by Diana Lloyd
From his knees, Quin launched himself forward, snaking an arm around Elsinore as she lost her footing and began to drop. MacGregor raised the pistol to strike again, but before Quin could connect with his fist, Elsinore braced herself against his chest and kicked out. Both feet slammed into the man’s chest and he staggered backward.
The force of the blow sent Quin back down to his knees, but he held fast to keep them both from tumbling down the slanted roof. MacGregor had no such advantage, and he slipped down the steep pitch, arms windmilling uselessly in the air as he disappeared over the edge. He landed with a sickly thud. They had to move. MacGregor might be disabled, but it would be easy enough for one of his accomplices to finish the job. They were sitting like ducks on this rooftop.
“Is there anyone else in the building?” Quin kept an eye on the window as he spoke.
“Besides Angus? Maybe the ginger-haired man, I’m not sure where he went.”
“Tree it is, then. We have to get off this bloody roof. Come here.” He pulled her close where he could get a better look at her. One eye was already swelling shut. “Oh, my brave girl, what have they done to you?”
“I’m only bruised. It’s Angus who needs help. He got stabbed.” Quin reached out and brushed a tear from her ravaged cheek.
“Charlie went for the magistrate. He shouldn’t be long now. Let’s move.” Side by side and inch by inch they made their way back to the wych elm. It was easy enough for Elsinore to reach out and step onto a nearby branch but, once again, Quin had to leap for a sturdier handhold. “Can you manage?”
“This isn’t my first tree.” Elsinore shook her head and started her descent.
“Probably not your first rooftop, either.” Quin’s heart swelled when she turned to smile back up at him. He could think of no other woman who could have or would have done what she did. Only Elsinore.
Once on the ground he gathered her up in an embrace, hoping against odds that they could repair all that had gone wrong between them. She’d manipulated him. He’d been cruel to her, dismissive. Perhaps it was best that her father would come collect her soon. They could not go on hurting each other.
“I think he’s still alive.” Elsinore pulled away from his embrace. The crumpled heap that was MacGregor began to writhe on the ground. He might be alive, but he was no longer whole. With legs and back now useless, the bastard was trying to crawl to where Quin’s pistol had fallen earlier. Stepping wide of the injured man, Quin retrieved the firearm that lay just out of MacGregor’s reach.
“Shoot me, ye coward. Shoot me. Put me oot of my misery and let me die like a Scotsman.”
“Aye.” Quin pointed the pistol at MacGregor’s head. “You killed my parents.” He cocked the pistol. “You are responsible for the death of my son.” He took a deep breath and steadied his hand. “I’ll send you to hell.”
“No, Quin. Please.” Elsinore placed her hand on his arm. “You are not a murderer. You’d never be able to live with yourself. Let the law have him. No more notes, no more revenge, no more looking over your shoulder—let it stop now.”
“He killed them all.” Was he evil to want the man to suffer as much as he had this past year? Quin rested his finger against the trigger. “I have to.”
“No, you don’t.” Elsinore’s simple argument surrounded him, stealing the breath from his lungs and stinging at his eyes. “Don’t be that man. Don’t be that monster.”
“Feck.” Quin lowered the pistol as MacGregor choked out a curse. The sound of approaching hoof beats confirmed the arrival of the magistrate and his men. Quin eased the pistol’s hammer back into place.
“I’m not that man,” he said to Elsinore. “Not anymore.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“As each hound master has his own methods, each hound has its own temperament. Should they not suit well, no amount of training will overcome it.” Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine
Still sore from yesterday’s ordeal, Elsinore moved gingerly as she set a tray next to Angus’s bed. “How are you feeling today?” She dipped the edge of a flannel into the clean water and wiped it across his brow. The doctor had proclaimed Angus too stubborn to die, but the fear of an infection to the wound kept her close to Angus’s side all night.
“Grumpy as ever.” Quin walked in with a tray of food for them both. “Care for some broth, Angus?”
