Daring

by Jillian Hunter

  It was the only sensible thing to do. Sensible but a damned strain and sacrifice. He was astonished at the emotions a single woman brought out in him. Sacrifice was not a concept he applied to his dealings with the opposite sex. As a rule he took what he wanted, and it usually was offered to him before he had to ask.

  He wouldn’t be able to think straight until he knew how she really felt about him. Or at least until he’d gotten her into his bed. Her feelings could wait until later. Connor had confidence that once they’d gotten that far, their future together was assured. He was a damn good lover if he did say so himself.

  He paused before he entered the drawing room, clearing his thoughts. As he was halfway through the door, the visitor seated before the fire turned to acknowledge him.

  “Sebastien,” he said in surprise. “You’re the last person in the world I expected to see here. I thought you were leaving the country.”

  “So did I.” Elegant in a knee-length cashmere coat and straight-legged trousers, Sebastien gave a little shrug. “The affair I was working on became more complicated than anticipated.”

  Connor took the opposite chair. Logic as well as intuition warned him something was wrong. Sebastien looked rather gray and unwell, glancing repeatedly at the door. “What happened?” Connor said bluntly. “Have you brought information about my sister?”

  “No.” Sebastien slid to the edge of the chair, grimacing slightly as if the effort pained him. “But I do have some disturbing news, news that will officially reach you in a few hours—Connor, are we completely alone? I prefer not to be seen.”

  Connor did not immediately question the man’s strange request. He understood that in Sebastien’s profession, anonymity was desirable if one wished to assume different identities. Such a precaution, however, did seem rather out of place in this isolated setting. “I have a small staff of local servants.” Connor paused. “All of them put together couldn’t scrape up the brains to be involved in any espionage, though.”

  “What about the girl?” Urgency laced Sebastien’s voice. “Is she still here?”

  “What girl?” It took Connor an instant to remember that Sebastien knew about Maggie, that in fact he knew more about her mysterious background than he did himself. For the first time the thought struck him as strange, and he felt both jealous and concerned, resenting that there was still so much about her he had to learn. “Yes, she’s still here,” he said guardedly.

  “Well, aren’t you supposed to be protecting her?”

  “I have been protecting her,” Connor said with a touch of irritation.

  “Then where is she?” Sebastien demanded. “Who is watching her while you’re sitting here alone with me? Is she with people you can trust?”

  The ormolu clock on the stone mantelpiece ticked in the silence. Connor’s brows drew together as he straggled to understand. “She went for a walk. I sent her butler out after her as a precaution. But what is this odd preoccupation you have with my witness? She’s perfectly safe on this estate.”

  “I hope so,” Sebastien said.

  Connor felt a prickle of unease, confused by the man’s demeanor. “My housekeeper said something about the murder case. Why are you here, anyway? What is all this secrecy, Sebastien?”

  “Donaldson was brutally attacked in an alleyway several days after you left,” Sebastien explained slowly. “I gather he had been on the docks gleaning some crucial information on the Balfour murder case. Something that implicated your suspect. Donaldson is expected to recover, but I’m afraid he’ll need a long recuperation. It was Arthur Ogilvie—the Chief, they call him—who found your colleague in the gutter and probably saved his life.”

  Connor didn’t speak for a moment. The room seemed suddenly darker, the temperature chilling by several degrees. “Then Sheena isn’t safe,” he said. “I got a letter from her— it sounded so natural I’d half convinced myself that whoever kidnapped her wasn’t going to hurt her.”

  “We still don’t know if there’s a connection. Frankly, I suspect not.” Sebastien was studying him with unnerving intensity. “It would seem, however, that in light of this alarming development, you are perhaps not the best person to protect Miss Saunders.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because you are apparently a magnet for danger, Connor. Your sister has been abducted, your young protégé viciously beaten.”

