by Elisa Braden
“And that he’s spoken of nothing else since the day you met.”
“Also true. He said nothing whatever when we met yesterday.”
John folded his arms across his chest, leaned his backside against his desk, and stared at his boots. In this pose, he reminded Kate so much of Papa, her heart ached. Papa often wore a similar expression of exasperated disappointment. At the moment, she missed him terribly.
“John, I know you think I’ve made things worse—”
“You have.”
“—but I was trying to help. Whilst my tale is rather fanciful, it may give Sergeant Munro pause. Perhaps he will accept that Broderick’s attention has been monopolized by a pursuit other than murdering Lord Lockhart.”
Her brother rubbed his eyes with his thumb and finger. “Katie. You’ve just trained Munro’s sights squarely upon you, sweetheart.”
She flinched. “No, I—I told him nothing about what I saw.”
“But you lied,” he replied softly.
She wrung the shawl then twirled a curl then bit her lip and wrung the wool again. Then, she nodded, her stomach twisting harder than the tartan in her hands.
Annie finally spoke, her small hand grasping Kate’s. “English, I ken she told Munro a tall tale, but he cannae be certain it’s false.”
His mouth quirked. “Munro despises the MacPhersons, love. You know he resents them having eluded his men all those years with their whisky running. Now that the distillery is properly licensed, he’ll see this as his opportunity to achieve some measure of justice.”
“Aye.”
“Lockhart disappeared days before his release and the likely dismissal of his charges. Broderick must surely have known suspicion would land upon him. But he’s clever enough not to leave a bloody trail.”
Annie nodded, her mouth pale and pinched. “I ken.”
“Now, Kate’s little performance has put Munro onto the scent. He’ll know she was lying. He’ll know all he must do is hound her heels until she breaks.”
“How will he ken she’s lyin’? ’Tis outlandish to claim Broderick would be the jealous sort, I grant ye, but—”
“Love, trust me. He knew the moment she spoke.”
“Ye cannae ken such a thing for certain.”
John gave Kate a wry nod. “A demonstration, perhaps?”
Kate shrank into her seat. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Demonstration of what?” Annie demanded.
“Go on, Katie,” John nudged. “Lie to her.”
She didn’t want to. But as she stared down at the hand holding hers, offering strength and comfort when Annie’s family was the one at risk, Kate thought she must. So, she gathered up a story in her mind. She raised her eyes to Annie’s. Then, much as she’d done with Munro, she gave her performance her finest effort.
“I find haggis delightful,” she began. “Never have I so ardently disagreed with the characterization of a dish as ‘unspeakably vile.’ I still recall the first time I had it. Delicious.”
By the time Kate had finished her tall tale, her face was hot enough to cook a dish of vile haggis. And Annie’s eyes were watering with laughter.
“Och, Katie-lass.” She wiped a knuckle beneath her eye and released a series of hearty chuckles. “Why did ye never say ye hated the stuff?”
“I don’t hate it … precisely.”
Another round of laughter from her sister-in-law. “Oh, ye must stop. My belly’s achin’, and the bairn must be wonderin’ what’s so amusin’.”
Feeling half-sick and half-embarrassed, Kate squeezed Annie’s hand.
Annie squeezed back. “Now, I ken why yer brother is a wee bit puckered. We’ve had dealings with Munro before. He’s no dull blade, that’s for certain.” She patted Kate’s arm and cast a worried glance at her husband. “And I’m afraid John is right, Katie-lass. Ye’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen.”
Kate nodded. Regrettably, it was true. Every time a lie left her lips, her face flooded with red color and flashing heat. Her voice went abnormally high, and her eyes went abnormally wide.
“What do we do?” she asked John.
“You must return to England. I’ll write Mama and Papa today.”
Her heart sank. “But I haven’t finished my novel. Play. It might be both, actually. I haven’t decided. Regardless, I must finish Sir Wallace’s story. John, please.”
“I’m sorry, little sister. You’ll have to use that vivid imagination of yours.”
“There must be another way.”
