Begley allowed himself the tiniest of smiles before inclining his head. “It will be my pleasure, my lady,” he intoned, stepping backward and closing the door behind him.
Caroline thought that the end of the matter, and returned her attention to the mail piled before her. She reached for her letter opener and was about to open what looked to be an invitation when the door was unceremoniously thrown open. Sir Gervase stood in the doorway, his face flushed with drink and temper as he glared at her.
“Bitch!” he said, hurling the insult at her with undisguised contempt. “Presumptuous whore! Who are you to refuse to see me? You are in sad want of manners, my girl, and I am of a mind to teach ‘em to you!”
Caroline pushed her chair back, clutching the letter opener as she rose to her feet. “You are a fine one to speak of manners, sir, when you insult me in my own home,” she said coldly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. “You will leave at once. You are not welcome here.”
“Ain’t I?” Her brave words seemed to further incite the drunken man, and he staggered forward, a meaty hand raised in a threatening fist. “We’ll see how welcome you’ll make me after I’ve beaten some sense into you.”
“You will not threaten my mistress, you drunken lout!” An indignant Begley had returned, several large footmen at his heels. “You shall leave, or else we shall throw you bodily from this house!”
Sir Gervase whirled around to face this new threat. “Do you think I’m afraid of a servant?” he sneered. “Touch me, old man, and I’ll break you in half! Then I’ll have you whipped for daring to lay hands on your betters!”
Angry that he should use his position to threaten her servants, Caroline charged from behind the safety of her desk. “You braying bully!” she exclaimed, the letter opener raised high. “If you think I won’t use this on you, you’re mistaken! Get out of here before I bury this in your back!”
Sir Gervase swung around, looking much like a bull preparing to charge. He took a threatening step forward, but before he could utter another word Hugh stepped into the room, a deadly-looking pistol in his hand.
“Take one more step and you die,” he said, his voice cold as he trained the pistol on Sir Gervase’s head.
Sir Gervase stopped, the sight of the pistol clearly having a sobering affect upon him. “Eh? What’s this?” he blustered, doing his best to salvage what he could of his dignity. “Who the devil are you?”
“I am Hugh MacColme, of the clan MacColme.” Hugh moved inexorably forward. “And the lady you have just insulted is my wife.” He placed the tip of the barrel in the center of Sir Gervase’s forehead and gave a terrifyingly calm smile. “You will pay for that mistake with your miserable life.”
Temper and bravado drained from Sir Gervase along with his color. “You can’t shoot me!” he protested, his voice rising in panic. “I am a baronet!”
“And I am a man defending his wife,” Hugh returned, drawing back the hammer until it locked into place with a loud click. “English law gives me the right to kill you where you stand, and none will say a word against it. All here heard you threaten Caroline, and they will support me whatever I do.”
A loud chorus of agreement rose from the servants crowding into the hallway, and Sir Gervase grew even more alarmed. “Now see here,” he began, licking his thick lips, his eyes rolling with fear. “This is all a mistake …”
“Aye, a mistake it was, and you are the one as made it,” Hugh said, his accent more pronounced than Caroline had ever heard it. “I’ve killed a dozen men better than you before taking my breakfast, and not a thought did I give it. If you don’t want my face to be the last thing you see in this life, you will apologize to my wife, and you will do it now.”
Sir Gervase gulped visibly, sweat pouring from his brow as he cast Caroline a look of sheer terror. “My lady, I—”
“On your knees,” Hugh interrupted, his voice as implacable as death. “You will apologize to Caroline on your knees.”
Caroline opened her lips in automatic protest, but the baronet was already doing his best to comply. Trembling so hard it was a wonder he could stand, he dropped awkwardly first to one knee and then the other, his hands clutched before him.
“Please, my lady,” he pleaded, his voice scarcely audible. “I implore you will forgive me for my words. I meant no insult, truly I did not.”
