by Amy Quinton
MacLeod hoped a storm would linger rather than blow over, for he loved it when the weather was like this, dangerous and foreboding. He felt more alive. He felt dangerous.
He felt at all.
He could have found a million ways to further delay heading to the stables. For some reason, he still wanted desperately to stall for time. He wanted to savor the anticipation. Imagine the moment they would meet. Would they circle each other, two predators stalking their prey? Would they freeze, unable to think of what to say? Find nothing to say? Doubtful.
But his friend was anxious to acquaint himself with his sister, so before long, he stepped off the front stoop and turned down the worn path leading to the Bloomfield Park stables.
It was a short but steep walk to the stables and he had to work to slow his pace, so as not to start jogging down the trail with his descent. The wind breathed a song of rain, while it rustled the leaves of nearby trees and whipped his hair about his eyes. Despite the heaviness of his wool kilt, the wind was gusty enough to swirl the hem and stretch his pleats, threatening to give the residents and guests of Bloomfield Park a public showing of his nether regions should they be watching him through the south-facing windows.
Och, well. Let them see his bare arse. MacLeod couldn’t care less. He marched on in annoyance couched as determination, every step deliberate and hard.
His anticipation was rapidly turning to indignation.
MacLeod reached the stables and stepped inside, a shower of leaves followed in his wake and settled around his boots. The deep recesses of the stables were very dark, what with the overhead clouds all but blocking the sun.
Right away, MacLeod knew Amelia Chase wasn’t inside. For one thing, it was far too quiet, with only the shuffling of hooves and the occasional whinny or snort to be heard from a few of the older mares retired from service. The stable hands were out exercising the remaining cattle, leaving the inside of the stables disconcertingly quiet.
Maybe she had fallen asleep. He’d check every stall to be sure. One never knew. Especially with someone as unpredictable as she.
He was about to step further into the stables when he noticed the lantern on the floor to his right, mere inches inside the main doors, lit and unattended—a dangerous proposition in a wooden structure filled with dry hay. Usually, a stable boy was on hand to keep an eye on things, and lanterns were never left unattended on the ground.
“Halloo?” he called to the darkness.
MacLeod strained his ears, but no one answered his call. To his left was the tack room. He’d check the in there first, and when he found the stable boy, likely sleeping, he’d thrash the little scoundrel for his negligence in shirking his duties with a morning nap.
He wouldn’t really thrash the lad, but he’d give him a good scare for his carelessness.
MacLeod picked up the lantern and turned to his left. Between two freshly oiled saddles hanging from pegs in the wall, was the dark green door of the tack room, complete with a rusty iron door knob, the paint around it rubbed away from years of workmen’s hands reaching for the knob. The door was shut tight.
MacLeod shoved open the heavy oak door and stepped inside, holding the lantern up high as he did.
The room was quite dark, both from the many clouds darkening the sky and years of built up grime on the windows. Yet it was spotlessly clean, apart from the windows, and organized, and smelled of a complex mix of leather, rope, and oil, with a touch of liniment and oats. At first, the room appeared to be vacant, but then he spotted two small booted legs sticking out from around the shelves of gear to his right.
Right. As he’d thought. So, the rascal thought to nap on the floor in the corner, did he?
“Och, ye ken not to be napping on the job, lad. Now, step to.”
The legs, such as they were, started squirming in a bizarre, synchronized fashion.
Well that was verra strange.
MacLeod stepped forward with his lantern. Closer inspection revealed the lad’s legs to be bound with rope.
MacLeod set the lantern down on the desk and marched over to the boy, concern taking residence in his gut. The lad was on his side with his hands tied behind his back and a length of cloth serving as a gag. The boy’s tears cut trails of white through the dirt and grime otherwise covering his face. MacLeod did his best to ignore the lad’s bright, pleading eyes as he set to removing the bindings. Responding to the plea with pity would only embarrass the boy.
“There now, lad. Let’s see what we have here.”
Sniffle.
“I take it someone got the drop on ye, eh?”
