My Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  Maybe he was, she thought drowsily. So stern and forbidding and beautiful. A living phantom of a glorious, bold past.

  “MacNeill?”

  “Go back to sleep.”

  “MacNeill,” she insisted groggily. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  She was almost asleep when she heard him answer from a long way off, his voice soft and forsaken. “Yes. Oh, God, yes.”

  FOURTEEN

  CONCERNING THE DOUBTFUL CHARMS OF VILLAGE LIFE

  THE NEXT MORNING KATE awoke to find the croft cleared. She hurried outside and found Kit waiting beside the phaeton.

  “Good morning,” she said. In answer he handed her a hard-cooked egg and a piece of bread from the basket the monks had sent with them. As she reached to take it, the sheet of paper she’d been writing on fell from her pocket and sailed to land at Kit’s feet. Hastily, she bent to retrieve it, but Kit was there before her.

  He picked up the page and read. “‘The Virtues of Turnips as Kitchen Staple.’” He looked at her sharply. “What is this?”

  “A book I am writing,” she sniffed. “I am convinced I may find someone to publish it.”

  “What is its subject?” His voice was sarcastic. He was in a foul mood.

  “I am writing a book on how to come down gracefully in the world.”

  He stilled. “Is that why you have been asking me all those questions?”

  “No!”

  “You haven’t been using me for reference?” His gaze shot to the paper and he read, “ ‘The Ruffian, A Cautionary Description of His Environs and Companions.’ ”

  “Well, perhaps to some degree,” she said in a small voice. “But you are deliberately choosing to place the worst possible connotations on what is simply an attempt to provide for myself.”

  “Aha! I see,” he said. “Then pray, excuse me for taking such unwarranted exception. Indeed, if I can be of any further aid in helping you to fathom the workings of the lower class mind, please feel free to avail yourself of my understanding.”

  She eyed him thoughtfully. “Well, there was one thing I wanted to—”

  “I was being ironical, ma’am,” Kit ground out.

  “I understood that,” she lied.

  He gave a short unamused guffaw and returned to harnessing Doran, his back stiff. When he was done, he silently handed her into the carriage.

  So, today was to be a repeat of yesterday’s silence, was it? Fine. If he wanted nothing more to do with her, then she had little choice but to bow to his wishes. She had some pride left.

  ’Twas best, she told herself. Soon she would be away from him, never to see him again. Indeed, Kit was right to distance himself from her. In fact, he showed a great deal more sense than she.

  She had other things to consider, important plans quickly coming to fruition. She must keep her eye on the future. By this time tomorrow, she would be at the castle. The thought touched off waves of anxiety. Years ago, the marquis had looked upon her favorably. He’d danced often enough with her to have had it remarked upon and once had even taken her in to dine.

  A few of her friends had whispered that he’d been on the cusp of paying her court. But, flattering as such unfounded faith in her appeal had been, Kate had known better. She was country gentry, and he was a marquis. Members of society from such different spheres did not intermarry. But he had flirted with her, tamely, circumspectly, so as not to raise false expectations, but sincerely.

  She counted on his remembering kindly those short weeks when their circles had overlapped, however briefly. Would he still see something of the vivacious young woman she’d once been? Or would he only see yet another petitioner for his largesse? She reached up to touch her hair.

  “There’s an inn at Clyth where you can make of yourself what you would before we go on to the castle.”

  Kate straightened on the hard plank seat, embarrassed that Kit had seen and recognized her vanity. But a woman without family or income, a woman like her, needed to look well, comport herself better, and adopt an agreeable manner in order to secure herself the charity of such distant connections as she could make herself approach.

  “Thank you. That would be most agreeable.”

  Toward midday the road left the foothills and entered an autumn-hued plain. They passed more crofts, their mossy stone fences crumbled and untended, the abandoned outposts left by a vanishing nation of drovers and farmers. As the day wore on, the briny scent of the sea became pronounced. Seabirds appeared, squalling black-capped terns and white gulls carting and wheeling above a distant silver-edged horizon.

  A few miles later they emerged at the tops of sheer white cliffs plunging into the sea. The road pitched abruptly down into a village, small brick houses clinging tenaciously to the cliff side, thin curls of coal smoke drifting above chimneypots like question marks.

