by Arnette Lamb
“That is the burden she must carry. I am at liberty to say no more. Maybe she will confide in you someday.”
“I hope she does. You addressed her as Golden One. Why?”
“Among my people, there is a very great holy man. He has touched the spirit of Agnes MacKenzie. He found it as pure and fine as gold. And so she is revered as the Golden One.”
More enchanted than ever, Edward rose. “I’ll remember your advice.”
As he climbed the stairs to the second level of the tower, the new wood creaked and groaned beneath his weight, announcing his presence to any within hearing distance. How had Agnes managed to walk down these same steps and not make a sound?
He heard her voice before he mounted the second flight of stairs. She was beginning a story about a young girl who ran away from home by hiding in the tinker’s wagon.
“Why did she run away?” Christopher asked.
“Because her father spanked her.”
“Spanking hurts my bottom,” said Hannah.
Edward paused. He had never spanked the girl, and he’d left strict orders to the servants that his children were not to be whipped.
“Who spanked you?” Agnes asked.
Christopher said, “Mrs. Borrowfield did. She was knocking on the door to Father’s laboratory and Hannah came upon her.”
“ ’S’Bad.”
“Why should Hannah get a whipping for that?”
“We are—were not allowed in the old wing.”
“ ’S’old, and will break from wee hands.”
“But now it’s our home, Hannah. Leave my soldiers alone.”
Something clattered against the wall.
“Now you’ve done it,” Christopher spat. “You Hugotontheonbiquiffinarian. You’ve thrown the commodore.”
“Draggle tail.”
Edward paused on the threshold. Lady Agnes and the children sat on the bed. Christopher and Hannah wore new nightcaps and sleepy-eyed expressions.
“Papa, she threw Commodore Lord Chesterfield against the wall.”
Hannah stuck out her bottom lip. “You took all the letters.”
Agnes grasped Hannah’s hand. “Why do you think Christopher has all of the letters?”
The girl pointed to the toy box. “ ’S’there.”
Christopher pounded the bed. “You stay out of my toys, you Piscinarian.”
“Dandy prat.”
“Quiet.” Edward scooped Hannah off the bed. “Find that commodore, Button.”
“ ’S’there.” She pointed to the spot where the chamber pot sat.
Praying Chesterfield hadn’t fallen in, Edward put Hannah down. The toy lay on the floor. “Pick up the soldier and give it back to your brother. Then tell him you are sorry.”
She squatted, retrieved the toy, and held it as if it were a slimy toad. Her new sleeping gown dragged the floor, and she almost tripped. Her eyes were wells of misery. “Sorry.” She dropped the toy on the bed.
Lady Agnes excused herself saying, “I’ll await you downstairs, my lord. I have news to share from Trimble.”
Edward’s heart raced. “Good news about our . . . friend?”
“Friend?” said Christopher. “Ha! You mean the man who’s trying to kill you with a crossbow?”
A stillness settled over Edward, and he drilled Agnes with a cold stare. “Did you tell him?”
She looked beautifully baffled. “Nay.”
“I’m not a lack-wit, Father. I see what goes on.”
“Then you’ve seen enough. Where are the whistles Lady Agnes gave you? You promised to wear them.”
He flapped his arms and sighed dramatically. “Not to bed, Father.”
Shaken, Edward struggled to speak calmly. “Then keep them at hand, and do not f-r-i-g-h-t-e-n your sister.”
Hannah wailed.
Half an hour later, when they’d fallen asleep, Edward extinguished the lamps. Anticipation clawing at his gut, he headed for the common room. How much had Lady Agnes learned about the assassin?
12
“I THINK YOU SHOULD BUY Hannah a set of alphabet blocks of her own—pink ones with the letters styled differently from Christopher’s.” Agnes moved to the chessboard and absently touched the game pieces. “Or if you’d like, I’ll get them for her.”
Edward had expected her to rush into the subject of her visit with Trimble. “You’re distant. Why? Is the news bad from Trimble?”
“Family should come first. You asked me to teach Hannah to read. I’ve made a small progress.”
