by Anne Renwick
“Mostly it’s too soon,” Isa finished. Why had he felt the need to push, to complicate everything between them? “We’ve known each other all of perhaps two weeks.”
“But you’re still considering it?” Cait brightened. “I’ll take that as a maybe.” She held up a hand. “No, don’t disillusion me further. I’ve a role to play at tea, same as you. Mother is already huffing like a steam engine. The only thing keeping her tongue civil is the hope that your ‘friendship’ with Lady Roideach will translate into social connections. Her ambition is to find me a marriageable gentleman with a title.”
The steam maid rolled backward and whistled in appreciation while Isa stared at her reflection in the mirror. The steambot’s jointed fingers had struggled to apply the pattern of the punch card Cait had inserted but, in the end, Isa’s cropped hair had been twisted and pinned into a delightfully whimsical upsweep.
Smiling, Isa lifted a hand, then thought the better of touching her hair. “I’ve never looked so grand. So much like a lady.”
“One must look her best when confronting the enemy,” Cait agreed, already garbed in a navy silk gown, its bodice and bustle trimmed with copper-striped ribbon. Her dark eyes flashed. “Now for your armor.”
She held up Isa’s best corset—the one embroidered with silver swirls—rescued from her houseboat moments before the evacuation began. Cleaned and aired, it looked as new as the day she’d purchased it. Excellent. Such fitted garments were difficult to obtain on short notice.
While the steam maid applied her nimble fingers once more to the laces—pulling so tight Isa could barely breathe—Cait plunged into her wardrobe, emerging over and over to hold swaths of silk and satin beneath Isa’s face, before tossing gown after gown onto the bed with exclamations of disgust.
“Aha!” Cait burst from her wardrobe, holding a beautiful green gown aloft in her hands. “Perfect! It will set off both your silver eyes and your lovely copper hair. My brother will gape and Perfect Patsy will despair. Lift your arms and don’t move.”
Though the sleeves were long and the neck high, the dress was anything but demure. Black lace dripped from her wrists and framed her face. Seafoam silk cascaded from her hips, bustled behind her in giant poofs. Beneath the overskirt, layer upon layer of black ruffles fell to the floor. The heeled slippers she wore almost made up for their difference in heights, but she would need to be careful while walking to avoid tripping.
“You look absolutely beautiful,” Cait declared, sliding thin gold wires through the holes in Isa’s earlobes. From each dangled a single pearl, their luster glowing in the gaslight. “My brother would be a fool not to do anything he can to make this a permanent arrangement.”
~~~
His brother and sister were both evil. Their individual plans merging to perfection.
Isa swept into the parlor, a fiery-haired goddess in green. His not-quite-a-fiancée. All conversation stopped. Alec wanted to admire the curve of her neck, the bow of her full lips, her quicksilver eyes. Alas, her neck was stiff, and her lips were pressed into a thin line. Everyone stared openly, but no one greeted her. Not even the roving tea table.
Perfect Patsy, whose fingertips had pressed lightly against the back of his hand, then fluttered away, over and over, like a fly briefly alighting on an uncovered tart, desperately wanting a taste, but afraid of being swatted, stepped aside. For Isa’s gray eyes had darkened, promising an approaching storm.
“Mother.” Alec tugged at his over-tight cravat and prepared to force the issue. He stepped forward to lead Isa into the fray. Tea. An afternoon social ritual of sophisticated and highly refined torture. “Allow me to introduce Mrs. Isa McQuiston, my future bride.”
“It’s true,” a woman hissed, before slapping her hand to her mouth, eyes wide, shocked by her own outcry.
“Welcome,” his mother said at last. One could almost hear the ice in her voice crack and shatter with the effort it took her to speak politely. “I understand you are friend to Lady Roideach.”
“We’ve known each other since we were children,” Isa equivocated with finesse.
“Please. Sit.” His mother indicated a seat beside her, her smile stiff. “I see you wear my mother’s ring. Lovely, if perhaps old-fashioned.”