  Connor stood abruptly, resenting the criticism. When it came down to it he still believed in his own invulnerability and power, and he couldn’t bear the thought of entrusting Maggie to anyone else. “Donaldson knew the danger of visiting the docks alone. I warned him not to take chances on this case. Poor bastard—he’d better recover.”

  Sebastien gripped the arms of the chair to rise. This time Connor could not miss the man’s subdued groan of pain, but he was too distracted to comment on it.

  “I had no idea you had formed such an attachment to her,” Sebastien said, standing to face him.

  “It wasn’t exactly something I planned,” Connor said in self-defense. “One thing led to another, and I fell in love.”

  “I see.”

  Connor swung around to the fire, swearing under his breath. “I am going to take care of her.”

  “But you have to return to the city in a fortnight to assume office.” Sebastien sounded calmer now. “The Lord Advocate of Scotland can hardly seclude himself for an extended romantic interlude while a murderer runs loose in the capital city.”

  “Romantic interlude. I should be so fortunate. I can tell you quite honestly that the prospect is looking bleaker and bleaker.”

  Sebastien raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

  Connor paced in front of the fire, his leonine head down-bent in thought. “You’re sure Donaldson will recover?”

  “That is what I was told,” Sebastien said. “Unfortunately he can’t remember much about the events leading up to his attack.”

  “It was good of you to ride all this way by yourself.”

  Sebastien pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket. “As it turns out, I had unexpected business in the area.”

  “In this area?”

  Sebastien offered nothing more.

  “Aren’t you at least staying the night?” Connor said after a moment. “Your shoulder is obviously bothering you, Sebastien. Don’t tell me all this cloak and dagger business has given you bursitis.”

  Sebastien forced a smile. “Just a run-in with an old friend. Besides, that other affair I mentioned is more urgent than I realized.”

  “So it does have ties to espionage?”

  “Something like that.” Sebastien walked to the door, then paused. “Your relationship with Miss Saunders… it hasn’t crossed any serious boundaries, has it?”

  The smile froze on Connor’s face. “I can’t believe you asked me that.”

  For an instant something dark and threatening flashed in Sebastien’s eyes, and Connor realized how little he really knew of the man. “Be careful, Connor,” he said, his expression once again masked. “I wouldn’t want to see anything happen to either of you.”

  Connor was disturbed by the interview. He was fond of Donaldson and furious at the same time that the young fool had risked his life to gather information. It was the reckless sort of thing Connor had done when he worked for the court as a legal clerk. It was the mark of a man who would go far.

  He was also more worried than ever about Maggie and his sisters.

  He threw on his black greatcoat and left the house to cut across the estate to the woods. It was a cold November day, the wind carrying the tang of peat and decaying leaves. Maggie couldn’t have gone far with Claude accompanying her. They shouldn’t be hard to find. He knew the area well, the hidden bridle paths, the maze of hazel coppice, the hilly lanes.

  An hour passed.

  He started to retrace his steps. Back to the gorge in case one of them had slipped on the path above the waterfall. Back to the old wooden bridge to make sure it hadn’t collapsed beneath thei
r weight.

  After another hour he returned to the house, charging into room after room in the hope he’d find her. He refused to believe she had vanished. By the time he burst into the kitchen like a cannonball, his long hair disheveled, leaves stuck to his coat, he had worked himself into an uncharacteristic panic.

  “Did she come back?” he bellowed.

  A scullery maid dropped a saucepan in fright at his dramatic entrance. Mrs. Urquhart and Dougie, apparently having reached some sort of truce, looked at him as if he’d taken complete leave of his senses from the long oak table where they sat sipping tea.

  “Did who come back, sir?” Dougie asked in bewilderment.

  “Lady Maggie,” Connor shouted.

  Silence answered him. He suddenly felt like a moron, his emotions exposed, his legendary control shattering, but he couldn’t help himself. What if something had happened to her? “She went for a walk in the woods several hours ago! It’s almost dark, and she isn’t anywhere in the house! Neither is Claude.”

