by Tarah Scott
“Your husband owns the inn?” Phoebe asked, as if in awe.
The woman smiled. “He does.”
“Oh, but I didn’t know. Pray, forgive me.”
A pleased look passed over the woman’s face. “Och. There’s nothing to forgive.”
“What is your name, madam?” Phoebe asked.
“Mrs. MacKenzie. Now,” she said, “you get—"
There was a knock at the door. Phoebe and the innkeeper’s wife both looked toward the door, which stood ajar.
“Sally,” Mrs. MacKenzie cried, when a young woman carrying a tray pushed open the door.
“Over here.” Mrs. MacKenzie pointed to the small table beside Phoebe's chair.
The girl brought the tray to the table.
“You're too kind.” Phoebe stood.
“Never mind,” Mrs. MacKenzie said. “You must eat. Now, Sally, fetch a little warm water for—” she looked to Phoebe.
“Mrs. MacGregor,” Phoebe replied.
As hoped, Mrs. MacKenzie beamed. “Mrs. MacGregor.” Sally hurried from the room and Mrs. MacKenzie looked at Phoebe. “If you need anything, my room is at the end of the hall.”
“Again,” Phoebe took Mrs. MacKenzie’s hand in hers, “you're too kind.”
The housekeeper blushed and patted Phoebe’s hand. “Get some rest, lass. We’ll have a nice breakfast in the morning and get you settled on your way.”
A shame, Phoebe thought, to have to miss such an enjoyable meal.
Five hours rest had revived Phoebe and her horse. She buckled the billets on the animal's saddle when a prickling sense of familiarity caused her to pause in the dim light of the stall. She grasped the stirrup and laid it quietly against the horse's belly, then crept to the stall door. She peeked out into the darkness, searching one side of the stable, then the other. She discerned no movement and ducked back into the stall, pausing to listen. All remained quiet.
Skulking about in the night made one suspicious. Unfortunately, she had learned long ago that she was the suspicious sort. She turned back to the horse. The fact that the inn stood within sight of the stables didn’t help. A guilty conscious, she thought, remembering the kind Mrs. MacKenzie. Again, she wondered if leaving in the middle of the night wouldn’t be more memorable, than allowing the good housekeeper to send an escort from whom she would be forced to escape. Phoebe started toward the lamp that hung on the inside wall of the stable, but whirled abruptly. That had definitely been a sound. She placed a hand on the gelding’s nose and edged past him to the door. She looked out but, again, not so much as a piece of straw stirred. She stepped out and groped along the stalls to the stable doors.
The door was still ajar as she's left it when she entered and Phoebe leaned forward to peer around the edge. She froze. Outside in the pre-dawn shadows, at the very end of the stables, stood a man. His profile faced her, and he was deep in quiet conversation with someone who remained out of view on the other side of the stables.
The sense of familiarity she had experienced earlier returned. The man's features were indiscernible and his build wasn't out of the ordinary. He lifted his arm and placed a palm against the edge of the barn, leaning into the building. Phoebe's pulse jumped. It couldn’t be. Her mind flashed back to the day when Alan Hay had arrived at the Green Lady Inn, and that night when Robbie held her at gunpoint in the barn. This time, the outline of a short hanger hunting sword protruding from his waistband was unmistakable.
The Highland map she had consulted before leaving Brahan Seer came to mind. By heavens, she had paid the districts no mind when she consulted the map, caring only for the location of Tain. Her brain hadn’t registered the fact that the Sutherland district lay just above Tain.
Robbie’s hand dropped away from the building. He stepped forward and she lost sight of him behind the stable. She waited to the count of three, then pushed the door open another few inches and stole from the stable. She crept to the edge of the building. There came the soft nicker of a horse. She halted at discerning the faint murmur of voices, then hurried to the far end the building. Phoebe peeked around the corner. Robbie stood, hand on the saddle pummel, ready to mount his horse. The other man, while talking in a whisper she couldn’t distinguish, was obviously agitated.