His mother meant cheap, an attempt to suggest to her friends that this alliance couldn’t possibly last, that an old circlet of gold holding a lump of sand coated in the secretions of a bivalve cemented nothing.
Still, humiliation stained Perfect Patsy’s face bright red, and her own mother’s face was a mask of outrage. The two women had been whispering about arranging the marriage of their children from the moment they both lay in bassinets.
“It suits me perfectly,” Isa replied, her chin held high. “I’m quite fond of the ocean.”
Her words were a breeze—tinged with salt—that cleared the dreary miasma from the room. Pride filled his lungs.
Cait’s eyes darted warily toward her mother, then defiantly handed Isa a cup of tea. “Would you care for some cream cake?”
“Please.” Isa lifted her teacup, but paused at the distinctive sound of canvas wings flapping.
Alec turned.
A skeet pigeon flew down the length of the room, then beat its wings backward as it stretched orange-painted feet forward. Startled to find its landing pathway covered with silver and china, it attempted a course correction. Hopping and skidding across the roving table, it came to a sudden and sodden stop.
Plop.
Cake, cream and raspberry jam flew everywhere.
Patsy’s mother squealed and jumped to her feet, dropping her teacup in her haste to rush to her daughter’s aid. A number of ladies dabbed ineffectively at their bodices and gowns with bereft moans. Cait and Isa glanced at each other. Isa covered her mouth, but Cait giggled. Mother sucked in a horrified gasp before turning a furious gaze upon him.
He snorted. If only he could enjoy the moment of chaos. Alas, the skeet pigeon’s eyes flashed red—an indication the bird carried time sensitive communication. At the thought of some new fresh hell, a ball of ice formed in his stomach.
Alec plunged his hand into the dessert, his fingers searching for the message canister. Success. Dragging it forth, he wiped it clean, unscrewed the end cap, and pulled out the rolled message within.
“Alec!” his mother exclaimed, her face suffused with an angry glow. “Must you?”
He didn’t answer. He was too busy reading the message his brother had sent. The ice in his stomach thawed—everyone was fine. Still, the situation was once again conspiring against them, ruining his plans to spend another night in Isa’s bed convincing her to never leave him.
With a heavy sigh, he looked across the table and caught Isa’s gaze. “There’s been a development. We’re wanted—”
A familiar chuff of exhaust gas—akin to the clearing of a throat—sounded at the doorway. “Lady Roideach,” Burton intoned.
In a froth of black silk and crow feathers, the woman in question swept into the parlor. Introductions were made. Bowing and scraping began. Would knowing this woman had callously arranged for her brother to participate in a ghastly experiment dampen their admiration?
Patsy’s mother pushed her forward, launching into an exhaustive list of her daughter’s many talents. Alec had the decided impression the woman was panicking, frantically attempting to market a child who—for too long—had made assumptions that weren’t hers to make. His engagement must be convincing.
“I’m afraid I must make this brief,” Lady Roideach interrupted, her voice bored but her eyes piercing. “Uncouth as it may be to appear in public at such a distressing time, I couldn’t pass on the chance to welcome Mrs. McQuiston back to Glasgow.” She glanced at the ring on Isa’s finger and lifted an eyebrow. “Perhaps there’s a library where we might catch up? Where we might privately discuss Miss McCullough’s social future?”
“Ladies?” Alec bowed, then sw
ept his hand outward. “Allow me to escort you?” Leaving the bird where it lay, he lowered his voice and murmured into Isa’s ear. “No worries. Good news for a change. But we’ll need to leave immediately after your… visit.”
~~~
Injecting steel into her spine, Isa laid her hand on Alec’s proffered arm and allowed herself to be led away.
Though she rather preferred the rough, devil-may-care, Navy man she’d come to know, this clean-shaven, polished version of Alec standing in the parlor took her breath away. Not that her warrior was gone, for beneath the fine wool, she felt the iron of his muscle flex as he clenched his fist. Such strength. Thoughts of the wall he’d held her against made the breath in her throat catch.
