by Tarah Scott
His brows rose in polite inquiry.
"When I was a child, my father involved himself with the wrong sorts of men: dissidents, malcontents, murderers. In a word: traitors.” She suddenly realized the irony of the fact that the lie that had enslaved her all her life was about to buy her freedom. “These traitors, along with my father, planned to assassinate a group of nobleman. All but my father were hanged. He escaped and hasn't been heard from since. Your Grace, he is wanted for high treason.”
“High treason,” the duke repeated. “That is serious business."
Hope surged through her. "Indeed it is."
"A very interesting tale,” he said.
“Tale? It's the truth. The incident is known as the Cato Street Conspiracy.”
His forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. “I seem to recall…the Spenceans, correct?”
“Why, yes. I'm surprised you know of it.”
He smiled, the light in his eyes indulgent. “My generation does read the papers.”
Phoebe flushed. “Forgive me. Of course, I-I didn't mean to imply otherwise—oh, surely you see, your son can't marry me?”
“Why not?” said Kiernan MacGregor from the doorway.
Phoebe cursed and, an instant later, when he stood at her side, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”
He lifted a brow just as his father had a moment ago and she experienced an urge to box his ears.
“I live here, my dear.”
He took her hand in his. She tried to yank free of his grasp, but his hold tightened and he bent over her hand, brushing his lips across her knuckles.
Kiernan’s gaze captured hers. “Good morning, Phoebe,” he murmured.
His thumb brushed the spot he had kissed, then he released her. She snatched her hand back so quickly, her elbow banged the cushioned back of the chair.
“Are you all right?” He glanced meaningfully at her elbow.
“Fine, no thanks to you,” she muttered.
“Your future wife was just telling me of her father's involvement with Arthur Thistlewood,” the duke said. "You wouldn't remember, you were a boy then, but Thistlewood was found guilty of high treason and hanged in May of 1820."
A tremor rocked Phoebe's stomach. The duke remembered the incident even to the details of Thistlewood's execution?
"What did your father have to do with him?" Kiernan asked.
"He was accused of taking part in Thistlewood's plan to assassinate the Cabinet," she answered.
"I see. So you know a bit more about assassinations than I first thought."
She didn't miss the flicker of surprise on the duke's face, but had no time to consider it when she noticed—what, recognition?—in Kiernan's eyes.
"Why didn't you say something?" he asked.
"If you recall, my lord, you thought I was Heddy."
He cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to keep from laughing. "Indeed. Was your father also hanged?"
"Good God, no," Phoebe blurted before catching herself.
"What happened to him?"
"He was never caught."
"You told me your father died when you were seven."
She gave him a deprecating look. He would have the memory of an elephant. "What should I have said, my lord?"
"Was he guilty of the accusations?" Kiernan asked.
"I-I beg your pardon?"
"Was he guilty?" Kiernan asked again.
By heavens, she hadn't expected this question—hadn't expected any questions. "I have accepted that he wasn't the man my mother thought he was." The truth. But she'd had enough of this. Phoebe looked at the duke. “Your Grace, yesterday you asked if I understood the gravity of my situation. I ask you the same. When you thought I was related to the Wallington you knew, you weren't pleased. My father is no better than the man you knew.”
"What are you talking about?" Kiernan said.
"Never mind," the duke said, then regarded Phoebe. "The Wallington I knew was a deranged killer. Is that the case with your father?"
"No, Your Grace, but—"
“Excuse me, laird,” a woman entered the room. “The tea you asked for.”
“On the sideboard,” he instructed.
She hurried to the sideboard and set the tray down, then began filling the cups.
“I'll take care of the tea," Kiernan said.
The girl cast a blushing glance in his direction, then hurried out the door. Kiernan crossed to the sideboard as Phoebe leaned toward the duke's desk. “As I was saying, Your Grace—”
“How do you take your tea, Phoebe?” Kiernan asked.
