What the Scot Hears

by Amy Quinton

  After what seemed like minutes and was probably only seconds, they came to an obvious agreement.

  Stonebridge began his descent first.

  Dansbury whispered over her shoulder, “Stonebridge will descend first, then MacLeod will lower Kelly to him.”

  His explanation made everything worse. Would they even have enough time? She wanted to roar her frustration, Demand MacLeod descend first, but she knew it was for the best even if she didn’t like the decision.

  Stonebridge had just touched his feet to the dock when MacLeod began to gently lower Kelly.

  She wanted to yell, Toss him over! No time for care!

  Her heart raced. Time ticked away faster than normal. Eventually, she couldn’t stop herself from yelling, “Hurry up, damn you!”

  It was the last thing she said before the first explosion rocked the very ground beneath her.

  Chapter Forty

  Dansbury shoved Amelia to the ground behind a stack of crates and covered her with his body while the entire world shattered around them.

  The crates toppled over them, creating a shelter of sorts, as she laid curled up beneath Dansbury, her knees scraped raw.

  All she could think of was MacLeod.

  Boom!

  Another explosion rumbled the very air, brightly exploding through the cracks in the cover surrounding her, then dimmed once more. Though shadows flickered and danced in her vision, evidence of still more fire raging without. Dansbury grunted above her, his breathing rapid and harsh.

  Amelia covered her ears and waited, though every instinct in her screamed, Get up! Find MacLeod!

  Boom.

  A third explosion sounded, and the noise seemed quieter now, more distant, though she suspected the ringing in her ears meant the sound was simply muffled through the reaction in her own body from the previous assault on her senses.

  Acrid smoke filled her nostrils, the smell of burning wood taking on a more pungent, darker aroma.

  Boom. Boom.

  Two more explosions sounded in rapid succession and Dansbury grunted once again.

  In total, five separate explosions shook the ground, the sound of the blasts still echoed loudly in her ears.

  They waited and waited for what seemed like hours before Dansbury began to dig them out of their makeshift shelter. Eventually, she stepped out of their pile of rubble, shocked they had even survived, and into a world that seemed to have turned into hell, though the sounds were muffled through her throbbing ears.

  Dansbury hugged her to him, an unexpected reaction that lifted her heart with joy. Then, he pushed her back and checked her all over, asking, “Are you hurt?”

  “No. I’m fine. Well, perhaps my ears are ringing a bit.”

  Dansbury wiped a smudge from her nose. “Ah, that’s to be expected. You’ll recover in a day or two. Let’s search for the others, shall we?”

  Together they turned toward the destruction. At first, there was nothing to see; the very air was heavy with black smoke. One or two areas were lit by fires, though they were smaller now than the soaring fifty foot flames from before.

  As if summed by her prayers, the wind picked up and cleared away much of the smoke. What was left was thorough destruction.

  “MacLeod!” she screamed in horror.

  There was no way he survived. She knew that. It simply wasn’t possible. She would search until she knew for certain, one way or another. She searched the face of every man who passed as she ran to the edge of the dock. There wasn’t much of the hull of the HMS Nightingale left and what was there was rapidly sinking beneath the surface. Wood sizzled as smoldering beams were swallowed by the sea.

  Still, Amelia searched the water valiantly, looking for any sign of MacLeod.

  “Stonebridge!” Dansbury shouted the duke’s name just before Amelia saw a man, his clothes singed and his shirt bloody and blackened, stumble into view. Dansbury ran to him, Amelia on his heels.

  “Bloody hell, I feel awful.” Came the duke’s unexpected reply.

  Amelia grabbed him by what remained of his shirt as he wobbled in place, one question on her mind. “Have you seen MacLeod?”

  Stonebridge shook his head, and Amelia released him, her eyes returning to scan the black waters of the sea. A man nearby shouted, and Amelia turned to see that one of the warehouses behind her had ignited, its interior filled with cotton.

  “Oh, God, that’ll go up quickly.”