“Caroline?” Hugh glanced at her, his eyes almost silver with deadly anger. “Do you accept this pig’s apology, or would you prefer I put a bullet through his head and be done with it?”
“No!” An almost inhuman wail rose from Sir Gervase. “No, please, do not kill me! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Despite the fact she bore the baronet the deepest enmity, Caroline could not bear to see anyone groveling like a beaten dog. “I accept!” she exclaimed, terrified Hugh would ignore her and kill Gervase anyway. “I accept, Hugh!”
There was an agonizing wait, and then Hugh gave an indifferent shrug. “As you wish,” he said, stepping back and handing his pistol to Begley. He then reached down and pulled the baronet to his feet, despite the other man outweighing him by several stone.
“Listen well, you disgusting piece of cack,” he said, shaking Gervase as if he was but a rat. “The next time you come near Caroline, I will kill you. Not cleanly, not painlessly, but in ways that will send you screaming into hell. Do you hear me?”
Gervase nodded, speech having deserted him.
“Then mind you believe me.” Hugh turned and hurled him into the arms of the waiting footmen, who staggered under the weight of their unexpected burden. “Take this bastard from my sight,” he ordered coldly, “and from now on have better care who you let though the door, else I’ll dismiss the lot of you.” He turned back to Caroline, the anger already fading from his face as he gave her a brazen smile.
“Good day to you, my wife,” he said, bowing deeply. “And how was the rest of your morning?”
Chapter 8
The next several days passed quickly as Caroline adjusted to her new life as a wife. Of Uncle Charles there had been not a sign, but Caroline knew him too well to think he would surrender so easily. He was doubtlessly holed up somewhere nursing his anger and plotting. He would reappear when and where he would have the best advantage, and she grew increasingly tense as she waited for him to make his move.
Of Hugh she had also seen little, a circumstance which added to her mounting anxiety. Admittedly she knew little of what passed between other husbands and their wives, but it seemed to her that if Hugh had any regard for her at all, he might at least attempt to spend some time in her company. Other than accompanying her to the theater and a handful of balls, he seemed more interested in his own concerns, and his apparent indifference hurt.
Another thing which troubled her was the memory of the casual violence he had shown the day he had confronted Sir Gervase. She had never before witnessed such brutality, and she was not ashamed to admit it had frightened her. Not for the first time she found herself questioning the true nature of the man she had wed, and she wondered if she had made an error that would cost her more than she could ever have anticipated.
A week after she and Hugh had arrived in London, they were to attend a ball being given by one of her grandfather’s oldest friends. She had been surprised when Hugh insisted they go. Until now he had shown a marked disdain for such frivolities, and she could only assume it had something to do with that mysterious business of his that seemed to occupy so much of his time. She was adding the finishing touches to her toilette when the door between their two rooms opened and Hugh walked in, as casual as if this wasn’t the first time he had been in her room since their wedding night.
“Ah, Caroline, how lovely you are,” he said, straightening his cuffs and studying her with an approving smile. “Your hair looks grand. Is that another hedgehog you’re wearing?”
She shot him a dignified glare, determined not to be charmed. “This style is called à la conseiller,” she correc
ted him, turning back to her glass. “And I will thank you not to insult it. It is all the rage amongst the ladies.”
He chuckled, shocking her by bending to drop a husbandly kiss on her neck. “I am sure it is,” he drawled, his eyes twinkling as they met hers in the mirror. “Although why a beautiful young woman should want to look like some fat old dullard of a lawyer, I am sure I do not know. Still, on you ’Tis lovely.”
Caroline set her brush down with care, afraid she would betray herself by dropping it. “Thank you,” she said, picking up her fan and gloves and rising to her feet. “Now I am afraid we must leave. We shall be late if we do not hurry.”
“This is London; everyone is late,” he replied, his gaze drifting over her in silent appraisal of her toilette. His gaze came to rest on the triple strand of pearls looped about her neck, and he reached out to touch it.
“I’ve not seen you wear these before,” he commented, stroking a finger across one of the creamy pearls. “Are they new?”
