by Amy Quinton
MacLeod was running for the stairs before Lady Beatryce had even finished speaking.
Shite.
That was over an hour ago. He’d process the rest of Lady Beatryce’s baffling statement later; it made no sense to him now. God, how he hated it when women spoke in riddles.
He’d just hit the second tread (he’d skipped the first) when he heard Lady Beatryce call after him, “Good luck catching up with her, MacLeod; she’s a wily one,” followed by a genuine laugh.
MacLeod reached the first-floor landing at an all-out run. He didn’t stop for the maid lugging a bucket and a filthy mop behind her as she dragged her feet down the stairs. Nor did he stop for the wiry footman descending with alacrity, his arms laden with a motley collection of valises, bags, and boxes.
And he certainly didn’t stop when he reached Mrs. Chase’s room, rather he tucked in his shoulder and burst his way straight through the locked door with a loud clash, pulling the hinges straight out of the door frame.
Once through, he stood inside the broken doorway, splinters of wood framing dangling all about him, his breath sawing in and out, and surveyed the room. She wasn’t there, which he expected, but still…he felt…uncomfortable, an odd little ache had sprung up in his chest upon the realization that she’d really, truly gone.
He rubbed at his chest and swore up and down.
Hell and damnation, will the woman never stay put where I leave her?
He looked about the room and was surprised to see her luggage still there, stacked neatly against the wall.
Well that is deuced odd…
MacLeod continued his sweep of the room, and then he saw it: a note propped upon a pillow in the middle of the disordered bed…
He wasted no time; he lunged for the missive.
It was addressed to him.
MacLeod ripped it open.
Alaistair…dearest,
If you are reading this, you know by now that I received pressing news and had to depart in a bit of a rush. To my everlasting regret, I did not have the opportunity to bestow upon you a suitable…goodbye…yet again. One day, dear ‘husband’, I shall make it up to you.
As such, it is with profound remorse that I must beseech you to assist me once more: I need you to forward my luggage…again, if you will. I’ve included my direction below.
The haste with which I had to leave forced me to abandon everything but the essentials. Fortunately, I have you, my strong, capable, adoring ‘husband’, and I have every faith in your ability and willingness to carry out this task on my behalf.
I shall be at the location indicated two days hence. Until then, I look forward to our reunion with great anticipation.
I remain in your debt and always yours, etc.
Amelia
MacLeod couldn’t stop his own smile, but he quickly stowed it away and returned to his habitual scowl, which felt far more comfortable upon his face.
P.S. I shall leave you with this taunting tidbit of information: my latest missive was not from the same source as the last one. I’ll see you anon.
P.P.S. Stop scratching your chin lest you rub away that scruff I adore so much!
A
MacLeod shook his head. She adored his scruff? He refolded the note, tucked it in his pocket, then turned on his heel and left.
Two days? Aye, he’d be there, waiting.
If he didn’t find her first.
Chapter Nine
Outside the Sorceress and Lusty Hound Inn, In a Private Carriage
“Welcome, Mrs. Chase. I must say I am honored to finally meet you in person. I trust you had no difficulty escaping your escort?”
Amelia climbed inside the unmarked carriage and glanced up at the man who’d spoken before taking a seat on the empty bench across from him. She did her best not to seem startled by his shocking appearance, for he was dark and heinously scarred.
The skin of his face and neck was sun darkened, as if he spent a significant amount of time out of doors. And though he appeared to be about ten years her senior, his hair was long and the color of rich mahogany without a hint of gray to be seen. And he was entirely outfitted in black; his breaches, shirt, waistcoat, jacket, and even his cravat were all solid black. Indeed, his entire visage was mysteriously forbidding, yet he was as handsome as sin; she’d never seen a man so visually stunning.
As such, she would have expected the man’s eyes to be ebony as well, a match to his shadowy presence, or even a cold, ice blue to match a formidable personality, but no, his eyes were a surprisingly warm, reddish brown. The color of a rich, dark port.
