'Did I? That would surprise me, for—to be frank, as you have been, ma'am—I do not know quite where my family comes from.'
This time, it was he who had been touched on the raw. His tone was surprisingly sharp. For a moment, Cassie thought she was treading on Solway quicksand, but the captain's brow cleared in seconds. He spoke again in quite a normal voice. 'Forgive me, ma'am. I did not intend to be rude. Yours was a perfectly normal question and should have received a normal answer. The truth is that I believe my family comes from the area around Dumfries, but as yet I cannot say for sure. Both my parents are dead and I have no living relatives to consult.'
'Oh!' Cassie's mind was suddenly full of questions that pushed aside her own troubles. Poor Captain Graham. It must be sad to have no roots. She determined to be helpful. 'Well, sir, Graham is not a particularly common name around Dumfries. Apart from the Graham Arms at Longtown. I should have thought it would not be too difficult to discover your ancestors.'
'I thought the same, ma'am. And the truth is that I have been trying since I arrived in Scotland. But there is no trace of any relation of mine in these parts. Perhaps I was mistaken. I was relying on something I remembered from my boyhood. Childish memories can be notoriously fickle.'
Cassie nodded, stricken. Her own childhood memories, especially memories of her mother, had faded so much that there was precious little left. And she was no longer sure that what she did remember was true. It might only be wishful thinking that her mother had been beautiful. And had loved her.
She felt a lump rise in her throat. Now was not the time to think of such distressing things. Now she needed to ensure that Captain Graham had reason to reconsider her plea for help. Perhaps there was some way she could discuss it further with him?
'I do not recall the Graham Arms,' he said thoughtfully. 'But then I avoided Longtown on my way north. It is near Carlisle, is it not?'
'Yes, sir. At least, I believe so. I have never been there myself. Apart from my journeys to Edinburgh, when I was at the seminary, I have travelled very little. And Longtown is not on the road to Edinburgh.'
He grinned at her. 'Quite so, ma'am. But I was wondering whether there might be something to discover in Longtown. After all, such inn names usually relate to a local family of note. Perhaps there is information to be had there.'
She nodded. Perhaps there was. Her heart seemed to miss a beat. It was as if she had been startled in the midst of a reverie. She had not thought until now that he might leave Dumfries. Yet it was bound to happen. Of course it was. He had no ties here and a home in the south of England. Of course he would leave. But somehow she had come to feel that he was here to help her—to save her—and that he would always be beside her, providing a strong arm to lean on.
Cassie berated herself. Oh, foolish woman! Have you not learned, by now, that no man can be depended upon? If you are to be saved from the fate James has in store for you, you will have to save yourself.
Ross took the brandy glass from the colonel's outstretched hand and sank into one of the chairs by the fire. The colonel's library was a most pleasant room. Unlike the rest of the house, which was furnished in the latest style and with no expense spared, this room was designed for comfort and relaxation. The furniture was old fashioned and, in places, a little threadbare, but a man could easily doze against the well-filled cushions and, if snuff or cigar ash fell upon the chairs, it would be of no concern. Indeed, the colonel's favourite chair, on the other side of the fire, showed distinct signs of having been singed.
The colonel had clearly noticed Ross's inspection of the room. 'Not exactly all the crack, is it, Graham?' he said with a low chuckle. 'My wife chose the furnishings for the rest of the house, but not here. She says she would not dream of wasting my money on changing a room where I am so happy to burn the furniture and the carpets.' He indicated the Turkey rug in front of the fire.
Ross realised that the marks he had assumed to be part of the pattern were actually black burns. He smiled, conspiratorially.
Colonel Anstruther reached into his inside pocket and produced his cigar case. 'Would you care to smoke, Captain? I assume that, like me, you got into the habit in Spain.'
'Perhaps outside on the terrace, sir?'
'Certainly, if you wish, but there is no need. In this room, I do allow myself to indulge in that particular vice.'