  Amelia, more mercenary in her thoughts said, “Hopefully not too quickly, we can use the light.” All she cared about was finding MacLeod.

  Indeed, the flames from the warehouse lit up the sea, making it easier for her to see.

  All at once, she thought she saw something. A rounded shape on a scrap of flotsam. Could it be? She didn’t want to sound an alarm precipitously, but was it he…? Precious hope flared in her chest.

  Amelia began to pull off her undergarments. She needed to reduce the weight of her clothes, just in case. It was slow going, for she didn’t want to take her eyes from the hunched over shape floating in the distance.

  “Allow me.” Dansbury appeared before her, a knife in his hands, and she nodded her head once before seeking out the source of her excitement once again. Cool air bathed her legs as Dansbury cut through her skirts, shortening them indecently. But she didn’t care, and quite honestly she secretly loved how Dansbury never questioned her resolve, reasoning, or capability. How practical and so not overprotective like so many other men.

  “Done.”

  As soon as the words left his lips, she ran and dove into the icy water.

  She broke the surface thirty yards out, her shoes heavy and disgusting on her feet. They’d be ruined for sure if she even managed to keep them on as she swam.

  She didn’t care.

  She surfaced and found her target another two hundred yards before her and that was all that mattered.

  Her heart raced as she became more and more confident she’d found him. It gave her the surge of adrenaline she needed to carry on.

  She lost one shoe after fifty yards.

  And the other another fifty yards after that.

  It seemed to take an hour. Her lungs felt like they were going to burst in her chest.

  Eventually, she was within yards of his life raft and that was when she knew without a doubt.

  It was he. MacLeod.

  She laughed, then started crying immediately. Sobbing, actually, as she stroked. She had never known such joy as that moment. Never felt such relief.

  She reached him, and still she sobbed. His head was bloody. His eyes were closed. But he groaned and it was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard.

  She held on to him then, thrilled to feel his chest expand on a ragged breath. She sobbed once again when he said, his voice gruff from smoke said, “Aya lass, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

  Then he let out a soft snore.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Two Days Later: The Home of Some Nameless Nob, Liverpool

  Two days later, Stonebridge, Dansbury, Lady Beatryce, MacLeod, and Amelia Chase reconvened at the home of some nameless nob, MacLeod couldn’t quite remember who, to debrief and to try to make sense of the fallout of their run in with the Secret Society for the Purification of England.

  MacLeod crossed the threshold into the library, his head an aching, throbbing mess. He had stitches at his temple and on his chin and the scattered remnants of burns on his arms and face, none of them particularly severe. He might have a scar or two in the end to show for his efforts. In all, he was a damned lucky bastard.

  And good God, how many times had he absentmindedly rubbed his chin before remembering the stitches in place there? His burning jaw said at least one time too many. Och, he’d done it a dozen times at the very least.

  Though he’d prepared himself for the sight of her, he nearly stumbled when Amelia Chase stood upon his entry into the room. She was a sight for a starving man. He wanted nothing more than to pull her in his arms and hold h
er tight, melting in the heat of her embrace. He’d felt far too cold and edgy in recent days. He missed her, aye, he did.

  But Dansbury, damn the man, had kept her out of his reach while he recovered from his injuries.

  It was probably a good thing.

  It gave him plenty of time to think, but not enough time to reach any conclusions. In his defense, the pain in his head from the slight concussion didn’t lend itself to thinking too hard about anything.

  “Good. We’re all here,” began Stonebridge, “We’ll start with Mrs. Chase; she has few things to share.”

  Amelia looked at MacLeod while she spoke. “Lord Foster was not the man you seek.”

  “Was?” MacLeod interrupted.

  Dansbury spoke up, an unmistakable sense of pride colored his tone. “Lady Beatryce took care of that problem before we left the ship.”

  Lady Beatryce shrugged and answered, “He tried to take things a little too far, so I slit his throat.”

