The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

by Amanda Scott

“I barely remember him,” Anne admitted. “Is he truly so horrid?”

  Scanning what was apparently a brief message, Olivia shrugged. A moment later, she looked up and handed the letter to Anne. “You may read for yourself what he has written,” she said.

  The letter consisted of only a few lines, so Anne read swiftly.

  Olivia said, “As you see, he merely apologizes for not having written when he received word of your father’s death, and says he will come to see you as soon as he attends to some few, lingering matters of business pertaining to the estates.”

  “Yes,” Anne said, feeling a surge of resentment as she read the last line, “and he also writes that until such time as he is able to discuss my future with me, I am to consider myself under his guardianship and to make no decisions regarding the disposal of Ellyson Towers or myself without first acquiring his permission.”

  “Well, I am sure I do not know why that should surprise you,” Olivia said. “You are underage, after all, and so Cousin Thomas—mercy, I must remember to call him Armadale now, mustn’t I? Well, it is Armadale’s business to look after you until you marry.”

  “I would be more willing to accept his authority if he had had the courtesy to write when he first learned of my father’s death,” Anne said. “Whatever else he may be, he is clearly not a man who attends promptly to his duties.”

  “Aye, he was ever a heedless man,” Olivia said, yawning behind a hand. “Mind, I haven’t seen him since I was a girl, and he is much older than I am.”

  Sir Christopher bowed, saying, “Doubtless you would prefer to abuse your relative in privacy, madam. Mayhap Parson Allardice will have a suggestion as to what we should do next.”

  Olivia shrugged. “You must do as you please, of course, but I do not see how this business can be settled in an afternoon, sir. We do not know yet that you are who you say you are, after all, and Sir Eustace insists that even if you should prove to be his dead nephew come back to life, it will not alter his betrothal to Fiona.”

  “I wish you will believe that I have no desire to run counter to your daughter’s wishes or yours, my lady. Surely you can understand, however, that I could not allow him to marry her whilst she believed him to be Laird of Ashkirk.”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose you had no choice, and I am glad to know that you did not die, of course. But pray, do go away now, sir, for I must rest. I do not want to think about this dreadful business any more today.”

  Sir Christopher walked away, and the din of laughter and conversation in the hall, augmented by music from the minstrel’s gallery above them, suddenly became more than Anne could bear. She felt as if her world had been turned on its ear, and the thought that the new Earl of Armadale might arrive at any moment to tell her how she should go on in a life she had hitherto lived very successfully without his guidance only made it worse.

  Deciding that she would soon do something to destroy her long-established reputation for serenity in the face of calamity if she did not find a private place to collect her thoughts, she took an orange from a fruit basket on the high table and slipped out of the hall before it occurred to anyone to stop her.

  Making her way outside and around to the yard, she decided to order a horse and go for a long, solitary ride, telling herself that anyone who thought she ought not to go alone could just keep his opinion to himself. However, the bustle in the yard and stables, where servants tended guests’ horses as well as those belonging to Mute Hill House, dissuaded her, and she turned with a sigh toward the gardens.

  Following the path from the stables away from the house and across the plank bridge, she saw no one else. The gardeners had moved to other duties, and all the guests were inside. In some undefined distance, she heard birds chirping and the cheerful, tumbling rush of the rain-swollen brook. Nearer at hand, she heard only the crunch of the pebbled path under her feet.

  That path meandered away from the brook, past flowerbeds quickly passing their prime, and through the shady copse of tall beech trees. From there, the path skirted the knot gardens that Sir Stephen had laid out with his own hands after drawing their patterns on sheets of foolscap that he had afterward framed and hung in the garden hall. Tall boxwood hedges screened that part of the garden from all but the uppermost windows of the house, protecting plants from the ever-present Border winds and creating an illusion of privacy for anyone who walked there.