She glanced at him, exasperated at the interruption. “Cream, two sugars.” Focusing again on the duke, she said, “Dukes do not marry their sons to the daughters of traitors.”
"Even if the duke himself descends from a traitor?" he asked.
"I beg your pardon?"
Kiernan returned with the tea and set it on the desk in front of her. He leaned against the desk, one leg brushing hers as he stretched them out before him. Warmth rippled through her and she froze at the realization that he was purposely enticing her.
“We come from just that sort of stock,” he said.
“What?”
“About two hundred years ago, our ancestor Ryan MacGregor was a hunted traitor. Didn’t stop him from marrying into the Ashlund line.”
Kiernan’s eyes flashed the same devilishness she glimpsed the night he had burst into her carriage, and her stomach did a flip. What was wrong with her?
“You'll fit in just fine,” he said.
She gave a questioning look to the duke.
“He's right.”
Good Lord, had she stumbled into a family of traitors? Did this explain Kiernan turning a blind eye to Alan Hay's assassination plot? Maybe it was in the blood. This cast a new light on the idea of the family business.
“Has it occurred to either of you I don't want to marry?” she demanded.
“Why not?” Kiernan asked.
Phoebe hesitated, but knew she had no choice. “My twenty-fifth birthday is a few months away. I come into a sizeable inheritance. The money will allow me to do as I please.”
“So that is what you meant by my honor for your freedom,” Kiernan murmured.
“You do understand? Well, perhaps not. My uncle is a wonderful man, but his wife isn't so wonderful, and her son—well, he's a nuisance.”
“What's he done?” Kiernan demanded, and Phoebe realized he thought Ty was trying to get into her bed.
Damn him, she had no desire to explain Ty's love of gambling or her fear that Ty's mother would find a way to access Phoebe's inheritance. Phoebe planned to take possession of her money, then ensure that Lady Albery and Ty didn't ruin her uncle. But first she had to escape this mess.
“You misunderstand," she told Kiernan, "Ty—they simply aren't my family.”
Kiernan squatted beside her, bringing his face level with hers. “I will be your family now.”
“I have a life," she went on in a rush, "things I wish to do, things that don't include being at the beck and call of a husband.”
“As to whether or not those things include being at the beck and call of a husband,” the duke said, “I cannot say, but they do now include having a husband.”
Phoebe stiffened. “Even you, Your Grace, cannot force me into marriage.”
“It is done. The notice has been sent to the papers and a letter to your uncle.”
She reeled. A message already sent. How—when? How long to reach London with a message? Two days, if the messenger changed horses along the way? When had the messenger left?
“You sent the message last night,” she said in a whisper to the duke. "When you allowed me to send a message to my uncle." Her pulse quickened. “Sweet God in heaven, what have you done?”
An acute silence fell upon the room, broken a moment later by Kiernan’s, “Phoebe, love.”
She looked dumbly at him.
“It wasn't my father’s doing.”
> She stared. “You?”
He smiled slightly.
“Not your damned honor?”
The smile never wavered.
She couldn't believe it. A traitor with honor.
Phoebe looked at the duke. “I wish to return home.”
“We have time,” Kiernan said. “If we leave tomorrow—”
“I wish to leave now,” she insisted, her gaze still fixed on his father.
"All right," Kiernan said. "It's best if the announcement appears in the papers before we arrive in London, so we will go to Ashlund first.”
“I bloody well plan to cancel that announcement," Phoebe said. "And I have no intention of going anywhere with you.”
“You can't go without me. In fact, we will ride with a large company of men in case your other admirer decides to waylay you again.”
“What’s this?” the duke demanded.
“Did my future wife neglect to tell you of the men who tried to abduct her the same night I did?”
The duke’s attention sharpened on Phoebe.
“It was fortunate that I got there when I did," Kiernan said. "If not for me, God knows what would have happened."
“You're being melodramatic,” she said.