“What would that be?”
“Hannah thinks there is only one of the letter A and Christopher has it on a block, and the block belongs to him.”
“That’s inconceivable.”
“I’m certain it seems that way to a man of your intellect. Lassies are different.”
The air grew chilled. “Are you trying to insult me?”
“No.” But she wouldn’t take her eyes from the pink castle on the chessboard. “I was trying to explain what Hannah means when she says Christopher has all the letters.”
She was also staying as far from Edward as she could. But the time for cat and mouse nonsense between them had passed. “I’ll take her to the toy maker. Now, I’d like for you to come here and tell me what you learned from Trimble.”
With the tip of her finger, she tipped the castle onto its side. Then she crossed the room and sat in the opposite chair, her gaze never meeting his.
His patience dwindling, Edward spied Auntie Loo’s star. He reached for it.
“No.” Agnes’s hand shot out, but too late.
The metal sliced Edward’s finger. Loosing his hold, the razor-sharp device clattered to the table. It hadn’t appeared dangerous.
Agnes sprang to her feet and fetched a towel from a storage chest.
The cut was not deep and would heal quickly, but the foolishness Edward felt would linger. “Auntie Loo was twirling this.”
Agnes put pressure on the cut and held it there. “Only one?”
Berating himself, he snapped, “I suppose you can twirl two.”
She wiggled the fingers on the hand that rested in the sling. “Usually. But I’m better with a knife.”
“It looks like a trinket.”
She smiled for the first time. “In China’s arsenal of weapons it is.”
He could feel her facade of coolness melt a little. Seizing the moment, he said, “What do you do with it?”
She picked up the star, holding it like a skipping stone. With a flick of her wrist she sent it whirling in the direction of the door. It landed in the center stock of one of the crossbows on the wall. Edward thought of the skill involved in hitting a narrow wooden target from that distance.
Amazed, he tried to reconcile the contradictions about this woman. She looked like a Scottish princess. She’d sent three men to their deaths without damage to her conscience. She kissed him with the passion of a woman losing her heart. She had a devious mind for the most ordinary details. She’d discovered the reason his daughter could not learn to read. For all of those things and many more, he loved her.
He glanced again at the star in the crossbow. She’d declared she was better with knives. “Very impressive,” he said honestly. “I approve completely of your target.”
“He’s a dead man.”
Edward felt a thrill at gleaning information about the stranger who stalked him. “What did you learn about him? I was right about him being a Scot, wasn’t I?”
“Yes,” she said, but didn’t sound convinced herself.
“What clan?”
She shrugged and picked at the sling. “An outcast from the Borders, possibly a Kerr. He wears no tartan or badge.”
“Where is he?”
“We do not yet know.”
She was keeping something from him. “I don’t believe you.”
“ ’Tis true.” She faced him, and her expression was guileless. “The fletcher in London revealed only the man’s reputation and his pen
chant for the odd feathers. Make no mistake, Trimble will find our man.”
The faceless assassin was taking shape. “What is his name?”
“The fletcher is an ordinary man, Edward, and he does not know you. From his stall in London he values his life more than he values your Scottish one.”
She’d resorted to philosophy, an indication that she did not like the subject. Who could? “Surely you know something about him.”
A sad smile curled her lips. Pensively, she said, “ ’Tis a luxury to know that what you seek is close at hand.”
He knew what she sought. Now that they’d identified the assassin, Edward asked the question that had riddled him since the day he met her. “Tell me about Virginia. What happened to her?”
Her movements turned jerky, and she raked her teeth over her thumbnail. “I was foolish and irresponsible. I lost her.”
“How long ago?”
She stared at the lamplight flickering on the ceiling. “Six years, three months, and twelve days.”
He knew Agnes’s age, three and twenty. She’d been only sixteen or seventeen at the time. His heart ached for her. “What occurred?”
“I . . . ah . . . I had met a beau at church,” she said, her voice thick with apology. “Papa thought him fast, which he was. With Mary’s help, I arranged an innocent tryst with him on a Monday afternoon.”
