The Renegade (The Renegade, Rebel and Rogue)

by Christine Dorsey

  Arguing with François was futile. Keegan had learned that over the three years the man had worked for him. When they came to the end of the street, François turned one way; Keegan another.

  “Monsieur, where are you going? The docks are this way.”

  “I thank ye for savin’ me, but I’m goin’ home.” Keegan paused and clasped his hand on the valet’s bony shoulder. “I’ll always remember what ye’ve done for me. If it were in my power t’ reward ye—”

  François shrugged. “I used the last of your money to procure your release.”

  Keegan was surprised there had been any coin left at all. But then, he’d gone from his rooms so quickly when he received his father’s summons, he’d hardly had time to tell François where he was bound. He’d refused the Frenchman’s offer to accompany him then, and he shook his head now as the words were repeated.

  “Ye’re better off on yer own than taggin’ after me.” But even after he said it the Frenchman continued to dog his steps, pointing out how dangerous it was for him in Scotland, and how he should get himself to the continent with all haste.

  “François.” Keegan finally stopped, ducking into the shadows. “I’m goin’ t’ Scotland.” He lifted his hand palm out to cut off the valet’s words. “And I’ll hear no more on the matter.

  “But before I go,” Keegan continued, his expression turning hard, “there’s someone in London I must see.”

  His father’s death would not go unavenged.

  Two

  September 1746

  London

  “Oh my dear Lady Zoe. Whatever are you doing out of your bed? Reading again? Did not the good doctor say just this morn how important your rest was? And goodness knows it is the very bowels of the night. The vapors in this air alone... Well, one simply can’t be too careful.” Margaret Phelps, lifelong nurse and companion to Lady Zoe Morgan rushed toward her charge. As she crossed the library she swished her plump hand, sending invisible evil vapors scurrying away from her ladyship, causing the candle she carried to flicker.

  “And an open window too.” Miss Phelps’s chins quivered as she made a “tsking” sound with her tongue. “Goodness knows this will set your recovery back a fortnight.” She put aside her candlestick and taking a deep fortifying breath, stuck her head out the casement window and pulled it shut. “Whatever was in your mind, child?” she scolded, turning to face Lady Zoe. She straightened her ruffled nightcap, took the leatherbound book from Zoe’s hand, then shook her head again as she glanced at the gold-embossed title. “ ’Tis beyond my understanding what you find so interesting in these books you read.”

  Zoe opened her mouth to speak, to explain to Miss Phelps how reading about the world, about those souls strong and healthy enough to explore the far reaches, made it seem as if she were not housebound. Her mind could travel and see new things, even if her poor sickly body could not. But before she could utter a word, Miss Phelps bustled on.

  “Now let me see what harm has been done. ’Tis a good thing I’m such a light sleeper else I would never have known you weren’t abed.” She pressed her palm to Zoe’s cheek. “Oh my, just as I feared. You’re feverish.”

  “I do feel a bit warm, though I did before I came below stairs,” Zoe finally dared to say.

  “All the more reason to stay behind the curtains of your bed. Oh, I do hope this isn’t the death of you.” Miss Phelps wrung her hands before taking one of Zoe’s and stroking her pale fingers. “Tell me dear, where is the pain? Your head?”

  “No... well. Perhaps.” Yes, there was definitely a slight ache behind her eyes, Zoe decided. “And I do feel a bit light-beaded.” Leaning back against the cushion, Zoe allowed her forehead to be stroked. Her grey eyes slitted open. “Do you really think I may die this time?”

  “Not if I can help it my dear Lady Zoe.” Miss Phelps brushed aside loose curls of brown hair that had escaped her mistress’s thick braid. “Oh dear me, where is your nightcap? Here, you must take mine.” Snatching the ribboned and lace concoction from her own head, Miss Phelps draped it on Zoe’s. Too large, the ruffles nearly covered her eyes. “There now. Tell me what else pains you. Your chest?”

  “No... yes.” Zoe pressed a hand to her heart and took a deep breath. “I can feel my heart racing.”

  “Oh dear.” Miss Phelps shook her grey head. “What of your limbs?”