Ross accepted one of the long thin cigars and allowed the colonel to light it for him. He slowly drew the smoke deep into his lungs and leaned back in his chair. The colonel did the same, enjoying the moment. There was no need for words. Brandy and cigars, a seasonal fire, and a comfortable room, were sufficient by themselves. Ross blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling and took another sip from his glass.
What a very strange day it had been, to be sure. Until today, he would not have thought of calling Miss Elliott hysterical. Even on the links of the Solway, she had seemed admirably sure of what she was about. Yet she must be wrong about her brother. No doubt James Elliott was a rake-hell of the worst stamp—a drunkard, a womaniser, a gambler—but murder? Murder was something completely different. Ross could not bring himself to believe that a gentleman born would stoop to that. What's more, Cassandra Elliott seemed to be in fear for her own safety. Yet she was of the man's own blood. Surely even the lowest dregs of humanity would not injure a woman of his own blood? Did she really believe her brother might kill her?
And then there had been that hint that Elliott was not of sound mind. When the devil was in him... Now that, perhaps... Maybe there was something in that? Drink had unpredictable effects on a man. As did womanising. A thought struck Ross like a thunderbolt. What if Elliott were poxed? The pox was known to lead to madness. And death. Ross shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. It was possible. He should have thought of it before. If James Elliott had the pox, it was most definitely possible that he was going insane. And an insane man, on the verge of penury, might do anything to save his own skin.
Ross's tangled thoughts were interrupted by the colonel, who rose from his chair and said, 'I think I shall take a stroll around the garden before I turn in. I missed the best of it when I had to come in to deal with that.. .unfortunate episode with Elliott. Damned blackguard, interfering with innocent maids. If it weren't for his sister, I'd have shown him the door, I tell you frankly.' He started to leave, but paused when Ross rose to accompany him. 'No need to bother, Graham. You've already seen most of the garden. Stay and relax over your cigar. I shall enjoy a solitary stroll.' Polite though he was, the colonel was making it perfectly clear that he wanted to be alone.
Ross nodded and sank back into his chair, still wondering about James Elliott. Did he deserve the name of a gentleman? He had been born to inherit as laird, but even the grandest families had the occasional changeling. After all, this was a man who had spent his first night in the colonel's house getting drunk and then trying to rape one of the maids. If he was capable of that, was he also capable of murder? And of laying violent hands upon his own sister? Correction—half-sister. That might make a difference.
He drained his glass, took a last draw on his cigar and threw the stub into the fire. It was a very strange business, he thought, shaking his head. The question was, what was he to do about it? Miss Elliott had asked for his help—had steeled herself to ask him for money—and he had spurned her. He had more or less told her she was letting her imagination get the better of her. Good God, he had as good as told her she was mad! She had been angry at him, and no wonder. To a lady whose mother had died in the asylum, there could be few worse insults.
And what if her fears were justified?
No. No, it must be impossible. He would try to draw her out a little more, discover exactly why she believed she needed to flee across the Solway, perhaps even lend her the money she needed. But he could not bring himself to believe that the laird of Langrigg was a murderer.
'Ah, there ye are, Graham. I've been wanting a word wi' ye.' Elliott stood in the open doorw
ay, swaying a little. He was clearly still much the worse for drink.
Ross rose from his chair and put his brandy glass down on the small piecrust table. He stood with his legs slightly apart, the weight on the balls of his feet, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. There was no knowing what Elliott might do, so it was best to be ready for anything, including a physical attack. At least, if it happened this time, it would be one against one. With those odds, Ross would not expect to lose again.
'You seemed to be enjoying your little tryst with m'sister.'
It was useless to chop logic with a drunk. 'Miss Elliott and I had a very pleasant stroll around the garden. Together with the colonel.'
'Aye. For a wee bit. Until he came back here to hassle me.'
Ross said nothing. If the man had a point to make, he would get to it eventually. Ross casually picked up his glass and drank the final few drops of his brandy, before setting it down again. He needed his hands free.
