“Give over, Alasdair. Ye know they can hide the girl where ye’d never find her.” Ian took hold of his other arm and pulled. “Calm down, man, and have a drink. She’s locked herself upstairs and is not going anywhere.”
He stomped into the sitting room, fighting to regain a bit of composure. Damn them all. They couldn’t possibly understand. He sucked in a deep breath and groaned. He’d always prided himself on remaining calm. Clear-headed and logical. It was how he’d earned his nickname, The Judge. Only Isobel had the power to render him so crazed. Over the last ten years, he’d conquered his past, controlled the memories, and overcome how they twisted him. Within a heartbeat of hearing her name, he’d lost the ability to rise above the pain and function with any civility.
Ian held out a generous glass of whisky. “Sit and drink, man. This isna like ye.”
Alasdair emptied the glass in a single, fiery gulp and held it out for another. He lowered himself into the only chair in the room sturdy enough to support him. The salon was filled with delicate upholstered furniture better suited to the female form. Damned French and their gaudy designs.
Ian handed him another drink and took a seat on the matching couch in front of an ornate hearth of ceramic and copper tiles. Fanny and Madam Georgianna seated themselves across from Alasdair. Both of them folded their hands in their laps, sitting stiff and straight as though in a church pew.
“Well?” Alasdair tossed back the second glass of whisky and held out his glass for more.
“Perhaps it would help your composure to learn that Isobel is not a lady of Château Delatate.” Madam Georgianna cast a glance over at Ian. “Do be a gentleman and pour Fanny and me a glass of port. Oui?”
Ian hurried to do her bidding.
“In what capacity is she in yer employ?” Alasdair tensed to the edge of his seat, hands fisted atop his knees. The madam had no reason to lie, but he had a hard time believing her. Isobel had been a rare beauty ten years ago, and more than likely had only improved with age. A beautiful whore, especially in a brothel with such elite clientele, would bring in a great deal of coin. Her indulgence of Ian aside, Madam Georgianna was a businesswoman first.
“She cleans up a bit here on the first floor and is also our hostess,” Fanny said as she accepted her glass of port from Ian. “Greets our customers in the hall. Seats them in the smoking room and finds out which lady they’re here to see. Keeps’m happy whilst they wait.”
“Keeps them happy how?” He downed his refill. The neckcloth wound around his hand reminded him to watch his grip and not allow his temper to shatter a second glass. “Another.”
“Pleasant conversation. Drinks. Tobacco. A bit of food.” Madam Georgianna gave him a perturbed look, then shifted a sideways glance in Fanny’s direction. “She does nothing more, Master Alasdair. As per the agreement Fanny made with Isobel due to her unfortunate circumstances.”
“Poor thing,” Fanny said before he could respond. “Penniless. Wandering the streets with a bairn at her knee and her aged auntie at her side.” Fanny leaned forward and shook her head. “Her auntie looks older than Moses himself.”
“Bairn?” The word made Alasdair’s blood run cold. He swallowed hard and stared down at the floor. Fool. She’s been married ten years. Of course, she has a child by now. Probably, more than one.
“Aye,” Fanny answered, then beamed with an indulgent smile. “Young Connor. Five summer’s old, he is, and full of piss and vinegar.”
A son. Isobel had a son. A duke’s son. Alasdair lifted his head and locked eyes with Fanny. “How the hell did the Duchess of Temsworth end up in Edinburgh penniless and looking for a means to support her son?”
Lord Archibald Cuthbarten, Duke of Temsworth, was known as one of the more affluent of the peerage, well-landed, and unfortunately, still very much alive—at least the last Alasdair had heard.
Fanny leaned forward and made to speak again, but Madam Georgianna held up a hand and stayed her. “It is our understanding that Isobel wished to separate herself and her son from the duke for her own safety as well as her child’s.” The madam’s regal composure shifted to a repulsed look as though she’d been offended by a stench. “We have no doubt she speaks the truth. The Duke of Temsworth is no longer on the exclusive clientele list of Château Delatate after his behavior here last summer.”
“Sick, cruel bastard, that one is,” Fanny said as though she couldn’t bear remaining silent any longer. She shook her head. “Poor Daisy. Lass has never been the same since that man did what he did to her.”
“Why the hell did she not come to me?” Alasdair turned and asked Ian, “Why?”
“I told ye, she talked like she thought ye dead,” Fanny interrupted. She pointed at Ian. “Told me she grew up with that one there and had loved his brother, meaning yerself, of course. When I asked her what happened, she said fate took ye away. She didna know ye still lived and breathed.”
