by Muir, L. L.
A rather large man stepped up to Northwick, nodded, then lifted Livvy into his arms. A woman covered her feet with her shawl and she was born away from her nightmare, her eyes closed against the brightness of an unusually sunny February sky.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Northwick simmered in frustration and dread all the way back to London.
Due to his injury, he was unable to wrap both his arms around His Livvy while the coach carried them home, thus his frustration. What he dreaded was informing her of her father’s encounter with Lord Gordon. It was a fact he’d left Telford’s home without checking the old gentleman’s bed. Drugging the butler had been a resounding success if the sounds from his quarters had been any indication. He knew not if Hopkins had been successful at drugging his lord.
And so, rather than confess his oversight of not checking on her father, North decided to wait until they were but a block from her home before telling Livvy anything. And so he did.
She could hardly keep her seat, of course, proving he’d been right to put it off.
“Lord Northwick! I asked you nearly three hours ago how my father fared! You lied to me!” She glanced at the woman assigned by Lady Marquardt to be their chaperone, then blushed.
“I did not lie to you Livvy, my love. I told you only that your father would be much happier once you are home and hale. You would have fretted yourself ill—more ill than you are already—and I have saved you from that. Another lifetime of gratitude added to your bill will do.” He shook his head when she opened her mouth to speak. “And you will call me North, Livvy. I will hear it from your lips before I allow you out of this carriage. I swear it.”
She smiled at him then. In truth, he knew not whether to brace himself for a kiss or a slap.
“Ramsay, my love.” She looked to be sincere. “A half-truth is a lie where I am concerned. I will teach the same to our children. It would be best if you did not attempt to teach them otherwise.”
Ramsay? The woman was out of her mind if she supposed he would answer to his Christian name, but he would explain that later. When a kiss from her lips might ease the ache in his arm, it was hardly time to give her proper instruction on how to best please him.
He was unaware they’d stopped. Her borrowed blue skirts were disappearing out into the sunshine before he realized he’d closed his eyes in anticipation of that kiss. He decided to add that to her bill as well.
Livvy stood inside her father’s foyer as if uncertain of being welcomed in her own home. Or perhaps she was merely afraid to hear word of her father. She jumped when North placed his arm around her. If he had to touch her a thousand times to erase the memory of Marquardt’s hands, he would do so and gladly. If she recoiled from him, he would stand at arm’s length for the rest of their lives if need be, but no further.
To his utter relief, she pulled him tighter to her. He could have shouted for joy. Instead, he shouted for Ashmoore.
His friend ran out of the drawing room in stockinged feet, sliding for a bit on the marble floor before changing direction and launching himself at Livvy. No doubt the woman was as shocked by his friend’s appearance as he, for she allowed the man to take what embrace he would.
Northwick cleared his throat and when that failed to end that embrace, he flicked his friend’s ear. “What the devil is wrong with you?”
Ash finally stepped back. His eyes were rimmed in red. He wore no cravat. More than one button was missing from his black shirt, and his curly dark hair looked as if it had never known a brush. All this since last night?
“What is it, Ash? What’s happened?”
Ashmoore looked at Livvy with all the pity in the world swimming in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.
“Good God!” Stanley’s voice rang out from above. North turned to find his other friend collapsing on the stairs. “That runner of yours told us Livvy was safe, but I refused to believe it until I saw her for myself. He also reported that Lord Marquardt died from a sudden gain in weight, so of course I knew he’d gotten his facts wrong.” He waved his fingers. “Welcome home, Livvy. Such as it is.”
“Thank you, Stanley.” Livvy gave him a weak smile. “I take it my father is not at home?”
“Not yet!” Harcourt beamed from the head of the stairs. “I would put nothing past the old man. He is Livvy’s father, after all.”
“That is true, Presley. Thank you.” Livvy’s smile remained sad and North wished he could run back and kill Marquardt all over again.
Harcourt frowned at North in confusion. “Did she just call me Presley?”
“I fear she did,” Livvy said. “Now, where should we look for my father?”
North dropped his chin to his chest. If their children took after their mother, his life would be a constant goose chase—a glorious goose chase, but exhausting just the same.
“I would turn the house upside down. He absolutely must be here somewhere.” Lord Telford stood grinning while a footman took his heavy coat from his shoulders.
“Papa!” Livvy walked delicately toward her father. Her body jerked a bit with each step, but she waved North away when he attempted to support her.
The older man frowned and pulled her carefully into his arms. “Daughter. What have they done to you?”
“I’ll be happy to tell you the whole of it just as soon as you tell me where you’ve been.”
Telford looked none too repentant.
“I was busy slaying your dragon, Princess.” His eyes glistened over a mischievous smile. “I insulted Lord Gordon. He failed to imagine what a marksman an old soldier might be. I quite surprised him. Just before he died, of course.”
“Papa!”
“I’ve been with the constable for most of the day. But I’m afraid it hasn’t been a very good day, Livvy dear.” He winked at his daughter then. “Hard to put a doddering Peer in prison for dueling. Especially when he doesn’t even remember his own name, let alone the duel.”
