His offer sounded more like a mandate, and Alissa dared not disagree. Lifting her skirts, she turned and marched from the carriage house, Jared close on her heels. Stupidly she felt like a stray goose being shooed back to the flock.
Once they reached the cart, Jared hoisted his daughter and the picnic basket inside, then offered Alissa his hand. She looked at it a long moment, remembering vividly the agonizingly sweet emotions that had claimed her the last time she’d placed her hand into his, and decided she couldn’t withstand those feelings again. Ignoring him, she climbed into the cart herself.
“I admire a certain amount of independence in a woman,” Jared said, handing her the reins, “but in your case, it leans more toward obstinance.”
“You may call it what you wish,” she replied, haughtily, “but, thus far, it has gotten me along without too much difficulty, and I expect it will continue to do so.” Then with a flick of the leads, she set the pony and cart into motion, the large wheel almost rolling over Jared’s feet.
Uncurling his toes inside his boots, Jared watched as she guided the pony up the lane toward the cottage. If he didn’t have to oversee the mare’s breeding, he’d follow and spy upon his daughter and her governess as he’d done several times these past two weeks.
Suddenly her musical laughter burst forth inside his head anew. Her wide smile flashed behind his eyes, and he could almost see the sparkle of merriment in her blue eyes as she danced among the wildflowers, her feet turning rapid circles, his daughter’s keeping time. With the vivid scene etched in his mind, he wondered again how the sickly Miss Pembroke could suddenly have transformed herself into the sprightly creature he’d beheld. It was as though she were but a child herself, he thought, then frowned as the memory of her body, moving with gentle grace in the moonlight … no, sunlight. … Had he actually seen her at all?
An odd sensation stirred deep within him, and he realized he was mixing his dreams with reality—again! It was an agonizing pattern he could not break, always wanting, always desiring, never to be fulfilled. And what in God’s name Agatha Pembroke had to do with it, he didn’t know!
The sound of wood splintering snapped him from his reverie. “Here, ye dim-witted hack!” Mr. Stanley yelled, his words followed by a curse that fairly vibrated the stable walls. “If ye were a man, I’d turn ye into a eunuch!”
His man seemed in dire need of his assistance, so Jared strode toward the stables. In but a short time, he knew, Thor’s torment would be put to an end. Once satiated, the stallion would prance the open pasture, his head held high, his tail arced like a flag. Unfortunately, Jared also knew his own agonies would persist—indefinitely.
“Let’s have our picnic,” Alissa suggested, removing the puppet from her hand. Megan did the same, then rose and placed the two toys on a shelf, each in its special place.
Having remembered the way Megan had played with the dollhouse, back at Hawkstone, she’d decided to use a set of hand puppets, hoping to draw the child out. Mostly, they played happy games, but upon occasion, Megan would sign to Alissa, “You be the child, and I’ll be the mother.” What transpired next always upset Alissa, for Megan would reenact the same scenario as she had in the playroom—the mother showing flagrant disregard for her offspring.
However, when Alissa would turn the tables, with herself portraying the mother and Megan the child, Megan would shake her head whenever Alissa showed affection while using the puppet, as if to say, “A mother doesn’t act nice.” Then Megan would proceed to show Alissa how she should move the figure to make their play more realistic.
Indeed, it was upsetting. But Alissa no longer wondered if Megan’s play was a figment of her colorful imagination. No, it had become quite apparent that it was based on fact.
“Ready?” Alissa asked, Megan having retrieved the picnic basket from the table. Megan nodded, and they made their way to the small brook, several hundred yards beyond the cottage. After Alissa had spread the blanket, she opened the wicker basket to find fresh fruits, some cheeses, a crusty loaf of bread, and a nice raspberry tart. All that remained was the container of milk which they’d placed in the stream upon their arrival. “Go fetch the milk, will you please?” Alissa asked, taking the tin cups from the basket. “It should be good and cold by now.”
Megan did not move, and Alissa looked up to see the child staring at a point beyond the flowing brook. Following the direction of the child’s eyes, she noticed a man sitting astride a large, black stallion, just beyond the rock wall marking the boundary of Hawkstone. As he started to dismount, Alissa jumped to her feet and hugged Megan to the folds of her gown.
Broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, the stranger hurdled the wall and strode toward them through the stream, apparently not caring if he ruined his boots, his eyes trained upon both woman and child.
Oddly, Alissa did not feel threatened, but she took a protective stance, nonetheless. Should the man make an unfriendly move, she planned to instruct Megan to run, while she threw herself at him. What good it would do, she couldn’t fathom, for he stood several inches over six feet and weighed, to her estimation, a good fifteen stone. He was hard muscle, not an ounce of fat to be seen, and she knew he could easily toss her aside with a simple flick of his wrist. Yet she hoped the fleet-footed Megan would have a sizeable lead, should the man decide to give chase.
Stepping from the trees that edged the brook, ducking the branches as he came, he stopped in the sunlit glade, not more than five yards from them. His blue eyes perused Alissa a long moment, then his gaze switched to the child at her side. “Don’t you remember me, Megan?”
His deep voice, gentle as the wind, spanned the distance separating them, and Alissa felt Megan’s head shake. Glancing at her, she noticed a quizzical frown on her brow.
“I thought not,” the stranger said, and knelt to one knee, so he wouldn’t seem so imposing. “If you have no recollection of me, by chance, do you remember a frisky pup named Merlin? I called him that because he’d disappear from my house and run off to visit a little girl who lived on the next lands. He’d be gone days at a time. As I remember it, the little girl would hide him in the stables and sneak food out to him whenever she thought no one was looking. But eventually, she was found out, and Mr. Stanley would leash the vagabond and put him in the cart, along with the little girl, and escort the two to my house, whereupon the little girl would tell me that if I’d been a good master in the first place, Merlin wouldn’t have run away to seek attention elsewhere.” Then the man whistled. “Merlin, come!”
A shaggy-haired dog bounded the rock wall, then on short legs, splashed through the stream, to rush through the stand of trees and halt at his master’s side. With a shake that ran from his black dot of a nose to his stubby tail, he set a spray into the air, and received a curt command for his actions. Sitting on his haunches, his pink tongue lolling, his black eyes hiding under a disorderly thatch of gray and white hair, he whimpered, eager to be on the run again.
“It’s been a good two years, but do you remember me now?” the stranger asked.
Before Alissa could stop her, Megan broke and ran into the man’s embrace and hugged his neck. Merlin, wanting attention, as well, set up a loud yapping, but dared not break his master’s command. Being ignored long enough, the excited bark finally changed pitch and escalated into a forlorn howl that pierced the ears.
Megan slipped from the man’s arms and stooped to pet the little dog, then she hugged his neck. His wet tongue flicked over her face, and Megan quickly stood and wiped the kisses away. Then she looked askance at the man.
“You can play,” he said, “but don’t go beyond our sight. Understood?” Megan nodded, and the man came to his full height and watched as the two romped through the grass. “I apologize for the scare I gave you,” he said, turning his attention to Alissa, moving toward her. “I’m Ian Sinclair, Megan’s uncle.” Noticing Alissa’s frown, he corrected, “Actually, I’m her godfather, but she knows me as ‘Uncle Ian.’” His eyes studied her a
gain. “And who might you be?”
“Agatha Pembroke,” Alissa stated a bit stiffly.
“Oh?” His blue eyes twinkled like sapphires in the bright light. “And who exactly is Agatha Pembroke?”
Alissa surveyed this Ian Sinclair. His auburn hair flashed red in the sunlight; matching eyebrows arched over mischievous long-lashed eyes. A slightly hawked nose sat above nicely shaped lips which were now split into a wide grin, exposing strong white teeth. His dress was as casual as Jared’s: white muslin shirt, topping buckskin breeches, tucked into highly polished, black leather boots. Perhaps all men dressed this way in Scotland, she thought, then caught the teasing light in his eye again. Straightening her shoulders, she said, “I’m Megan’s gov … uh, Megan’s friend,” she stated finally.
Ian’s gaze traveled the length of her, making Alissa feel highly uncomfortable. “Indeed,” he said, his grin widening, “you might be at that.” Then he strode off toward Megan and Merlin to join in their play.
