by Karen Ranney
Why was she smiling?
Would she ever see him again? He would have no need to come and visit anymore. How foolish she was to feel pain at that thought.
So many people needed him, but she needed him in a different way. She needed the quick smile that lit his face and carried to his eyes. She needed to hear his voice with its rolling burr. She needed to feel the touch of his hand, to see that clear look in his eyes when he saw her ruined face. No pretense there. No pity or compassion, only understanding.
Marry me.
Perhaps it hadn’t been an act of kindness after all.
Dear God, would she ever cease missing him?
Did Jean feel the same about her earl?
Perhaps she should go to Ballindair and nurse her wounds there. She’d hide at Ballindair for a while, then return when she was feeling stronger, more able to tolerate the absence of the most annoying man she’d ever met.
He had a quality about him that made her notice him immediately. When he entered a room, her body was suddenly alert. Yet he seemed unaware of his attractiveness, of the charming nature of his smile or the seductive twinkle in his eyes. Looking at him was dangerous; falling under his spell had been even more disastrous.
Her hands trembled and she clasped them more tightly together.
He couldn’t have meant what he said yesterday.
She frowned at the carriage window. She couldn’t stop thinking of him, no matter how often she told herself to concentrate on something else. Anything or anyone else other than Mark Thorburn.
She’d never been fixated on a man before in her entire life. But then, she’d never acted as foolish around one, either. What did that mean?
Isobel, sitting opposite her, ventured a tentative smile, then looked away.
No doubt the poor girl thought she was cross at her.
“How is your arm feeling?” she asked.
The girl smiled again and nodded. “Better, miss. It just aches from time to time, but Dr. Thorburn says that’s to be expected.”
“We need to ensure that he sees you again,” she said. “Just to make sure you’re well.”
Truly, there was no need for that surge of excitement she suddenly felt. Did she intend to go around wounding the maids just to see him? How foolish she was.
“Thank you, miss.”
She smiled in return.
Had people ever thanked her as much as they were doing recently? She couldn’t get through the day without someone coming up to her and thanking her. She wasn’t doing all that much. In fact, Dina was the example, the charitable one, the woman who did the most. She was just trailing after her, following her lead. But when people said thank you, they did so with genuine emotion. They smiled at her a lot more, even clad as she was in her veil.
How odd that she wasn’t attracting their attention with her looks, but her actions.
She wasn’t, however, being charitable or selfless in this errand. She’d been given a choice and picked the easiest one. Rather than visiting Old Town again, she chose to pick up donated clothing.
Instead of making her sad, Old Town angered her, and some of that anger was directed inward. For months she’d thought she was living in despair. She’d viewed her ruined face as an end to her life. She’d never seen the people who cared, the wealth around her, the three rooms dedicated to her comfort. She’d been worse than selfish. She’d been stupid.
In addition, she’d deliberately banished hope from her life.
Even those months in Inverness following her parents’ death, she’d not been stripped of hope. Perhaps because Jean was with her then, and her sister would not allow her to dwell on their circumstances. The sun would always rise in Jean’s world. The next day would always be better. They would persevere and succeed even when the odds were against them.
Somehow, they had.
Jean had believed in possibilities, and they’d come true. Now, if she could only do the same. What would she wish for? She’d wish for Mark, and wasn’t that the most foolish answer?
“Tell him, girl,” Mrs. MacTavish said, frowning at her maid. “Tell him exactly what you told me.”
Mark stood listening to a tale of betrayal. For a few coins, Artis had divulged the inner workings of the household to a stranger.
“I think he means to hurt her, sir,” Artis said, twisting her hands. “She’s nicer than I thought,” she added. “I’d not want anything to happen to her.”
“You foolish girl,” Dina said. “You should have thought of that before you started taking money from that man.”
“I didn’t know. I thought he only wanted a bit of gossip.”
“Even after the fire?” he asked.
She looked away, staring at the floor.
“Artis? Do you know something about that?” Mrs. MacTavish grabbed the girl’s arm.
“I told him I’d seen her.” She glanced back at him. “I told him I’d seen her leaving your room. Back when I thought you were just a footman, sir.”
He decided to change the subject at Mrs. MacTavish’s quick look. “Why does he want to hurt Catriona?”
“He says he loves her, but I’m not sure,” Artis said. “Sometimes, he talks about her like he loves her, but most of the time he sounds like he hates her.”
“I can’t believe you’d sell information about us, Artis,” Mrs. MacTavish said, shaking her head. “I’m disappointed in you.”
That lecture would have to wait until later.
“Where did Catriona go?” he asked, his mind racing, though he appeared outwardly calm. He treated emergencies in the same manner.
“To Reverend Michael’s church,” Mrs. MacTavish said, gripping her hands together. She glanced at the maid, then back at him. “He has more clothing donations, and she went to pick them up.”
“How long ago did she leave?” he asked. “By what route? Was Mr. Johnstone driving her?”
“I’m not certain, I don’t know, and yes,” Mrs. MacTavish replied, her pallor nearly matching that of the maid.
He turned to leave, but glanced back at Artis.
“Why did you tell Mrs. MacTavish now?” he asked. “Why today?”