  “Ahem, I didn’t hear that.” interrupted Stonebridge, “Continue, Mrs. Chase.”

  Amelia dipped her head at the duke. “Thank you, Your Grace. Like I said, Lord Foster was not the man you seek.”

  MacLeod interrupted again. “How do you know this? And don’t say…”

  Amelia looked like she wanted to take off his head, judging by the glare she threw him. Still, she answered, “Spyder.”

  “Bloody hell, of course. But let me ask all of you. Why do you trust this man so much? What proof does he offer? And how the hell does he know?” asked MacLeod.

  The duke answered, “I’ve had contact with the man myself. Far more limited, though. You’ll have to trust me; he’s given me sufficient evidence to believe he speaks the truth. His motives, however, are questionable. This man is a person of interest I’d like to speak with myself.” The duke gave Mrs. Chase his trademark raised brow, the question there obvious to them all.

  MacLeod looked Amelia in the eye as he asked his next question, “Aye, and do we all trust her?”

  Amelia gasped in outrage. Aye, he was a bastard to the bone.

  But what he didn’t expect was Dansbury, who had shoved him against the wall practically before he’d finished asking his question.

  “That is my sister you’re besmirching with your backhanded accusations, and I won’t stand for it, you bastard.”

  “Get off me, friend.” MacLeod broke Dansbury’s hold, but didn’t shove him away. The man had every right to be angry. “I had to ask.”

  “But that’s where you are wrong. You didn’t have to ask. You, my friend, simply didn’t think.”

  “So are you claiming her as your sister, then? You believe Spyder?”

  “Oh, I know she’s my sister, you twat. First off, she fits. Here,” Dansbury touched his heart. “Besides, Aunt Harriett confirmed the truth. She’s the spitting image of my Aunt Gertrude in her youth. Aunt Gertrude is a woman who was ostracized from the family in her twenties. I never met her, but Harriett has a portrait of her at Bloomfield Place. There’s no question; the resemblance is remarkable.” Dansbury turned and walked over to Amelia, settling his arm around her and pulling her in tight to his side. “But even without all of that, she would be welcome in my home. I absolutely claim her as my sister.”

  MacLeod, his voice gruff with emotion, said, “You’re an honorable man, Dansbury, but—”

  Dansbury lifted his chin and so did Amelia, effectively cutting off what he was about to say. The familial resemblance between them was there for all to see.

  And it was a good thing he didn’t finish what he was going to say for he knew he was digging himself a very big hole he might never crawl out of with his cutting words. He needed to return to bed. To get well. To get over the hurt and betrayal which still lingered in his heart like a persistent cough, causing him to say things he oughtn’t, despite the fact that he knew he had to let it all go. He needed to forgive. Himself. Amelia.

  He needed to forgive and forget.

  The duke, as efficient as ever, interjected here. “Now that we have that settled, we have another piece of business to attend to: Kelly. We were unable to find him after the explosion. We believe he’s fallen.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Two Weeks Later: Greenwood Castle, Scotland

  Alaistair grumbled, “Enter,” at his manservant’s knock. Mac walked in, or marched, more like, anger apparent in his every step. Mac didn’t even blanch at his unkempt state, MacLeod having not shaved nor hardly combed his hair in two weeks. Not since he let Amelia Chase walk out of his life.

  His shirt was opened, the sleeves rolled and wrinkled, and he wore his studio kilt, complete with bits of dried paint and clay, even though he was not in his studio but, rather, working on estate business in his study.

  He didn’t even have on shoes.

  “Is that a message for me?” inquired MacLeod.

  Mac’s only answer was a grunt.

  MacLeod supposed that was livid for Yes, you bastard.

  Mac placed the letter on his desk, turned on his heel, and marched out the way he came in—silent and angry. They were all furious with him. His brother. His cook. His dinners were cold, breakfast practically nonexistent. And no one made any pretense of joining him for a meal. Or a conversation. Or even a walk outside. It was as if he lived completely alone.

  MacLeod stared at the letter as if it were a snake about to bite.