Alissa stared after the tall man. What had he meant by his statement? she wondered, knowing he’d been amused by her. She couldn’t imagine why—perhaps there was a spot on her nose, she thought self-consciously. All the better if there was, for it would reinforce her disguise. But, as she thought on it, she realized his manner leaned toward a complacent sort of ridicule, more teasing than taunting.
As she saw him give his full attention to Megan, Alissa felt her initial reserve dissolve. Indeed, he was no threat, she decided, watching as he stretched his finger to a blade of grass, allowing a woolly caterpillar to inch its tanned length. His deep laughter rang out as he insisted the multilegged creature’s feet were tickling him. At first, Megan was hesitant about touching the crawly thing, but then, with Ian’s encouragement, she took it on her finger. Her eyes brightened, and a wide smile slashed her face, then she turned and ran, Merlin quick at her heels, wanting to share her discovery with Alissa.
Ian followed at a slower pace, his eyes studying the woman, her finger lightly running along the soft bristles along the caterpillar’s back, as she shared in his godchild’s excitement. Agatha Pembroke she was not! He’d met the woman himself and had been instrumental in making certain that Jared was aware of her, relaying the knowledge through a mutual friend. At first he’d thought to expose the imposter, but the reports coming from Hawkstone, through Mary, who was betrothed to his trusted footman, Ned, were excellent. Megan was improving. For now, he’d keep his counsel and see how things progressed.
“Would you like to join us and share our fare?” Alissa asked, breaking Ian’s train of thought. “We have plenty, and you are most welcome.”
“I beg your forgiveness, but I must be on my way,” Ian replied graciously, then he saw Megan’s disappointment. “Were it not for my having another commitment, I would stay. However, if you were to ask the same of me tomorrow, my answer would be a definite yes.”
Megan tugged at Alissa’s skirt, her eyes questioning, hopefully. “I see nothing wrong in repeating a picnic on the morrow,” Alissa told the child. “And, yes, we may invite Mr. Sinclair to be our guest,” she agreed, her motives not entirely unselfish. With luck, she hoped that future meetings with the man might supply the bits of information needed to fill in the missing pieces of the past, especially about Megan’s mother. No one at Hawkstone was willing to speak of her; perhaps Ian Sinclair would. “I extend our welcome for tomorrow, Mr. Sinclair.”
“I will be here at noon,” Ian said cordially. “And, of course, Merlin, too,” he added, noticing Megan’s troubled frown. “Until then, I bid you a good day, Miss Pembroke.” He bowed, his twinkling blue eyes again showing that certain mischievous light, then he hugged his godchild. “Come, Merlin,” he said, then the two forded the small stream and hopped the wall. After Ian had mounted his horse, he threw a salute, then rode up the hillside, disappearing into the trees.
With their picnic lunch finished, the remains packed away, Alissa and Megan headed back to the cottage. The rest of the afternoon was filled with Megan learning her letters, a bit of simple mathematics, Alissa’s reading an exciting fairy tale about a handsome prince who had to rescue his beautiful princess bride from the clutches of an evil sorcerer.
She also helped Megan practice making sounds. Upon finding the child that first time in the cottage and hearing her lamenting song, Alissa knew there was nothing wrong with the child’s vocal cords. By placing Megan’s hand against her throat, then making a humming sound so Megan could feel it, Alissa hoped the child could repeat the same vibration and strengthen her unused voice. More often than not, when Alissa would lightly place her fingers on Megan’s throat, smiling her encouragement, no sound would come forth and tears of frustration would form in the girl’s eyes, as they had today.
Not wanting to push it, Alissa suggested they do a stint of pantomime, which she’d taught Megan, and participated in herself, to show the child that her silence could be an art form in itself.
That night, as Alissa made her daily report to the ever imposing Jared, her nerves ajangle as always, she intentionally withheld the information about Ian Sinclair. Afterward, she decided that perhaps she should not have, but the choice had been made with Megan’s welfare solely in mind.
“Ian,” Alissa said as the two watched Megan and Merlin at play after one of their picnics, which had become a daily routine, “if you are Megan’s godfather, why is it you never visit Hawkstone?”
