by Lloyd, Diana
“Using your body to manipulate makes you no better than…” He didn’t finish the thought but her imagination filled in the missing words. She’d been called an English whore more than once on Scottish soil, but she never thought she’d hear it from him.
“I wasn’t trying to trick you, I was trying to save you.” He shook his head at her explanation and began to pace. Shards of glass and broken pottery crunched beneath his boots as he walked to the window. He turned as if he meant to say more, but there were no words, just an expression of resignation. She was in no position to start making demands, but she made one anyway. “Tell me what happened here.”
“Did I kill Sorcha, is that what you’re asking?”
“There are people in Menteith who think you did.”
“The whole bloody country thinks I did. Look around you”—he spread his arms wide—“you’ve seen it, evidence of my vile temper and rage. It’s obviously the work of a madman.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Against the window light his shadow loomed across the room fading just short of her feet. “All this time I thought it was me,” she said. “I was losing my mind trying to figure out what was wrong.”
“Wrong? It was wrong of me to marry you.”
“Don’t ever say that. I’m your wife. Tell me what happened here and give me the courtesy of allowing me to make up my own mind.” He didn’t reply for a long time. Just when she feared he meant to ignore her, he cleared his throat and began speaking.
“It was an arranged marriage.”
“Did you love her?” As soon as the question left her lips, Elsinore realized she didn’t want to know the answer.
“Sorcha,” he spoke the name as if it were a curse. “Married me for revenge.” Quin closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before continuing. “She thought to avenge an old clan dispute by taking it all. Including our—my—son. She realized that if I died he’d inherit all—but there would still be a Lord Graham. Not content with merely beggaring the estate before he came to his majority, she…” He swallowed hard and wiped his hand across his face. “She poisoned him.”
“Oh my God.” Elsinore closed the distance between them and laid her hand on his waistcoat over his heart. Quin flinched at her touch. “I’m so very sorry, I had no idea.”
“I fell ill but the dose wasn’t fatal. The amount she gave my son was sufficient.” He stopped to clear his throat again. “Upon my death, and that of my heir, she would have come into quite a tidy sum. Before she died, Sorcha told me she killed him first because she wanted to see me suffer the pain of losing something I loved.”
“I’m so sorry.” Words of comfort adequate for such a loss did not exist. “Why do you allow yourself to be tormented with false accusations? Reveal her for the monster she was.”
“It’s not my wife’s crime that I hide, Elsinore. It is the manner of her death.” She tilted her face up to meet his. The hard look of desperation on his face brought tears to her eyes. “I am responsible for her death,” he said at last.
“No.” She shook her head. “It cannot be. You were grieving, you were out of your mind—you are innocent. You have to be.”
“I was sent an anonymous note on the day of my son’s funeral,” Quin began his explanation. “Just a few words and a drawing of a skull and bones. I searched this room.” He nodded toward the rubble that littered the floor. “It took some doing, but I couldn’t rest until I found the bottle of poison.”
“How did Sorcha die?” It was her turn to look away, and she wondered how much of the truth she really wanted to hear. But it was already too late to turn back.
“You must understand, I was nearly out of my mind with grief. We’d only buried little Jamie that morning.” Quin reached out and touched her for the first time since he’d entered the room, brushing his hand lightly over her hair. “I confronted Sorcha. I brought the poison with me and showed it to her so she’d know I’d found it. I recall threatening to summon the constable.”
“She chose the poison over the noose.” Elsinore pressed her cheek against his chest for the small comfort of hearing his heart still beating. “She drank it.”
“I never should have placed the bottle within her reach. I was so angry, so devastated. I wasn’t thinking clearly. She snatched it up and cursed me as she drank it. She was dead within the hour. So, there I was, dead son in the ground and a dead murderous wife at my feet. I wasn’t sorry she drank it. I wasn’t sorry she died. Maybe it’s what I wanted all along. I told everyone she’d collapsed from grief and died of a broken heart.”