But what really stood out the most was the obvious scarring down the right side of his face. From his hairline to his chin, a myriad of scars crisscrossed his cheek, his brow, his lips. It was as if the right side of his face had been shoved through a large glass window.
And still he was beautiful. Dark as sin, but beautiful nonetheless.
Amelia nodded her head in agreement to his query, but refused to speak. She was a touch too wary to let down her guard in front of this man, though honestly, most would say she hadn’t been wary enough considering she’d climbed into a carriage with a man she barely knew.
But he certainly knew her and that was the entire reason she had thrown caution to the wind and gone through with it.
Besides, Amelia had met truly evil men before; she knew the type, and this man was not it. He’d helped her when it mattered most, when her life was nigh forfeit. And she was determined to understand why and to do her part to repay his efforts on her behalf.
Amelia looked around, content to survey her surroundings. The carriage was black (surprise!) and unmarked on the outside, including the livery, if one could call it that, of the driver and attending footmen, but inside the carriage, opulence abounded. Plush navy velvet covered every conceivable surface with accents of silver and leather. It was sumptuous and extravagant, luxury like she’d never seen before.
The man reached up and knocked on the ceiling with his walking stick, and the carriage jerked forward as they took off. Even the ceiling was midnight blue.
The man sat back in his seat and crossed his legs wide, ankle over knee. He laid his cane across his lap using one hand to keep it in place while he rested his other arm on his lifted knee. He appeared utterly at ease.
Oddly enough, the man had a ring on every single finger, each band cast in silver or white gold. He absentmindedly fiddled with each of the rings on his left hand, one at a time, with his thumb.
“Have you nothing to say, Mrs. Chase? I understand silence isn’t your forte.”
Amelia shrugged, and watched the man twist his rings. It was all true; she was never at a loss for words. And considering she’d run off from MacLeod, despite her better judgement, in order to speak with this man, it was ridiculous for her to keep silent. She was self-aware enough to acknowledge that. Still, she held her tongue as if her life depended on it.
“How about I start by introducing myself? Your new friends call me by various names; MacLeod happens to favor Spyder.”
Amelia looked up at him, startled. “And what exactly do you do, Spyder? Besides rescue damsels in distress, I mean.”
Alas, she couldn’t help herself. She was curious. In fact, she was surprised she’d managed to remain mute for as long as she had.
The man called Spyder smiled knowingly. “Let’s just say I collect information.”
Amelia crossed her arms and nodded her head. “Ah, a blackmailer.”
The man half-heartedly shrugged. “Blackmail is such an unpleasant word, though I suppose some would see it that way. Kelly finds it amusing to call me the Puppet Master.”
The man smiled distantly, as if he’d recalled a fond and amusing memory.
In her mind, the Puppet Master wasn’t any better than a blackmailer or Spyder, and she wondered if she’d made a truly grave mistake in coming here after all.
But she owed him.
The man looked back at her and she saw a flash of anger cross his face. “I f
ind it useful not to make assumptions, Mrs. Chase. You do not know me, my past, nor my situation well enough to assess and pass judgement. I would expect you of all people to refrain from doing so.”
It was as if he’d read her mind. And he was, in all honesty, correct. Her past was—colorful—to the say the least. What would MacLeod think to know he followed on this heels of a convicted felon?
A spark of fear skated down her spine, but she ignored the sensation as best she could and hoped her voice didn’t shake when she spoke.
As for Spyder, she might believe he wasn’t evil, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t nervous when warranted, as any sane person would be. “Well, there’s an easy enough solution to that problem. Why don’t you enlighten me, and I’ll make the decision as to what I think of your character?”
The man smiled. “Ah, but we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here about you and the man you are looking for, the Marquess of Dansbury.”
“Go on.” Amelia glanced once more at his fingers as he played with his rings.
“How much have you learned about Dansbury?”