  Coming to a wooden bench where one could sit and contemplate the central and largest knot garden, Anne sat down and peeled the orange she had brought with her. The garden was at peace, presently occupied only by myriad wild creatures and a tawny stable cat that stalked a magpie while she ate her orange. When she had finished, she wiped her fingers with her handkerchief, carefully wrapped her orange peels in it, and carried it with her to discard at the house.

  The sound of the brook grew louder as she neared the narrow bridge. Soon after she crossed it, her peaceful idyll would end, so to prolong her sense of freedom, she kept her gaze on the pebbled path, knowing when she left the shelter of the hedges only when a line of sparkling sunshine met the deep shadow they cast.

  A few steps further, and the stones of the arched bridge lay before her. As she stepped onto it, a singular large shadow shifted in front of her. Startled, she looked up at last and saw Sir Christopher standing at the crest of the arch, barring her way, his hat tilted rakishly over one eye now and his hands on his hips.

  His obvious delight as he took a step toward her put the polite words that had sprung to her tongue out of her head. An unfamiliar but pleasant sensation stirred in her midsection, her mouth felt dry, and she could not think of a thing to say.

  “I couldn’t find you, and so I wondered if you had come outside,” he said.

  His deep, vibrant voice reached out to her, stirring chords within her in a way that kept her silent and made her wish her heart were not pounding so hard in her chest. She resisted the temptation to look down and see if one could see it pounding. Surely, it must be evident to anyone who looked.

  The thought of him looking at her breasts sent flaming heat to her cheeks. He was too close, but she would not step back, certain he expected her to do just that and not wanting him to think she was so predictable or so easily intimidated.

  “Have you decided never to speak to me again, lass?”

  “No,” she said. Pleased that the word had come out calmly, she darted a glance at his face.

  He raised his eyebrows. “ ‘No,’ as in you will never speak to me again, or ‘no’ as in you have not decided to take such a cruel course of action?”

  She licked her lips, wondering how it was that the man could so easily disconcert her. The brook gurgled and splashed below, its water level—thanks to a sennight’s worth of rain—nearly even with its banks.

  Behind her, the cat must have flushed its magpie at last, for the bird or another like it emitted a clamor of shrieking protests as it flapped wildly into flight.

  “Well?”

  She drew a breath and let it out before she said, “I think you understood me plainly, sir. Perhaps you do not realize that you are barring my path.”

  “Am I?” The teasing look in his eyes told her he knew exactly what he was doing and that his behavior disturbed her.

  “Are you flirting with me?” she demanded.

  “What if I am?” A smile tugged the corners of his mouth, but he suppressed it. The twinkle in his eyes remained undiminished, making her wish briefly that her conscience would allow her to respond in kind.

  “You should not flirt,” she said, her tone sharper than she had intended. “Such behavior is inappropriate when you are betrothed to my cousin.”

  “But I am not betrothed to her,” he said. “My uncle insists that naught has changed. Moreover, even if he is wrong about his own position, her subsequent betrothal to him must release me from any contract my father made.”

  “That has not yet been determined,” Anne said. “It seems clear to me that Sir Eustace’s contract cannot be
binding, since its foundation—which is to say, his assurance that you were dead—is patently false.”

  “I’ll not deny that it’s still the devil of a coil,” he said, smiling. “I think you and I ought to discuss it at length.”

  “I have no say in the matter. You must discuss it with my aunt and with Parson Allardice.”

  “But your aunt does not want to discuss it, and the parson is presently drinking more claret than is good for him whilst exchanging amusing stories with Toby Bell,” he said. “In any event, I’d rather discuss things with you.”

  “We should not even be standing here alone together,” she said. “Please stand aside and let me pass.”

  “What if I were to demand a forfeit first?”

  “That would be most unchivalrous of you, and impolite as well.”

  “But I have not been a gentleman for a year and a half. As I mentioned the first time we met, I fell into bad company—rough sailors and their ilk—and I am afraid I acquired some of their worst habits.”

  “You are being absurd now,” she said. When he did not move, she tilted her head thoughtfully. “What sort of forfeit would you demand?”