Sniffle.
“There’s no shame in that son. It happens even to the best of us.”
It took a moment, but before long MacLeod finished untying the boy and sat back on his heels while the young one wiped his nose and eyes with his shirt sleeves. He had no kerchief with which to assist the boy in his task.
Sniffle.
“E-Even you?” came a small, still trembling voice.
“Aye, lad. Even me.”
MacLeod stood up and the boy’s eyes widened as he watched, surprise writ plainly upon his face. Aye, he was a big man. A boy that age would find it difficult to believe someone could ever get the better of him. And they hadn’t for a verra long time.
He held out his hand to the boy and pulled him up. “Why don’t we take a step outside, son, and perhaps you can tell me what happened.”
“Yes…Yessir.”
The boy followed meekly behind, not quite over his involuntary captivity, but too proud to want that fact pointed out.
They found a bench under a nearby oak tree and sat. MacLeod turned toward the boy, hands by his side, while the boy kicked his legs back and forth in the dirt.
“Go on, son,” he prodded, “Tell me what happened.”
“T’were Mr. Kelly, sir.”
The boy spoke to his feet, and could barely be understood, but MacLeod was used to listening and had remarkable ears for all that.
“You know Mr. Kelly?”
“Yessir.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve, again. “I was coiling a length of rope when he walked in carrying that nice lady with the funny accent what’s been hanging out in the stables off and on the past fortnight.”
The boy ducked his head again, while he drew slow circles in the dirt with his feet now. “I-I saw her ankles…” his voice faded as he spoke until he didn’t say anything at all.
After a moment, it was clear the lad was too ashamed to continue.
“That’s all right, lad. Och, it weren’t yer fault for all that.”
MacLeod’s show of support seemed to embolden the boy for he continued, speaking quickly as young men were wont to do. “Mr. Kelly told me she’d been hurt, and it was plain she was a-visitin’ her dreams. So Mr. Kelly says I was to go in the tack room to fetch some supplies. But while I was in there, bent over cleaning out a bucket, he walked in and…well, you can prob’bly guess the rest, sir.”
Sniffle.
“Aye. I ken.”
The boy wiped his nose again, then, “He arrived on a big black horse, with two socks on the forelegs only a few minutes before. I’d barely had time to tend to his horse before he returned. From what I could hear, it sounded like he left on ‘im as well.”
“Likely. How long ago would ye say?”
“I’m not sure. Prob’bly the better part of an hour, I’d say.”
MacLeod stood. “Chin up son, Mr. Kelly is a big man. There’s no shame in what happened to you.”
Then, he reached up and ruffled the boy’s head, the gesture unexpected, before turning on his heel and storming off.
Bollocks.
He set a hurried pace back to the house. He’d done his best to soothe the lad’s fears, but he wasn’t exactly good at that sort of thing. People, even children, simply weren’t his forte.
And it was all made worse as he was utterly desperate to leave the lad and hie off after Amelia Chase.
Argh, Kelly. Damn him. They were su
pposed to be working for the same team. He, Kelly, Dansbury, and the Duke of Stonebridge—they were all investigating the Society for the Purification of England, a secret society of noblemen who weren’t afraid to murder anyone who stood in the way of them achieving their primary objective: ridding England of anyone who wasn’t pureblooded English. Particularly the Irish.
Kelly was Irish. So what could possibly have motivated him to switch sides?
MacLeod marched into the library to auditory chaos. Aunt Harriett was arguing with Beatryce, who was arguing with Dansbury, who was, characteristically, laughing at them all between whatever points he was trying to make. Stonebridge and his wife, Grace, were merely watching.
“Could you be serious for a moment, Cliff, or I’ll walk right out of this room and handle it myself.” Ah, there was the Beatryce he knew.
Lady Beatryce was the first person to notice his return. “MacLeod! Did you find her?” She made to look past his shoulder. “Where is she?”
“She’s been kidnapped,” he replied, blunt as always.
“What?!” everyone exclaimed at once. Dansbury no longer looked his amiable self, his trip to furious took less than two seconds.