“He had a gun,” she said. “This morning it was sitting there on the table.”
If there had been time, he would have had a great deal to say to the woman who stood before him, head down, hands clasped together, a pitiful penitent. But time was the one commodity he didn’t have.
Edinburgh wasn’t as congested as London, but outside of New Town, the streets were winding, medieval, and hilly.
Andrew had made certain provisions for his task. First of all, he drove his own carriage. Horsemanship, in all its guises, had been a hobby of his a few years earlier. In addition, he’d had the seat modified so that he sat higher and farther to the front than normal.
Since it was a beautiful winter day, brisk yet bright, no one would think it odd that he was muffled, wrapped in a greatcoat large enough to hide his rifle and wearing a hat he pulled down low on his face.
The sooner he was done with this, the sooner he could return to England.
He hated everything about Scotland, from the indigestible food, to the unintelligible accent, to the god-awful notion each Scot seemed to possess that his backward country was somehow superior to England. More than once he’d heard the opinion that the only reason they were a united kingdom was because inhabitants of Scotland felt sorry for the English, and deigned to join their commonwealth. The better to show them how it was done, of course.
The last he saw of the arrogant Scots and their damnable country, the better.
He pulled behind the carriage, more than willing to return to Charlotte Square if the occupant had been Mrs. MacTavish or one of the maids. A quarter mile after leaving the house, however, the carriage turned onto a well-traveled road, giving Andrew a sight of the veiled figure inside the vehicle.
His heart nearly pounded out of his chest.
He would have liked to stand over her to deliver
the final coup de grace, but he wasn’t a fool. He had no intention of ending his own life in this act of vengeance. No, he would be an old man when he died in his bed.
Perhaps he would serve up the tale of a woman who’d wronged him as an object lesson to his heirs. He’d allow himself to remember her then, think of her glorious blond hair wrapped around his body, how he felt when she kissed him, praised him, and laughed with him.
He’d think of her just before he died.
Would Catriona think of him?
Chapter 33
As they turned a corner, Catriona peered out the window. The bright sunlight was directly in her eyes, and it took a moment before she could see the odd-looking vehicle directly behind them. But that wasn’t what caught her attention.
Mark had told her the truth. He said he had no intention of dismissing Mr. MacLean, and the man was still following her. A few carriages back, granted, but he was still there.
Was he going to be a constant presence in her life?
She motioned Isobel over to sit beside her, exchanging places with the maid. Reaching up, she opened the grate and spoke to the driver.
“Would you please pull over, Mr. Johnstone? There’s someone in a carriage behind us that I need to see.”
Would the man Mark hired listen to her any better than he had a few nights ago? Or would he simply tip his hat to her, smile, and continue being a nuisance?
She had to at least try to rid herself of her shadow.
Andrew pulled out the rifle, placing it on the floor. One foot rested on the stock as he watched the carriage ahead of him.
When they turned the next corner, he’d have the perfect angle to see into the carriage. Catriona, in her veil, was nothing but a dark shadow now. He’d lift the rifle, sight it, and pull the trigger. She’d be as easy to pick off as a pheasant. Then he’d calmly hide the rifle, extricate himself from traffic, and make his way back to Charlotte Square. In a few days he’d depart for England, but not before the funeral. He might even make an appearance, somber and mournful, a friend from the past, devastated by the news.
Poor dear Catriona. To have left the earth so soon. To die so young, poor thing. To be taken by a random act of violence seemed the worst of all tragedies.
Yes, I knew her. I count her among my dearest friends. No, I hadn’t seen her for a while. Yes, she will be missed.
The carriage abruptly pulled over to the side of the road.
Surprised, he could only follow suit.
What the hell was she doing?
As Catriona opened the carriage door, she was intent on the words she was going to say to convince Mr. MacLean to give up his task.
Mr. Johnstone shouted a command as the carriage horses jerked on the reins, impatient. Wagon wheels rumbled over cobblestones; a woman called to her child. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the fluttering wings of two birds engaged in mortal combat or flighted loving.
Her attention was caught when the driver of the carriage behind them placed his hat on the seat. His thick blond hair reminded her of Andrew. When he bent to retrieve something, she hesitated on the step, staring at him. When he straightened, she looked into Andrew Prender’s eyes.
Slowly, he raised a gun, looked down the barrel, and smiled.
“Get down on the floor, Isobel,” she said. “Now.”
Thank God the maid didn’t ask any questions.
The gunshot was so loud it seemed to split the air in two.
Mark knew Mr. Johnstone, of course, and even bundled against the weather, the man wouldn’t be hard to miss. Yet as Brody drove down Prince’s Street, there was no sign of Catriona’s carriage. After he and Brody conferred, they decided to take one of the side streets. It was possible that Johnstone had taken an alternate route, knowing the traffic at this time of day.
Every inhabitant of Edinburgh appeared to be abroad, taking advantage of the clear blue winter sky and mild breeze. Even the castle on the hill seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.
The minutes ticked by, each screaming at him to hurry, but there wasn’t much they could do in the press of vehicles.
