by Tarah Scott
Father Fynn walked down the aisle toward the door. He halted when Marcus entered the sanctuary. They stared at one another for a moment, then the priest said, “You're here about the jewelry?”
Marcus felt another vicious twist to his insides. “Aye.”
Father Fynn nodded. “Come with me.” He turned and started toward the altar.
Marcus followed him to the back of the church. He hesitated when the priest paused before the altar to make the sign of the cross. Left led to the room where Elise had lain. Father Fynn turned right, but Marcus's knees weakened nonetheless. They continued down a short corridor and entered a modest bedchamber. Father Fynn stopped before a desk in the far corner and opened a drawer. He retrieved a folded paper, then faced Marcus.
“I wanted no mistakes. When I saw the quality cut of Lady Ashlund's clothes, I assumed she had met with highwaymen. Therefore, the fact she wore no jewelry did no' surprise me. I thought no more of it until Sara MacPhee, one of my parishioners, arrived early this morning. According to her, her son discovered your wife. I didn't know that when I spoke to you earlier because it was James MacAlphie who alerted me to the presence of Lady's Ashlund's body in the loch.” Father Fynn paused. “You must understand, the jewels represent a lifetime of wealth to these people.” Marcus made no response and Fynn went on. “The long and short of the matter is that Sara's son took the jewelry.”
Marcus clenched his hands into fists.
“The boy is gone. You could find him, of course, and would be well within your rights to extract payment. A man of your position could sentence the boy to a lifetime of imprisonment.”
Marcus envisioned the boy hanging alongside the three men who had been entrusted with Elise's life.
Father Fynn unfolded the paper. “Sara saw the jewelry. She described a thin, gold bracelet and a brooch—”
“I am well aware of my wife's jewelry,” Marcus snapped.
He strode to Father Fynn and snatched the paper from his hands.
“Of course.” Father Fynn hesitated. “Lord Ashlund, I pressed Sara for information concerning the brooch. It was the most valuable of the items, so I had hoped—”
“Most valuable?” Marcus demanded coldly. “My wife's wedding ring was far more valuable. The emerald is three karats. The gold, twenty-four karat. The ring has been in my family for generations. It is priceless.”
Father Fynn looked startled. “Emerald? What emerald?”
“She packed the ring in her valise with the chain and brooch.”
The priest pointed to the paper Marcus held. “I swear, Lord Ashlund, there was no emerald ring. Wait, there is this.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded the document and handed it to Marcus.
He lifted the paper and recognized the pawnbroker's ticket for Elise's wedding band.
Thick gold wedding band his mind repeated the words on the document. Elise had kept the pawn ticket. Why?
Marcus riveted his gaze to Father Fynn. “Where is this Sara MacPhee?”
Fear crossed the priest's face.
“I will not harm her.”
Father Fynn hesitated, then said, “I cannot stop you.”
“No,” Marcus said, his voice hard. “No one can.”
* * *
In the predawn hours the next morning, the door to Marcus's study opened and Justin and Kiernan entered. The time of reckoning had arrived.
“Justin,” Marcus said, without shifting his attention from the instructions he was preparing for Harris, “go home.”
“Father,” Kiernan said, forcing Marcus's attention to the chair Justin was settling into and his son standing beside it.
Marcus met Kiernan's gaze and he saw the pain on his face, but only broke the connection saying, “You will return to school.”
“I will stay.”
“Staying will not stop me.” He looked at Justin. “Nor yours.”
“I will not leave,” Kiernan asserted.
Marcus swung his attention onto his son. “You will return to school. Refuse, and I will have you bound and taken back to Brahan Seer, where you will remain until I return.”
“If you return,” Kiernan shot back.
“You are old enough to understand—”
“Old enough to understand a fool's errand when I see one.”
“The boy deserves an explanation,” Justin said.
Marcus stared at his son, then looked at Justin. This was the first the two of them had demanded an explanation for his actions of the previous evening. He understood that he might appear insane. When he'd left the church in search of Sara MacPhee, he hadn't commanded them to leave, but neither had he explained the hurried ride to her home, nor the search of the immediate area when her cottage was found empty.