“There isn’t. Munro hates the MacPhersons. He’ll pursue this without quarter. If he suspects you have information that will help convict Broderick, he will compel you to testify. I cannot have you anywhere near this mire, let alone at the center of it.”
“I’ll simply refuse to answer. I’ll stay hidden in the castle. I’ll avoid him entirely.” Kate swallowed. “Please don’t send me away.”
She’d written a third of her story in the past three weeks. The previous third had taken her a year. Scotland was her muse. Every green slope and drop of water. Every rolled R and throat-clearing och. Every warm tartan plaid and plaintive bagpipe wail.
In England, she was nothing but an earl’s daughter. Future wife. Future mother. Future hostess of tedious dinners beginning with white soup and ending with pointless conversation. Future vessel to be filled with another family’s aristocratic legacy then forgotten after the children were grown.
Here, she could be more. An author. A playwright. An artist of the page and stage renowned for more than her fertility and pleasant disposition. Well, perhaps renowned was a bit much. Independent. Yes, that was better. She needn’t be renowned, merely self-sustaining.
Kate watched as Annie stood and moved to John’s side. Then, she wrapped her arms around him and laid her cheek upon his chest. He enfolded his wife protectively, and Kate felt an odd pang. She dropped her gaze to her lap.
Faintly, she heard Annie whisper, “I cannae go through it again, English. I’d rather die than see him sent back to that godforsaken prison.”
Kate’s eyes flew up. “B-back to prison?”
“We won’t let it happen, love.”
Confusion spun inside Kate’s mind, making her dizzy. Broderick had been imprisoned before? What had happened? Why had he been released? And what in blazes was going on?
After so many hours of shock and uncertainty, she’d had quite enough. Rising, Kate positioned herself in John’s line of sight. “Explain, if you please. Broderick was imprisoned? For what crime?”
“Katie.”
“No. Do not speak to me like I’m seven, John.” She shrugged off her shawl and tossed it behind her. “I am not the one who took a man from the Inverness jail and beat him to death with my own hands. That was him. Indeed, I am the one who stumbled upon it, frightening me out of my wits. I’m the one who is forced to see the blood and hear the sounds—”
He reached out to stroke her arm. “Hush, little one.”
“—of fists cracking bone.” Her voice thinned. “Every time I close my eyes. Every time.” She pulled away. “Why should I be punished for what he did?”
“You shouldn’t.”
In John’s eyes, she saw the pain he carried for Annie, who hadn’t moved from his embrace. “At least tell me what’s going on,” Kate whispered. “I deserve that much, wouldn’t you say?”
Annie shuddered. When she turned, her eyes were mournful. “Aye, Katie-lass. Ye deserve to ken what ye saw.”
After they returned to their seats, Annie began her explanations, describing how her “favorite” stepbrother had become the monster of Kate’s nightmares.
“He was braw as a clear sky over snowy pines. Ah, ye should have seen him. Handsomer than Rannoch or Alexander, though dinnae tell them I said so. And better. He was better than all of us.” Annie paused to smile. Blue eyes glossed. “Until last year. Until Edinburgh.” Blue eyes squeezed closed, and h
er smile turned into a grimace of grief.
“What happened in Edinburgh?”
Blue eyes opened. Overflowed. “The devil came for him. And the devil won.”
CHAPTER THREE
One year earlier
September 1825
Leith, Scotland
“Have a care with that crate—bluidy hell, man.” Broderick MacPherson cursed the carelessness of younger brothers.
From the back of the wagon, Rannoch shot him a grin. “Gift for yer sweet dove, eh?” He shook the crate he’d just dropped from his full height of six feet, seven inches. The clink of broken china amidst a bed of straw was pure mockery. “Cost ye a wee bit, I reckon.” Another grin, this one accompanied by laughter.
“Daft bugger,” Broderick grumbled. “’Twas a gift for Annie. She’s never had a proper china tea set before.”
Rannoch’s laughter faded. “Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry.”
“Aye, ye are sorry. And ye’ll be buyin’ her another to replace it.”
Sighing, Rannoch nodded and jumped down from the wagon before repositioning the crate with exaggerated care.