She did her best to ignore the sudden acceleration of her heart. “No, quite the opposite, in fact,” she said, her voice sounding breathless to her own ears. “They were my mother’s.”
“Were they?” An odd look stole across his face and he took a step back, his hand dropping to his side. “In any case, your beauty does them justice. Come now—as you say, it will not do for us to be late.”
The earl of Farringdale’s home was easily within walking distance, so she was surprised when he insisted they take the carriage. She also noted the full retinue of servants who were to accompany them, and turned to Hugh with a raised eyebrow.
“I know his lordship has the reputation for being something of a high stickler,” she remarked, taking the footman’s hand as she climbed into the torch-lit carriage. “But I do not believe even he would expect us to travel two blocks in such grand style. Surely four footmen is a trifle overdone.”
Hugh climbed in after her, securing the door before turning to her. “As I’ve said before, London is a dangerous place, and footpads are everywhere, even on this fine street,” he said, his guarded tone increasing her suspicions. “In these uncertain days ’Tis better to be over-prepared than underprepared.”
Caroline digested that in silence before deciding it was all a hum. “Perhaps, but arriving with a carriage full of servants armed to the teeth is certain to cause comment,” she said, determined to have the truth. “Now, tell me what is going on. Has Uncle Charles said or done something I should know of? Tell me, Hugh,” she added when she saw him hesitate. “I have the right to know.”
He remained silent for several moments before sighing. “Aye, that you do,” he said, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in a gesture that betrayed his weariness. “And if it will ease your mind, your uncle has done nothing untoward. That is precisely why I am taking such care. An enemy you don’t see is a greater danger than the one who is marching straight at you. I learned that fighting the rebels in America, and ’Tis a lesson I’ve not forgotten. Your uncle is up to something, of that I’m certain, and I prefer not to be taken unawares.”
Caroline would have liked to discuss the matter further, but he turned toward the window, the hard cast of his jaw making it plain he would welcome no further conversation. His obvious rebuff stung her pride, and she also turned toward the window, determined not to speak unless he spoke first. Their carriage had encountered the line of coaches clogging the street before the earl’s elegant town house, and from experience she knew it would be several minutes before they could leave the coach. With nothing to do but wait she soon grew restive, and despite her resolve to remain indifferent, her gaze kept returning to Hugh.
His hair was unpowdered as always, although she noted it was arranged with more style than he usually affected. He was wearing a frock coat of dark-green velvet with a high collar and cuffs that were fashionably rounded, and she thought the rather austere style suited his harsh countenance. Still, she thought, a bit of decoration wouldn’t have gone amiss.
Some buckles for his shoes, perhaps, she mused, or even a ring. She’d already noted that save for a small signet ring his tanned hands were unadorned, and she wondered if she ought to buy him one as a wedding gift. Due to his pride, she knew it would be no easy thing getting him to accept, and she was trying to decide how best to broach the matter when she realized he had finally spoken.
“I am sorry, sir,” she apologized, raising her gaze to meet his. “I fear I was not attending. Did you say something?”
“Only that we might as well get out,” he said, watching her thoughtfully. “Unless we mean to sit here half the night, ’Tis unlikely we’ll get any closer.”
When they alighted, Caroline noted three of the footmen closed ranks behind them while a fourth walked ahead of them, a torch in one hand and a pistol in the other. Hugh walked between her and the street, and she could feel his wariness in the iron-hard arm beneath her fingertips. Something more than ordinary vigilance was going on here, she decided, noting how he avoided the shadows spilling from the narrow alleyway. It was plain as a pikestaff he was expecting some sort of attack, and that made her even more alarmed.
Once inside, Hugh kept her close to his side, refusing to let her dance with any of the men foolish enough to approach her. His wary, distrustful attitude was drawing more than a few amused glances, and she could hear the whispers and laughter swirling about them. When his cutting glare sent a dainty fop scrambling away in panic, she decided enough was enough and turned to pin him with a stem frown.