Elliott walked rather unsteadily into the room. 'Any more of that brandy? I could do with a wee reviver. I'm fair parched.' He picked up the colonel's used glass and filled it from the decanter. He drained the liquor in a single swallow and then filled the glass again.
James Elliott was certainly no gentleman.
Ross tried to keep his expression from betraying his distaste. 'You wanted a word?' he said neutrally.
Elliott slumped into the colonel's chair, his brandy balloon in one hand and the decanter in the other. 'Aye. 'Bout m'sister. Ye've caught her up twice now, so I thought ye might like to make an honest woman of her.'
'Sir, you go too far! Miss Elliott's reputation is—'
'Dinnafash yersel', man! I'm no' accusing ye of anything.'The man's cultured accent seemed to have disappeared along with the colonel's brandy. He had begun to sound like one of his own servants.
'Glad to hear it. A lady's reputation is a precious thing, and—'
'Let's cut t' the chase, Graham. Thing is, m'sister needs a husband and I'm thinking that ye might be the very man. Ye're a gentleman, wi' a guid income and yer own estate. What mair could she want?'
'Your sister and I are barely acquainted.'
'I can tell ye all ye need to know. She's a guid manager, ye ken. Been running Langrigg fer years. And ye'll admit she's bonnie.'
He was waiting for an answer, so Ross nodded. It was true enough.
'And she's still untouched. I can vouch fer that.'
Ross's flesh was beginning to crawl. The man was describing a lady as if she were a horse at auction.
'Now, the real question is, how much?'
'How much?' Ross repeated, startled into speech.
'Aye. How much will ye give me fer the lass?'
'Are you telling me, Elliott,' Ross said slowly, pronouncing each word with great care as if he were talking to a very small child, 'that you are prepared to sell your sister to me?'
Elliott drained his brandy and slumped back in the chair, laughing. 'What else can a man do wi' her? I canna take her to wife mysel', can I? If I can get her leg-shackled, I can get me a wife to run the house instead. That'd be cheaper than Cassie.' He refilled his glass. 'Aye, that'd be a fair bit cheaper.'
Ross felt the anger growing in his gut, like metal boiling in the furnace, just waiting to burst out into fiery wrath. He mastered it. With difficulty. 'How much did you have in mind?' The words came out softly, through gritted teeth, but Elliott was too far gone to notice.
'Twenty thousand.'
That was a fortune. Ross could not lay his hands on such a sum unless he sold almost everything he possessed. 'That is.. .a good price, certainly. And, in return, the bridegroom would get?'
'Why, Miss Cassandra Elliott of Langrigg. Whit else?'
'I was thinking of your sister's dowry, as a matter of fact,' Ross said carefully.
In spite of his drunken state, Elliott had begun to look a little sheepish. 'Ain't no dowry.'
'She has nothing from her mother? You surprise me.' Ross knew that his measured tones were getting under Elliott's skin. Good. He needed to find out as much as possible about the man's intentions.
'Nothing. It was all used up in paying for— Never you mind. It's gone. She comes with what she stands up in. An' that bluidy horse, too, since I canna ride him.'
'I have to say, Elliott, that you are making a singularly poor fist of the business of selling your sister.'
Elliott hauled himself to his feet and glared at Ross. 'Enough o' yer jaw-me-dead talk. D'ye want her, or no'?'
Ross walked quietly across to the door. 'I fear she is above my touch. You will have to look elsewhere for your rich mark. Good night to you.'
* * *
Ross drove his clenched fist into his open palm. What a fool he had been! Everything Miss Elliott had said, everything she had hinted, it was all true. And that was probably not the half of it. Hanging was too good lor James Elliott. What he needed was something much slower, and much, much more painful.
Ross resisted the urge to slam the door of his bedchamber. It would achieve nothing. And if anyone else heard, it would lead to questions. Questions which he was in no position to answer.
He had questions of his own, now. Miss Elliott could be in real danger. She had asked him for help—had breached a lady's code of behaviour to do so—and he had refused her. He had allowed his own concept of honour to colour his response, even while he knew that she was not the sort of hysterical woman to make serious allegations without reason.