“So, someone knew, or at least suspected, she was poisoning your son, and they thought to warn you with the note.”
“Aye.”
“And shortly after she died, someone started sending you cryptic, threatening notes accusing you of killing her?”
“That’s the way of it.” The revelation of his darkest secret left her feeling strangely helpless and hollow. He hadn’t trusted her enough to tell her sooner. She might have gotten help from her father…no, after what happened in Port Menteith today it was much too late for that. She’d received her own threatening note today. Sometime during her desperate flight from the dress shop, someone slipped a scrap of paper into her handbasket.
There was but one word written on the strip of foolscap, MURDER. Whether that word was intended as a threat or a warning was known only to the sender. It was up to her to discover the meaning. She’d come to the locked room looking for privacy and, against odds, a letter or diary, something with names, dates, or a handwriting sample she could match to the note.
“Have the notes you’ve received demanded money or anything?” she asked.
“Not yet.” Quin shook his head. “So far just vague threats but they’ve increased in frequency and vehemence. I’ve hired a runner to look into it; he’s staying in Stirling. That’s where I’m sending you until your father can collect you.”
“No, Quin, you need me. I’m not going anywhere.” She spoke the words with a conviction she didn’t really feel. Quin’s manner was much changed since their time together in the bathing tub. She would not allow him to send her away. She would not live in the no-man’s-land of a set-aside wife.
“I’ve already written your father.” His admission stole the breath from her lungs. As soon as that letter reached its destination, her family would all know she’d made a hash of it. She’d failed as a debutante and now she’d failed as a wife. Pushing herself from Quin’s chest she clenched her hands into fists at her sides.
“I won’t leave.”
“You will, even if I have to tie you up and throw you over Angus’s shoulder like excess baggage.” He reached a hand to her shoulder but stopped short of touching her. “It’s not safe to travel in the dark. Pack some things; you’ll leave in the morning.”
Her mind raged at his words. She had no allies at Lochwode, no one to help her hold her ground. She needed a miracle, or the biggest lie of her life. Was it really such a sin if a lie was uttered for the greater good? For instance, to save a life? Her mother prided herself on having raised no fools, and Elsinore hoped she wouldn’t prove to be the exception. She wouldn’t speak the lie, not in so many words. She’d insinuate and let Quin come to his own conclusions.
“I’ll have a supper tray sent to my bedchamber for you so you can eat and pack in peace.” He turned his back to her and made his way to the door. Panicked, his hand was on the latch before she found her voice again.
“Quin.” When he turned she slid a hand down to her abdomen, pressing it flat against her middle. “What if…” She let the words hang in the air between them, watching the expression on his face shift from shock to derision.
“You ken I know how to count?” His eyes narrowed as he wretched the door open. “I dinna care which of those books you picked up that bit of subterfuge from, but I’ll not be manipulated any longer.” He walked out into the hallway, leaving her alone in the fading light. “If it proves true,” he sa
id, “I’ve already told you that you’ll be taken care of.”
She gambled and lost. Badly. When she stepped out into the hallway to explain herself, he was already gone.
By the time the supper tray arrived, she had a new plan. She’d packed enough of her things to make it look convincing. She might have to go for a few days. She’d lost this battle, but the war was far from over. She’d live in the rooms above the stables here at Lochwode before willingly returning to London a discarded woman. Quin must be made to see reason.
Elsinore pushed the now cold food around her plate; the knot of regret in her gut left no room for mutton. How silly she’d been, how selfish. A year ago she spent the summer at a lovely country estate with little to do but read. A few weeks ago her greatest wish in life was to have an adventure. In that same year, Quin had survived the death of both his parents, his son, and his wife. And then he met her.
All his secrecy, his quirks, even his silences made so much more sense when viewed through the lens of mourning. His life was spinning like an out-of-control top when she managed to land on his chest that night at the ball.