Amelia leaned forward, determined not to be distracted by the damn rings. “Mr.…Spyder? Look…Is there something else I might call you? I am not comfortable calling you Spyder, Blackmailer, or the Puppet Master. To be honest, they all sound quite ridiculous to me. It was one thing for me to read it in the missive that saved my life or as a code name for information, but face to face, the entire thing seems ridiculous. And childish.”
The man dipped his head. “Certainly, Mrs. Chase. You may call me Lord Sharpe.”
Amelia laughed and gave him a look of utter disbelief. “That’s not your real name, is it?”
Lord Sharpe simply smiled, which was fine; her question was rhetorical anyway.
“Well, Lord Sharpe…I thought I was here for you to enlighten me, not the other way around. Yet you insist upon questioning me, which does not bode well for my end of this bargain, now, does it?”
The man nodded in agreement. “How very astute, Mrs. Chase, and you are quite correct. And I will remedy that anon, but first tell me what happened when you arrived in merry old England.”
“So I’m just supposed to trust you, then?”
“You question that now? After traveling all the way here on my word and a bag of coins? You’re not in a position to bargain now, are you?”
“Well, I presume there is some reason you sent me here, so I must be of some value to you. Or are you merely an obliging gentleman rescuing a lady in distress?”
“I may be a gentleman, but I am not obliging…and you, my dear, are no lady…but you have a point. Shall we alternate, share information back and forth as it were?”
Amelia agreed with a nod.
“Excellent. Tell me what has happened. You arrived at The Quiet Witch Inn as planned and found Dansbury...” he prompted.
“Oh, I found him all right. Precisely where you said he’d be, but what I didn’t expect was that he would be pretending to be someone else. And then there was MacLeod, Kelly, Lady Beatryce…” she trailed off, making it clear it was Lord Sharpe’s turn to speak.
“There have been some unforeseen complications.”
“Such as?”
Lord Sharpe rubbed the bridge of his nose, the first sign of humanity in his carefully orchestrated façade. “MacLeod and Dansbury are both spies for the Crown. Dansbury and Lady Beatryce are on the run from assassins. MacLeod and Kelly are there for additional protection and support.” Lord Sharpe paused and eyed her. “Does this information surprise you?”
Amelia maintained a blank expression, determined not to give away what she was thinking or feeling. Remaining aloof wasn’t one of her best skills by any stretch of the imagination, but she gave it her best shot, for she was a damned good actress.
She didn’t answer his question, for she would give herself away if she even tried to respond.
The man acknowledged her attempt with another dip of his head and a knowing smile, but carried on. “The leader of their band of merry men is the Duke of Stonebridge. You have yet to meet him, but I’m sure that oversight will be corrected in the near future.”
It was ridiculous, she knew, but Amelia was relieved to hear the evidence this man intended to release her, though it would be ludicrous for him to save her very life and then kill her after all. She relaxed a bit more, reassured by that knowledge.
“As for the fourth man of their jolly group, Kelly: he’s in a delicate situation at the moment. Best to leave him out of this discussion for now.”
Amelia wasn’t sure how she felt about Lord Sharpe’s revelations. All this talk of spies and assassins, including the cryptic descriptions of the men she’d recently met, was almost amusing in its sheer absurdity.
Almost.
Yet, it explained an awful lot. It seemed many men (and women, she supposed) had their secrets.
Lord Sharpe waited in silence, as if he knew she needed time to process all he’d told her thus far.
“Mrs. Chase, we have about an hour ahead of us, and what I’m about to impart is important. When we reach our destination, I intend to leave you with the contact information for Lady Beatryce, or as she was introduced to you, Mrs. Churchmouse. It is important that you follow my directions carefully if we are to see all of this end in the way we wish it.”
Amelia was doubtful. “How can you possibly know how to reach Lady Beatryce? Even she wasn’t sure when or where she could be reached.”
