Passion and Plunder

by Cameron, Collette

  “We shall see.” Curling his lip, Ross stalked past.

  “Aye. We shall.” They would indeed.

  And God help Alasdair for agreeing to teach Lydia how to use a dirk first. The training would require close contact, and frequent touching.

  Would she wear skirts or don a pair of her brother’s breeches as the Ferguson women typically did?

  His mouth went dry as wood ash at the notion of her tight, rounded rump in breeches, and he gritted his teeth against a hot surge in his nether regions.

  Maybe he ought to pay the village harlot a visit.

  Nae after Ross had his wick there first.

  So be it.

  Alasdair would consider his male discomfort penance for stealing a kiss from Lydia. God, her mouth had been sweet, her innocence blissful.

  He blew out the remaining candles before taking a final survey of the courtyard.

  Empty and silent.

  Nothing for it. He’d start her training on the morrow.

  He’d given his word, and with the MacHardys’ presence, as well as her oily uncle skulking about, she needed to be able to protect herself. She couldn’t very well cart her bow and quiver wherever she went, and besides, that weapon was useless in close encounters.

  Too bad she couldn’t compete in the archery portion of the tournament.

  His steps faltered on the carpeted risers.

  Why couldn’t she?

  It would prove her mettle and skill, boost her confidence, and since he doubted anyone would best her, she’d take the points for that event.

  He grinned.

  Why, sometimes his keen mind surprised even him.

  He’d mention the idea to her tomorrow, quite anticipating her smile of gratification. Hell, he’d take any smile she directed his way.

  Hopeless sot.

  But how to get Farnsworth to agree?

  Alasdair rubbed his jaw and slowly resumed his trek downstairs.

  Well, that might take a bit of clever manipulating.

  He grinned in satisfaction. The notion didn’t appall him.

  No, not at all.

  Farnsworth had thought nothing of using Lydia, or Alasdair for that matter. The chief had gambled on Ewan’s loyalty when he’d asked him to send Alasdair. Both lairds presumed his sense of honor and duty would compel him to oblige, but they’d only been partially right.

  Lydia’s asking and the promise of time away had tempted far more. Yes, indeed, Lydia taking the archer competition might be just the thing.

  Served the crusty Scot right, getting a taste of his own behavior. As long as it didn’t kill him. Lydia would never forgive Alasdair then. And her approval mattered. A hell of a lot more than it should. More than he ought to have permitted.

  Mayhap the time to pursue a divorce had truly come. He certainly had just cause.

  Letting himself out the grand entrance, Alasdair searched the crisp, clear sky and breathed in the glacial air. An owl hooted, low and haunting, and a moment later, another answered the eerie call.

  First, he must determine if Searón even yet lived.

  Where the hell did he start?

  Where her unusual appetites might be fed. The most corrupt, depraved, and vilest of brothels.

  Tree branches rattled and groaned as an icy wind gust blew past, and he shivered, as much from disgust as cold. Frost already covered the courtyard stones, the rooftops, and every other exposed surface.

  Slapping his hands against his shoulders, he trotted down the stone risers. He’d welcome snowfall. That’d mean the temperatures had risen.

  Warmer climes beckoned him, but he resolutely shoved those dreams into a chilly corner until later.

  How much later, he couldn’t venture to guess.

  Rather than make straight for the barracks, he strode through the arched entry intent on circling to the mansion’s back.

  Softly whistling a mournful tune—damnation, the same melancholy melody McLeon had been playing as he mooned over a woman—Alasdair surveyed the area with a warrior’s practiced eye.

  Lydia’s second story chamber lay on this side of the house, the farthest from the barracks and guards.

  Leaning against an oak’s trunk in the garden, he stared up at her window. A dim light glowed between a smallish gap in the curtains, but no shadowy form glided about her chamber.

  Likely abed already.

  Did she sleep with candles lit throughout the night? If so, what did she fear?

  Angling his head for a better view, he studied the structure. The straight stone walls contained no ledges or casings. No easy access to her bedchamber, at least from the ground, even with a ladder.

  His gaze gravitated to the roof.

  Not there either. Too steep.

  And the windows on either side of her chamber were too far away to access her room.

  Satisfied she was safe, he straightened and yawned. He’d be bloody tired in the morning.

  A movement at the mansion’s corner snared his attention. A slender black-cloaked figure hurried through the garden, carrying what looked like valises, and after glancing furtively ’round, slipped through the stone arched gateway.

  Ross just couldn’t forego his swiving, could he?

  Another, shorter figure separated from the bushes bordering the garden’s far side, and the moon illuminated a blue robe.

  Lydia?

  Foolish chit.

  What the blazes was she doing out here in her nightclothes and following her randy uncle to boot?

  Chapter 15

  Teeth chattering, Lydia wrenched her robe tighter as she charged after Uncle Gordon, a wind cold enough to freeze hell chafing at her heels and rudely sneaking up her gown to nip at her bare bum.

  Enough was enough.

