, obviously torn between the fear of murder and the temptation of being a hero.
Prudence toyed with his sleeve. “There is the reward to consider.”
A wealthy hero.
“And think of how impressed Miss Blake will be by your bravery.”
A wealthy adored hero.
He grasped Prudence’s hands in his sweaty palms. “What shall I do?”
She leaned forward and whispered, “Bring me guns. Lots of guns.”
Thirty-three
Sebastian’s nose crinkled as an acrid stench wafted toward him. Prudence must be cooking breakfast, he thought. He would have to ride down to the village and hire her a cook. He’d much rather have her snuggled beside him, her head nestled in the crook of his arm, than struggling over an ancient hearth. Why, if she were next to him, he could nuzzle her throat, stroke her until she was purring like a kitten beneath him, and …
He sniffed. Eggs? Where had Jamie pilfered such ill-smelling eggs? From a bloody dragon? Over the reek of sulfur cam
e a pungent whiff of ammonia that brought tears stinging against his heavy lids.
He struggled to lift them. A fractured eddy of sunlight swirled before his eyes.
Broken images assailed him. A rough-hewn window. Slats of azure blue between bud-laden branches. A breeze drifted through the open window, rife with the promise of spring. Sebastian knew where he was. The old crofter’s hut. Pain shot through his ankle. Perhaps the last year had been but a dream, he mused. If he closed his eyes, a girl might kneel next to him, her fragrant hair swinging close enough to brush his chest, her cool fingers touching his brow with loving concern. If she did, he would carry her far away with him and never once be fool enough to look back.
Metal clinked against earthenware. Sebastian’s vision sharpened. He muffled a groan at the sight of D’Artan hunched over a brass scale that sat on the scarred table. His grandfather measured out a paper cone of metal shavings, then bent to the hearth to stir them into the bubbling contents of a small iron kettle. Sebastian hoped it wasn’t breakfast.
He wiggled his fingers. A stabbing tingle shot up his arm. With his returning awareness came a myriad of other discomforts. His hands were bound at the small of his back, his bad ankle bent at an awkward slant. His shoulder hurt like hell, and that might have something to do with the blackened bloodstains spilled down his shirt. A bitter taste lingered at the back of his throat. He knew that taste only too well. Just how much opium had D’Artan forced on him?
He still felt a bit giddy and almost laughed as he watched his grandfather scamper between hearth and bench like a frenzied monkey. D’Artan muttered something under his breath. A French monkey, Sebastian amended.
He’d never seen his grandfather so ruffled. D’Artan’s gray hair clung to his head in wisps, as if he’d combed it with agitated fingers. The heat from the fire flushed his smooth cheeks to pink. Sweat stained his long apron.
Sebastian watched with detached interest as D’Artan carried the small vat from hearth to table with gloved hands. He dipped a silver spoon into the mixture. It hissed and bubbled. When he lifted the dripping spoon, it was nothing but a twisted, smoking mass. Sebastian swallowed.
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