“The only fate that took me away was her avaricious father selling her to that damned duke.” He stared down at the floor, wringing his hands. “I meant to stop the wedding. Steal her away.” He turned to Ian, his anguish reflected in his brother’s gaze. “Then the morbid sore throat swept through our clan and took down the lot of us.”
“Alasdair and I were among the few who survived, but ye dinna recover from such an ailment with haste.” Ian rose, went to Alasdair’s side, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Took us months to get back on our feet and pull together the few of us who lived.” He shook his head. “There were nay enough left to even see to the burying of all the dead. We had to beg help from clans farther afield that had nay been stricken with the disease.”
“And after that, it was too late. She was married.” Alasdair rose, crossed the room, and refilled his glass. He moved to the window and swept aside the heavy curtains. He stared out the pane, but all he saw was the memory of what he’d seen the day he’d gone to London to fetch Isobel back. The aching pain in his heart burned all the fiercer. “I meant to steal her back from him. Get the marriage annulled. I went to his estate in London, and I waited.”
“And?” Fanny prompted, scooting to the edge of her seat.
“And I saw her smiling up into that bastard’s eyes as the two of them strolled arm in arm through their gardens, laughing together at the secrets only lovers share.” Alasdair let the curtain drop back in place and returned to his seat. “So, I left her there to enjoy the life I could never hope to give her. A life of ease. Of riches. Of status.” He shook his head, the knots of his pain tightening. “But I always wished her to know that I had kept my word. I had come for her. Just like I said I would.” He looked at the two women staring back at him. “I still love Isobel. Love her as strong as ever.” The barest glimmer of hope flickered within him. Isobel had left the duke. Willingly. Was fate offering him a small crumb of recompense? “Fetch her. I beg ye. Fetch her down, and let me speak with her.”
Fanny and Madam Georgianna’s gazes met as though reading each other’s thoughts. Madam Georgianna finally nodded, and Fanny rose and hurried out the door. Turning back to Alasdair, the madam fixed him with a concerned look that struck him as almost tender. “You understand, she may refuse to see you?”
“She has to see me. I have to make her understand what happened all those years ago.” He took a step closer to the door, itching to chase after Fanny but knowing that would be rash. He had to wait. Be patient. He couldn’t fail again. Not when he’d been given this second chance. “I can help her now that she’s in need. I can take care of her—and her child.”
“And if she does not wish for your care?” Madam Georgianna stood and positioned herself between Alasdair and the door as though sensing his urge to follow Fanny. “The Isobel here at Château Delatate is not the Isobel you knew ten years ago. This woman has endured much, monsieur. She trusts no one and is as protective of her son as a wild animal protecting its young.”
“That sounds verra much like the Isobel I have always loved.”
Fanny reappeared at the door of the sitting room. The downcast look on her face told all. She gave a sad shake of her head. “I am sorry, Master Alasdair. She willna see ye nor Master Ian.” She threw both hands in the air. “I thought she’d at least see Master Ian once she knew ye to be alive. Everybody loves Master Ian.” She clasped her hands tight. “But she said no. Said ye abandoned her to Satan himself, and she’ll never forgive ye.” Fanny cocked a brow at Madam Georgianna. “And she said all this through a locked door. I doubt she’ll be coming out anytime soon. She knows well enough her aunt will take good care of the lad and keep him hidden.”
“Where are they?” Alasdair moved closer to the door. He knew Isobel’s aunt from childhood. Clan MacNaughton and Clan MacCoinnich had been close on the Isle of Skye. Their lands bordered one another, long ago before the dreaded illness hit. If he could get Isobel’s aunt to remember him, mayhap she could convince Isobel to see him. “Are they near?”
Madam Georgianna rose from the velvet sofa. “We promised Isobel our protection. That protection extends to her family. I shall intercede on your behalf and attempt to convince her to see you. Grant her some time, Monsieur Alasdair. As I said earlier, she has been through much. Give her the time and understanding she so badly needs.”
“Swear to me, ye willna allow her to leave without my seeing her.” That was Alasdair’s greatest fear. If he did as the madam suggested, he might never see Isobel again. She might slip out of his life once more.
Madam Georgianna’s mouth tightened. After a nod in Fanny’s direction, she turned back to Alasdair. “I shall place her under the protection of the Friedrich brothers. It’s the least I can offer after your handling of the rather delicate matter of Lord Dunfold for us.” She fluttered a hand in the air. “But I can promise no more.” Motioning for both Ian and Alasdair to exit the room, she held the door wide. “I will do my best, Monsieur Alasdair. Now, return to your home. I shall send for you if she changes her mind.”