  He didn’t want to touch it.

  He returned to his work; the bills had to be paid.

  He only glanced at the note six—no seven, truthfully—times in the next half hour.

  Still, he ignored it.

  It couldn’t be important.

  Curious, he picked it up. A feminine script addressed the envelope, the location Bloomfield Park, the home of Dansbury’s aunt, Lady Harriett Ross.

  MacLeod dropped the letter as if burned by it.

  No, it couldn’t be from her…from Amelia?

  MacLeod returned to his work.

  He glanced at it once. Twice.

  Eventually he threw down his quill and ripped it open, his eyes devouring the words before him in a matter of moments:

  Alaistair…dearest,

  Thank you, dear husband, for allowing me to take time to visit with my long lost brother, you ridiculous, confused man. It was very kind of you to agree to such a long…separation.

  While you are being so thoughtful and helpful, would you kindly see to the forwarding of my luggage? You see, I left behind quite a few items in my rooms at Greenwood Park…

  My heart being one of them.

  My love, another.

  Seriously, Alaistair…I miss you, so terribly much. I know we’ve had our troubles. I understand the value you place in trust, and I’m unbelievably sorry to have broken that with you.

  Would I do it all over again if I could?

  Yes, certainly…but in the same fashion as before. For you see, everything I am…and everything I did…led me to you.

  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Anyway, I look forward to seeing you at my debut ball in London.

  I know, I know, not a chance! But I remain ever hopeful that you will find your way back to me in time. If only to return my things.

  Until then, safe travels, my love.

  I Remain…

  Affectionately Yours, etc.

  Amelia

  MacLeod closed his eyes, briefly, then read the post script:

  P.S. Thank you for the adventure, the laughs. I forgive you, old man…you bumbling, pig-headed old flap-dragon.

  Alaistair MacLeod dropped her letter, then rubbed at the ache in his chest, a constant pain that hadn’t left since he’d parted ways with Amelia Chase two weeks prior.

  For long moments, he simply looked off into the distance, his sight not focusing on any one thing. He saw nothing but a future of bleak darkness and despair.

  Then he felt a spark. Was it hope? At first, it was as a small kernel of light deep in his chest. Then sl
owly, and persistently, it grew.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw Amelia. He saw her smile. He heard her laugh. He felt her caress. He remembered the worry in her eyes. Her fear for him.

  And just like that, hope exploded inside him. Hope and optimism and sun and everything that represented all those things. Oh, God—he loved her! He loved her like no other woman before her. And she loved him, too. He knew this with every fiber of his being, not just because of her words on the peace of foolscap before him, but through her actions, her emotions, her smile, her laughing eyes.

  And he knew exactly what he had to do to make it right.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Four Weeks Later: The Ballroom, Dansbury House, London

  It was to be her debut to society. Everyone who was anyone was here to meet the long-lost sister of the Marquess of Dansbury, Lady Amelia Ross. As expected, the new name took some getting used to, but in a way, having this new identifier was a way to be someone new, someone else. A chance to reshape herself, to shed her past and begin again. Here. Complete with a shiny new family. And so, she would accept the changes, even if such changes didn’t fit her quite so well…yet.

  The Dansbury Ballroom all but glittered in the light of a thousand candles. Drapes of shimmering silver framed the five French doors leading to the rear piazza. An ice sculpture the size of a small pony, but in the shape of a five-pointed reindeer stood amid two tables of silver dishes filled with all manner of food and drink. The reindeer? It was a joke between her and Dansbury. She still couldn’t believe he’d done it.

  Oh, everything sparkled and shined. So did Dansbury, for that matter, in his dark purple waistcoat shot with silver thread. And Amelia, too, was wrapped in velvet, silk, and diamonds from head to toe, all in deep plum, her favorite color.

  And yet she would have given the tiara off her head to be in Scotland. In Greenwood Park, to be perfectly precise. And wasn’t that the dumbest thing in the world to think at a time like this?