Stonebridge was right there with him. They both wore matching murderous expressions.
And they all looked at him. For a moment, they were all silent, waiting for him to speak.
MacLeod remained mute, surely they didn’t need him to repeat himself? He’d been perfectly succinct. They didn’t have time to discuss this. They needed to leave. Now.
Then everyone, except him, of course, started talking at once again.
“Call the magistrate.”
“Fetch the butler.”
“We can track her down.”
MacLeod wanted to run from the room with his hands on his ears from the cacophony of sound bruising his ears. Instead he added, “It was Kelly.”
That quieted everyone for a moment.
The duke said, “He won’t harm her.”
Everyone else turned to look at Stonebridge, incredulous. The tension around the room was palpable.
MacLeod stormed over and got in his face. “And ye know this how? Are ye willing ta stake her life on it?”
The duke grew angry in return. “Back off, man. There is more to this than you know.”
MacLeod held his position. “Well, why don’t you enlighten the rest of us, then?”
The duke shook his head. “You know I cannot.”
MacLeod threw his hands in the air, but didn’t back down. “Well, that’s no’ guid enough for me!”
“Duke,” Dansbury interrupted, “This game of cat and mouse with Kelly has been going on for far too long. You know this. This time, he has gone too far.”
The duke nodded his head in agreement but stood his ground. “He won’t harm her.”
“Ye. Canna. Know. That,” bit out MacLeod. But he did take a step back then, and more softly, he added. “And I’ll be the one to track her doon.”
For the most part, everyone remained silent at his pronouncement, likely stunned.
“She’s my sister, MacLeod,” argued Dansbury from somewhere behind him.
“You just got married,” he shot back over his shoulder, though he never broke eye contact with the duke.
Surprisingly, Beatryce walked out of the room without uttering a word. It seemed it was a day for odd behavior.
For a moment all was quiet, though it didn’t remain that way for long. As if on cue, everyone began speaking at once as they voiced their own suppositions of the events leading up to this point.
And for the next half an hour, he and Dansbury argued over who should go after Amelia, with Aunt Harriett and Grace occasionally chiming in with their opinions. The duke maintained his insistence that Kelly wouldn’t harm her, stubborn bastard, and Dansbury, eventually, seemed to support his supposition, which simply pissed off MacLeod that much more.
It was the most MacLeod had talked in a month. And it was absurd that he was doing so when they should be marching out the door before the trail turned cold. He was beside himself with the urgent need to walk out on everyone and begin his search, despite the duke’s weak reassurances, but Dansbury was correct. Amelia Chase was his sister; MacLeod had no right. Not really.
Still, it didn’t fucking matter. Nothing and no one would stop him from searching for her, from finding her.
But damn, when Dansbury needed to speak his mind, he really needed to say it. “It’s not right for you to go. You’re not related. And you don’t seem to like her very much. I’ll not have my sister treated to your brand of stony, silent non-communication, MacLeod. Not after…”
Dansbury’s latest argument died in his throat as Lady Beatryce walked in wearing trousers, of all things.
“While you gents were wasting time arguing,” she said as she dropped a saddlebag on a nearby chair, “I’ve saddled the horses. I, for one, am leaving now. You had best hurry if you want to join me.”
Beatryce turned her back on them and made to leave.
Dansbury looked over at MacLeod, and with a wink to him despite the seriousness of the situation, said aloud, “Sure darling, you have my permission to join us,” and with a final nail in his coffin, added, “This time.”
MacLeod winced. Apparently, Dansbury still enjoyed provoking his bride even though they were ‘in love’ and now, married. Till death do them part.
Which might be sooner rather than later, knowing Lady Beatryce. She was not one to be told what to do.
Lady Beatryce froze, lifting her shoulders. MacLeod imagined her anger leaping off those squared shoulders in giant emotion-filled waves.
But when she turned around, he knew right away he was wrong. Rather than spitting fire and brimstone, the ice queen had returned—no emotion was to be found in her expression at all.