No words were spoken on the return trip home and Justin and Kiernan didn't accost him when he closeted himself in his study the length of the night. They knew nothing of what he'd read in the preliminary report entitled “Elisabeth Kingston” that had sat on his desk until last night. Kingston. At last, he knew her name. Marcus closed his eyes. Why did you not tell me, Elise? Too late, he knew her identity and why she was in the Scottish Highlands.
The daughter of a wealthy shipping baron, Elise had lost her father at age fifteen. She was now thirty—older than he'd thought. She married Robert Kingston—not Riley, as she had called him—seven years ago. Amelia Kingston had been born a year after the marriage. Amelia died aboard the ship that bore her name. Robert, too, had died. Only, he hadn't drowned in the wreckage of the ship but had been brought down by a bullet administered by his wife. Marcus's wife, the Marchioness of Ashlund, was wanted for murder. What pushed a woman to murder her husband?
Marcus's man of affairs had attempted to find the Amelia's captain to answer that question, but ship and captain were on an extended voyage to Australia and wouldn't return for six more months. He'd located only one crewmember who had been aboard the Amelia on that voyage. The crewmember told of a nasty storm that had raged the night Elise had been lost at sea. Robert appeared on deck during the storm. He had a pistol, but before he could use it, Elise shot him. He returned fire as he fell. Steven was hit, but not mortally wounded. Elise had told him Steven went down with the ship. She must have believed Steven dead by her husband's bullet.
A massive wave struck the ship and swept Elise overboard. Everyone in America thought her dead, which didn't explain the notice advertised by her stepfather, Price Ardsley, that named her murderer. The investigator included in his report the rumor that Price Ardsley was unhappy with the twenty-five percent interest in Landen Shipping, which had fallen to Elise on her twenty-fifth birthday. If not for the twenty-six percent her brother controlled in Landen Shipping, her interest would be of small consequence to Price Ardsley.
The Amelia never docked in London, but did arrive back in Boston three weeks later. Two months ago, another ship owned by Landen Shipping arrived in the southern dock at Rotherhithe, Scotland. Price Ardsley had been aboard the ship.
Marcus picked up the envelope that contained the report on Elise and tossed it to Justin. He caught it and they made eye contact.
“You have one hour.” Marcus looked at Kiernan. “Then I leave for Glasgow.”
* * *
Marcus paused on the boardwalk outside the shabby pawnbroker's shop and scanned the dock. Despite the early hour, hackneys passed in both directions on the street beside him and Justin, and sailors strode along the walkways, while others loaded and unloaded supplies and goods. A woman, likely one of the notoriously dishonest public house landlords the riverside teemed with or one of the brothel madams, hurried across the road. This was the neighborhood Elise had been in when Daniel found her. Marcus shuddered at what could have happened to her, then remembered what had happened to her less than half an hour from Ashlund.
“Are you all right?” Justin asked.
Marcus nodded, then entered the shop. A small man stood behind the counter in the rear of the room, his back to them as he examine
d an item Marcus assumed belonged to the man who stood on the other side of the counter. The man behind the counter turned. His gaze fell first on Marcus, then flicked to Justin and returned to Marcus. His eyes widened. Marcus glanced at the gold pocket watch the man clutched before the hand disappeared behind his back. Marcus strode toward the man with Justin following. The customer turned. He didn't step aside as they stopped beside him, only scrutinized Justin, who stood closest.
“Do we know one another?” Justin asked with a lift of his brow.
The man gave a rough laugh. “Nae, canna' say I've had the pleasure.”
Justin turned to the man behind the counter. “Are you the proprietor, sir?”
The man shifted uneasily. “I dinna' know as I'd say the proprietor.”
“What are ye talking about, Jack?” the customer cut in. “You owned this shop your whole life. Got it from your dad.”