  Zoe pondered the question. Till a moment ago she thought she felt fine. How lucky she was that Miss Phelps awoke to show her how wrong she was. Though Zoe wasn’t eager to return to her room where the fire in the grate put off more heat than needed on this September night. The outside air had felt pleasantly cool. It was a shame the vapors were so bad for her.

  Zoe sighed, sending Miss Phelps into a flurry of activity. She rubbed Zoe’s hand, then lifted her ladyship’s feet off the floor, stretching her legs along the settee.

  “Should I awaken one of the servants and send them for Dr. Owen?”

  “No.” Zoe shut her eyes. “I’m sure tomorrow will be soon enough for him to see me.”

  “You’re quite certain, dear Lady Zoe? We simply shouldn’t take any chances. Not with your health as it is. What if you should succumb this very night?”

  Oh dear. When Miss Phelps put it that way, Zoe wasn’t certain. Would she simply expire here on the settee? Or would her death be a gruesomely painful affair like the many Miss Phelps had described to her? Zoe took a shallow breath. “If I could have a bit of tea, perhaps—”

  “You needn’t say another word. I shall return as quickly as possible.” The older woman took up a candle, then hesitated. “You will be all right without me, won’t you?”

  Listlessly Zoe lifted her hand palm out to her forehead. “Please hurry,” she moaned. When she was alone Zoe let her arm drop onto her chest. In and out, she counted each breath as she took it, hoping it would not be her last. She was so weak, so—

  A loud crash made Zoe leap to her feet. She squealed, her eyes torn wide, as she stared at the wild-looking man who’d just burst through the library window.

  He stood amidst broken glass, his dark hair long and loose, a beard covering most of his lower face, wearing clothes a rag picker wouldn’t want. And he seemed almost as surprised to see her as she did to see him.

  Yet he was the first to regain his composure. With a flourish he lifted a sword, larger than any Zoe had ever seen, pointing it her way.

  “Where is he?” His demand was thick with rage, colored by a Highlands accent.

  “I...” Zoe couldn’t make her voice do more than squeak. “I don’t know who you mean.”

  “I know this be the house of Lord Foxworth Morgan. ’Tis he that I want.” The man’s eyes narrowed, studying Zoe from the top of her beribboned nightcap to the slippers peeking from beneath her robes. “Who are ye? His mistress?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “I thought not.” He took an aggressive step forward, then another. “You’ll be accompanying me to his Lordship’s chamber if ye don’t mind.”

  Zoe tried to back up but the settee was in the way. Besides, he was quicker than she, grabbing her arm and twisting her around in front of him. “Unhand me. I won’t go anywhere with you.” Brave words but alas untrue, applied to the wild man who was dragging her toward the door to the hallway. “He isn’t here. Fox isn’t here,” Zoe finally managed to say.

  This announcement made the wild man pause.

  “I’ve it from a reliable source that he is.” True, it was a fortnight ago during his trial that Keegan discovered Morgan had returned to London, but he’d hoped he was still here.

  “Well, you’re mistaken. He left.” Zoe turned to stare into the man’s eyes. Their intensity made her look away.

  Keegan was reaching for the brass doorknob when the door opened.

  “Oh my dear.” Startled, Miss Phelps dropped the silver tray she carried. It hit the floor with a clatter, spilling tea and biscuits across the carpet. Then the older woman realized what she was seeing and let out a loud
scream.

  “Hush yourself unless ’tis yer wish to see the lass cut to ribbons.” Keegan lifted the edge of his blade.

  “Oh goodness me, don’t hurt Lady Zoe. Please.” The broadsword inched down.

  “Ah, Lady Zoe, is it.” He stared at the older woman. “Morgan’s wife?”

  “Good gracious no. Lady Zoe is his Lordship’s sister. She’s a dear, sweet girl, prone to—”

  “Sure I am that she is.” Keegan pushed past the old crone who seemed on the verge of fainting. God save him from vapid females.

  “Where are you taking her? No don’t!”

  The old woman latched onto his arm, her hands like a vise, “What the hell?”

  “I won’t allow you to hurt her.”

  “He wants Fox,” Zoe managed to say. The sword nudged higher with each yank Miss Phelps gave her captor’s arm. “Tell him he isn’t here.”

  “No, no, he isn’t. He’s gone to the—”

  “Miss Phelps?” Zoe’s words stopped her nurse midsentence. “We don’t know where he is,” she finished.