Then she watched as Ian—a handsome man, but to her eye, not as exceptional as Jared—turned his head and stared off into the distance, his arm resting on his upraised knee. He seemed troubled, and she suddenly wished she hadn’t asked the question, but it was something that had plagued her since they’d first met, two weeks ago.
“It’s by mutual agreement, Jared’s and mine, that I stay away,” he finally answered.
“I—I don’t understand.”
Ian faced Alissa. “Our friendship is rather strained at the moment.” He looked off into the distance again, falling silent.
“But surely, if you were such good friends—”
“Perhaps, in the future, I’ll share our story with you,” he said, then turned his mischievous eyes toward her. “Speaking of stories, is there one you’d like to share?”
“W-what do you mean?” Alissa asked in a rush, suddenly wary. She hoped he was teasing her again, as he always did. Yet, she feared she’d somehow awakened his suspicions. “W-why do you ask?”
“Let’s just say, sometimes things are not what they appear to be. Are they, Miss Pembroke?” Alissa had no answer, and Ian hadn’t really expected one. Stretching out, full-length, on the blanket, he linked his hands behind his head and stared up at the flotilla of white clouds sailing across a clear blue sky. “You are good for Megan,” he stated. “She needs a special person like you.”
“I’m not certain I can break her bonds of silence, Ian,” Alissa stated truthfully as she viewed the little girl running through the field, Merlin by her side. “Sometimes, it seems an impossible task.”
“It will take time. You must not give up.”
“I’m not a quitter.”
“No, you are not.”
Alissa’s gaze shifted to the man. “Sometimes, I feel there’s more to her silence than simply the fire and her mother’s death. Certainly that’s part of it, but I have this feeling the crux of it goes much, much deeper.”
“You may be right.”
“Do you know something?” she asked in an anxious voice. “Please, Ian, if you do, share it with me.”
“The man to answer your questions is Jared.”
Alissa turned troubled eyes toward the ground. “He won’t speak of that night … or of his wife.”
“Then he is a fool to withhold the story, especially if it were to help his daughter.”
“What should I do?”
“Ask him.”
Alissa’s eyes widened. Apparently, Ian was serious. She could just picture herself confronting Jared, yet another time. “Pa
rdon me,” she would say, “but I must know every detail of your life with your late wife—in particular, the night she died. And by the way, did you, perchance, murder her, like the gossips say?”
“Miss Pembroke … Agatha.”
The sound of her assumed name broke through Alissa’s thoughts, and she noticed Ian had come to lean on his elbow, facing her, his long legs shooting well off the blanket.
“That name does not suit you,” he said, with a smile. “But it will have to do.” For now, he thought.
Alissa frowned; a cautious look entered her eye. “What are you saying?”
Ian ignored her question, and with a sudden serious light in his eye, he said, “Jared is the only one who really knows the events of that night … at least, he’s the only one who can tell you what happened.” He rose to his feet, and Alissa gazed up at him. “Find the courage to ask him, and you may discover the key to unlock Megan’s silence.”
Her gaze fell from his. “I have no courage, Ian.”
“You have much more than you know,” he stated, then whistled for Merlin. “We must be on our way.”
The shaggy pup came, full-speed, across the clearing and jumped into Alissa’s lap. With a shriek, she fought to keep his licking tongue away from her face and neck. Thankfully, she succeeded.
“Heel,” Ian commanded, and the pup, tail tucked, sidled up to his master’s side. Megan joined the three, and Ian hunkered down. “I’ll not be seeing you for a while,” he told her. “I’ve business in Edinburgh, and then I’ll be headed to London and the south of England. It will be a fortnight before I return to Falcon’s Gate. I will think of you daily.” Megan hugged his neck, and Ian placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Merlin and I will see you as soon as I return.” He straightened and watched as Megan hugged her furry friend.
“We’ll miss seeing you,” Alissa said, coming to her feet. Indeed, she would, for he was the one true friend she’d made in Scotland. As she viewed Ian, she wondered why she compared all men to Jared. She didn’t find Ian lacking, but neither did he have that special quality that made her heart skip in an odd beat, her breath catch in her chest. And she was angry with herself for allowing Jared to hold such power over her.
Masque of Enchantment Page 15
