My Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  “Another soul ripe for a fall!” he murmured, pointing to an old apple tree nearby. “You! Andrew Ross, you may as well come, too!”

  “Huh?” A young male voice asked from somewhere overhead.

  Kit looked up. For a minute he didn’t see anyone. Then a slight rustle drew his gaze higher still, into the uppermost branches of the old tree. A pair of brown legs dangled from the leaves.

  “Get down from there, Dand!” Brother Fidelis said with more volume than ire. A second later a wiry, dusty-haired boy slipped to the ground, his warm brown eyes wide with innocence.

  “Come here!”

  With a cringe, the boy dragged his feet toward them.

  “Andrew Ross,” Ramsey whispered to Kit. “Now, there’s someone who’ll be glad you’re here.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because everyone’s called him the devil’s kit.” Ramsey flashed his knowing smile. “Until now.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” the tanned boy said, holding his hands out at his sides to give proof to his claim.

  “You will,” Brother Fidelis snorted. “Follow along with the rest.” The monk pushed through the door. “Now, stay on the path and do not touch anything.” With a wave of his hand, he ushered the boys in, closing the door behind him.

  At once, an overpowering scent assailed Kit with a perfume so heavy and exotic, it made his head swim. He stared about, dazed by a fragrance part clove and part ambrosial sweetness, both as thick as cream and slight as mist. He turned slowly around and found the source.

  Roses. Everywhere, roses. Roses climbed crumbled brick and mossy stone. Roses dangled from half-tumbled arch- ways. Roses cascaded off the top of broken walls and spread in thick mats across ill-marked paths. They burst in fountains of color, and they nestled in small, furtive clusters. They blazed and they flickered, soft and bold, brash and delicate.

  Scarlet and crimson, blush and cherry. Roses, pure white and shell pink, thick ivory and fresh cream. But most startling of all, most spectacular, close by where they stood, amidst an exuberance of mint green leaves with finely serrated edges, bloomed a pure yellow rose. It glowed in the bright light of day, seeming to catch some of the sun’s own brilliance in its joyous, vibrant color.

  “It’s wonderful,” Kit murmured, bending closer to the saffron blossom. “As yellow as an egg yolk. I never seen a rose such a color.”

  “No one has.”

  Kit looked up. Fidelis was looking down at him with something akin to approval.

  “Well, not many, anyway,” Fidelis elaborated. “No more than a handful in England and Scotland combined. Most rose fanciers would swear that there are no yellow roses.”

  “Where did it come from?” Ramsey asked, unable to take his eyes from the beautiful thing.

  “The story goes that a crusader brought it back from the Holy Land and gave it as a gift to the abbey for their care of his family during the Black Death. In return, we — ” He abruptly broke off. “It’s been here ever since.”

  “And the rest of the roses?” Douglas asked.

  “Collected over the years. Hunted and brought back from all four corners of the world. Once St. Brides was known for its roses,” he said proudly. “But after the Forty-five, when the king had the Roman Church expelled from Scotland, roses didn’t seem to matter anymore. We here at St. Brides didn’t leave. We were so far out, you see, away from everyone. No one took note of us this far up. This place”—he swept his hand out—“while not exactly abandoned, has been ignored.”

  “Pretty.” The boy Andrew bent over and sniffed. “Like to get a headache in here though, smelling so strong as it does.”

  Brother Fidelis’s conciliatory mood disappeared, and he regarded Andrew dryly. “I forget what a heathen little jackanapes you are, Andrew Ross. But thank you for reminding me that you are not here to learn the history of the garden. You are here to work.”

  “Us, too?” Ramsey asked in alarm.

  “Oh, yes. You, Ramsey Munro, have just as much devil in you as Christian here. You just keep him dressed up in company clothes.”

  Kit hadn’t any idea what that meant, but he liked the notion that someone else was wicked.

  “And me?” Douglas asked, his face reflecting his grievance.

  “You always take the leadership role, Mr. Stewart. I see no reason for you to forfeit it now.” He turned to Andrew Ross. “And as for you…” He shook his head without bothering to finish.