“Mr. Black’s hopes are inordinately high,” she murmured as they walked the length of the hallway. “Maren is no fool. So long as there’s a possibility he’ll survive, she won’t reveal my uncle’s location.” A point she’d meant to make last night before he… distracted her.
“Which is why my brother handed us a trump card,” Alec said, calm but determined.
She pursed her lips. Distasteful as it might be, their possession of Lord Roideach’s body might prove critical.
Peripheral vision absorbed what it could of her surroundings—heavy curtains, a dark mahogany desk, books lining the walls, a ladder set upon wheels leaning against a track—as Maren enthroned herself upon an overstuffed armchair placed beside an unlit fireplace.
Cait, escorting a roving table bearing a fresh tea tray, took the chair opposite and began to pour. She held out a teacup to the traitorous wife and widow.
Instead of reaching for the teacup, Maren narrowed her eyes. “I’ve been warned about you.” Her gaze fixed upon an overly large ring Cait wore. “A bit of advice. Find a protector who will give you a long leash, or you’re going to find yourself locked in a cage.”
Cait’s face paled. Isa had never despised Maren more and could only wonder at the source of the woman’s bitterness.
A retort was pointless. Anyone who would sacrifice her own brother to please her husband had long ago cast aside all integrity.
“He’s fine, your brother.” Isa stepped forward to stand behind Cait’s chair, her fingers gripping its back as she drew Maren’s attention upon herself. “Both he and my sister are expected to make a full recovery.”
“How unfortunate.” Maren fixed her dull, pewter eyes on Isa, answering in the old language. “But as I’ve no intention of returning to the islands, how Jona chooses to pollute the family blood is no longer my concern. I will remain here in Glasgow. However, a missive from one Mr. Black informs me that should I wish to retain my freedom, I must first betray my remaining husband. I’m not at all convinced such an action would be in my best interest.”
Something inside her snapped. “Must everything always be about you? A title wasn’t enough?”
Alec frowned, no doubt unhappy at being cut out of the conversation, but he held his tongue when most men would have sought to interfere.
“An impoverished lord is no prize,” Maren sneered. “But I am indebted to your uncle for helping my son come into a sudden inheritance, one I will ensure is carefully managed.”
“The trail of bodies in your wake is most impressive.” Isa struggled to maintain an appearance of calm detachment, but her body begin to vibrate with anger. “Years of effort only to abandon my uncle at this critical juncture. You return to Glasgow and propose to remain. Why? My uncle has promised you a crown. As queen you could stand upon a castle balcony and peer down your nose upon your subjects.”
Maren leaned forward. “Lessons both of us should take to heart. Men promise much, and deliver only if and when it suits them. A title was supposed to come with money. A queen should be treated like royalty. Your marriage was supposed to provide a medical career, a chance for your brilliance to shine. We were both used.”
Isa gaped at the open admission of Maren’s involvement.
“My first husband wished to make a name for himself studying selkies, but was regretfully unfaithful.” Maren curled her lip. “My second husband wishes to purify our bloodline at any cost. I offered him suggestions, possibilities, in return for certain… favors. How else would he have learned about factor Q, the blood protein that defines a Finn?”
“You told my uncle about Anton’s work!”
“Dr. McQuiston was struggling despite my husband’s mentorship.” Maren smirked. “Your bright mind was all he needed. No sooner were you married than the breakthroughs began.”
An icy rivulet of distress trickled down her spine. This was all her fault. Isa purposefully switched back to English. “He means for pure blood lineages to rule. For half-bloods to serve.”
“Of course.” Maren arched an eyebrow but answered in kind. “But what advantage is a pure blood line if one is forced to live on a wind-blown, rocky island in the North Atlantic? Which circles us back around to the purpose of this meeting. What does Mr. Black offer to entice the betrayal of my remaining husband?”
Time for negotiations. “If you intend to remain in Glasgow, to establish yourself here, widow’s weeds might not be an appropriate fashion choice.” Isa crossed her arms. “Establishing death in absentia can involve lengthy legal proceedings. Without Lord Roideach’s body, you won’t officially become a widow for another seven years.”