Which was far worse. He turned to wish his friend a good journey to the afterlife…
…but Dansbury simply grinned like a fool, with a smile that held a certain amount of pride. If anything, he was smiling even more than he had been before he made such a ridiculous, needling statement.
Lady Beatryce walked over to Dansbury, her steps deliberate and steady, and with every footstep she took, Dansbury’s grin widened further. “I can see by the smile on your face that you don’t really mean what you said. And since it is our wedding day, I’ll let your provoking statement slide.” She kissed him once, briefly, on the lips, but then her eyes narrowed in warning. “But I’m promising you now…if you ever think to control me in such a fashion in the future, I’ll be having your bollocks with my afternoon tea.”
Then she patted his cheek with a smile, turned on her heel, and left.
Dansbury looked over at MacLeod with a grin and a shrug and said, “That’s my woman,” with more than a touch of delight coloring his tone. He followed his wife out the door.
“Aye.” MacLeod agreed.
Thank God fer that.
Chapter Fourteen
The Next Day: Possibly in Her Bed at Bloomfield Park, Or Possibly Not
It was dark and the air, stifling.
Amelia Chase took a slow, deep breath as she came to in drawn out stages. She was stiff and ached all over, as if she’d slept hard for a full night without once moving in her sleep. She tried, unsuccessfully, to roll over. Her skirts were twisted and had ridden up to her waist, partially covering her head.
Well, that wasn’t so unusual, she was ever a restless sleeper. But why in the world had she gone to bed in her skirts? Again.
The room swayed unsteadily for a moment, and it was a deuced unsettling sensation. That coupled with her groggy head made her wonder if she’d indulged too heavily at her brother’s wedding the day before. Her tongue was so dry and swollen, she felt as if she hadn’t had a drink of water in two days.
The bed dipped again. “Stop shaking the bed, drat you,” she muttered aloud. Someone in her brother’s household was downright inconsiderate.
A man chuckled, the sound
and the voice distant but fleetingly familiar.
Something strange is going on here. How many glasses of sherry did I have?
Still somewhat groggy and knowing a headache was imminent, she kept her eyes closed and pushed past her personal discomfort as she relied on her remaining senses to orient herself. She could smell leather and feel a touch of wet velvet beneath her cheek. Between that and the constant rocking motion, and she began to suspect she wasn’t in a bed at Bloomfield Park after all, but rather a bedroom courtesy of a moving carriage. One that was moving at a reasonably fast clip based on the rapid cadence beneath her.
Amelia shifted again. Ah. She was lying on her side, legs bent, probably on one of the benches. She tried to straighten her legs, but hit a wall before she could straighten them completely. She pushed with her legs and slid up the seat until her head touched the other wall. Alas, she was finally able to stretch out completely, although she was still somewhat cramped. She wiggled her toes.
Huh, where are my shoes?
She flexed her stockinged feet against the wall.
Definitely no shoes…
She kept her eyes closed and searched her elusive memories. Right. She’d been at her brother’s house. Tick. She reached up and rubbed at her forehead as she struggled to recall the rest. Oh—yes, Kelly had climbed into the room through the window and said something about having no choice but for her to leave with him. She’d laughed in his face, turned on her heal to leave, then, nothing…
Oh, God!
Amelia eyes flew open and she lurched upright onto her elbow as the rest of her memories came hurtling to the forefront of her mind. He’d drugged her, dash it all! Ciarán Kelly had drugged her.
The sudden movement almost made her vomit and she gagged a bit before her stomach settled.
Amelia looked about the carriage and homed in on Kelly sitting across from her. Her eyes felt gritty with sand despite her obvious slumber.
Kelly was somewhat disheveled, the stubble of several days of growth upon his face and no cravat to speak of. His black hair hung in his eyes, making his face appear shrouded with darkness, yet those intense, ice blue eyes seemed to glow from within the recesses of his veiled countenance. He was staring out the window, one hand fisted against his mouth, deep in thought and no longer paying her any mind whatsoever.