  Kit didn’t see what all the fuss was about. He’d picked oakum, swept stables, and hauled water for eight hours at a time. How hard could work in a garden be compared to that?

  “For how long?” Ramsey asked.

  “Until the weeds are gone,” Brother Fidelis said. “And maybe a few of the walls are repaired.”

  Kit felt his grin broaden. Pick weeds? Pull lovely soft, green weeds from the ground? Move a few stones? He almost laughed out loud.

  Six hours later Kit’s back ached, his thighs throbbed from squatting down, his arms were covered with welts from the millions of hairlike barbs that covered the rose stems, and his hands itched from the sting of the nettles he’d pulled. His face was burned red, and his knees under his patched breeches were scraped raw. He didn’t complain, though. And he didn’t quit. And neither did the others.

  Two hours later they finished. With groans and oaths, they made their way beneath the shade of one of the stone arches that decorated the garden. As one, they sank wearily to the ground.

  “I should have let them beat the bloody hell out of you,” Douglas said without any real rancor.

  “I should have walked right by,” Ramsey agreed.

  “But you didn’t, did you?” Kit said. “Bloody fools.”

  “What about me?!” Andrew Ross exclaimed indignantly. “Minding me own concerns, I was.”

  “Like stealing apples.”

  Andrew shrugged. “Sinful concerns, I’ll grant you,” he admitted unrepentantly, “but me own.”

  They grinned at each other in sudden idiotic empathy and they were still grinning when Brother Fidelis arrived a few minutes later.

  “So, you’re all done, are you?” he asked mildly.

  “Aye, Brother Fidelis. Not a weed in the place. Nothin’ but roses.” Douglas scrambled to his feet.

  “For today.”

  “Eh?”

  “For today, Douglas. Today there are no weeds, but a rose garden, like one’s soul, must be tended vigilantly, hourly. Weeds, like sins, spring up overnight. Come back tomorrow. All of you.”

  “But what if there aren’t any weeds?” Ramsey burst out, momentarily losing the insouciance Kit was beginning to realize characterized this boy.

  “Well then, there are paths to re-create, walls to rebuild, a well to dredge, arches to repair. Oh, we’ll find something,” Brother Fidelis assured them. “Now, I’ll let you out.”

  As he held the door open, Andrew gave Kit a look that said they might as well accept their fate. But Kit didn’t want to accept his fate, especially since he wasn’t at all certain of what it was, or had become, since he’d come here, wherever “here” was.

  “Why are we here? All us boys?” he whispered urgently to Douglas.

  “Don’t you know? We’re here because of what the knight of the Yellow Rose asked in return for his patronage,” he whispered and trotted on ahead. “We’re to become knights.”

  FOUR

  THE DIRE CONSEQUENCES OF IMPULSIVE BEHAVIOR

  BETWEEN THE NOISE FROM the tavern below and the howling of the storm without, Kate slept fitfully. She dreamed about her husband, Michael, but his eyes kept turning green and a Scottish burr invested his speech. She awoke before dawn, anxious and guilt-ridden.

  She had met, married, and been widowed all within two years, her father having introduced her to Lt. Michael Blackburn. In hindsight, it was small wonder her father had pressed Michael’s suit for him. Like her father, Michael was dashing and courageous and entirely dedicated. And, also like him, the son of an
impoverished, if genteel, family.

  She had not regretted her marriage. She did regret, however, that she’d wed a hero, the sort of man who acted without stopping to consider the fates of those he left behind.

  How she did resent heroes.

  She stumbled from bed, the disloyal, half-conscious thought chasing her from sleep, and set about dressing in the same cotton gown she’d been traveling in for three days. Then she packed her few belongings back into Grace’s trunk, took a deep breath, and went downstairs.

  Below, men lay strewn about the room like bodies on a field after a great battle. They huddled on the floor and lined the walls. Some tilted upright against one another, while a few lucky souls had commandeered benches as pallets. The stench of stale beer and wet wood ash clogged her nostrils, and the sound of snores was punctuated by other, less pleasant noises. A serving girl hurried in from a side door, her blouse askew and her arms full of kindling.

  “Mrs. Blackburn,” a deep voice called.