“Virginia followed you?”
“Nay. I could not manage the outing alone. Mary offered to go with me, but Virginia begged. Cameron had left that morning for his manly tour of Europe. Virginia had an affection for him. She was upset over his leaving.”
“What happened on that quay?”
“A great act of selfishness.”
Small wonder she guarded her heart; she’d broken it and never allowed it to heal. “Then it follows that holding yourself apart from others is a greater selfishness.”
“I gave Virginia a penny to leave us alone.” She swallowed noisily. “I never saw her again.”
Edward despaired of ever breaking through her wall of reserve. Her father maintained that she hadn’t let herself grieve over the loss of Virginia. Edward thought she grieved every day. “How old was she?”
Her eyes drifted shut. “Just ten.”
Edward had to touch her. Dropping the bloodstained cloth on the table, he knelt beside her chair, and held her hands in his. “You’ll find her.”
Her breathing turned choppy. “Aye.”
“Can I help?”
“Believing is enough. Do you know, I cannot even recall that fellow’s name.” She gave his hand a squeeze and collected herself. When she opened her eyes, her gaze was clear and sharp. But she was as distant as the moon. “What progress have you made on your machine?” she asked.
“I’ve botched it today.”
“But you haven’t forsaken it completely?”
He strained to keep his hands still when he wanted to take her in his arms. “God has forsaken it, but not I. It will work, I know it will.”
“Good. I’m sure you’d like to get back to it.”
She moved to rise. Edward felt dismissed.
He stood and held out his hand. “It’s early. Are you tired?”
Ignoring the offer of assistance, she got to her feet. “Rather I am, my lord.”.
No, his heart said. She’d given him a glimpse of what lay behind her defenses. He must build on that success. He checked the mantel clock—half past eight. “Agnes, this indifference of yours toward me is a lie.”
She laughed, but the sound held no mirth. “Neither is it humorous, my lord. But there you have it.”
He cursed his clumsiness, but if she could sling words, so could he. “I will not believe that you do not want me.”
She gritted her teeth. “I want you . . . alive.”
Edward knew she’d made light of the information from Trimble. She was trying to spare Edward. Anger roared to life inside him. He stepped away from her. “You think I’m some dandy, too weak in spirit to take the life of that bastard who’s trying to kill me.”
Plaintively, she said, “I think you will fail.”
Fury rose up in him. “That’s a wheen o’ blathers.”
Her expression went blank. “What did you say?”
“I said, I think you are full of your own Highland self.”
She gave a little laugh, an honest one. “You spoke Scottish.”
For now, the fight to win her heart went out of him. She’d closed herself off, was content to wallow in past guilt and ignore the pleasures of today. But she would not do it at his expense. “We speak Scottish here in the Lowlands now and then.”
“I did not mean—”
“Aye, you did.” He marched to the door and threw it open. Ducking beneath it, he said, “Take your Highland pride and put it to bed, Agnes MacKenzie.”
“Where are you going?”
“That’s none of your affair.”
Agnes had to bite her tongue to keep from calling him back, but it was better this way. Word from Trimble of the assassin’s whereabouts could come at any time. With Edward locked in his dungeon and unaware of the messenger, Agnes could slip from the house unnoticed and deal with the assassin on fair ground.
For tonight she’d made Edward forget about the assassin. His head was filled with disappointing thoughts about her, not about an enemy he could not defeat.
When she heard the muffled slamming of a door, she knew he’d entered his laboratory, and she said a silent prayer for forgiveness. Heavyhearted, she climbed the stairs and went to bed.
Sometime later she was awakened by shouts from the guards. One of the bells had rung. Instinct and training drove her from the bed. She thrust her feet into soft boots. Auntie Loo handed her a robe and a short sword. Sliding her favorite stiletto under her belt, she dashed for the steps. Backsword in hand, Auntie Loo ran upstairs to stay close to the children.