Harcourt was the first to laugh. Stanley next. North was sure his outburst was due to relief alone, that the last known danger to His Livvy had been removed. Lord Telford led her into the drawing room and the gathering sobered as they each found a seat—all but Ashmoore who struck a familiar pose, glaring into the fire. North sat far too close to Livvy to be proper, but the only acceptable alternative would be for her to sit upon his lap. He was being far too generous to Lord Telford as it was; if Livvy did not need some time to recover from her ordeal, they would have traveled first to Gretna Green before returning to London. It was too bad of him to have asked for her hand while she was so grateful to be rescued, but a man clever enough to keep up with The Scarlet Plumiere had to take advantage where he could.
Hopkins stood at attention near the door looking as if blinking caused him pain. Hung over, no doubt. Poor man. North could not help but laugh, but stopped when Ashmoore glared at him. Was he hung over as well? Then a thought struck.
“Ash? Did you happen to get the drugged tea meant for Telford?”
Telford laughed. “He did not. My tea went in the chamber pot. Hopkins is a terrible actor, if you must know.”
Ashmoore rolled his eyes, then came to stand before North.
“I have been of some service to you these last weeks, have I not?”
North nodded. “You have, and I’m grateful of course. But why do I have the impression you are about to offer me a proposition I will not like? You cannot have Livvy, Ash. She has agreed to marry me. You will have to find another.”
“I would like payment for services rendered.” Ash crossed his arms and waited.
“Payment? Of course, my friend. Name your price. Any price but Livvy.”
Everyone laughed but North. His gut remained clenched while he waited for the guillotine blade to fall.
“The Scottish Property.” Ash lifted his chin as if expecting a challenge.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am certain you heard me correctly.” Ashmoore blushed—before G
od and man, Ashmoore blushed.
“Do you know something about this property that I do not? Have they perhaps found gold in the fleece?”
“I know nothing about the place, other than it is far away from you lunatics. I need a rest. I cannot remember the last time I truly slept. If the estate is merely infested with The Plague, it will be a welcome change.”
“How soon would you go, Earnest?” Livvy looked at her fingers, which were entwined with North’s.
Ashmoore frowned at her, but ignored her sudden use of his given name.
“I will not miss the happy event, if that is what you ask.”
Livvy raised her head and gave him a generous smile. “And how long will you be gone from us?”
Ash looked at his stockinged toes and put his hands behind him. “A year perhaps.”
“A whole year? But what if... That is to say...” She looked at North for help.
“Worry not, Livvy. We will send him word when... Er...” Dear lord, how did one word such things?
“No!” Ash rolled his eyes and spun away from them. His hands came ‘round to dig themselves into his hair. “Do not send word when you find you are with child, Livvy. I will not return until it suits my purpose.”
Stanley laughed. And he kept on laughing until North was sure the man had lost his senses. Finally, the future duke spoke.
“Ashmoore has been infected, but not with the plague.”
Ash growled in warning. Stanley pointed an accusing finger at him. North worried that finger might not be strong enough to hold the darker man back.
“All this romance has turned his head. He only wants to go to Scotland—”
“Stanley,” Ashmoore warned.
“He wants to find that Scottish lass who stole his heart in France.”
Ashmoore pounced, laying His Grace low, then sitting on him and pounding on his shoulder. They were boys in the dormitory again. Lord Telford laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes.
When North could breathe again, he took pity.
“Yes, Ash. You can have The Scottish Property. Since it was your lot that was drawn, it rightfully belongs to you. And do not forget the thousand pounds from me, and a horse from Strothsbury.”
“I will take it all, thank you.” Ashmoore grumbled. “I assure you, I do not go in search of that Scotswoman who led us to you. She is still in France for all I know. I seek only rest and a bit of diversion.”
North suppressed a smile. “You said she wore a mask?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds like another Scarlet Plumiere to me, Ashmoore. Heaven help you if you find her.”
THE END
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Excerpt from
BONES FOR BREAD
The Scarlet Plumiere Series, Book 2
Scotland, 1816
“I regret to report, Lord Ashmoore, that the stock was taken last eve.” Allen Balfour stood with hat in hand, though to Ash he did not appear the least bit regretful. Balfour had been making himself at home in the manor when Ash had arrived a week ago to take control of the Scottish property. Being demoted to the position of shepherd had perhaps soured the man’s disposition. But no matter.
“I am sorry to hear that, Balfour. Pray allow the Frenchwoman to see to your wounds.”
The man laughed, as did his two sons, one perhaps twenty years, the other half as old.
“I received no wounds, me lord. They tied me up, but dared not harm me.” Balfour’s chest lifted, as did his nose.
“Then allow the woman to treat the damage done by the ropes.” Ash gestured toward the kitchens where the Frenchwoman proved she was just as talented a cook as she was a healer.
Balfour frowned and waved his wrists in front of him. “No damage.”
Ash folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. The older son took a step back, but his father stood his ground. The young one merely watched.
“So. You did not try to free yourself? To raise a cry?” Ash took a threatening step forward, which usually sent men running. The fact that Balfour remained unaffected, after losing a hundred head, meant the Scot would need to be cowed another way. Ash would have to make an example of him in order for the rest of his stay in Scotland to be relatively peaceful.