Lord Sharpe chuckled, a quick bark of amusement. “I find it difficult to believe that you haven’t realized by now. I have my ways. Now, are you ready to hear about the Society for the Purification of England? I assure you they will have a major role to play in all this before we reach the end of our little adventure.”
‘A little adventure’ was not the term she would use to describe all of this.
Amelia wasn’t sure whether she was honestly ready, but did it matter? If she weren’t in such a desperate situation, she might have run away from this mess as fast as her feet could carry her months ago, but really, she had nowhere else to go. And no funds to get there. Besides, she owed this man an awful lot.
Her very life.
Amelia studied Lord Sharpe carefully. “First, tell me this: I cannot place your accent. It’s not English, nor is it like MacLeod’s Highland brogue. Where are you from?”
“It matters not.”
Amelia crossed her arms. “It does to me.”
“My, my. So full of questions, Mrs. Chase. I’m betting MacLeod doesn’t know quite what to make of you, does he? How fun.”
“I’m sure he would disagree with that sentiment, but since you’ve mentioned him, tell me more about MacLeod. He’s been particularly difficult. That man is incredibly suspicious and doesn’t give up the bone.”
“Ah, MacLeod. A complicated man, to be sure, and full of so much distrust. But I have to say, despite his gruff exterior, he’s the most honorable man I know.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
Sharpe smiled in return and dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Let’s just say that if things don’t work out with Dansbury, or if you find yourself in trouble and Dansbury isn’t around, you can rely on Alaistair MacLeod.”
Amelia nodded in agreement. “All right then, tell me about Kelly. Can he be trusted? Is he truly a traitor?”
“Time will tell, Mrs. Chase.”
Amelia crossed her arms, frustrated. This man was playing games with her and telling her nothing in the process. “Well, you’re not really giving me a lot to go on, are you?”
“I’ve given you a lot. Not many people know of these men’s work for the Crown.”
She raised one brow as if to say, is that all you got?
“Are you ready to hear about the Society?”
She did want to know. She obviously needed to know, considering. But first she had one question that was burning in her mind. Simply thinking about asking the question made her utter
ly nervous all of a sudden. She knew what she wanted the answer to be, but…
Amelia took a deep breath and steadied herself as best she could. “Yes, tell me one thing, first. Am I…am I truly Dansbury’s sister?”
“Does it matter?”
Amelia looked out the window and answered, her disappointment evident. “I suppose not.”
C.K.
Your information proved accurate, but I’m afraid our mutual acquaintance was unsuccessful in acquiring Dansbury and Lady Beatryce while they were en route to the Lusty Hound.
That outcome was rather unfortunate. However, a certain informant has left his lair and is directly involved in our plans. You know him as Spyder…or, as you personally refer to him, the Puppet Master.
Spyder has our friend, MacLeod, redirected at the moment, and he assures me that MacLeod will not make it to the next rendezvous point with Dansbury.
This is your opportunity to redirect suspicion away from you. Make the most of it.
X
Chapter Ten
Two Days Later: Ye Olde Howling Monkey Inn
Where in the hell was she?
Two of the longest days of MacLeod’s life had passed in the time since he had dashed off from The Sorceress and Lusty Hound Inn on the hunt for Amelia Chase. He hadn’t caught a single glimpse of her since the morning he had stolen into her room during her bath, demanding she explain herself. It was like she’d disappeared from the face of the earth in a matter of moments.
He swallowed the inexplicable feeling of loss that accompanied that thought.
From what he could gather questioning patrons at The Lusty Hound, she’d left in an unmarked carriage no one had ever seen in these parts before.
The very idea of her hastening off with some nameless, faceless man when traitors and evil men were afoot had him tied in knots, a sensation he hadn’t felt since…well, in quite a while.
There wasn’t a soul in any of the neighboring towns for fifteen miles in any direction who had an inkling of who the carriage belonged to, much less where it had gone. It hadn’t even been seen by anyone since it’d left the last inn two days ago. He knew, for he’d checked with the locals in every village in the area.