Agnes freed the bolt, and the door opened without a sound. Faint light poured into the gloomy stone corridor. To the left lay the tapestry covering the entrance to the dungeon. She knew that Edward had strung a bell down there, and it would alert him, but Agnes wanted the Dutchman to herself.
Pulling the door closed behind her, she crouched and dashed for the new wing. Up ahead, moonlight streamed into the formal parlor. Mrs. Johnson had left the drapes open. The hallway to the east wing gaped like a black maw. Intuition drove her there. Pausing, she flattened herself against the wall. To ready herself for the plunge into darkness, she closed her eyes.
A clock struck once. She cringed at the unexpected noise. Was it marking one o’clock or the half of some other hour? Outside, a shape ran past the windows, his shadow darting across the floor. She knew it was the guard, recognized his form. But her heart beat like a drum, and danger buzzed in her ears.
The Dutchman had come. She could feel his intrusion.
She freed her mind of everything, save her training and her purpose. One deep breath followed another. Harmony settled over her. Silently, she moved into the dark corridor.
The farther she traveled, the more her anxiety ebbed. But why? Unless the Rook was behind her. Suddenly fearful of that, she ran in a broken line. At the end of the hall she stopped.
Voices sounded outside. Two men stood between the house and the stables. She recognized the voices and yelled to the guards. They’d seen no one and heard only a bell. Which one, they could not say.
Agnes checked the bolt and found it thrown open. After locking it, she stopped to search each room as she retraced her path. In the parlor Boswell and Mrs. Johnson awaited her.
Roused suddenly, they both wore heavy robes and nightcaps and carried lanterns. Their eyes were wide with shock at the sight of Agnes, a noblewoman, dressed in black silk and carrying a sword. What must her expression look like to them?
“One of the front doors was ajar,” Boswell said. “What’s amiss, my lady?”
“A bell sounded.” Agnes eased the sword behind her and moved to the front door.
Closing it, she searched the foyer and the dining room. Knowing the assassin would not take the servants’ lives, she raced up the stairs and searched every room in the new wing.
She found nothing amiss, felt no invasion. Hurrying down the stairs, she went outside and spoke to the guard. He had seen nothing amiss. Who had opened the front door?
In the parlor Boswell was still fuzzy from sleep. Mrs. Johnson elbowed him in the ribs, then whispered in his ear.
Agnes watched as they both flushed with embarrassment.
Boswell cleared his throat. “Being as how ’tis Saturday night, his lordship could have had an appointment elsewhere. He could have forgotten about the bell.”
His mistress? No. The guard would have mentioned seeing him order his carriage and leave the property. Or had he been returning? Trimble had said that Edward stayed with his mistress on Wednesday nights, but not on Saturday. Being as how ‘tis Saturday.
“Mr. Boswell, did you see Lord Edward leave or return?”
“Nay, my lady. But I’ve been abed since eight o’ the clock.”
Agnes could not stave off a feeling of impending doom. Was the Rook still here? “The guard would have told me if Lord Edward had passed this way.”
“Perhaps he left out the front. You know he often walked to Mrs. MacLane’s.”
“Walk at night with a madman after him?” Mrs. Johnson shook her head and moved toward the old wing. “That guard came in the front door to raid my pantry again. His lordship’s in his laboratory, I tell you.”
Agnes and Boswell took off after her. As soon as she could, Agnes dashed in front of the cook. Scruples wouldn’t keep the Rook from using Mrs. Johnson as a hostage. But he’d have to go through Agnes MacKenzie to do it.
Holding her sword at the ready, she stepped into the room. As the servants approached, light from their lanterns seeped into the room. Agnes gasped at what she saw.
A pair of dead doves littered the floor, their heads here, their bodies there, and blood spatters everywhere. The bowman had strewn it on the walls, the carpet, the precious illuminated manuscripts. But he had not spent that last arrow.
Mrs. Johnson wailed. Boswell comforted her with soothing words and a shoulder to cry on.
Unable to breathe, Agnes approached the door to the tower, which now stood open. The common room had been dark when she left it moments ago. Did someone await in there? How did the door get open?