Robbie shook his head and mounted. The man grabbed Robbie’s arm. Robbie pulled back on the reins and the horse whirled, forcing the man back. Robbie didn’t look back, but continued alongside the stables. The man took a step in Robbie’s direction. Phoebe drew back and hurried back toward the stable door. She slipped inside and watched. The man appeared from around the stable an instant later and quickly passed from view. Phoebe peeked around the corner of the door and saw he was headed toward the inn.
“You never know who you might meet traveling in these parts,” Mrs. MacKenzie had said.
What better person to see criminals on their way than a kindly old innkeeper’s wife? Phoebe wondered. She hurried to her horse. She had been convinced she would find some connection between her father and Kiernan MacGregor, but hadn't been able to figure out what that connection might be. Seeing Robbie Hay here was too fantastical to be coincidence. There was no doubt that he would lead her to her husband. Lord Ashlund was, indeed, aiding criminals.
Her heart jumped. What if the recognition she'd glimpsed in Kiernan's eyes when she'd talked about her father was more than mere recognition of his name? What if it was also the knowledge that his future father-in-law was a man who would see him hanged for treason given the chance? She'd often wondered how her father had occupied himself all these years. Despite the deceit by the men who had made him an outlaw, he loved his country. He had remained in contact with Alistair. Could that mean he had somehow continued to serve his country? Her excitement took a dive. If true, could that account for Kiernan's unwavering determination to marry her? What better way to control her father than by controlling her?
Phoebe wasn't surprised when Robbie headed north. She was surprised, however, when instead of heading east toward Tain, he continued north of the channel, then veered east into Dornoth Firth.
The elevation grew steeper and when she crested a large hill, she stopped. Below the densely forested hillside lay the coast and the sprawling port city of Dornoch. She searched the hill for Robbie and caught sight of him picking his way down the mountain. She followed.
The city was large enough that Phoebe hoped Robbie wouldn't recognize her among the bustle of the crowded street. He rode at such a slow pace that she realized he was less likely to notice a woman strolling the boardwalk, than a woman on horseback. She stopped in front of a shop, dismounted, and tied the reins to the post outside the shop, then sauntered down the street in Robbie's wake.
He continued through town without stopping. When the crowd thinned, she began to fear that Dornoch wasn't his destination. The sun had begun its descent and she would lose him if she was forced to retrieve her horse. She breathed a sigh of relief when he stopped on the edge of town in front of a three-story house with an overhead sign that read Madam Duvall’s Boarding House. Robbie dismounted and went inside.
Two men approached her on the walkway. Phoebe paused and gazed through the window of a general store. She studied a pot that was displayed, while waiting for the men to pass. As they neared the boarding house, a window on the second floor opened and a woman stuck her head out. A woman, Phoebe noted, who could not be mistaken for anything other than the prostitute she was.
“Cheri,” the woman called in a thick French accent.
The two men paused at the door and looked up.
“Adele,” one man replied and threw her a kiss.
The woman disappeared back into the house and the man in the lead opened the door to the brothel and entered with the other close behind. Phoebe turned, looked both ways, then crossed the street and headed back into town.
CHAPTER TWENTY
At the sound of a sharp knock, Kiernan swung his gaze from Madam Duvall to the drawing room door. The door opened and her butler entered.
“Someone to see the Lord Ashlund,” he announced in formal tones.
Kiernan looked at Madam Duvall, who sat on the settee beside his chair. “Was I to see someone else today?”
“No monsieur,” she replied. “Only Robbie and, as you know, he arrived over an hour ago.”
Kiernan turned his attention to the butler. “He didn't say who he was?”
“Said you would know him, sir.”
Kiernan rose and removed a pistol from a nearby desk. "Show him in, Phillip. Letty, meet our guest at the door, if you please.” Kiernan strode to the door and leaned against the wall to the left.
A moment later, a familiar figure entered the room.
“What the devil?” Kiernan exclaimed.
The Earl of Stoneleigh whirled to face him. Regan eyed the gun Kiernan pointed at him, then ran his gaze down the length of Kiernan's kilt.