“I appreciate your concern for my safety, sir,” she said, taking care to keep her voice pitched low. “But if you don’t wish me to dance, may I ask why you brought me to a ball?”
To her amusement she saw an embarrassed flush steal across his tanned cheeks. “ ’Tis not that I object to your dancing,” he muttered, keeping his eyes carefully averted. “Rather ’Tis the sort of men who would claim you as their partner I cannot like. Useless, painted fops, the lot of them. I’d not trust them to guard my hound, let alone my wife.”
His description of the men who had approached her was, alas, all too accurate, but Caroline decided that was beside the point. “Because a man wears a bit of powder, it doesn’t make him any less of a man,” she said, her tone severe. “Mr. Crandall, the man you just sent packing, is accounted a deadly shot, and one hears he is quite handy with his fists as well. Besides,” she added, frowning as a new realization occurred, “why do I need guarding? I thought you said Uncle Charles hadn’t done anything.”
Hugh muttered what sounded like a curse before casting her a glare. “He hasn’t, and I intend to see things remain that way,” he said, looking decidedly harassed. “And as for my not wanting you to dance with those brolachans, did it not occur to you that I might want to dance with you myself?”
Caroline’s mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to find her voice. “Then why don’t you?” she asked, thinking she would never understand the masculine mind.
“Because I don’t know the bloody steps!” he snapped, sounding more like an irritated parent than an ardent suitor. “Now will you say no more of the matter? You’re giving me a headache.”
Caroline was considering dumping her glass of punch over his arrogant head, when their host suddenly appeared before them. With him was a man with black hair and turquoise-colored eyes who was almost startlingly handsome. Caroline was wondering who he might be when Lord Farringdale reached out to take her hand.
“Ah, Lady Caroline, Mr. MacColme, so delighted you could come,” the earl said, beaming at them with every evidence of pleasure. “You are enjoying yourself, I trust?”
“Indeed we are, my lord,” Caroline said. Unable to resist getting some of her own back from Hugh, she added, “And I must say the music is lovely. I do so love Bach.”
The earl look baffled. “Is that what they’re playing?” he asked, and then shrugged his bony shoulders. “All sounds the same to me, if you want the truth of it
. But now I should like to make you known to my wife’s nephew, Captain Alexander Dupres. I believe the two of you are already acquainted, Mr. MacColme?”
“We served together while in Canada, my lord,” Hugh replied stiffly, inclining his head to the other man. “Captain, I was hoping I might see you again.”
“Sergeant.” Captain Dupres’s greeting was equally restrained. “General Burroughs wrote me you were safely back in England, and asked that I say hello to you. Your regiment saw a great deal of action in the Carolinas, I heard. I trust you were not badly injured?”
To Caroline’s relief some of Hugh’s wariness vanished, and he gave the other man a wry smile. “Not that warrants mentioning, Captain,” he drawled. “We fusiliers are of slightly hardier stock than your regulars. It takes more than a bruise to send us crying for the camp’s doctor.”
An answering smile softened the harsh planes of the captain’s face. “I shall be certain to mention that to Lieutenant Trevellyn, MacColme,” he replied, his icy demeanor dissolving. “He still talks of the day he had to knock you unconscious so that Dr. Warren could remove the bullet from your shoulder. You were holding him off with a Hessian saber, if memory serves.”
Caroline’s stomach churned at the image of a wounded Hugh lying on a blood-soaked cot, defiant as ever even as he lay bleeding from a bullet wound. She thought of the scar on his cheek, and wondered what other marks his tough, muscular body contained.
“Soldier’s talk, so tiresome, do you not agree, my lady?” Lord Farringdale’s jovial voice recalled Caroline to the present, and she glanced up to find the earl regarding her quizzically.
“Not at all, my lord,” she replied, giving herself a mental shake. “Hugh seldom speaks of his days in the army, and I would know more of his grand adventures.”
Rose In Scotland Page 13