  She’d held her tongue as the rumors and whispers about his unsavory nocturnal habits tickled her ears, but tonight after discovering just how low he’d sunk, she’d determined to put a stop to his actions once and for all.

  After leaving the solar, she’d been annoyingly wide awake.

  How fickle slumber proved when, minutes before, she could scarcely keep her eyes open or smother her yawns.

  She’d made for the kitchen, intending to warm milk and nibble a shortbread biscuit or two. And perhaps, if she timed it just so, she’d have another opportunity to bid Alasdair goodnight as he departed.

  A completely platonic, polite farewell, of course. Nothing else. Certainly, there’d be no more kissing between them.

  Drat it all. Such a disappointment.

  However, the study’s slightly cracked entrance snared her attention. Not particularly unusual or alarming; nevertheless, she couldn’t shake the impression something was amiss.

  Raising her candle holder, she prodded the door open with one foot. No fire burned in the grate, but the scent of warm beeswax and a freshly extinguished candle lingered in the air.

  Venturing farther in, she searched the dim corners. The open drapes lent a jot more light; enough to determine she was alone.

  Someone had recently vacated the room, hastily, too, given the open door and the chair’s odd angle.

  Alarm streaked through her.

  Had they been robbed?

  She pivoted to inspect the desk.

  Yes, the drawers, including the one containing Tornbury’s money box, hung splintered and askew. The fireplace poker lay beside the walnut desk, as if tossed there in haste.

  Unease tickled between her shoulder blades.

  She pulled away the money drawer’s broken front, not at all surprised to find the cash chest absent. Father and Gordon possessed the keys, but any manner of tool might be used to pry it open, including the discarded poker.

  The process of de
molishing the drawers must’ve been noisy, but then again, the stout, three-inch-thick cherry wood door would’ve muffled the sound. Even a passerby in the corridor mightn’t have heard the wood breaking or detected any plundering.

  A reddish glint along the upper drawer’s cracked bottom caught the corner of her eye.

  What was that?

  After removing the top estate ledger, she applied a letter opener to the wood slat and managed to pop it loose, revealing a false bottom with a hidden register. If the drawer hadn’t been so damaged, she mightn’t ever have seen the small gap.

  Brows drawn together, she picked up the thin record. After lifting the cover and seeing the detailed entries, she swiftly looked at its front again.

  This wasn’t the register Gordon had showed Da and her each Friday. Until recently, that was. Because of his illness the ledger hadn’t been examined in some time.

  A sickening sensation toppled her stomach.

  Setting the volume to the side, she opened the familiar ruby leather-bound book engraved with a gold scroll and raised TF that Gordon provided for the weekly audits.

  After slowly sinking into the comfortably worn high back chair, she drew the candelabra closer then pulled the ledgers together until they lay side by side. Duplicate entries in Gordon’s neat script went on for pages and pages, yet Tornbury’s official register, the one he produced for inspection, consistently recorded different figures.

  God rot Uncle Gordon’s treacherous soul to hell’s lowest level.

  She and Father had been too compliant, too apathetic, had trusted him too dashed much. They’d dismissed his churlishness and inefficiency as trifling flaws, failing to see his true character.

  How many other things had he lied about?

  Flopping back into the chair, Lydia folded her arms and scowled at the splintered wood littering the pecan brown and camel-toned carpet. She’d wager her virtue Gordon was their thief; the wrecked drawers a ploy to throw them off his scent, the ingrate.

  How long had he been stealing from Tornbury?

  Quite possibly since he’d become the estate steward.

  These ledgers were the most current, but where were the previous years’ records stored? She ought to have considered this months ago, but honestly, she never expected there’d be a need.

  As much as Da acknowledged Gordon’s faults, he’d never hinted of anything untoward in that regard.

  Lydia scanned the dimly lit room, self-castigation prodding her. She should’ve suspected something like this. All the signs had been present, but she’d naively hoped she’d misread them—that Uncle Gordon couldn’t be so conniving and dishonest.

  Nibbling her lower lip, she tapped her chilled fingers atop the closest register while rubbing her cold feet together.

  Better ask Da where the other records were stored. She could claim she wanted to acquaint herself with the estate’s bookkeeping then uncover precisely how devious Uncle had been.

  By George, tonight she’d send the ungrateful, lying cull on his way. If he left quietly and returned the money, she’d persuade Da not to bring charges against him, but if he kicked up a fuss—

  She’d set the magistrate and Alasdair on him.

  She’d quite enjoy the latter, truth to tell.

  Rather like a lion stalking a lizard, the outcome predetermined, but amusing to watch for a brief spell.

  Now, running across the frozen grass, crunching beneath her icy soles, she kept her gaze trained on Gordon’s skulking form. Even with the full moon, once he passed through the gate into the hedgerow-bordered oak grove, she’d have a hard time catching him, especially if he had a mount waiting.

  “Uncle Gordon. Stop.”

  He stiffened, but increased his stride, not even turning his head.

  Oh, he meant to ignore her, did he?

  Holding her side against a sudden cramp, she raced after him.