“Miss Wallington,” the duke said in a stern voice that forced her attention to him. “Who is the other kidnapper?”
The same man I encountered in the woods the night of the fire, she wondered? But said, "I haven’t the vaguest idea."
Five minutes later, Phoebe begged Kiernan to give her time to think, and closed the library door on him and his father. She hurried to her room to collect the three articles she had hidden there earlier that morning. First, the sgian dubh, which she'd taken from the great hall. Lifting her apron, she stuffed the sheathed dagger into the pocket of her skirt. Next, she retrieved the small derringer she had found in the duke’s library and pocketed the weapon with the dagger. Lastly, she picked up her reticule, which contained the ruby ring her mother had given her before she died, along with her father’s letter. She stuffed the bag into her pocket and stood.
Blood pounded in her ears in tandem with the rhythm of her thudding heart. She smoothed her skirts, until certain the bulge wasn't noticeable, then hastened from her room and down the stairs to the front entrance. Phoebe forced her pulse to slow and her mind to quiet as she pushed open the door and stepped into the busy courtyard. She resisted the urge to glance at the upper level of the castle. If luck smiled, father and son would be in conference long enough for her to reach the village. If all went well, Kiernan wouldn't seek her out until she was long gone. Leaving on her own was a huge risk, but she couldn't see any other choice. It was simply out of the question for her to arrive in London engaged to a man who she had already reported as a possible traitor to England. The letter she'd sent to Alistair was among those the duke thought was to her uncle, and would reach London with Kiernan's announcement for the papers.
Keeping her gait casual, she started toward the gate. Halfway across the compound, a high-pitched shriek caused her to jerk her head in the direction of the scream. Two children raced across the courtyard. Phoebe shoved her hands into her pockets and slowed her pace. The open gate was only a few feet away. Easy, she told herself. A man stepped from the battlements as she crossed the gate’s threshold. He glanced at her, but she kept her gaze straight ahead as if not having seen him. She felt his gaze linger on her and her heart sank. But he didn’t call out, and a third of the way down the hill she couldn’t refrain from quickening her pace.
Upon reaching the village, she spotted two women she'd met the night of the fire. They smiled. By heavens, they intended to stop her. Phoebe gave a cool nod and one woman flashed her a disgusted look. Phoebe winced inwardly, but kept walking. The minutes it took to reach the stables ticked by with the sluggishness of a nightmare. She reached the stables and slipped inside. A quick inspection of the horses revealed two stallions, a mare, and two geldings. She backtracked three stalls to the first gelding, a nice looking chestnut.
Phoebe ran a hand along the strong back of the animal. “Your brethren in the keep’s stables are finer than you,” she cooed, “but pay them no mind. We have the element of surprise and will outrun them.”
With a precision born of practice, she had the gelding saddled in ten minutes. Phoebe took a deep breath. “Ironic. Of all the villains I have had to escape, it is a duke insisting I marry his son that makes me quiver in my shoes.”
Leading the horse toward the rear door, she halted at the squeak of a wagon wheel halting at the front of the stable.
“There, there,” a raspy voice called.
The creak of wood indicated the wagon’s driver was dismounting. She would have to make a run for it after all. Phoebe urged the horse the final paces to the rear door. She shoved the door open and, yanking her skirts past the point of propriety, vaulted into the saddle. She dug her heels into the stallion’s belly just as light streamed into the stable from the other end.
“What the—" Phoebe heard behind her as the beast lurched forward into the morning light.
The ride through the lane was finished in seconds. She shot past the last cottage, and the young boy who stood on its step staring after her.
Phoebe didn't slow the gelding when the forest thinned, but kept him at a cantor as she glanced up at the early afternoon sun. Four hours had passed since she’d fled Brahan Seer and only one hour since she’d spotted three riders half a mile behind her. Her stomach churned. Despite the fact that she'd circled north before heading south, they had picked up her trail. Phoebe urged her horse up the hill she had been riding alongside the past fifteen minutes. His neck muscles strained with the effort.