“Och! I’m no a babby. ’Tisn’t right for you to be serving me, neither. It’s like the world has gone queer.”
“I make a delightful maid, just ask Lady Graham.” Quin gave her a wink and attempted a smile. “Besides, we are a bit short of help at the moment.”
“So they was all in on it, was they?”
“Not all. Most. Brigit brought them in, claiming them all as clansmen or distant relatives, and my father hired them on. He thought he was helping them out. I never suspected. I wasn’t paying enough attention. For that, I beg your pardon.”
“She took advantage of your grief and used it against you. You could never have counted on someone being that cruel.” Famished, Elsinore reached for one of the bannocks. They had never been her favorites, but today the simple oatcake tasted like heaven.
“Who’s left?” Angus grunted out, turning his head away from Quin’s offered spoon of clear broth.
“You, the coachman, the steward, two footmen, a couple of the scullery girls, and Charlie.” Quin placed the spoon back on the tray. “If you keep refusing my food, I’m going to think you don’t like my cooking.”
“Your cooking?” Elsinore took another bite of the bannock.
“The most useful thing I learned at Cambridge was that a man who likes to eat had better learn how to cook something.”
“What’s become of Conall and Padraig? Have ye heard?” Angus winced as he struggled to sit up. “They would have gone north; we should set out after them.”
“You”—Elsinore pushed his shoulder back down to the mattress—“are going to mend. The magistrate has Conall in custody, and he’s sent men after all the others.”
“Conall will never walk as a free man again. I’m leaving this in the hands of the law, my loyal friend.” Quin placed his hand over hers where it rested on Angus’s shoulder. “Rest easy.”
Angus’s eyes drifted shut once again, and Elsinore used the opportunity to stand and stretch weary muscles. Quin would worry until every last one of the conspirators was safely behind bars. Many, like Angus, would urge him to set out after them and extract his revenge. It may be the Scottish way, or maybe just a man’s way of handling things, but she could not repeat the secrecy and deception of the past month.
“The doctor seemed hopeful,” Quin said, nodding toward their patient.
“He did. The wound is large, but not deep enough to be mortal.” With Angus asleep and the rest of the house empty, it was time to have the discussion she’d been rehearsing in her mind for the past few hours. “What will you do if they aren’t all found?”
“Go about the business of living.” He seemed to think better of his answer and added, “I can’t promise that if they show themselves around Lochwode again that I won’t help round them up.”
“No more secrets from me. From now on, we address difficulties together. Those are my terms.”
“Of course. But I will continue to protect you,” he added stubbornly.
“Surrender, Quin. Give over. You are not going to pig-head your way out of this.”
“Pig-head? I thought I was a hound?”
“You heard me. That’s how it felt from where I’ve been sitting. I could have helped you.”
“How could you have helped?”
“I figured out who warned you about the poison the first day I was here. Charlie isn’t so good with his letters, but he’s an excellent artist.”
“Wee Charlie warned me?”
“He’s a busy little fellow. He might not have fully understood everything that went on in this house, but he saw it. If you’d bother to ask him, he probably overheard w
here Cook and the rest of the servants are all meeting up to hide out.”
“Ask a ten-year-old child?”
“Just like you should have asked me.” Elsinore stood and walked to the window, pushing the drapes aside. The intensity of her anger surprised her. Yesterday she would have killed to save him. But, this morning, all the hurts of the past month lay just under her skin like a bad rash that needed a good scratching. “Your secrecy only served as a constant reminder that you didn’t marry me for love.”
“What are you saying? I meant to protect you, not hurt you. You were the brightest most beautiful thing to come into my life in a long time. I couldn’t risk losing you. I loved my son and I lost him. If I loved you, I was afraid I would lose you, too.”
“You didn’t want to lose something you were so eager to send away? Everyone knows that you’re setting me aside, Quin. You wrote to my father, remember? He’s probably already sent someone to fetch me back to London. The question is, whether or not I will go.” She expected more arguing, a few more excuses, a little back and forth as they worked things out. What she didn’t expect was for Quin to turn and walk out the door without another word.