  Another silence. Then Mrs. Urquhart glanced around to the petite figure on the floor behind the chopping block. Connor, breathing hard, followed the direction of her amused gaze but did not immediately register a connection.

  The petite figure had its head stuck in the oven. It also had a familiar shape, a pleasantly rounded posterior that wriggled back toward him. A delicate face appeared between the chairs, flushed with heat and annoyance. Maggie rose like Venus with flour on her nose instead of foam.

  “Who, may I ask, is doing all the shouting and dropping of saucepans on the floor? It took me three hours to get that soufflé right and now the whole thing’s collapsed like a damn pancake.”

  “It was me.” Connor’s voice, hoarse with relief, shook the herbs and onions tied to the soot-blackened rafters. “I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

  “You were worried about me?” Maggie looked altogether too delighted at the thought of him spending an entire afternoon of self-torture on her account. “That was sweet of you, my lord. Sweet but rather silly. Claude and I went for a drive with the duchess. You know she wouldn’t have let anything happen to me.”

  “You might have informed me,” he said, walking her back against the table. “At the very least you could have left a note… a trail of bread crumbs or—or lace. I’ve wasted an entire day’s work because of you.”

  Maggie stared at him in wonder. He’d obviously been more frightened than he could show, and his concern was manifesting itself in a very bad mood. This was such a good sign. He cared deeply. She felt like celebrating with champagne.

  “Would you like a cup of tea and some collapsed mushroom soufflé?” she asked him softly.

  Connor braced his hands down on the table with a defeated sigh, overwhelmed by a sudden rush of emotion. The mischief and self-awareness in her dark blue eyes mesmerized him. He never again wanted to experience that sick rush of fear he’d felt when it seemed she had vanished. She meant more to him than he realized.

  “Go out into the garden,” he ordered her. “I need to talk to you in private.”

  They stood on either side of a lichen-speckled sundial in the blue-violet haze of a Highland gloaming. An owl called softly from the nearby woods. A badger rustled through the blackberry brambles. Maggie rubbed a spot of flour from her nose and searched Connor’s face in the lengthening shadows, shivering a little as his eyes bored into her. Intense. Magnetic. Possessive. She had been awed by him from the first day she’d spotted him in the street with a line of smitten admirers in tow. Well, she was one of those smitten by his charisma now. More than smitten if the truth be told. She loved the beast with every beat of her heart.

  He lowered his head, frowning at her across the sundial. She sighed, sensing a lecture coming on. “As of today, there will be no more walks in the woods.”

  “I wish you would make up your mind, Connor. I thought you wanted me to walk in your woods.”

  “Not without me,” he said fiercely. “It isn’t safe anymore. Donaldson was brutally attacked and left for dead.”

  Maggie drew in a shocked breath. “Attacked—in your woods? I had no idea he was even in the area. I wonder— dear heavens, you don’t suppose Donaldson is the wounded man we’ve been trying to find? The man Claude ran through with his sword? It could all be a tragic misunderstanding, like Romeo and Juliet, Oh, Connor.”

  He lost several moments trying to decide at which point in the conversation her train of thought had derailed. “I am not talking about these woods. Donaldson was attacked in Edinburgh, presumably by someone who hopes to thwart the murder investigation.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “I realize you are renowned for your courtroom eloquence, my lord, but frankly there are times when your logic eludes me. Did you or did you not just state that these woods weren’t safe?”

  “I meant that they might not be safe.”

  “Were they safe yesterday?”

  “Yes.” What the hell was she getting at? “I assumed so.”

  “And being safe yesterday, they are no longer safe today because a man was beaten in Edinburgh?”

  Connor suddenly wished for a glass of whisky. Arguing with Maggie was as exhausting as appearing before the High Court of Justiciary.

  “The woods aren’t safe because whoever attacked Donaldson could have followed us here,” he said in exasperation.