  At the bottom of the steep road, the houses congregated thickly along a narrow quay. Two ancient piers jutted out from it, casting shadows across a dozen battered, open fishing boats lying on their sides in a bed of shimmering mud. The tide was out, and the scent of fish and kerosene and decaying seaweed hung thick and malodorous in the air.

  “Clyth,” Kit said, correctly reading her repugnance. “The inn is on the wharf. Perhaps you’d rather continue on to the castle after all?”

  “No!” Arrive at the castle in a dress in which she’d slept? She couldn’t. Not when she had a perfectly lovely gown and a hairbrush in her trunk. “Please.”

  He did not answer, but maneuvered the phaeton down onto the quay. Few people were out. A pair of burly fishermen with weathered faces stared at them with sullen hostility, and a tired-looking woman emerged from a low doorway, clutching a battered pail of coals.

  Kit pulled the gelding to a halt before a narrow building sandwiched between two warehouses. A gray board swung from an arm projecting above the doorway, but sea salt and time had obliterated whatever had once been written there. A whey-faced urchin dashed out of the doorway and snatched at Doran’s reins.

  “Stable’s out back,” the lad croaked. “I’ll rub him down proper and feed him and see him snug and safe fer tuppence, Cap.”

  Kit flipped a coin to the lad, who snatched it out of the air. Eager to escape the bitter, reeking wind coming off the harbor, Kate did not wait for Kit’s help but scrambled down out of the carriage and fled inside. It was better than she expected. A thin layer of dust coated the ceiling beams, but the fire in the hearth burned clean, and the harbor stench faded as soon as the doors closed behind her. The only occupants were a pair of men seated in the gloom at the far side of the room. Upon her entrance, they broke off their conversation and looked up. The older man, a lantern-jawed fellow with thick, hunched shoulders, stood up, wiping his hands on a dirty apron tied about his waist. His eyes slid slowly over Kate. “Can do fer ye?”

  “Are you the innkeeper?”

  “Aye.”

  “How far to Castle Parnell?” Kate asked.

  “Under an hour astride, nearer two hours if ye drive.”

  “I see.” She had hoped to be in the castle by nightfall, but it looked as if she would have to be patient and wait until the morrow. She did not examine the reason why she felt more relief than irritation at the delay.

  “Is there someone you can send to the castle?” she asked.

  The speaker glanced at his companion, an athletic-looking young man with thick black hair and heavy brows, an improbable lace cravat beneath his chin and an even more improbable rapier fastened at his waist. He was a handsome devil, and by the manner in which he let his gaze slip over Kate, he knew it, too. He gave the innkeeper a nod.

  “Aye. Can do tha’.”

  “Then please send him at once. And tell him to inform the castle that Mrs. Katherine Blackburn has arrived in Clyth and will be traveling to the castle at first light.”

  “Ye’ll be Mrs. Blackburn, then?” the innkeeper’s companion asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Welcome to Clyth, Mrs. Blackburn,�
�� he said. “I’m Callum Lamont.”

  A sudden burst of cold air stirred the hem of her skirts as the door behind her opened.

  “The lady requires a room.”

  The innkeeper peered beyond Kate to where Kit stood, balancing the heavy trunk easily on his broad shoulder, carrying the crate by its rope ties. He filled the low doorway behind Kate, his height and breadth dwarfing her. Lamont’s eyes narrowed sharply, but he did not say a word, instead leaning back into the shadows.

  “Three shillings a night,” the innkeeper said, shambling behind the bar and motioning for Kit and Kate to follow. “Payable in advance.”

  Kit placed a crown on the ledger.

  “And what of ye, Cap?” the innkeeper asked. “Ye need a room, or—” He smiled unctuously.

  “Ye’ve got it wrong, friend.” There was nothing remotely friendly about the way Kit pronounced the word friend. “I’m her driver.”

  The man snorted but decided against pursuing the matter further. “There’s only the one room. But I’ll let you bed down above the stables for tuppence.”

  “Done.” Kit’s chill green eyes flickered toward her. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Yes. I would like a tub with hot water sent up—”

  The innkeeper hooted with laughter.