So there it was, his answer in silence. Funny, she finally had the answer to the most pressing question on her mind, but it provided no satisfaction. She should pack. For real this time. She’d send one of the remaining servants up to sit with Angus for a while; it was time for her to stop pretending.
She really did have a ridiculous amount of clothes. What had her mother been thinking to insist on so many things? Elsinore got down on hands and knees to push another full trunk out into the hallway. With the servant shortage, Quin would end up hauling them all down to the wagon himself. Served him right.
The next trunk held four riding habits. She’d never once unpacked those. Such a waste. Damn it. She should not be crying over riding habits. Folding her arms over the top of the trunk she lay her head down and let the tears flow.
“You want to leave, then?” Quin stood just inside the doorway. He held a large wooden box tied up with a bright red ribbon.
“This was never about what I wanted.” Scrubbing her hand across her face to chase away the tears, she turned to face him. “I don’t know what I want anymore.” Quin nodded and dropped to his knees next to her on the floor, setting the box between them.
“Adventure and love,” he said. “You want to believe in fairies again.” He nudged the box closer. Whatever was inside bumped against the lid. “We’ve had adventure; I can provide love. If we work together, I believe we shall hunt fairies in the garden once again. Elsinore Anne Mary Charlotte Cosgrove Graham, I beg of you to consent to be my wife. I have purchased for you a token of my affection.”
“Yes, I do consent.” She hadn’t planned the words; her heart produced them. “Up on that rooftop, when I thought you might die, I realized I’d fallen in love with you. Stupidly, hopelessly in love.”
“Before I met you, I thought my heart had turned to stone. You make me glad that it’s the weak and feeble mechanism it is. Because, you see, I cannot imagine not loving you. Mo ghaol ort.”
“That’s pretty, what’s it mean?”
“My love on you. Sounds more romantic in the Gaelic. I’m trying to be romantic. You deserved it the first time.”
“What could be more romantic that meeting in a ballroom?”
“Precisely. Open your gift. I think you’ll like it.” He flicked at the ribbon. “I forgot a card.”
“That’s okay.” She tugged the ribbon free and reached for the lid only to have it pop up on its own as a chocolate-brown puppy nosed his way from the box. “Oh, Quin, it’s adorable.”
“Thought I’d get you something else to practice the Oglethorpe on,” he said with a smirk.
“He’s perfect.” She gathered the dog to her chest for a cuddle. “We’ll have to think of a proper name for him.”
“I already named him.”
“What is it?” She kissed her new pet’s muzzle and scratched behind a floppy ear before setting him back on the floor. The pup sniffed around and squatted down to make a puddle at Quin’s knee.
“Byron.” Quin frowned down at the wet spot spreading up his trousers. “I told him we met in a ballroom.”
“And you asked me to dance…” Her words were interrupted by his kiss.
Epilogue
“Despite the efforts and dawn to dusk responsibilities, there can be no greater fulfillment in the life of master of the hound to know that his pack is well and good and the morrow brings another hunt.” Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine
“You know,” Elsinore said, her head resting back against his chest as they soaked their sore muscles in the warm water of the bath while the puppy slept on a towel in the corner of the room. “You never did tell me how you really got that odd scar on your shoulder.”
“I told you, I got clawed by a bear.”
“I thought there were no more secrets between us.” She turned and kissed his cheek. “Especially after page 23.”
“Ah, yes, twenty-three—it is now my second favorite number of all.”
“What’s the first?”
“I’ll show you after our bath,” he said with a wink.
“Cheeky.” Elsinore smiled and settled back against him. “You’ve managed to change the subject again. Don’t think I didn’t notice. How did that scar come about?”
“I’m telling the truth. The bear’s name was Bruin, and he was none other than the pet of your favorite poet, Byron.”