She had to make this right. She’d swallow her pride and ask her father for help, throw herself at his feet, and beg if she had to. She’d post her dower portion as a reward. Nothing loosened people’s tongues like coin. She’d find Quin’s runner in Stirling and make the offer to him. But, first, she’d make one more trip to Port Menteith.
Women gossiped at the dress shop. They not only lowered their gowns but also lowered their guard. Muireal must have heard all manner of rumors, suspicions, and theories about Quin and Lochwode. If she could bring one solid clue to the runner in Stirling, she might be able to solve the mystery before she was press-ganged back to London.
…
Quin opened his desk drawer and retrieved everything he’d need to write a letter. Quills, penknife, paper, and a stick of sealing wax. He took his time sharpening the quill to a fine point, dipped it into the ink well, and brought the tip to the blank sheet of paper before him. There the quill hovered, dropping one useless blot of dark ink on the fresh paper. He tossed the quill aside, then crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room.
Angry and restless, he reached for the one thing he knew would calm his mind. He slipped the silver portrait case from his pocket, snapped it open, and placed it on the desk beneath the candle where he could look upon it as he wrote the most difficult instruction of his life. Quin looked to his son’s face for strength and inspiration to do what had to be done. But, rather than resolve, Jamie’s cherubic face filled him with nothing but regret.
Regret for a life snuffed out too soon. Regret for what might have been instead of what was. Gripping the edge of the desk until his knuckles went white, Quin blinked the tears from his eyes. He could still feel the weight of the child in his arms as he placed him in the wee coffin. The oddness of the boy’s stillness still pierced his heart.
Jamie’s little hands should have been clutching at his lapel and grabbing at his face as he babbled nonsensical syllables in his ear. Not lying cold, motionless, and heavy in his arms. His son died without ever speaking a true word. Would it hurt more or less, he wondered, if he had heard “Papa” from his own son’s lips?
Strength, he reminded himself, reaching out to touch the portrait before placing another sheet of paper on the desktop. After a steadying breath, Quin began scratching out the terms of Elsinore’s removal. He’d return the courtesy portion and settle a monthly allowance on her that should make her parents more than satisfied. Elsinore would be a rich woman, able to live where she pleased.
But, unless they divorced, she could never remarry, never bear legitimate children. If she demanded it of him, he’d grant her one. He’d admit to anything short of treason if it helped to set her free. Let people think him a murderer and a madman, impotent or insane. It didn’t matter anymore; he would do whatever was required to leave her untainted by the evil that surrounded him. He’d lost everyone else in his life, but Elsinore must survive this.
He wrote down a few more figures and signed his name. As he sanded the ink, a new thought formed itself in his brain. Without Elsinore at his side, there was no reason to remain at Lochwode. He’d leave the estate in MacLean’s care, join forces with the runner he hired, and put the full force of all his time, energy, and money into uncovering the identity of his tormentor.
And then he would kill them.
He would beggar the estate, blacken the family name, and mostly likely swing at the end of a short rope. He would become the monster they all thought him to be.
The candle burned low by the time he finished getting his affairs in order. The stack of letters placed at the corner of the desk with directions for MacLean had taken him hours to write, and he flexed his cramped fingers until the feeling returned. Snapping the portrait case shut, he slipped it back into the pocket near his heart.
While the thought of sleeping at his desk wasn’t appealing, his newfound resolve would not survive an evening in his wife’s arms. He would not go to her one last time; he would not add fuel to that fire. He wanted to remember her earnest attentions and honest affection, not a sexual manipulation. He’d make himself busy in the morning, find some occupation that would take him away so he didn’t have to watch her leave. After all he’d lost, he wasn’t strong enough to watch Elsinore walk out of his life. Her father couldn’t be too far behind them. If the man had any wits about him at all, he’d have taken to the road as soon as he read the letter Quin posted from the Three Finches that very first night. Wallingford didn’t strike him as a fool. He’d come. And then he’d take her back to England.