  Kate looked around. Kit MacNeill stood framed in the open door, behind him leaden clouds churning above the dim horizon. The wind rippled the edge of his plaid, affording a few glimpses of a forest green jacket. The flat light delineated scars on his lean, burnished countenance. How many men bore the scars he’d given them? How many hadn’t lived to see their handiwork? She shuddered. She had made a mistake. She could not go with this man. He was—

  “Are your things ready?”

  She stuttered into speech. “I have rethought my plans.”

  He waited.

  “I shall stay here,” she announced. “The agency that owns the carriage will send someone to replace Dougal, or at the very least, reacquire their carriage. I shall convince the new driver to take me to Clyth rather than back to York.”

  “Dougal and the carriage are gone,” Kit said. “He and one of his friends took it last night.”

  “Really?” Relief swept through her.

  Fate had delivered her from Kit MacNeill.

  “Then I shall have to wait here until another carriage comes.”

  “I have another carriage,” he said. “The innkeeper had an old phaeton in the back of the stables.”

  Fate dumped her back in Kit MacNeill’s lap.

  “Oh.” A phaeton? The small two-person carriage had no proper back compartment for passengers, only a bench that the driver shared with his fellow traveler. Neither was it enclosed, having only a partially retractable hood. Yet it may well be the only chance she had of getting to Castle Parnell. “I… My things are ready.”

  “I’ll get them.” His cape swung out from his broad shoulders as he mounted the stairs and disappeared. He returned a few minutes later, handling the heavy chest as if it were inconsequential. He stopped at the bottom of the steps. “I’ll settle with the innkeeper—easy! Do not take me to task over something so trifling. Repay me when we arrive at your marquis’s castle.”

  She flushed. “He is not ‘my marquis.’ ”

  His expression accused her of being disingenuous, but he only said, “The horse is hitched and the carriage is waiting. At your leisure, ma’am.” He swept his hand out in a mocking invitation, and she preceded him into the stable yard.

  At the sight of the phaeton, her heart sank. It stood in a churned yard of ice and mud, old and terribly dilapidated. Two rough wooden planks nailed together replaced what should have been the upholstered bench. A cracked and faded hood half shielded the interior, condensed fog dripping from its tattered edge. Only the young roan gelding standing in the traces looked capable.

  “Where did you find a horse?” she asked.

  “India. Two years ago. He’s mine.”

  “India,” she repeated in surprise.

  “Aye.” He deposited the trunk onto the shelf on the back of the carriage next to a saddle and came round the side. He held out his hand. She hesitated. He waited, his bare hand palm up, moisture beading on his broad shoulders and the cool fog drifting behind him.

  Hesitantly, she placed her gloved hand in his. Heat vibrated through her, charged with awareness. She tried to withdraw her hand, but he gave it a little jerk.

  “I’d rather your scorn than your flinches, Mrs. Blackburn.”

  His words brought the heat rushing to her cheeks and her chin snapping up.

  “Aye. Like that.”

  She snatched her hand free and climbed unaided onto the rough plank. He grinned and left her, heading back into the tavern.

  “Ma’am?” The tavern girl she had noted earlier appeared at the side of the carriage holding up a squat wicker basket and a crockery jug. “He asked me to bring ye some food.” There was no need asking who “he” was. “There’s just a bit of bread and cheese and a jar of ale,” she said apologetically. “The men what come in last night ate every bit of what we had.”

  “Thank you,” Kate said, accepting the goods and stowing it under the seat. She found a coin in her pocket and handed it to her. The girl snatched it up and started off but then hesitated.

  “I know precious little of what goes on in the world beyond.” She nodded to the southern hills. “But men be the same everywhere, I reckon. I seen how you watched the Scot. Yer afraid of him.”

  Kate did not reply. She was afraid of him.

  “The rest of the world, now,” the girl continued, “they might have cause to worrit some if he’s a mind to do a bit of destruction. But not you.”

  Before Kate could reply, she hurried away, passing Kit as he emerged from the inn. Wordlessly, he secured his satchel atop the trunk and then vaulted lightly into the seat beside her. He tossed her a thick wool blanket.