Their two older brothers, Campbell and Alexander, exited the warehouse where they’d been delivering a load of MacPherson whisky. Like all the MacPhersons, they were over six-and-a-half feet tall and built along their da’s lines—heavy-boned and muscular with massive shoulders. All of them had dark hair and eyes, like their da. They all had square jaws and rough edges. And, to greater or lesser degrees, they’d all inherited a share of Angus’s black temper.
Alexander had the worst of it in that regard, though he’d learned to channel his darker nature in more productive directions over the years.
Campbell was the slowest to anger, but also the quietest. At eight-and-a-half inches above six feet, he was technically the tallest, topping Broderick by a half-inch and Rannoch and Alexander by a wee bit more. They were all leaner than Campbell, whose powerful arms and millstone fists could put them on the ground with one swipe. Everybody was glad Campbell was the patient one.
By contrast, Rannoch was the charmer, particularly with the lasses. Every bit of trouble he’d ever landed in had been because of a lass or drink or, more often, both.
As for Broderick … well. One of them had to negotiate business contracts and keep a cool head while the excisemen jockeyed for steeper bribes. If they ever wanted to be a properly licensed distillery with legitimate distribution to England, the Continent, and perhaps even America, one of them had to develop a bit of polish, smile for the solicitors, and court the government men. That had fallen to Broderick. His brothers called him the peacemaker. Annie called him her favorite. Broderick thought of himself as the sensible one.
Alexander glared at the crate Rannoch was sliding gingerly to one side of the wagon. “What the devil is that? A gift for yer wee dove?”
Being sensible was seldom easy with this lot. “I told ye, I dinnae have a dove, wee or otherwise,” Broderick replied, checking off the last of the load from his list.
“Then, who’s been sendin’ all those letters that smell like Mrs. MacBean’s headache tonic?”
Broderick shook his head. “’Tis lavender, ye eejit.”
Alexander gave a sardonic smirk. “Noticed ye didnae answer my question.”
Campbell’s deep rumble intruded. “Leave off. He says he doesnae have a lass, so that’s that.”
Broderick nodded his thanks to his oldest brother and started for the warehouse, where he had some business to finish before the day was done.
“Wee bit of a curiosity, then,” Alexander called after him.
Broderick kept walking.
“Want to hear why?”
“Nah,” Broderick answered without slowing.
“But the question must be asked, brother,” Alexander mocked. “If ye havenae any lass, nor any dove, who’s that fair bit o’ muslin waitin’ inside, eh?”
He stopped. Closed his eyes. Removed his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and muttered a foul curse.
She’d returned. He’d told her to stay away.
“Meet me at the inn,” he barked over his shoulder as he shoved through the old, rusted door. The warehouse was a cavernous building stacked with casks and crates. A few high windows let in dusty light. Near the back was a partitioned area with a small table and several chairs.
It was there she waited.
She was slim and graceful. Tall for a woman. She wore her flaxen hair in loose curls that always looked as though she’d been recently kissed. Her lips looked the same, full and ripe. Her beauty was rosebud innocence.
He’d been fooled at first.
They’d met last spring while he was shopping for a copper kettle along Princes Street. He liked bringing home gifts for his wee sister, who did so much for them—cooking and mending and managing her brothers with honest affection. Annie was a pure blessing, if a wee bit sharp-tongued from time to time. He’d wanted to buy her something to make her eyes light up, so he’d gone to an expensive shop in the most expensive part of the city.
A woman with flaxen hair and rosebud innocence had gazed up at him through a veil after pondering a pair of candlesticks for much too long. Then, she’d asked if he was making a purchase for his wife.
Within an hour, their conversation had progressed from politeness to attraction to flirtation. He hadn’t recognized how deftly she’d steered him until much later. Outside the shop, she’d invited him to ride with her in a nearby green, and he’d learned she lived in one of the fashionable houses along Queen Street.
When he’d asked about her family, she’d demurred, saying only that they lived in the country while she preferred town. She hadn’t explained how an unmarried woman could afford to live in such a fine house all alone.