It was not only Elliott who deserved to be shot. It was Ross himself. How could he have been so stupid, so prejudiced—?
Enough of that! He could indulge his guilty conscience later. For now, he had to decide on a course of action. The visit would be over in little more than twelve hours. Miss Elliott, and her appalling brother, would leave for Langrigg and for the danger that awaited her there. Ross might well have no further chance of private conversation with her. She had given him the chance, there in the garden, and he had spurned it.
'Are you for bed now, sir?' Fraser asked, appearing silently from the dressing room.
'No.' Ross took a candle to the small writing desk by the window and drew out paper and ink. He scrawled a few words, folded the sheet and sealed it with a wafer from the drawer. 'Fraser, I need you to convey this note to Miss Elliott.'
'Aye, sir.' Fraser did not move. His face was a blank mask.
'Now, Fraser.'
'Aye, sir. I take it you won't be wanting her brother to know about it?' He spoke as if it was the most normal thing in the world to be conveying notes to unmarried ladies in the middle of the night.
'Correct, Fraser. Do it now, and ensure that no one apart from Miss Elliott herself is aware of it.' 'Am I to wait for a reply, sir?'
Ross could not prevent himself from grinning at his imperturbable manservant. The situation was more than ridiculous. 'No, Fraser. No reply. Just get it done as fast as you can. Then come back here. I may need you again.'
Fraser nodded and left as quietly as he had come.
Ross began to pace the room, trying to come up with some kind of a plan. The question of money was easily resolved. He would give—no, lend—Miss Elliott whatever she required. But should he tell her what her brother was about? Should he hint at his suspicion about Elliott's sanity? Surely not. How could he do that, without also speaking of the foul illness that was the likely cause? Miss Elliott was a woman of decided character, but even she would be mortified by talk of brothels and the pox.
He was still undecided when Fraser returned.
In response to Ross's raised eyebrow, Fraser said simply, 'It's done, sir. I gave it into her own hand. Her woman saw me, of course, but you need have no worries on that score. Morag would never betray her mistress.'
Yet more of Fraser's information gathering, it seemed. Ross nodded, reassured. What he was planning to do could put Miss Elliott in danger. He needed to take every possible precaution to protect her.
'I have asked Miss Elliott to meet me i
n the garden, Fraser. As soon as she is able. I will do my best to ensure we are not seen, of course, but I need you to guard my back.'
'Aye, sir.' Fraser grinned. 'Shall I need a pistol?'
'No. It's not brute force I need, but a diversion. Watch Elliott for me. He's in his room, I think. If he should come out, I need you to find a way of delaying him and to make as much noise as possible while you do it. That should give me enough warning to get Miss Elliott safely back into the house without being caught.'
'You'll make sure the side doors are open before you go out, sir?'
Ross grinned his response. Fraser knew perfectly well that Ross would secure more than one escape route before entering the danger zone. They had both learned the value of that, more than once.
'May I suggest a greatcoat, sir? Probably better to cover that white shirt. The moon's still pretty bright out there.'
Fraser was right. There was no time to change. He needed to remain a shadowy figure, if he possibly could. Fraser was already fetching the greatcoat from the clothes press. In a matter of moments, Ross had donned it and was stealing quietly along the corridor and down the stairs to the garden door.
'Make haste, Morag.'
'I canna go any faster with ye jigging about like that, Miss Cassie.'
Cassie stood still while Morag fastened the last hooks on her gown. Then, full of impatience, she hurried to the window and opened the shutters just a crack. The garden was still full of moonlight. And in the distance, in the shadow of an old oak tree, she could just make out a tall dark figure. Was it Captain Graham?
It must be. Who else would be leaning against a tree in the colonel's garden at this time of night? It was certainly not James, for she would have recognised his silhouette immediately.
'He is waiting. I must go down.'
'Are ye sure, lassie?' Morag sounded anxious, but she was holding out Cassie's grey cloak, none the less.
Bride of the Solway Page 10