  “Aye, and I’m the king of England. You’re a pair of liars unless I’m missin’ my guess.” Keegan shook the old woman off. “Now grab up that candle,” he ordered the younger of the two. “Ye, old woman, into the library with ye and be quiet if ye don’t want yer sweet charge here ravished by a mad Scotsman.”

  “Oh my, dear no. Don’t touch her. She’s—”

  Keegan slammed the door, shutting out the whimpering protest, and faced his captive. “Shall we?”

  “I won’t tell you where he is.”

  “Is that so?”

  The sword veered toward her throat and Zoe stifled a scream. She wouldn’t have stifled it had she thought screaming would do any good. But even if the servants could hear her, which she doubted, there wasn’t a one who could face this barbarian and win.

  Zoe tried to ignore the candlelight shining on the long length of polished steel. “I demand that you leave my house.”

  Zoe thought she noticed the corners of his mouth lift. One dark brow definitely did. “Ye demand now, do ye? Seems to me, I’m the one to be makin’ the demands around here.” He lifted the end of the braid that had fallen over Zoe’s shoulder to emphasize his point. “Come here.”

  None too gently he yanked her along behind him as he headed for the stairway. At the bottom he stopped, and pulled her in front of him.

  “Lord Foxworth Morgan,” he yelled so that the sound echoed off the walls. “ ’Tis Keegan MacLeod. I’ve yer sister here. If ye’re anythin’ but a snivelin’ coward ye’ll come down and face me.”

  His challenge was met by silence.

  “Ye cowardly son of a bitch.”

  “I told you he isn’t here.” Zoe could hear her captor’s harsh breathing, could feel the force of his anger.

  “Then where is he? Ye...” Keegan yelled to a group of servants who’d awakened during the yelling and were now huddled at the railing near the third floor steps. “Ye with the candle, step forward. Unless ye wish to see your mistress die by my hand, tell me where his Lordship is.”

  “They don’t know.” Zoe spun out of his grip, facing him, their eyes clashing. “Fox often goes away for a fortnight or more. He could be anywhere.”

  “And I’ll be tellin’ ye now, I don’t believe ye. He’s yer brother and ye’re sayin’ his whereabouts are unknown to ye?”

  “Yes,” Zoe gasped, for he was now slowly guiding the point of his sword up the front of her nightrail. When it reached her chin he paused.

  “I’ll be havin’ the truth from ye. Now.”

  He was going to kill her. Zoe could see it in his eyes. She tried to breathe and couldn’t. Tried to think and couldn’t. The words that finally escaped her mouth were more instinct than rational thought, more truth than lie. “He’s in Scotland.”

  “Scotland?” He shifted his stance but not the sword. “I was of the impression he’d left his unit.”

  “Briefly, yes. But he returned.” Let this madman try to find Fox amid his regiment, if he was there. For in truth Zoe wasn’t certain where Fox was. But if he was in Scotland the brave men of the king’s finest would cut out this knave’s heart.

  Hell and damnation. Keegan lowered the sword. He’d hoped to find Morgan here, to dispense with this before he returned to the Highlands. All he wanted was Foxworth Morgan. He didn’t even plan to kill him. Not outright anyway. He’d allow the bastard his sword and give him a fighting chance which was a hell of a lot more than the Englishman gave Keegan’s father.

  “There, I’ve told you, now leave.” The fact that the steel no longer flirted with her throat inspired her words.

  “I’ll leave all right, but I’ve a wee bit of doubt about yer veracity.”

  “He’s in Scotland, I tell you.” Zoe was already planning how she would send word to her brother, if he had returned to his regiment.

  “So ye do. And so he may be. But Scotland’s a vast land, and I’ve a wish for yer dear brother t’ come t’ me.”

  “That he will never do.”

  “Not on his own perhaps.” Keegan lowered the broadsword. “But with a bit of incentive, I think he might.” Keegan made his decision quickly, grabbing the girl and dragging her back toward the library.

  When he burst through the door, he found the old crone perched precariously on the edge of a chair straining to reach one of a brace of pistols decorating the wall above the fireplace.

  Keegan ignored her—he seriously doubted she knew what to do with the weapon even if it were loaded. He did give her a message. “If Lord Foxworth should return here, tell him that Keegan MacLeod has his sister.”