  “A kiss, of course, what else?”

  “Now you step beyond the line,” she said, ruthlessly suppressing a nearly overwhelming temptation to pay the forfeit. “Pray stand aside at once, sir.”

  “Do you never lose that devilish equanimity of yours?” he demanded.

  Certain that she would be wiser not to answer such a question, particularly since she would rather die than tell him the truth, Anne glared at him, but if she had hoped to shame him into moving, she had sadly misjudged the man.

  He grinned, and after a long moment at this impasse, he hooked his thumbs in his belt, clearly challenging her. “You bring out the worst in me, lass. You have two choices now. You can turn round and follow the path back the way you came or you can pay my forfeit and cross this bridge.”

  Anger flashed, and without thought, she snapped both hands up to his chest and gave him a mighty shove.

  Although his strength far surpassed her own, she caught him by surprise. His hands flew from his belt, his boot caught a stone at the edge of the bridge, and he staggered and fell. He was agile and managed to land on his feet, but the stones were slippery, the swollen brook swift, and neither foot gained solid purchase.

  To Anne’s dismay, his feet shot out from under him, and he sat down hard in the middle of the brook. Bits of orange peel that had flown from her handkerchief floated past him, and as she watched, his hat slid down over both eyes.

  Clapping a hand to her mouth, she hesitated between blurting out how sorry she was and offering him a hand, or pointing out triumphantly that in the face of stupid ultimatums one frequently had other choices.

  However, meeting his angry gaze as he struggled awkwardly to get to his feet only to slip again, she realized that if she were wise, only one choice remained.

  She snatched up her skirts and fled across the bridge toward the house.

  “Well, this is a setback,” Catriona said in disgust.

  “I warned ye,” Fergus said. “Lady Anne be worth a dozen o’ Mistress Fiona, but no tae worry, lass. As clever as ye be, ye’ll think o’ summat.”

  Having decided to keep Catriona company while she kept an eye on Kit, Maggie had hoped to find an opportunity to tell her Jonah had said they must kill Claud’s mortal to free him. However, although she could easily have created the opportunity, she had not done so, fearing that the news would terrify Catriona as it would Fergus to the point where they would both abandon Claud to his fate. Thus, Maggie had fallen victim to her own thoughts and had not noticed Fergus until he spoke. Nor had she seen what Anne had done to Kit. However, a swift glance at the man in the stream and another at the lass running up the hill to the house with her skirts held up out of her way put her in possession of all she needed to know.

  “I warned ye, Catriona,” she said. “Things never be as tidy as they seem, and nae plan goes off without a hitch.”

  “We’ll think o’ summat,” Fergus said, patting Catriona’s hand. “Me lass wants him tae marry her beautiful cousin, so she’ll help all she can. Ye’ll see.”

  Catriona smiled at him and reached to stroke his face. “Ye’re a kind one, Fergus Fishbait, and no mistake.”

  Maggie watched them both with narrowing eyes.

  His anger stirred and deepened to fury. Did that fellow Fishbait want to die? And as for Catriona… but just thinking about her stirred him as it usually did, and those feelings combined with his anger put him in such a black mood that he decided Fishbait was lucky that he was on the far side of whatever divided them.

  Managing at last to stand and hold steady in the rushing water, albeit with effort, Kit straightened his hat and watched the lass run up the hill to the house.

  His first furious impulse was to run after her, to catch her, and to give her what she deserved for the trick she had served him, but three excellent arguments raged in his mind against such a course. First, the pair of them would be in sight of anyone who looked out a window from the house, and even if the watcher made no objection to his putting the lass across his knee, in his sodden state he would look ridiculous. Second, he knew that if he attempted to leap for the bridge or the bank with too much haste and too little care, he would slip again. The third and most persuasive argument, however, was that he had richly deserved his damp fate.