“That’s it, laddie,” she said. “Let’s have a look.”
They topped the summit and she brought the horse to a halt beneath the cover of trees. She surveyed the sparsely treed terrain directly below, moving her gaze northward where the forest thickened. Her gaze snagged on shadowy movement within the trees and her pulse jumped. She couldn't discern the men's faces, but there could be no doubt who led the men: Kiernan MacGregor. Phoebe yanked the reins and whirled the horse around and back down the hill.
“Easy,” Phoebe instructed the gelding as he tried to veer west and deeper into the forest.
She estimated the border to be about two hours south. Darkness had fallen and, though she would have preferred the cover of thicker foliage, she feared getting lost without the aid of the moon and stars which, thankfully, shined bright that night. The horse neighed loudly.
“Quiet.” She pulled back on the reins.
He neighed again, this time, succeeding in veering off course. Phoebe distinguished the soft rush of water and realized the horse's intent. She relaxed her grip on the reins and the gelding quickly broke through the foliage and into a small clearing. Phoebe spotted a stream ten feet away, glistening in the moonlight. The horse trotted to the water’s edge. She dismounted as he bent his neck and drank. She lowered herself to her knees and did the same. A rustle of leaves beyond the brook caused her to pause.
For a moment, the faint sound remained lost in the babble of the brook, then slowly distinguished itself as the light tread of a horse. Had Kiernan MacGregor separated from his men? Or maybe this was one of his men. Phoebe pulled her skirt calf-high and jumped noiselessly across the brook. She crept to the nearest tree and listened. The rider’s approach was still faint. She glanced at her horse. He grazed contentedly beside the brook.
Phoebe stole deeper into the forest following the discerning horse's step. She stopped behind the trunk of a sprawling chestnut tree. The moon sliced through the branches in thick stabs of light and she was rewarded with the sight of a rider picking his way through the trees. This short, stocky man was not Kiernan MacGregor. Two men on horseback materialized from the shadows of a large oak beyond the rider.
Phoebe started, then her heart skipped a beat. None of the men wore kilts, but instead, wore the loose fitting trousers and bad
ly cut woolen coats worn by the lower class English.
“Ain’t but three o’ ‘em,” the man she had followed said in rough English accents.
“You sure?” another demanded with authority.
“I can count," the first retorted.
A twig snapped in the darkness beyond the men.
“Bob,” called the one Phoebe believed to be the leader.
“Aye, Zachariah.” A large man astride a massive horse entered the circle of men.
“Where’s Cary and John?” Zachariah demanded.
Bob jerked his head in the direction he’d come as two more men became visible behind him.
Zachariah looked back at the first man. “You and Frank hide in the trees near Borthwick bridge. When they cross, fire a shot so that we know they’re there, then block their rear.” Zachariah looked at the other men. “You four get down below the bridge. If they try to jump, give them a taste of your pistol. But whatever you do, aim for the sky. Kill the wrong man and we end up with nothing.”
Phoebe's blood went cold. The 'wrong man' Zachariah referred to could be none other than Kiernan MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, son of a wealthy duke. He would bring a fine ransom.
“What about our employer?”
“What about him?” Zachariah said.
Yes, Phoebe wondered, what about him?
“Don’t strike me as the type to like being double-crossed.”
“He doesn’t run this band,” Zachariah growled. “I do.”
“What if he comes looking for us?” another asked.
“It won’t matter, we’ll be long gone. You men want to keep working this drudge of a country?”
Grunts of agreement went around.
“Get going, then,” Zachariah commanded.
The men turned their horses east and Phoebe knew they were headed for the valley she had left half an hour ago. She waited until they disappeared, then hurried back to her horse. She mounted, then urged him back through the holly bushes and down the mountainside toward the valley. Fifteen minutes later, the terrain leveled out and she snapped the reins against the gelding’s rear. He shot forward.