  “You’ll want to wrap this about your legs,” he said. “We’re heading out onto the moors, and the wind is fierce there. ’Twill be cold. Bitterly cold.”

  “Then why are we going that way?” she asked.

  “There were men in that tavern who were watching you with an interest that didn’t stop at your pretty face,” he said, untying the reins. “I’ll wager they watched Dougal haul your trunk up the stairs to your room, too.”

  She understood. “I should think we would want to put a great deal of distance between ourselves and them, then. Wouldn’t that be best done on well-traveled highways?”

  That brokered a short laugh. “There are no ‘well-traveled highways’ in the north of Scotland, Mrs. Blackburn.”

  “Still, it seems to me the best course would be to stay on the most traveled roads.”

  “You’re not in England now. You’ll have to trust me.” He clucked, and the carriage started forward. “We’re going by way of the moors, Mrs. Blackburn, because the Highlands are filled with murderers, thieves, and brigands these days. But not fools. And only a fool would go out onto a Highland moor come November.”

  Most of the Nashes’ social acquaintances had been frankly, if not vocally, surprised that the three orphans had been able to carry on as long as they had after their mother’s death. If pushed, they would have ascribed that success to Kate’s frugality and caution. They would have been wrong.

  Kate had quickly learned the necessity of what she privately called “circumspect boldness”—not only the willingness to seize opportunities as they presented themselves but, more importantly, the ability to facilitate those opportunities. If at times she had skirted the conventions of her former life or occasionally deviated from what she might consider “nice” behavior, she had done so to good effect. But this, traveling alone in the company of a very rough, very hard, and very dangerous-looking man, went beyond what even she would have imagined herself capable of doing. And the notion that she might not survive this error in judgment was occurring to her with increasing regularity as the minutes ticked by and MacNeill, his cold eyes narrowed against the horizon and his jaw limned with the red-gold stubble of a two-day-old beard, drove on in complete silence.

  She looked around, gaining no comfort from her bleak surroundings. She had never been in a place so… empty. Yesterday she had traveled cocooned within the
snug confines of a closed carriage, only rarely drawing back the heavy curtain to view the scenery. But the phaeton afforded no distinct separation between passenger and environs, and she found the immediacy of her surroundings breathtaking. And unsettling. Like her proximity to the taciturn MacNeill.

  Near noon, MacNeill pulled the phaeton into a small copse of aspen growing by the side of the track and leapt to the ground. Kate followed on legs grown numb from hours on the hard seat and, after attending to certain necessities, returned to find MacNeill already back on the seat, stolidly chewing the bread the tavern girl had supplied. Wordlessly, he held out his hand to help her back into the carriage. When she obliged, he unceremoniously hauled her up, handed her a napkin with a portion of bread in it, and commanded her to eat. He didn’t wait before snapping the traces and setting out again.

  They traveled into mountains that thrust through the earth’s crust like Atlas’s shoulders, hunched and muscular, cloaked by thin blankets of pine. Gorse and fern, dark gold and russet, crowded the roadside, shivering in a brisk breeze. The vastness, the immense emptiness, surpassed anything in Kate’s experience. It seemed to her the wind was the sound of the mountain breathing, that the road, having no proper beginning would never arrive at an end, that they would be marooned here forever, caught on a Sisyphean journey.

  She had spent her life in comfortable claustrophobia, the sound of horse and harness, the muttering of street vendors and the shouts of laborers filling her ears, a potage of coal smoke and factory fumes, fresh starch and beeswax filling her nostrils. Her eye was attuned to the textures and colors of city life, the regularity of cobblestone and iron rail, the geometry of urban architecture and streets. Here there was no such imposed symmetry. The road dipped and coiled, the mountains bunched and thrust, the sky churned and bloomed.

  Kate looked over at MacNeill. His profile looked carved from the same rock as the mountains. His jaw jutted in a bold block, and his deeply carved nostrils flared. Only the gilt-tipped fringe of eyelashes and the glint of red-gold in the hair that brushed his cape’s collar held any warmth. He looked every bit a part of this hard, obdurate landscape. Just as tough, just as unyielding, and just as isolated and aloof.