He stroked her shoulder, absently staring across the shadowed room at the door. “I don’t know, lass.”
“Why would he be so open if he meant me harm?” Maggie thought aloud. “Would he dare to hurt me knowing I was under your protection?”
“You’d be surprised at what some people are capable of.” He looked down at her thoughtfully, his chest tightening with emotion. “Or perhaps you wouldn’t. You’ve seen your share of sorrow, haven’t you?”
He set out for the castle at dawn. When he left the room, Maggie was dead to the world, curled around a goose-feathered pillow with her dainty feet hanging over the bed. She didn’t so much as twitch an eyelid when he bent to kiss her. She was safe, and he meant for her to stay that way.
“No more bad dreams for you,” he said with grim resolve. “I’m putting an end to it today. Nothing is going to hurt you again if I can help it.”
He dressed in his heavy woolen hunting clothes and took his pistol from the bureau drawer. As he tucked it into his coat pocket, the meeting in the parlor with Sebastien broke into his thoughts.
Your shoulder is obviously bothering you, Sebastien. Don’t tell me all this cloak and dagger business has given you bursitis.
Just a run-in with an old friend.
I ran him through the shoulder, sir…
What did he really know of Sebastien? Letters of character could be forged, even from the Prime Minister and members of Parliament. Seals could be stolen. Connor had never bothered to check Sebastien’s credentials. Why would he have? The man moved in elite circles. He’d always gone out of his way to help Connor, and until recently, Connor had no reason to suspect him of any malice.
After all, even a spymaster had to retire sooner or later, and Sebastien certainly wasn’t the first Frenchman to settle in Scotland. The two countries had been political allies for ages.
But suddenly he realized that Sebastien knew far too much about Connor’s life than he needed to, and he was undeniably interested in Maggie. Obsessed with her, perhaps. Nothing else could have brought him all this way across Scotland. There hadn’t been a spy in these remote hills for almost a hundred years.
The truth hit him like a thunderbolt.
Sebastien was the elusive wounded man, and whether or not he was linked to the Balfour murder, he had to be insane to think Connor would let him get to Maggie.
Maggie surfaced from the dream, fighting for breath. Tears of frustration burned her throat. She’d been so close this time. She had actually reached the bedchamber door at the chateau and opened it. She had seen her sister’s silhouette against a backdrop of brilliant light, and the answer to all her questions had been just within her—
Connor was gone.
She sat up in the bed and stared, bewildered, around the room. The bureau drawer was half open, and with a flash of panic, she remembered awakening to watch him load his pistol during the night.
“I’m going hunting in the morning,” he’d said when she sleepily inquired what on earth he was doing.
A shiver of fear shot through her.
Hunting an enemy. He would shun the laws he represented in order to handle the matter like a Highlander. She should have known he’d been too composed last night when he’d read that note. A man like Connor would always confront danger.
By the time she’d dressed and rushed downstairs, she discovered that Claude and Daphne, as well as Connor, had been missing for hours.
The three of them had been spotted by the kitchen maid shortly after sunrise on the hilly road to Glamhurst Castle. The man she loved, her butler, and her pet. All she cared about in the world on a mission to protect her, to confront a madman. Panic washed over her like a tidal wave. What if she was too late to do anything? Why had she not sensed the fury beneath Connor’s deceptive calm?
It was market day, and Dougie and Mrs. Urquhart would not be back until late afternoon. Most of the servants had accompanied them to bring home supplies. It took two hours to reach the nearest village on horseback. She didn’t know where to turn. She only knew she had to help Connor, or go mad with helplessness and fear.
She was on her way to the stable to saddle a horse, intending to ride to Rebecca’s cottage when the duchess’s coach rolled up into the driveway. Before the woman could plant one booted foot down on the steps, Maggie rushed over to meet her, her face white with worry.
“Good morning, Maggie,” the duchess said in her brusque voice. “Claude’s promised to give me fencing lessons in the garden. Thought I’d improve my riposte. I’ve brought Rebecca along with horse liniment in case my shooting shoulder gives out.”