  What was it about Anne Ellyson, he wondered, that stirred him to take such liberties with her? Even as the question occurred, however, he knew the answer. She fascinated him far more than her lovely cousin did. It was her damnable calm, of course. Some demon inside him—doubtless having dwelt there since his childhood—tempted him to poke at her, to see if he could get a reaction. The realization did not make him think better of himself, however, for he knew that if a son of his ever teased a lass the way he had teased Anne, it would be the son, not the lass, who went over his knee. A wetting was less than he had deserved.

  Because he was soaked to the skin and had seen no sign of Willie since the lad had vanished into the wedding crowd, Kit decided his best course would be to call for his horse and leave, much as it went against his nature to do so.

  “Nay, nay,” Fergus protested, “he canna leave! We must stop him.”

  “Aye,” Catriona agreed, looking warily at Maggie. “Everyone concerned will want him to stay until the business of the betrothal is settled. Moreover, it will be easier for us to watch them if they all stay in one place.”

  “I’ll see tae that,” Maggie said, “but we need tae talk, the three o’ us, just as soon as ye can both manage tae do it without abandoning your charges. Go on now and follow your lass, Fergus. Ye’ve nae need tae linger here wi’ Catriona.”

  “Aye, I’m going,” he said. “She’s only just got to the door, after all.”

  By the time Kit climbed back onto the bridge, the lass had disappeared into the house. He noted with relief that no guests were near the entrance now to witness his predicament.

  As he stood there, a warm breeze stirred the leaves on nearby shrubbery and trees, making the air feel more like summer than autumn. At least he would not freeze while he decided what to do next.

  Remembering that the path on the chapel side of the bridge would take him to the stables, he set off that way, ignoring a lingering temptation to follow Anne. She’d had good reason to run, he decided, knowing she had recognized his fury. Before that moment, he had seen only dismay in her expression, and he wondered if she might have been about to apologize. A second’s consideration made him decide she would have done no such thing, and the thought made him smile.

  The lady was one of a kind.

  His walk through the gardens was surprisingly pleasant. Birds chirped, and a tawny cat emerged from undergrowth in a copse he passed through and followed at his heels. When it meowed at him and rubbed against an ankle, he paused, bending to stroke its soft fur. Instantly, it rolled onto its back,
inviting him to rub its tummy.

  “What do you make of all this fuss and to-do, Madam Puss?” he asked. “Doubtless, things in your world are more easily dealt with. A mouse here, a rat there, and one’s needs are met. Oh, and a handsome tom or two, as well, I’m sure,” he added as the cat began to purr loudly.

  Straightening, he realized to his amazement that his clothing was nearly dry.

  He took off his hat and turned it in his hands. It was dry. Of course, it had been only splashed, he reminded himself, not soaked like the rest of him.

  Pushing a hand through his hair, he looked at his boots. That morning, he had thought them far from fine enough for such an occasion but had donned them because he had no others with him. Now they looked like fine, well-polished leather, as if the water of the brook had been exactly the tonic they had needed. He bent down and felt them. They, too, were dry, and by the time he straightened, he could find nothing about his person that was even damp.

  He stood for a long moment, gazing around. To be sure, the breeze was warm and brisk, stirring dry leaves to dance along the path, but no breeze could dry a velvet doublet so quickly. Deciding his reverie must have lasted longer than it seemed, he continued along the path until he came to the plank bridge near the stable yard. Ongoing bustle there told him that at least some guests were leaving.

  The sun had well begun its downward journey to the western horizon, and since he was dry, he decided to return to the hall. Nothing would go forward until Parson Allardice and the others had talked things over and decided what they wanted to do, and it certainly behooved him to be present when they did, if for no other reason than to keep an eye on Eustace.

  When he entered the hall, he found that many had gone. None of the few Chisholms he had seen at the wedding remained, nor had any approached him earlier, so they were clearly taking their cue from Eustace. He saw no one he recognized except Lady Carmichael, who sat with three other ladies at the high table near the fire at the far end of the hall. In the lower hall, a few guests still ate and drank, and the musicians still played, but the crowd and general noise had diminished considerably. It was easy to see that Anne was not there.