Who was Andrew Prender and why did he want to kill Catriona? Both questions were equipped with a barbed tail, digging into his mind and remaining fixed there.
Pain speared through Catriona, a giant fist that threw her back against the carriage. Someone screamed. Please God, don’t let another maid die because of her. Please let Isobel be all right. One more scream, but this one was only in her mind. Don’t let me die now. Not now, when there were so many possibilities. Not at this moment, when she’d just begun to realize how wrong she’d been.
Her hand reached for the carriage door but faltered, her fingers spreading wide as she fell.
Agony raced through her, limned in crimson, lit by a bright afternoon sun.
She pressed her palm against the worst of the pain in her chest. Her fingers were rapidly covered in blood.
Regret, longing, even thought was thrust beneath the agony. She was no longer a person, a woman, a human, merely a repository for the pain. She reached out one hand to grasp something, anything, to hold onto life. Instead, a horrible hollowed-out darkness greeted her, a Hell not unlike Old Town.
After a distance of only two blocks, Brody pulled the carriage to the side of the street. Annoyed, Mark opened the door. Had Brody changed his mind and decided to take another route?
“Sir, it’s Miss Cameron,” Brody said, leaping from the driver’s seat.
A few vehicles ahead the carriage was pulled to the curb. Catriona lay on the steps, her dress draped in folds to the street.
Blood was dripping down the carriage steps.
He ran, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.
Kneeling beside Catriona, he pressed his fingers to her wrist. After finding a faint pulse, he took a deep breath. She was alive.
All his training mattered at this moment. He wasn’t a physician with thousands of patients and years of valuable experience. He was simply a student, being taught to heal, learning how to save lives.
He unbuttoned her cloak with steady fingers. The deep blue fabric of her dress glistened wetly. He ripped the bodice open, unfastened the busk of her corset, and pulled the material free from her chest. The bullet had struck her in the upper left quadrant of her chest, too close to her heart for his peace of mind.
He needed to get her home, to his surgery. If he was lucky enough, he could extract the bullet and stitch the wound before she lost any more blood. If he was skilled enough, he could save her.
A woman knelt in the doorway, one hand gripping the door frame. He knew her, recognized the sling she wore, but his frantic brain was trying to put a name to her white face. He had it—Isobel.
“Help me get her into the carriage,” he said.
Isobel nodded, and the two of them raised her to the seat.
He knelt on the floor beside her and, with one hand on her wound, gently pulled the veil from her face.
Catriona moaned. He placed his knuckles tenderly against her cheek to soothe her.
Her eyelids fluttered open and, surprisingly, she smiled at him. “It hurts, Mark.”
“I know, my love.”
She smiled faintly, an expression that twisted his heart.
He called out for the driver, and seconds later Johnstone was in the doorway.
“We need to get her to my surgery,” he said. “Do you know the way?”
“Aye, sir, I do at that.”
Catriona’s face was too pale and so were her lips. He wanted to be able to take the pain from her, somehow magically remove it. If the bullet had been two inches lower, she would have died instantly.
He bent and kissed her on the forehead, frowning at the cool touch of her skin. Please, give me the skill to save her. She couldn’t die. She couldn’t die. She had come through so much. She deserved a chance at life, a chance to be herself. Catriona Cameron, intransigent, stubborn, willful, charming.
He closed his eyes. “I’ll save you
, love. I’ll save you.” A benediction to match the faith of his words.
He prayed he was right.
Andrew saw Catriona fall, smiled, and readied the rifle for another shot. Before he could raise the gun, however, someone grabbed his arm. His rifle clattered to the street as a stranger launched himself at him, jerking Andrew off the driver’s seat.
The first impression he had was of a pig dressed in plaid. A short, beefy man with a round face and a flattened nose was pummeling him with fists like hammers, each blow accompanied by a verbal insult to his paternity.
Whenever he tried to jerk away, Pig Face hit him harder. He couldn’t even get in an answering blow. All he could do was shield his head with his arms. Blood poured from a cut near his eye, and his lip was split.
Pig Face threw him on the ground facedown then knelt on his back while holding his wrists in a vise.
He couldn’t breathe, but when he said as much, speaking with some difficulty from between rapidly swelling lips, Pig Face only grunted in satisfaction.
Not one damn Scot came to his aid. In fact, a tall savage broke out of the crowd and helped Pig Face. Damned if he didn’t hear cheering when the man rolled him over and hit him.
He shook his head to try to clear it, but his vision was obscured by blood. A moment later Pig Face had him by the scruff of his collar and was dragging him toward Catriona’s carriage with the help of the other man.
“It’s him, sir,” the man said through the open door. “He’s the one who shot Miss Cameron.”
A stranger sat there, his bloody hands pressing against Catriona’s bare chest.
She moaned, startling him. Did Catriona have nine lives? From the amount of blood pouring from her wound, she wouldn’t have them for long.
The other man only glanced at him for a second before returning his attention to Catriona.
“Take him to the authorities, Brody. I’ve got to get her to my surgery.”
Surgery? Who else but Catriona would have a physician on the scene?
“She should die,” he said, in what he considered a rational tone, considering that his lip was nearly cleaved in two. “The world would be better off.”