“Claude isn’t here.” Maggie blinked hard, pulling the sinister note from her cloak pocket. “Neither is Connor. They’ve gone off to confront Lord Anonymous in the castle.”
Rebecca leaned across the seat to look through the opened door. “Lord who, dear?”
The duchess scanned the note, shaking her grizzled head in grim pronouncement. “Considering everything that has happened so far, I don’t like the sound of this.”
“I don’t either,” Maggie burst out. Hadn’t she once been afraid that somehow she would indirectly lead Connor into danger? Hadn’t he himself sensed a threat in the woods?
“Odd seal. Quite impressive.” The duchess ran her callused thumb over the blurry blob of wax on the envelope. “It looks expensive.”
“It isn’t a black rose, is it?” Rebecca asked in alarm.
“I don’t think so,” Maggie said. “At first I thought it looked a little familiar, but it’s too smeared to distinguish.”
“Presumptuous bastard, this Lord Anonymous,” the duchess murmured.
Maggie drew a steadying breath. “We’re not helping Connor by standing here in idle chitchat. His life might be in danger at this very moment.”
“I rather doubt it,” Rebecca said reassuringly. “Connor could make micefeet out of any man stupid enough to confront him. Besides, Maggie, the note was written for you. This person doesn’t seem to be interested in my brother.”
“Which could be a trick,” the duchess said. “For all we know, the madman might have Connor hidden in the castle dungeon right now.”
Maggie’s composure began to collapse. “Along with Claude and Daphne. They’ve been gone for hours. Anything could have happened to them.”
Rebecca and the duchess shared concerned looks. “The wee doggie is missing too?” Rebecca said. “Morna, why are we wasting time blethering? We can devise a plan to rescue them on the way.”
The duchess gave Maggie a gentle prod toward the coach. “Frances can drive us halfway there, but after that the road narrows to a footpath. Damn good thing I brought my guns. It looks like we’re going to do battle, girls.”
Maggie climbed into the coach, her face pinched with anxiety. “Shouldn’t we alert the authorities—perhaps ask Captain Balgonie or Sir Angus to join us?”
“I don’t see why,” the duchess said, climbing in after her. “Angus would complain about having to walk. Balgonie would complain that he was getting his trousers dirty, and the delay could cost us at least an hour. What do you say, Becky? Do we need the men to help us or not?”
Rebecca gracefully drew in her skirts to allow room for Maggie on the seat. “I shouldn’t think so. After all, you have your guns and I have Ares. That ought to be more than adequate protection. It’s not as if we haven’t tackled trouble before.”
“True,” the duchess said. “It won’t be much different than the time we rescued those foxes from Lady Rosyth’s wretched hunt in Naim two years ago.”
“Or set all those hedgehogs loose last summer when the gypsies were hunting them for stew,” Rebecca agreed, flipping her braid over her shoulder.
“Then it’s settled.” The duchess rapped against the roof with her rifle butt. “The men would only be in the way.”
Chapter
33
“I don’t believe it,” the duchess said, pulling her head in from the window as the coach shudder
ed to a stop. “There’s another carriage blocking our way. Don’t the idiots know this is private property? Frances,” she shouted, “take care of this immediately.”
An athletic-looking grandmother in her fifties, Frances jumped down obediently from the box to confront the driver of the obstructing vehicle. A friendly argument ensued in the middle of the road, and then a woman’s plea for peace rose above the furor.
“I know that voice.” Maggie leaned over Rebecca and Ares to draw back the leather curtains. “It’s Mrs. Macmillan.”
“Mrs. Who?” the duchess said, pulling out a flask of whisky from her cloak.
“Connor’s mistress,” Maggie said as she slid off the seat to the door.
The duchess almost choked on her wee nip. “His what?”
“You remember Ardath,” Rebecca said with a smile. “Connor brought her here last spring. She got in a fight with that horrid old man at the fair who was trying to sell his daughter’s favors. She had him thrown in the clink and found the girl a good home.”
“Ah.” Morna nodded in remembrance. “A lovely woman. But I thought she planned to give Buchanan the mitten when they got home.”