Chapter Twenty
“It is, with focused industry, not impossible to convert a hunting hound to a companion pet. The question is whether the result is satisfactory to either the master or the hound.” Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine
With the chaste goodbye kiss he’d planted on her cheek still warm against her skin, Elsinore turned her back on Quin and Lochwode. Claiming more important matters, Quin excused himself from traveling with her to Stirling this morning and rode off on his stallion. Elsinore hoped her companions—Angus, Peg, and Charlie—would not be reprimanded too harshly for what she was about to do. Time was her enemy once again; she had these few hours to get to the bottom of Quin’s troubles. If she could not save their marriage, she might at least save him. He was worth saving. He’d disagree with that assessment, but she didn’t care. She had to make something come out right.
“Did Lord Graham mention my errand, Angus?”
“No, milady.” Angus eyed her suspiciously. “What errand would that be?”
“I left my favorite pair of gloves in Port Menteith the other day, and I wish to retrieve them.”
“Begging your pardon, Lady Graham, but the Port is the opposite direction of where we’re going.”
“Oh, dear.” Elsinore winced with feigned distress. “The gloves were a gift; they’re irreplaceable. I can’t imagine admitting to my parents that I’ve lost them. We’ll continue on to Stirling after I’ve popped in to the dress shop to fetch them.”
“If you describe them to me, milady, I’ll get them for you the next time I’m there.” Angus motioned to the wagon already loaded with the trunks she pretended to pack last night.
“No, that will not do.” Elsinore placed her hands on her hips and stood tall. “They came all the way from Rome as a gift. They aren’t just any gloves; they are made from special goats that live up in the Lepini Mountains that feast on olives and cheese and drink only wine. It makes the hides butter soft and perfect for gloves. It would be impossible to replace them. Impossible.” She could only hope Angus knew nothing of Italy. Or goats. Or gloves for that matter. She was fully prepared to burst into tears and throw herself to the ground in a tantrum should he continue to refuse her.
“We’ll lose half a day’s sunlight, milady, are you sure it canna wait?” Angus frowned at the footman, who was finis
hing lashing the trunks into place.
“It makes no matter if we arrive in Stirling today or tomorrow. Stirling will always be there. My gloves might not. Take me to Port Menteith,” she ordered in her most imperious tone. God Lord, I sound just like my mother. “The weather is good, the lake is calm, take a boat and row me across the bay. I’ll retrieve my gloves and we’ll come right back. It will delay our trip no more than four hours I should think.”
“Aye, milady.” With her half-filled trunks sent on their way to Stirling on the wagon, Elsinore took her place in the skiff across from Charlie while Peg took up the front bench and turned her back to them. Clearly put out by the extra errand and the upcoming move to Stirling, the maid made no pretense of good manners today. She’d even snapped at little Charlie as he stepped into the boat. Elsinore smiled warmly at the boy to let him know Peg’s foul mood did not extend to her. Out of all Lochwode’s servants, she liked him the best.
As the skiff slid away from Lochwode’s wooden dock, Elsinore smiled with relief. It was a small victory, but it was an important one. Angus made good work of the oars and settled into a rhythm of reach-pull, reach-pull that propelled them across the glassy blue water. If he resented the extra work, he kept the thought from clouding his face.
The Port was busy with at least a dozen skiffs and yoles taking their turn at the docks. As soon as she was helped to the sun-bleached wooden walkway, Elsinore began walking toward the dress shop.
“I won’t be long,” she reminded Angus. “You can all wait here with the boat. I’ll just pop in and speak to Muireal.”
“His lordship wouldn’t like that.” Angus looked around nervously.
“I’ll bring Charlie with me,” she said.
“I’ll walk with ye; the boy stays with the boat.” Charlie sat back down to pout, and Angus and Peg fell into step beside her.
For her discussion with Muireal to be useful, it needed to be private. Angus wouldn’t set foot in the shop, but she had to come up with a plan to distract Peg.