  “There is no need to use that tone,” she said. “This is exactly what I’ve been trying to explain to you for the past fortnight.”

  She had him there.

  “Yes,” he conceded, “and I’ve done some serious thinking on the subject—”

  “So have I,” Maggie interrupted him, circling the sundial Like a lawyer summarizing a case before a jury. “And I realize now that Claude and I have probably overreacted. I don’t feel threatened here at all. If there was any danger to me, I would surely sense it. I have good instincts about such things.”

  Connor frowned. “What about the wounded man?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, neither Claude’s eyesight nor his mind is what it used to be. It is entirely possible he imagined the whole incident. I would never tell him this, of course.”

  “And the figure in black at the farmhouse? The man who knocked at your door at the Golden Sovereign?”

  She wandered over to the garden wall. “I can’t really explain it,” she called over her shoulder. “All I know is that I’m not afraid anymore.”

  “But I am,” he said quietly, looking past her into the woods. “I have come here every autumn for seven years straight, and I, too, have good instincts. There is someone watching us. I can sense it at this moment. There is someone in those woods who does not belong.”

  Chapter

  31

  Connor stared into the fire, savoring the late-night silence. In Edinburgh he rarely allowed himself time for contemplation. But he’d bought this house as a retreat, which he rarely used. There were no unpleasant intrusions here to bother him. There were no happy ones either.

  No children, no wife, no meddling in-laws. No complications, or commitments.

  He took a drink of whisky. “Oh, God,” he whispered. “Let her love me back. Don't let me lose her. I’ve never cared like this before.”

  He lifted his head, hearing the servants joking in the garden where Claude was giving fencing lessons.

  For the first time since Connor could remember the house seemed alive, lit by the foibles of human interaction and laughter. Maggie had brushed angel wings of warmth and brightness over his life. How had he come to need her this badly? Need her to the degree that instead of protecting her, he risked putting her in greater danger.

  The door creaked open behind him. Light footsteps approached his chair. He drew an expectant breath, releasing it into the darkness. A knowing smile spread across his face.

  He’d been waiting for her. He had willed her to come to him. Sensual tension thrummed through his veins.

  “Sit down beside me, lass,” he said with decep
tive calm. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”

  “That would be nice, my lord, as long as you aren’t going to give me another one of your scoldings.”

  She sat down in the wing chair opposite him and took the glass of wine he gave her. To his surprise she was wrapped in only a dark burgundy velvet dressing robe. In fact, all he could see of her was her face and finely boned hands and feet. It was, unfortunately, more than enough to stimulate his erotic imagination.

  Her delicate sensuality stirred a desire in him that bordered on savage. He didn’t know how he managed to maintain a facade of detachment. Dangerous undercurrents roiled beneath his surface calm. He watched in a pretense of composure, calculating his next move, while she propped her feet on the tapestried footstool, wriggled her toes in abandon, and took a sip of wine.

  “This is just like old times, isn’t it, Connor?” she said with a blissful sigh.

  He resisted the urge to run his hand along the instep of her foot to her thigh. She wouldn’t be so relaxed if she knew what he had in mind. “Old times?”

  “You trying to get me drunk in front of a fire. It reminds me of the night we met.”

  “Do you know a man named Sebastien?” he said unexpectedly.

  Maggie lowered her wineglass to give him a long critical look. “I hope you pay more attention to what other people are saying in the courtroom than you do to me. It’s very disconcerting to talk to you sometimes.”

  “Do you know anyone named Sebastien?” he repeated.

  “I’ve known several Sebastiens,” she replied. “The first one was my father’s secretary. He disappeared the night Papa died. We suspect he may have been executed in Marseilles. Then there was old Sebastien, the gardener’s uncle. He was caught in a compromising position behind the privet hedge with Maman’s seamstress.” Maggie sipped her wine, smiling. “Apparently, this lascivious conduct was a family trait because young Sebastien, the gardener’s son, was caught in—”