“She did.” Maggie stepped very carefully over Morna’s guns to reach the door. The woman was a walking arsenal. “However, despite the end of their romantic association, they’ve decided to remain friends. I wonder what on earth she’s doing here.”
“I’ve brought news about Sheena,” Ardath explained a few minutes later when Maggie asked her that very question.
They were huddled together on the hillside road a few yards before it ended abruptly in a densely wooded footpath. The previous Jacobite rebels who had owned the castle had done everything possible to block access to their stronghold, intending to repel British soldiers. Enormous boulders had been rolled down the hill like bowling balls to prevent easy passage.
Maggie felt a gust of wind rustle through the skeletal beech coppice behind them. “Sheena isn’t dead, is she?” she asked in dread.
Ardath, who looked travel-worn and frazzled, absently stuffed an unruly red curl under her hat. “She is not, but I daresay she will be when Connor finds out what she’s done. I’m terrified of how he’ll take this.”
“What has the little fiend been up to now?” Rebecca asked, limping up behind them.
Ardath turned. “She planned her own abduction and eloped to Gretna Green with the man Connor had forbidden her to see. The criminal I defended to Connor’s face turned out to be a cad. Or half a cad. At least Henry had the decency to marry her.”
Maggie was indignant. “Oh! To think that they dragged me into their nasty plot, and I was so concerned about her.”
Ardath sighed. “The silly girl is quite sorry she involved you. It seems she mistook you for Philomena Elliot. She thought you’d be the perfect witness to the abduction because Philomena had never seen Henry before, and, quite frankly, Philomena isn’t known for her brains. The whole wretched affair was an act. You were used to convince Connor she’d been kidnapped.”
“I can’t believe I risked my neck trying to rescue such a deceitful creature,” Maggie exclaimed.
Ardath nodded in agreement. “The carriage driver also sends his apologies for his part. The man was truly concerned that you were hurt when you fell in the courtyard.”
“This is a criminal act in itself,” Rebecca said angrily. “Connor will certainly have the marriage annulled. And if he has any sense at all, he’ll thrash Sheena soundly for what she’s put us all through.”
“He will do neither,” Ardath said, “although she is doubtless deserving of both. The brat is pregnant, married, and worried sick about his reaction. So is her husband. They have employed me as an intermediary, a position I resent but have accepted to protect Connor’s name. He does not need another embarrassment at this stage of his life. The public is already clamoring for safety in the streets.”
The duchess frowned at Maggie. “We’d best not repeat the story about the scarecrow then. It doesn’t make him sound very competent.”
“What scarecrow? No, don’t tell me. I don’t think I could stand another shock.” Ardath sank down wearily on a rotten pine stump, taking a swallow of whisky from Moma’s flask. Then she noticed the rifle tucked under Rebecca’s arm and the deer hound slavering at her heels. “Something else has happened, hasn’t it? What’s wrong?”
Maggie lifted her eyes to the bulk of the castle, encircled in gray-violet bands of mist. It looked like a medieval stronghold, faraway and forbidding. “Connor went up there to confront the person he believed was Sheena’s kidnapper,” she said slowly. “He went to handle the matter man to man.”
Rebecca looked up in sudden horror. “But there is no kidnapper. He never existed in the first place and couldn’t have sent that note.”
“Which means that someone else wanted to lure either me or him there.” Maggie shook herself out of her trance.
“Someone who has gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to spring a trap. But who?”
“The Balfour murderer.” Ardath came to her feet, her face as pale as chalk. “Connor always said his suspect was a wealthy nobleman without a conscience. Only a man with money could afford to lease a castle. Somehow he must have guessed that the way to get to Connor was through you.”
Chapter
34
They had the castle surrounded.
Rebecca and Ares took the rear. Maggie, the duchess, and Ardath positioned themselves at the east wing of the keep where, apparently to counteract the November gloom, the inhabitants had lit candles which glinted through the cracked mullioned windows. The three women had stacked several empty wine kegs to use as a ladder beneath what appeared to be the parlor window.