“You have his corpse.” Maren’s lips twisted.
“Conveniently collected from the water beside a certain underwater sea cave,” Alec answered, his shoulders relaxing now that he could once again follow their conversation. “Provide us with accurate information leading to the capture of Commodore Drummond, and Lord Roideach’s body will be discovered and ruled an accidental death. Then, you may schedule a funeral without any further interference.”
“Understood,” Maren said. “We have an agreement.” Her harsh laugh grated. “The fool intends to sink that bloody castle.”
“What?” Isa, Alec and Cait all spoke at once. “Why?”
Maren huffed. “Without consulting me, he has decided that Denmark would stop at nothing to reclaim a structure built by their country at great expense and effort. He does not wish to engage any country in direct battle. Instead, your uncle intends to build his own palace ‘from the stone of our new homeland’ while consolidating and expanding his influence. It will take decades, and I do not wish to live in a smoky blackhouse while he spends my son’s inheritance.”
Not when she could live the life of a wealthy peer in Scotland.
Face tight, Maren rose. “Our fifteen minutes of social discourse are nearly over. Details will have to wait. In short, there will be no royal wedding. Drummond intends to transport his OctoFinn—and other hostages—to the North Sea. From a safe and undetectable position, they will rise from the depths to disable the structure upon which the castle floats.”
“When?” Alec demanded.
Maren smirked. “Produce a death certificate, and I will provide you with a detailed timeline.” She swept from the room without a backward glance.
Chapter Thirty-Three
DRESSED IN ALL THEIR afternoon finery, Alec and Isa burst into the BURR operations room. Logan—dressed in his well-tailored but unimaginative dark suit—stood alongside Shaw, Moray, Rowan, and Rip. Joining them was one Mr. Danel Guthrie, Isa’s brother. All of them bent over the large, wooden table at its center. Several brightly lit Lucifer lamps hung overhead, illuminating sheaves of paper covered in line drawings: the detailed plans for a submersible.
Shaw’s head snapped up. “A top hat to a mission briefing.” He grinned. “Classy.”
“Is it, though?” Moray’s lips twitched as he tapped his chin. “I think the brocade waistcoat takes it a touch too far.”
“But the lady looks lovely.” Rowan swept a bow. “Silk sets a refined tone our team sadly lacks.”
Isa caught at her skirts and curtsied. “Standards, gentlemen, must be raised.”
The men snic
kered.
“Is that a ring I spy upon your finger, milady?” Shaw’s eyes sparked with unabashed interest.
The mood in room shifted. All humor evaporated.
“Isa?” Her brother frowned.
In their haste to leave, they’d not thought to tuck away his grandmother’s pearl ring for safekeeping. No need to maintain the charade before his team. Alec pried open his mouth to say something flippant, to deny the significance of the adornment.
But Moray’s eyebrows slammed together, and he took a step in Isa’s direction. “Tell me you didn’t. I’d hoped—” He bit off the rest of his sentence with a guilty glance at Alec. He’d lied. Moray was not at all over his infatuation with his childhood sweetheart.
“What I have or haven’t done is none of your concern.” Isa lifted her chin, honoring her promise to consider his offer, to make her decision when the danger was past and her uncle behind bars. Or dead. Alec rather preferred the second option. His mind flashed to the empty cave and the certainty that there were women, possibly children, aboard the man’s submersible. Dead, provided it didn’t come at the cost of innocent lives.
In any case, he certainly wouldn’t be allaying any of Moray’s romantic concerns, not when he hoped to convince Isa to say yes, to accept his suit. Instead, he stared stonily at Moray, sending a clear message as he slid his arm about her waist and drew her tight to his side.
Mine.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Shaw threw his head back and roared with laughter. Rip stared in disbelief. Rowan hooted. Moray paled.
Holding up his hand, Alec caught his brother’s eyes. “Lady Roideach arrived as planned. In exchange for a death certificate, she’ll provide the details of her husband’s plans. For now, all we know is that he intends to have his OctoFinn sink the castle before the wedding.”