  “The lady would like a bath.” Kit’s tone effectively dampened the innkeeper’s hilarity.

  With a sullen look, the innkeeper cupped a huge paw around his mouth and bellowed, “Meg!”

  A moment later a skinny, harried-looking blond woman appeared. “Wha’, Gordie?”

  “You and Robbie fetch that copper washtub into the kitchen and fill it up with hot water. Lady here wants a bath.” He gave Kate a look that said clearly how daft he thought the notion. “Cannot drag the tub up the stairs. But the kitchen’s snug enough. Meg’ll tend ye, and Robbie’ll watch over the door. Fer another shilling.”

  “That will be fine,” Kate said. She would have bathed in the horse trough if necessary. She only wanted to feel clean again. Meg, her eyes grown round with the wonder of someone bathing in the winter, bobbed a quick curtsey and disappeared.

  “Anyt’ing else?” the innkeeper asked, a bit more eager now that he’d seen the color of Kit’s gold.

  “Do you have anything worth drinking?” Kit asked.

  “I’ve never had no complaints.” The innkeeper stooped down and reemerged with a brown glass bottle and two tin cups. Wordlessly, he poured a finger into one cup and shoved it at Kit, who just as silently lifted it to his lips and took a swallow. For a second, his mouth relaxed appreciatively.

  “Brandy. French. I can see why you don’t have any complaints.”

  “Found it on the beach, I did.”

  “Amazing the treasure some people are so careless with.” His gaze slipped briefly toward Kate. His face grew grim. He poured out a measure first for her, then himself. He lifted his cup in her direction.

  “May you find what you want, Mrs. Blackburn,” he said with forced bonhomie.

  “And may I find what I need, Mr. MacNeill,” she replied, holding his gaze.

  FIFTEEN

  REVIVING FLAGGING SPIRITS

  THE HEAT FROM THE WATER soaked into Kate’s tired muscles as the scent of expensive milled soap inveigled her senses. Exhaustion finally allowed her to relax after the strain of the last week.

  While Kate soaked, Megan had washed out her petticoat and the chemise, tch ’ing over the condition of her gown. Now she spread them across the back of a chair before the fire and lifted the steaming kettle from its hook. Carefully, she added more water to the copper tub.

  “There, ma’am. That’ll be better.” The dour-looking woman had slowly unbent as she tended Kate. “Lovely hair ye have. A proper shame ’twas allowed to go wild like, but up here people don’t know or care fer what a lady values or a gentleman admires.”

  “No?” Kate murmured vaguely.

  “Tha cap’n cares, clear enough,” Meg said slyly.

  Kit? Yes. He cared. Unhappily, grimly, and grudgingly. “Why do you call him a captain?”

  “What? Oh.” Meg brushed at the dress hem. “Believe me, I seen enough uniforms to know one when I see one. Half the young men of Scotland wear regimental rags. That’s an officer’s jacket he’s wearing. As fer why I says cap’n, well, captain is as good as a major when you don’t have to prove it.

  “Did he come up to join the militia?” she went on. “Cause if he did, I’d warn him not to make it known here in Clyth.”

  Kate frowned. “What militia?”

  “Them that’s been staying at Parnell Castle ever since their captain was killed.”

  “Killed?” Kate repeated.

  Meg’s little knot of a face closed even tighter. “Aye. His replacement showed up last week, a Captain Watters, and at the marquis’s insistence brought the soldiers to the castle.” She sneered. “The marquis wouldn’t allow what protection he could find to stray far from his own concerns, would he? Besides, no one is fool enough to put militia in Clyth.”

  “And why is that?” Kate asked, troubled anew.

  “Because.” Meg’s eyes narrowed. She closed them, as though deliberating on something and then spoke in a rush. “Tha last excise man took more’n a day to die.”

  Kate froze. Fear, abrupt and gut-emptying, flooded her.

  Meg cleared her throat, scowling fiercely. “No need for you to look like that.” Amazingly, she sounded offended. “Ye dinna see him with his blood spilling from his belly,” she muttered. “And him so white and scared—” She broke off abruptly, and in rising horror Kate realized: Meg had seen the excise man murdered. She had been there.