“You’re joking!” She turned with a splash.
“There were no dogs allowed at Cambridge, so that eejit brought a pet bear. Apparently, there were no specific rules against bears.”
“You never told me you knew Lord Byron. What’s he like?”
“Really? That’s the interesting part of this story to you? I was mauled. By a bear!”
“Barely a scratch,” she teased, pressing her lips to his shoulder.
“That’s what Byron said.” She laughed and he gathered her into his arms until the bath water cooled.
“I suppose we should get dressed and start the day. I don’t know how I shall dare to interview servants with my face still all bruised and swollen. I’ll scare all the reasonable candidates away.”
Quin tucked his finger under her chin and turned her face. “Makes you look fierce, like Hippolyta the amazon warrior. Remember her?”
“She’s on holiday.”
“Well, I’m glad she showed up on that rooftop.”
“Sorry to tell you, Lord Graham, but that was all me.” The kiss that followed was interrupted by a rapping at the door.
“We’ll continue this discussion later,” he whispered. “Come,” he called out, grabbing for a towel to cover them.
The footman, Ewan, opened the door a crack and took one step into the room, keeping his eyes to the floor. “Beg your pardon, milord, but you have a most insistent visitor at the door.”
“Who is it?” Elsinore pulled the towel up to her chin.
“Says he’s His Grace, the Duke of Wallingford.”
“Shite.” Quin cursed as they both scrambled from the bath sloshing water on the floor and rousing the puppy into a barking fit as they grabbed at towels and robes. “Hurry.”
Half an hour later, hair still damp from the bath, Elsinore walked with Quin to the door to greet her father. They had a lot of explaining to do. “Papa, what a surprise.”
“There you are…” Her father paused, blinked, and, without another word, punched Quin in the face.
“Papa.” Elsinore jumped between them. “What is the meaning of this?”
“My dear, your face.” Her father reached out to her. “Forgive me, I came as quickly as I could.”
“Everything’s fine, Papa.”
“Clearly not.” He pointed to her bruised face and glared at Quin.
“I didn’t hit her.” Quin growled out as his eye began to swell.
“It’s a long
story.” Elsinore planted a kiss on Quin’s cheek and placed a hand on her father’s arm. “Have someone put some ice on that for you. I’ll speak with my father in the sitting room.” Lucky for her, both men obeyed.
“Well,” he said as soon as the doors closed. “You’d better start talking.” Her father paced as she spoke, the movement both familiar and a little irritating. Making it sound more a nuisance than any great intrigue, she explained what she could of her deceptions, Quin’s secrets, and the servants’ plot.
“So that’s it,” Elsinore concluded. “It was all my fault.” She’d been too embarrassed to face her father during her long explanation but stole a glance at him now that she’d finished. The low rumble of his familiar laughter took her by surprise. “Papa?”
“Lord Byron. Well, I never imagined that. Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Eh? I’m rather fonder of his shorter works myself.”
“You? You read Byron?” Elsinore’s mouth fell open.
“I read more than parliamentary reports, you know. Have I ever told you how you came about your unusual name?”
“You said you wanted me to have a strong name.”
“We’d meant to name you Juliet. But”—he smiled to himself as if the memory was a pleasant one to him—“the moment they presented you to me I knew you deserved a strong name to match your nature.”
“My nature? I was an infant.”
“You didn’t arrive in this world all pinched-faced and squalling like the rest of them.” He continued, “You were wide-eyed and serious. You stared me down like a general accessing his aide-de-camp and, apparently deciding I was worthy, rewarded me with a satisfied smile and promptly fell asleep in my arms.”
“And so you burdened me with the name Elsinore?”
“That and the fact that your mother was such an ardent follower of Mr. Shakespeare’s work that she insisted all our children be named from his writings. No,” he said, “you weren’t a foolish, silly Juliet; you were going to be a force to be reckoned with. I never liked Hippolyta, so we settled on Elsinore.”