At any rate, it was one of the few rooms in the castle that looked occupied. Thistle and bracken fern grew waist-high in the once-grand courtyard. Merlins and jackdaws nested on the parapets where Scottish rebels had waited for their Stuart prince. A thin wind rattled the shutters of the abandoned dovecote. The west turret bore black gauges in its side from a long-forgotten battle. The east tower looked no better. Even the ghosts of Glamhurst’s former glory had faded away into obscurity.
The duchess tore off her leather gloves with her teeth. “Maggie will have to climb up to have a look-see. I’ll serve as a crow while Ardath holds these barrels steady. Whatever you do, don’t let them fall.”
“Perhaps we should knock at the front door,” Ardath suggested. “I could pretend to be a gypsy selling apples.”
The duchess gave her a leveling look. “Do you have any apples?”
Ardath pursed her lips. “Well, no, now that you ask, I don’t.”
“Then that takes care of that. Help me give Maggie a leg up. There’s something queer going on in that house. It’s too quiet. I hope they haven’t killed Buchanan yet. He’s a hard-hearted bastard, and there were times when I’ve been tempted to shoot him myself, but he has his good qualities.”
She and Ardath hooked their hands together to hoist Maggie into the air, then steadied the tower of barrels while she scrambled to grasp the window ledge for leverage.
“Well,” Ardath said anxiously, “what do you see?”
Maggie blew a wisp of hair from her eyes. “There are… three men, no, there are four of them. Good God, these are the filthiest windows I’ve ever looked through in my life.”
The duchess glanced up. “Do you see Buchanan? Is he alive?”
There was silence. When Maggie spoke again, her voice; reflected both profound relief and bewilderment. “He’s sitting on the sofa. His feet are propped on a footstool.”
“He’s dead?” Ardath whispered, closing her eyes.
A scowl tightened Maggie’s face. “Not unless that’s his ghost who just stuffed a wedge of cheese into his mouth and washed it down with a glass of wine.”
“Cheese and wine?” The duchess lowered her rifle in confusion. “That’s a peculiar way to do away with someone. What manner of man is this murderer a
nyway?”
Maggie rubbed the heel of her hand across the grimy windowpane, clenching her teeth as if to stem the tears that slipped silently down her face. It was an eternity before she could trust herself to speak, and then the words came in halting snatches of breath. “He is… a prude and a… tyrant. A snob of the first water. The man holding Connor captive is my brother. Robert Phillipe… the sixth Due de Saint-Evremond.”
“Your brother?” Ardath said in amazement. “The one you’ve been trying to find for years? What on earth is he doing with Connor in a castle?”
Maggie slowly slid to the ground “That’s exactly what I intend to find out. Stay here. I’m going inside.”
Chapter
35
“Robert. Robert Phillipe.” She kept repeating his name in disbelief, hardly aware that Connor had jumped up to support her until the three other men in the room rudely bumped him out of the way.
Claude, Robert, and a third man she did not know at first. Tall, elegantly dressed with his arm in a sling, he guided her to a chair. “Assieds-toi, Marguerite,” he said with a sympathetic clucking of his tongue. “Sit, chérie. I warned your brother this would be difficult, but he simply couldn’t wait another day to see you. There was truly no easy way to do this, and of course, he needed to be sure.”
His voice faded into the buzzing of a hundred bees in her ears. She stared at him as he knelt, his concerned face coming into focus. “Sebastien,” she said numbly. “Sebastien the spy. Papa’s secretary. That Sebastien. Mon Dieu. I thought you were dead. Oh—the wounded man. It was you. You’re the one who followed me here from Edinburgh.”
“Yes, it was me,” Sebastien admitted. “Claude ran me through in the woods before I could unmask myself. I have been in Scotland for months, waiting for the right moment to approach you. I must say you’ve developed quite a nose for trouble.”
“For months?”
Connor hunkered down in front of her, grasping her cold hands in his. “You’ve had a shock, lass. So did I. I knew Sebastien as a retired spy, a friend to the British. I had no idea he was so closely connected to your life.”
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