"Never seen you looking so…"
Kiernan lowered in the weapon. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Regan replied.
“No, you can’t.”
Regan turned his attention to Letty, though he addressed Kiernan, “You’re being rather rude, you know. Madam.” Regan lifted her hand to his lips.
“Sir,” she replied with a tilt of her head.
“Letty,” Kiernan said, “do you mind? I need a word with our visitor.”
Kiernan waited until Letty closed the door behind her, then said, “What are you doing here, Stoneleigh?”
"Stoneleigh?" Regan grimaced. "I have annoyed you." He threw himself down onto the sofa. “It’s been a long trip. Aren’t you going to offer me something a drink?”
“Will it get anything out of you?”
“You know how relaxed I get after a drink.”
“Begin the tale,” Kiernan said, “and I might not have you drawn and quartered.”
Regan lifted a brow. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you so testy before.”
Kiernan went to the sideboard. He set the pistol on the cabinet, then lifted the stopper off the decanter of port. “I wasn't expecting guests.”
“Then you’re due for another shock.”
Kiernan paused in pouring the drinks to look at Regan. “What does that mean?”
“Your wife is here. I assume,” he added, “given that you're staying in a brothel, you didn't bring her with you.”
“Phoebe? Here?” Kiernan shook his head and finished pouring the drinks. “Impossible. She’s back at Brahan Seer, and she would have no idea I’m here—speaking of which, how did you know I was here?”
“Your horse.”
“The Andalusian?” Kiernan picked up the two drinks and crossed to Regan. “So, you happened to be in Dornoch and spotted my horse?” He handed a drink to Regan, then sat down in his chair.
“Right.”
"Not many Englishmen happen to be in Dornoch, Scotland, Regan."
"I had no idea you were here."
"Then why are you here?"
Regan sipped the port. “It’s been far too long since I’ve had good port." He met Kiernan's gaze. "It was, indeed, Phoebe I saw."
“She has no way of knowing I'm here. Not to mention, my father would never let her go.” The memory of how both he and his father had ‘let her go’ the last time they had been at Brahan Seer came to mind.
“She wore no bonnet,” Regan said. “Never does, as you know. There is no mistaking that golden hair.” He took another sip of port.
“Why hasn't she already stormed Madame Duvall's?”
The earl laughed. “How many wives expect to find their husbands at a brothel two days after their wedding?”
Kiernan narrowed his eyes. “You know a great deal too much about my life these days."
He rose, crossed to the secretary and scribbled a note to his cousin to discreetly search for a newcomer, a woman with golden hair and…how did he describe her figure? He decided against the extra description. If Phoebe was in Dornoch, Androu would pick her out of the crowd without any trouble. If she was here, he would congratulate her on her excellent tracking skills—then paddle her pretty bottom. He had a great deal more to learn about his wife than he thought. Kiernan paused while signing the note. What if he wasn't the reason she was here? He cast Regan a glance, then went to the door and called for Phillip. The butler appeared a moment later and Kiernan gave him the note.
"Please have this delivered to Androu immediately." Phillip gave a small bow and started to turn, but Kiernan said, “Oh, and Phillip, please inform Mather we will meet at our friend's place. We've had too many unexpected visitors today for my liking. You will find him at Rhoda’s. He may stay there until our appointed meeting time. He's likely to murder me in my sleep if I ask him to leave her before necessary.”
Phillip bowed and left the room.
Kiernan closed the door, then returned to his seat and said to the earl, "Start at the beginning.”
Regan took another drink, then said, “I know my turning up here is odd—odd enough, I suppose, that I do owe you an explanation. Though, after I’ve told you my story, I hope you’ll see your way to show me the same consideration. I find it just as strange finding you here. First, I must ask you keep this information to yourself, and don’t interfere.”
“Has this anything to do with me?”
“No.”
“Then, I can't see a problem. I don’t make a habit of interfering, you know.”
Regan cleared his throat and Kiernan scowled.