“Bart,” Jack growled, “mind your business.” Jack scurried toward the far end of the counter. He flipped a section of the counter up, passed through, and hurried toward Bart. Jack pressed the watch into his hand. “Be on your way,” he growled, and shoved Bart toward the door.
“Now, see here,” Bart began, but halted when his gaze met Marcus's. He looked from Marcus to Justin. “Bloody gentry. Think they own the world.” He continued grumbling as he shuffled toward the door.
The hustle and bustle of passing hackneys and men's shouts filled the room as he opened the door, then cut off abruptly when the door banged shut.
Jack hurried back behind his counter. He stopped across from Marcus and Justin. “Now, what can I do for you gentleman?”
From inside his jacket pocket, Marcus produced the pawn ticket for Elise's wedding band and placed it on the counter. “I am here about this ring.”
The shop owner picked up the paper and began reading it. “Ahh, yes, I knew her husband would come for this one day. Yes, I did,” he added as he scurried toward a curtained doorway in a corner behind the counter. “A fine piece of jewelry, this one. No' something a man is likely to be pleased about his wife selling.” Jack paused, hand on the curtain and looked over his shoulder. “Your wife” He looked from Justin to Marcus. “Er, your wife, m'lord?”
Marcus nodded.
“I can see you have the situation well in hand.” Jack disappeared behind the curtain.
A moment later, Jack burst through the curtain, a fragment of folded velvet in hand. He laid the fabric on the counter before Marcus and unwrapped it. Marcus stared at the gold band glistening against the black fabric.
“I—” he began.
“Well, there you are,” Justin interrupted. “Just as you knew it would be.” Justin looked at him. “That'll teach you something of a woman's wrath.”
Marcus stared blankly at him.
Justin turned to Jack. “You know how women are.”
“Oh, indeed, m'lord. Indeed, I do.”
Justin produced a roll of banknotes from his pocket. “How much did you pay her?”
Jack picked up the paper. “Here it is.” He pointed a bony finger at the figure scrawled in the bottom corner of the paper. “Five sovereign.”
Justin counted out ten pound notes. “I trust this will account for your efforts.”
Jack's eyes glittered. “Aye, m'lord. Indeed, it will, indeed, it will.”
He snatched up the notes as though expecting Justin to change his mind and stuffed them into his pocket. He rewrapped the ring, then produced a small wooden box from beneath the counter and placed the ring inside. He looked at Marcus and extended the box toward him.
“There you go, m'lord. As good as new.”
Marcus took the box.
“Good day to you,” Justin said, and looked at Marcus. “Come along, my good fellow. You'd best get back and deal with this matter straight away.”
Jack snickered, but Marcus paid no heed as he followed the earl out the door. Justin took a few steps on the walkway, then stopped, looking toward the east.
“What is it?” Marcus demanded, following his line of sight along the busy dock.
Justin looked in the opposite direction. “We left Kiernan hours ago. I expected him before this.”
“He is on his way to London as I instructed.”
Justin grunted. “You don't know your son as well as you might think.”
“What matters is that he knows me. I will make good on my threat to have him bound and taken back to Brahan Seer.”
“It doesn't matter if you threatened to dismember the boy, he will appear sooner or later. You should hope for sooner; that will allow you to keep him under your watchful eye.”
Marcus didn't reply. Instead, he opened the box containing the ring and removed it from the velvet wrapping. His heartbeat raced. The ring had been given to Elise by another man, but it belonged to her—was once a part of her. He closed his fingers into a fist around the ring. The cold metal warmed within his grasp. If he held the only remaining part of her, he could once again hold her.
“There is much in her past,” Marcus said to himself.
“You're thinking of Price Ardsley,” Justin said.
Marcus looked up sharply. “He's here. Or was.”
“There is something going on with him.”
“Imagine if she one day demanded the twenty-five per cent interest in Landen Shipping.”
“By God, Marcus,” Justin exclaimed. “You're as rich as the devil himself and still landed yourself an heiress.”
Marcus started.
“Bloody hell,” Justin muttered. “Deem me the fool I am. The words were out of my mouth before my brain could catch up.”