  Revolted, she hunched low in the water. She’d thought she was safe. She wasn’t safe. She would never be safe. Not as long as—

  “Aye! I was scared!” Meg said shrilly, as if answering an accusation, and Kate suddenly understood that Meg had told her because she was a stranger and because Meg could no longer live with the secret or her guilt. “I’m still scared. Too scared to help meself, let alone a stranger. I stood there. I couldn’t move! I couldn’t breathe.” With sudden eagerness she leaned closer, whispering. “But mayhap I can help you. Have a care, ma’am. Be wary of Callum Lamont.”

  Then, as if she’d alleviated some of her terrible guilt, Meg straightened. “There. As good as I can do.”

  Kate shivered.

  “Ach! Look at ye!” She dashed the back of her hands across her red cheeks. “Yer getting cold. No matter. We’re done now.” Her tone was determinedly casual. She might never have spoken of murder. “Up with ye now, Mrs. Blackburn.”

  Kate rose, somehow managing not to flinch when the woman settled a thick towel over her shoulders. What if Meg told Lamont that she’d confessed to her what she’d seen? What would he do?

  “Don’t look so worrit, ma’am.” Meg wagged her finger playfully, and Kate fought the gorge rising from her belly. How could Meg act as if she hadn’t just confessed to witnessing a murder? How could she live with herself for having done nothing to stop it? “Ye’ll be fine at the castle. It’s only us left here that need fear, and we’re used to that.

  “Now, yer petticoat and chemise is dry, so you put them on and bundle up in yer cloak and go up to yer room. No one will ken that you’ve no dress beneath. Seem a shame to put filthy clothes over clean skin.”

  Kate donned her undergarments, her emotions a riot of conflicting impulses: to condemn, to weep, to flee. To pity.

  Would nothing in her life ever be straightforward again? Every turn took her into avenues she had not even known existed, let alone desired to explore. Smugglers and highwaymen, victims and victimizers, she thought, panicked and resentful. Poverty came with an additional penalty: knowledge.

  She didn’t want to know any more. She needed to get to the castle, to a place where she understood the rules. She wanted nothing to do with such savagery and bestiality. She did not want to know men who killed, or wounded, or hunted one another. Men lik
e Christian MacNeill.

  She wanted her sheltered, blissfully ignorant life back.

  And the first step to recovering that was to prepare for her arrival at the castle by dressing like a lady. Yes, she thought, her limbs shaking so badly she could barely navigate the sloping kitchen floor. Yes. That is what she would do.

  She would wear the lilac batiste. Once she looked like a lady, all this would fade away. She would never again see men brawl in a tavern. She would never speak to another witness to murder. She would never lie sleepless, fearful that she might be accosted during the night. She would never trust her welfare to a stranger.

  And Kit MacNeill was a stranger. Regardless of what her body told her. She would stop dreaming about his sweet, ravishing kisses and hard, muscular body. She would forget his rare laughter and his brooding eyes. She would not concern herself over wounds she could see and others she only guessed at.

  She gathered up her cloak, searching the hem for the last of her coins, and wordlessly placed them in Meg’s hand. Then, before the woman could draw her any deeper into her fear-framed life, she fled through the kitchen door.

  Only a few men occupied the public room, and Kate lurched up the stairs that led to her room, her urgency to leave growing with each step. She must convince someone to take her to the castle tonight. She could not stand the idea of lying awake through the night, wondering which of the men drinking in the room beneath had knifed open another. She felt ill. Light-headed. Her body trembled.

  She pulled the door open and froze.

  Grace’s trunk lay empty on its side, its blue silk lining ripped, the gold-embroidered stars winking at her from the floor. Smashed and rent, strewn and heaped, the entire contents of the trunk had been upended in the room and rifled through: a ship’s barometer, a ruined Chinese puzzle box, Grace’s telescope, a smashed porcelain clock, books, their bindings ripped, their pages torn. Her gaze moved dazed among the debris. With a terrible sense of inevitability, she looked down at her feet and saw Charles’s leather medicine traveling chest, the drawers yanked out and the vials spilled of their staining contents.