“You’ll never let me live down my matchmaking debacle, will you?” Kiernan asked.
“Neither will Phoebe,” Regan laughed. “Though it didn't turn out all that terrible for you."
No, he had to agree, it hadn't turned out badly at all.
"Now, as to my being here," Regan said. "I’m on the trail of a criminal.”
Kiernan paused with his glass halfway to his lips. “What criminal would that be?”
Regan grinned. “Hard to believe, isn’t it? Who would have thought of me as a doer of justice, righter of wrongs?”
Kiernan took the forestalled sip. “Not I.”
“Well, you would be right. The long and short of it is, I’ve been commissioned by the government to keep an eye on Lord Ronald Harrington.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Harrington is being investigated on matters of national security.”
“National security?" Kiernan blurted, then cursed the government official who had commissioned Stoneleigh in hopes he would stumble upon the secret other real British spies had failed to find. When Kiernan discovered the idiot's identity, he would whip him for throwing Regan in his path. "Lord Harrington has an unimpeachable reputation," Kiernan said. "Not to mention, you're no spy.”
“No, I'm not. But it came to the notice of a certain someone in the government that I'm an acquaintance of his and," he shrugged, "well, he asked me to help out.”
“And out of the goodness of your heart you agreed?”
“It's something of an adventure.”
“I’ve never known you to apply yourself to anything for longer than a month.”
“Not so. I did graduate Cambridge with honors.”
“Only because your father threatened to enlist you in the military.”
“Can you imagine?” Regan looked aghast. “Not even a commission.”
“What’s behind this, Regan? I don’t believe you would follow a suspected spy all the way out here for the Crown.”
“No. I wouldn’t.” Regan leaned forward. “I have a particular interest in Harrington, or, rather, a friend of his. I’m of the mind that Harrington is involved.”
“Involved in what, the treason he's suspected of?”
“Well, as to that,” he laughed, “I can't say. No, this involves my father.”
"Your father? How is the marquess involved in this?”
Regan shook his head. “No, not Stoneleigh, my real father.”
"Your real father? Regan, you've gon
e mad."
“I know, it’s a devil of a mess. About two years ago, I discovered some letters written to my mother from a Lord Henry Ballmore. Quite personal, love letters, in fact. Seems she was to marry Ballmore, and she was pregnant at the time.”
“Bloody hell,” Kiernan whispered.
“Quite right,” Regan agreed. “Of course, I confronted her and found out that Ballmore was my real father. They were, as I said, to be married, but Ballmore was killed outside a theatre in York before the marriage took place. She met Stoneleigh, who, despite her condition, wished to marry her.”
“I’m sorry, Regan,” Kiernan said.
“Never mind about that. I never knew the man, though, it was a shock, and I was furious with Mother for keeping it from me.”
“I don’t know that she had a great deal of choice.”
“No, I suppose not. And Stoneleigh has been good to me. Still, I couldn’t help being curious about Ballmore, so I did some investigating and discovered he had a little actress on the side.”
“Common enough," Kiernan commented.
“True, but he wasn’t the only one. Lord Niles Mallory was in love with the girl as well. Sarah—” Regan snapped his fingers lightly “—some obscure woman, no one we would have heard of—Hazelton, yes, that’s it. Anyway, Ballmore and Mallory were both chasing after her.”
“Mallory, isn’t he the fellow who made all that racket about the labor laws in the House of Lords a few years ago?” The same man who, so many years ago, accused Phoebe's father, Mason Wallington, of being a traitor to the Crown?
“That’s him," Regan said. "What do you think of this? I found that Mallory was in York when my father was there.”
Kiernan studied him. “What are you saying?’
“I read the reports. Ballmore's death was no ordinary mugging. He was beaten.”
“Muggers often beat their victims.”
Regan shook his head. “This sort of beating was fueled by rage, the kind of beating one gets in a brawl.”
“Those records would have to be over thirty years old. How did you manage to glean so much detailed information? Don’t you think perhaps you’re reading into this what you wish to find?"