  “Stop this instant.” She raised her voice, beyond caring she might be overheard. “I know you have been keeping duplicate books and stole the money box,” she shouted.

  He pivoted so fast, she stopped running and skidded along the frost-slickened ground, nearly losing her footing.

  “Wheesht. Hold yer vile tongue.” He veered a swift, wary glance around.

  “You tried to make it appear as if someone else broke into the study,” she gasped, the freezing air stinging her lungs with each hard-earned pant.

  Gordon tossed his bags to the ground and stalked toward her. “Those be evil accusations, Lydia.”

  “They’re true, and you know it full well.” Holding her ribs, she strove to catch her breath. “Why, Uncle Gordon, after we put our trust in you?”

  He glared daggers at her, his lip curled into a hateful sneer.

  He despised her.

  When had he come to do so?

  Surely his coveting the lairdship in recent weeks hadn’t fermented this profound hostility. No, instinct assured her his loathing ran much deeper, beyond her personally.

  A pitiable, intense bitterness brought on by his status, out of his control and decreed by the circumstances of his birth. Very similar to Alasdair’s position actually, but the slight similarity ended there, as had how each man dealt with his lot.

  Peculiar, that even now, she could spare Uncle Gordon a morsel of compassion despite his despicable actions.

  His type would never be happy. Never find contentment. He thrived on discord. Jealousy and envy constantly stirred his dissatisfaction, urging his malcontent to bitter resentment and ire.

  She jerked her chin toward his abandoned bags. “Is the money in one of those? Why would you do something so foolish for a few hundred pounds? Are you in some sort of trouble that you need funds? Perhaps if you’d told me—”

  “I dinna mean to answer any of yer nosy questions, lass,” he scoffed. He kicked at a satchel. “And I be leavin’ Tornbury. Fer good.”

  A pang of regret pricked her. He was family after all, and they’d so few members left. She’d been a shy, thumb-sucking four-year-old when he’d arrived, skinny, hostile, and full of distrust. And he’d been kind to her. Oh, not in the beginning.

  He’d sulked and shouted, disappearing for hours on end. But he’d also brought her a baby rabbit he’d found, and showed her how to skip stones on the river.

  Nonetheless, a blackguard such as he couldn’t be permitted to stay. “If you return the money, I shall try to convince Da not to bring you up on charges.”

  That would take some doing. Da abhorred dishonesty and demanded integrity, most particularly from kin.

  “However, you must agree to never set foot here again.” She jutted her chin upward and crossed her arms. “You’ve betrayed our trust and are no longer welcome at Tornbury.”

  He laughed, the gravelly cackle more maniacal than humorous.

  Cold definitely wasn’t the cause of her skin puckering or the shiver that rattled her from neck to knees.

  “Do ye have any idea, how much, and how long I’ve detested ye, Lydia?”

  His words battered her with the force of an open-handed slap.

  “Havin’ to sit by and watch as yer droolin’ father planned on makin’ ye laird, when he ken—everybody ken—I should be the next laird?” Fisting his hands, he snarled, his features feral and savage beneath the variegated moonbeams streaming through the trees’ naked branches.

  Hatred fairly oozed from him, wave upon wave of animosity and revulsion. He cast a furtive glance round, his sneer transforming into a sinister smile.

  She sucked in a swift, icy gulp of air, pressing her hand to her throat. Her heart vaulted to the pulse tapping frantically beneath her nearly numb fingertips.

  Lydia took an involuntary step backward. Then another, this time calculated to put distance between them. Stupid, rash
girl for thinking she could deal with him alone.

  She dared a swift peek over her shoulder.

  Could she outrun him?

  In her boots? Yes. But not a chance in her bedroom slippers.

  Another rash oversight.

  When would she learn to think things through? Consider all the consequences? Examine situations from every angle as a competent chief must? Had she done so, she wouldn’t be in this pickle.

  “Ye really be a fool, lass, followin’ me into the trees,” he said, tossing a glance behind him at the towering grove. “Especially when yer nemeses, the MacHardys, be here. At my invitation, mind ye.”

  She used his gloating to retreat a few steps farther.

  Keep him talking.

  “Why on earth would you invite them? You know full well what Sir Gwaine attempted. Do you think a few weeks in jail truly dampened his greed?”

  Another few steps nearer to the house.

  Gordon laughed again, inching closer. “Who do ye think helped them the first time, ye dimwitted idiot?”

  That stopped her in her frozen tracks.

  My God. He couldn’t possibly be that vile.

  Anguish lanced her, stabbing her heart and mind in a brutal onslaught, his heartless betrayal rendering her incapable of responding.

  Uncle Gordon slapped a hand to his chest and feigned anguish. “Nae, her abductor hasnae been found. She must’ve caught him in the act of robbin’ the place.”

  He’s off his head. Daft as a Bedlam border.

  Or desperate. And desperate men knew no bounds.

  Where that thought came from, she didn’t know, but he definitely behaved like a man with no other recourse.

  She needed to stall him, and hope—pray—someone had heard her earlier shouting and would raise an alarm.