  “No! You can’t be serious. I can’t go with you. I won’t!” This came from Zoe, who now began struggling, trying to free her hand from his grasp. Keegan tightened his fingers.

  “Tell him also if he hopes to see her alive to come alone to the Castle MacLeod.”

  “No, don’t tell him that. This monster will kill him. Don’t, Miss Phelps! Don’t do it!”

  “I mean what I say Miss Phelps.” Keegan aimed the sword her way to emphasize his point. “Your charming Lady Zoe here will die by my hand. And it will be a long painful death at that. Remember, her life is in your hands.”

  With that Keegan scooped his captive up, tossing her fighting and screaming over his shoulder, and stepped through the shattered window. He thought he heard something about deadly night vapors from the old woman, but paid it no mind.

  Zoe had dropped the candle when he picked her up, so Keegan concentrated what energy wasn’t used to keep her squirming body on his shoulder on picking his way through the garden. “Would you hush and be still.” Her constant screeching was getting on his nerves.

  “Nooo!”

  “Then perhaps you’d like me t’ drop ye on yur stubborn head.” That brought temporary quiet.

  “Ouch! Damnation.” Keegan felt the tangle of a rosebush just before he caught a whiff of the flower’s sweet fragrance. Thorns scraped his arm and he jerked his sword, swiping at the offending bush. There, Lord Foxworth could add a sheared rosebush to the list of charges against Keegan.

  Not that Keegan thought he needed any more than the one he had slung over his shoulder.

  At the garden gate Keegan encountered another problem. One he’d temporarily forgotten.

  “Monsieur Keegan, what do you have?”

  Keegan grimaced, then turned toward the sound of François’s voice. “I haven’t time t’ explain right now.” The windows in the house were coming alive with light. The servants would be scurrying about. One would run for the constable. Keegan had to get away from St. James’s Square.

  “But Monsieur Keegan—”

  “For God’s sake, François!”

  “Help me! If you’ve an ounce of Christian charity in your blood, help me.” Zoe arched to see who the newcomer was. One glance and her heart sank. This little man could do nothing against the mad Scot even if he were so inclined. Which apparently he was
n’t, for though he continued to question and argue against the wild man’s sanity, he fell in behind as they entered the alley.

  There was little light, but still Keegan, followed by François, stayed to the shadows, following the alleys east toward Trafalgar Square. He’d lived in London for near three years, at the time preferring the city’s society over the boredom of Castle MacLeod or the dreariness of Edinburgh. So he knew his way around London.

  As a laird’s son, a wealthy one at that, Keegan had spent his share of time in the houses of the aristocracy. He was well-liked... or had been, and visited often at the home of Henry Elliott, the Marquis of Stangmore whose London home they hurried past now.

  Fortunately, he’d also familiarized himself with the seedier side of London. For he doubted good old Harry would welcome him with open arms. Even if he was carrying Lord Foxworth’s sister over his shoulder.

  As if to remind him she was still there, the girl began pounding on his back with her fists. “I can’t breathe,” she squawked repeatedly.

  “I’ll put ye down if ye promise to be quiet,” he said and she immediately stopped her pummeling.

  In the lee of a building, Keegan slid Lady Zoe down till her feet touched ground. “Ye aren’t going t’ scream now, are ye?”

  All Zoe could do was shake her head. And she immediately realized she shouldn’t have done that. It pounded. “I... I think I’m going to swoon.”

  He didn’t seem the least concerned, though his hand did tighten on her arm. “Don’t,” was all her captor said, but it had the ring of a command.

  Still, Zoe wasn’t sure she could obey. “But I must.” She glanced toward the other man who was busy wringing his hands then she leaned against the stone wall behind her. “My head throbs so. I think it shall explode.”

  “Monsieur Keegan, you must do something.”

  “ ’Tis only because I carried her upside down,” Keegan said to his valet, then turned his stare on Zoe. “And unless ye want to be carried thus again you’ll hush your mouth and keep up.”

  “But I...”

  Her captor’s head whipped around and even in the near dark she could feel the intensity of those eyes. Zoe took a deep steadying breath and said nothing else. Somehow she had to escape this madman and get word to her brother. And she must stay alive to do it.