Balfour rolled his eyes. “I dared not struggle, me lord.”
“I thought you said they would not dare harm you,” said Ash.
The older son glanced nervously behind him, at the open doorway. The boy laughed. His father clouted him on the ear, though gently. And just like that, Balfour exposed his weakness.
“It be The Highlander’s men that took ‘em,” he said. “None can be expected to fight against The Highlander. You will learn that soon enough.”
Actually, I will not be the one learning today.
Ash looked at the boy. “What is your name?”
“This is me own lad, Fin.” Balfour took half a step to the side, clearly ready to protect his son.
Ash looked at the nervous one. “And you?”
Balfour answered again. “My oldest, Martin. Fought against Napoleon. Came home a hero.”
Martin blanched. Ash would bet the young man had either told his father tales, or the father lied on his behalf. As expected, the question served to get the man’s attention off the one called Fin.
“Come here, Fin.”
The boy stepped forward eagerly, oblivious to his father’s grasping fingers.
Ash took the lad’s shoulder and led him to his side so they both faced Balfour. “Fin,” he said, “you are my hostage until my animals are returned. Do you understand?”
The boy’s eyes widened, then he looked at his father, whose face was turning purple. He looked back at Ash and nodded.
“I will ask for your word of honor that you do not try to escape.”
The boy’s eyes went wider still. He frowned at his father for a moment, then down at his overlarge boots. When he finally lifted his chin, he nodded once, then avoided looking at his father altogether.
Balfour screamed in frustration and headed for his son, but a heartbeat later, Ash had a short blade to the man’s neck.
“You cannae have me lad! Take the other one, if ye mun!” Balfour was in anguish. The lad meant a great deal to him; he would learn quicker than expected.
“You cannot have my stock, sir. Return them and the boy will be yours again. Return them not and the boy remains with me, to raise as I see fit.”
“You bloody bastard!”
Fin came forward and wrapped his arms around his father as if he were afraid the man would press himself into the dagger. “Dinna worry, da. Just go ask The Highlander to give them back. And dinna forget the pony!”
Ash growled. “They have my horses?”
“Only the pony,” said Fin. “They left you the other one so you could leave Scotland faster than if you walked.”
Balfour squeezed a handful of his son’s hair, then stepped back. The look he gave Ash promised vengeance. “Spill but a drop of his blood, I will kill you for it.” With that, he headed for the door, but at the entrance, he paused without turning. “Feed him. He’s wee yet.” Then he was gone.
Oh, but Ash nearly felt sorry for this Highlander fellow.
***
The Highlander hurried from her tent to interview the runner. The man was seated on a log trying to catch his wind, but jumped to his feet when she approached.
“What is all this about that daft Englishman taking my wee brother for ransom?!”
Excerpt from
GOING BACK FOR ROMEO
—A Muir Witch Project
~PROLOGUE~
Castle Ross, East Burnshire, Scotland 1494
Odd.
The stone closest to Laird Montgomery Ross’s foot looked to be the same shape as the hole remaining in the side of his sister's tomb, but he refused to reach for it.
"Nay. I'm not ready to be finished." Monty whispered
his complaint to God, for surely it was God's hand that wrought such an appropriately shaped thing.
Behind him, one of the priests cleared his throat. Monty knew without looking it had been the fat one who could not cease rubbing his hands together, even while Monty’s sister was led inside her would-be grave. The bastard had been rubbing them for a fair two days, since he’d arrived to try Isobelle as a witch. No doubt they were itchy for the feel of a woman’s neck since Monty had cheated them out of wringing his sister’s.
He could let the priest live, or he could be silent, but Monty could not manage both.
"If you canna seem to clean those hands, Father,” he said without turning away from his morbid creation, “I'd be happy to rid you of them before I finish my task here. I'm sure my sister wouldna mind the wait."
A gasp of outrage was followed by silence, although the Great Hall was filled to the corners with his clan. Those who could not find space inside would soon enough hear of each stone lovingly placed as their laird buried his sister alive within their very hall, upon the stone dais, behind the great Ross Chair. Hopefully they would remember Isobelle’s bravery and not how oft his tears mingled with the mortar.
None breathed, none dared rub their hands. How could he possibly continue? How could he not?
“Nay, I wouldna mind a bit, if you’re quick about it, brother mine.” Isobelle’s voice echoed eerily from the tomb and she smirked at him from within the tiny patch of light the same shape as the odd stone. “In fact, toss the bloody things in here with me and I’ll leave them at the gates of hell. Himself can collect them when he arrives.”
Her unholy laughter no doubt had even the dogs wishing they could cross themselves, but it was music to Monty’s ears. The Kirk’s men allowed her no blanket, but she’d have the image of revenge to keep her warm.
“Isobelle!” Morna screamed. Monty’s other sister stood off to his right, restrained by her puny Gordon husband. “’Tis all my fault. Forgive me.”
Isobelle’s sober face came forward to fill the hole as she searched for Morna, giving Monty one last glimpse of red hair.