Marcus gave a tired smile. “An uncommon state of mind for you.”
Justin sighed, then gave him a long look. “You are going to America, then?”
“You won't dissuade me.”
Justin nodded. “It is only right her brother know what this Price Ardsley is made of.”
“I owe her that much,” Marcus replied. His mouth tightened. “By now the body is buried. Aye,” he said when his cousin opened his mouth to comment. “I should have been there.”
“I can't blame you for being unable to bear seeing her lain in the ground.”
Marcus gave a harsh laugh. “She will still be in the grave when I return.”
Justin gazed at the ships in the harbor. “We had better see the harbormaster.”
Marcus looked at him. “We? Nae, Justin. You aren't coming.”
The earl started forward. “I would say his office is where we entered the docks.”
Marcus hurried forward. Within arm's reach, he grasped Justin's shoulder and forced Justin to face him. “I didn't ask you to come.”
His expression remained impassive. “Of course not.”
“I will not have you risking your life.”
“Will you have me bound and sent back to Whycham House?”
“By God,” Marcus burst out, “if that's what it takes.”
Mild amusement crossed Justin's face. “You know me even less than your son.”
“Sophie will not allow this.”
“I already sent Sophie word I would be accompanying you to America.”
Marcus gaped.
“I'm not a complete fool,” Justin said.
“She won't be pleased.”
“She won't be pleased we left her behind.” Justin began walking.
“Justin!” Marcus strode after him.
* * *
The following morning, Marcus leaned against the railing of the Sallinger, absently fingering the wedding band in his trouser pocket. He stared across the harbor at the docks. The shouts of drivers in passing hackneys, dock workers, and merchants buying and selling wares faded into the background, replaced by a quiet whoosh as the brigantine skimmed through the water. Hearing footsteps behind him, he looked over his shoulder to see Justin approach.
“The captain has been kind enough to extend an invitation for breakfast,” Justin said.
Marcus nodded
. He glanced past the masts at the sun. Eleven years had passed since he'd last been outside Great Britain, fourteen since crossing the Atlantic. He squinted against the sunlight. A month from now, he would be seeing this same sun from Boston Harbor.
Only, it wouldn't be with Elise.
Chapter Eighteen
Marcus rolled onto Elise. The darkness prevented discerning even the outline of her face, but he heard her sigh. His chest pressed upon her breasts and she shifted, teasing him with a slight arch of her body. His heart beat fiercely, his body hard with an arousal that circumvented the disorientation clouding his mind. He yanked on her shift until he could spread her legs with a knee. He grasped her shoulders and, levering himself into position, thrust into her. With the first stroke, pleasure radiated through his body. Marcus pinned her against the mattress, each stroke increasing the deafening roar of blood through his veins.
Elise gasped. He lowered his full weight upon her, then rolled onto his back, keeping their bodies joined. Grasping the back of her knees, he slid them forward so that she straddled him. He gripped her waist and lifted her up until only the tip of his shaft remained inside her, then brought her down, up, down—she gripped his arms and he felt her weight shift as she threw her head back. He lifted her, slamming her onto him, faster, then faster, gripping her slim waist in a clasp that frightened him. Pleasure shot through him. He slammed her down harder. Arching to meet her—Marcus jerked awake, grasping the wet sheet covering his hips as he groaned. He continued to pump upwards for several strokes before slumping back onto the mattress.
His chest rose and fell in heavy gasps for several moments before his senses cleared enough to recognize the cabin that had held him captive for twenty-eight nights. Shafts of muted light streamed through the small glass skylights. His gut wrenched. Another dream. He closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw the flutter of Elise's eyelids when he brought her to her release. His shaft twitched. A muted shout overhead brought the sudden realization that the ship no longer rocked as it had while slicing through the Atlantic. Marcus yanked the sheet aside and jumped from bed. He strode the three paces to the door and stuck his head into the hallway.
“Lad,” he called to a boy at the far end of the corridor, “where are we?”