Now, months later, he looked her up and down—her elegant velvet riding habit, her embroidered kid gloves, her slender waist, and satiny skin that required the costliest creams and powders to maintain. And he felt no bitterness, no betrayal. Only a pang of sympathy.
“Cecilia,” he murmured.
Her back stiffened. Her head lowered. She didn’t turn around. “Broderick.” The single word ached with longing.
“We agreed ye shouldnae seek me out again, lass.”
Full lips pressed together as she gripped the back of a chair. “I had to. Ye havenae answered me.”
Slowly, he approached her. “Ye ken that’s not true.”
“I will leave him, Broderick.”
“We’ve discussed this.”
“If I kenned ye’d have me, I’d leave him this very day.”
He came to stand beside her, noting how tightly she clutched her wee purse. It was silk. “If ye wish to leave him, then I will help ye. But—”
She turned and threw her arms around his waist, clutching him like the last rock before a precipice. “Please,” she moaned. “Please.”
Lightly, he stroked her thin shoulders. In that moment, he almost wished he loved her. She did need someone—someone who would not demand she wear a veil in public, who would let her eat what she wished and hire her own maids. Someone who would treat her as something other than an ornament to be used for his pleasure then stored inside a gilded vault.
Broderick couldn’t do what she begged. But he could offer kindness. Every woman deserved that much. “I cannae be yer man, Cecilia. Ye ken why.”
“Because I lied to ye,” she whispered.
“Aye.”
“And ye dinnae love me.”
He hesitated. It was harsh, but the truth must be said. “No, lass. I dinnae.”
She clutched him harder, her fingertips digging into his back. “Ye’re the only man who’s ever asked why I paint the sea,” she choked. “The only man who’s ever asked why I eat asparagus soup when ’tis plain it makes me queasy.” She flattened herself along his front. With her height, her wee riding hat brushed his chin. “We needn’t marry,” she continued. “I
cannae give ye bairns, anyway. But ye could keep me the same way he does. I wouldnae mind.”
His heart twisted. “I would mind.”
“Ye wanted me once. Do ye think I’ve forgotten? I’ll give ye that pleasure again. More. Ye can take a wife, and I’ll nae speak a word of objection. The house where ye keep me needn’t be grand. I only want you. Just you.”
“Cecilia. Stop.”
“I ken I insulted ye when I implied I preferred his wealth. I’ve regretted it every day since.”
“Hush, now. I took no offense. ’Twas plain why ye made the choices ye did.” She’d never told him who her protector was, but the man had spared no expense on the woman whose favors he’d purchased. And Miss Cecilia Hamilton, an impoverished lass from a fishing village in Fifeshire, had gratefully traded her lot to become the pampered pet at the end of a rich man’s leash.
When Broderick had realized she belonged to another, her reaction had been telling. She’d gone frantic. Then defensive. Then defiant. Finally, she’d tossed a bowl of cold asparagus soup at his naked chest and accused him of wanting to deprive her of everything she’d worked for.
He should have seen it sooner. He’d been cock-blind, of course. She was bonnie as the moon over water, and Broderick was hardly a saint. Still, Rannoch in his cups could not have been stupider.
Realizing the woman he’d imagined her to be had never existed, Broderick had walked away with few regrets. But Cecilia hadn’t. She’d written him to apologize for her behavior. Then, throughout the summer, she’d begun a campaign to win his heart. He’d done his best to dissuade her, but she’d convinced herself she was in love. Now, once again, he must speak the truth plainly and hope it would be the last time.
“Leave him if ye wish to have a different life,” he said gently. “I’ll help ye make a new start. Help ye find employment. A place to live. But dinnae leave him for me. I’m not at the end of yer road, lass. Never will be.”
She clung to him for a long while. Then, bit by bit, she withdrew. After dabbing her cheeks with the handkerchief he offered, she sniffed. “Ye’re a good man, Broderick MacPherson.” She gazed up at him with red, sorrowful eyes. “How I wish ye were a wee bit more of a scoundrel.”