“When,” Alasdair corrected. “When she changes her mind—because I promise ye, I’ll not be losing her again.”
Chapter Two
Alasdair lived.
Eyes shut tight against the sting of unshed tears, Isobel held her churning middle. A sob almost escaped her. Nay! She would not give in to weeping. Weeping showed loss of control, and she’d never lose control again. She forced her eyes open and paced across the length of the room. A single word, that once precious name, whipped her into a panic. It played over and over in her mind. Alasdair.
He’d been alive all this time. Her dearest love. Or he had been once. A lifetime ago. Her Alasdair. The man who’d sworn upon all that was holy, he’d never let another take her. Sworn he would come for her no matter what. Steal her away even if it meant rushing the altar on her wedding day and fighting off any who dared to thwart them.
But now she knew the truth. Alasdair had lied.
She pressed trembling fingers across her mouth, fighting the need to keen out her rage along with all the other agonizing emotions she’d contained for the last ten years. He’d lied. He’d never come for her. Instead, he’d left her to a horrendous fate and gone on to enjoy life without her.
The muffled thump of footsteps echoed out in the hallway, followed by the rattle of keys. She jerked around and stared at the door. Surely, they would not bring him up here. Fanny had promised. She forced down the bile churning in the back of her throat as metal on metal clicked. The key turned in the lock. The door swung open.
“Breathe, Isobel.” Madam Georgianna handed the ring of keys back to Fanny as the two entered the room. She motioned toward the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. “Sit, child, before you faint away. We’ve no time for that. There is much to discuss here.”
“I’ll be going to fetch us some biscuits and ale,” Fanny said. “Or maybe something stronger. Me thinks we’ll be needing it.”
“Thank you.” The madam seated herself atop the stool in front of a small dressing table. With a graceful flip of one hand, she settled her swirl of skirts around her. A sense of peaceful composure emanated from the woman as her delicate brows drew together. Lips pursed, she tilted her head to one side and studied Isobel.
“I canna speak with him.” Isobel lifted her chin. Her voice quivered against her will. “I will surely kill him if I do.”
“And why would you wish to kill Monsieur Alasdair? I assume you are referring to Monsieur Alasdair Cameron?”
How could she put into words all she felt? All that had happened? Isobel rose from the bench. She couldn’t sit. Somehow, pacing gave her strength. Perhaps it was because when she walked, she felt free and unshackled. A feeling she hadn’t known for ten long years.
“Alasdair swore he loved me so much he’d never let another man have me. No matter what.” She brought her troubled steps to a halt and met Madam Georgianna’s gaze. “He lied.” She thumped a fist to her chest and choked back a sob. “I lost ten years of my life. I suffered unspeakable things because he lied and never came.”
Madam’s gaze dropped to her hands folded in her lap. “I have no doubt you suffered, ma chére. Knowledge of the duke’s proclivities is the very reason I granted you sanctuary here at Château Delatate without requiring you to…” She gave a subtle shrug of a shoulder. “How shall I put it?” Her voice sank to a conspiratorial tone. “Earn your living the usual way? And I hope you appreciate the risk of my even allowing you here. A duchess? In a brothel?” She brushed her fingertips across the base of her throat. “I could lose my head for such.”
“And I am forever grateful,” Isobel hurried to say. “But now that Alasdair has found me, I fear my plans must change.”
Anxiousness filled her. She needed time and money. Time to save money to reach the Highlands and approach one of the old allied clans about granting her shelter. Maybe the MacDonells or the Macleods. Both those clans had been on good enough terms with the MacNaughtons. She needed little and could earn her way with her knowledge of herbs and healing. She wouldn’t be a burden on any clan willing to take in her odd little family. A tiny croft would do them just fine. A wee house where she and Auntie Yeva could raise Connor safe and hidden from his diabolical father.
She swallowed hard and composed herself. If she had learned anything during her short stay at Château Delatate, it was that Madam Georgianna admired strength. “I must leave Edinburgh as soon as I can. Alasdair was once a verra determined man. I doubt the years have changed that.”
“They have not.” Madam rose from the stool as Fanny returned, bearing a tray with a bottle of dark ruby liquid and a trio of glasses. “No ale?”
“I felt we needed something stronger than ale.” Fanny slid the tray to the dressing table, uncorked the bottle, and poured. “I wouldha brought whisky if they had brought some up from cellar and restocked the cabinet already.”
Isobel agreed with Fanny. She needed the stoutest drink they had. This situation also called for drastic measures to ensure the new life for which she had planned so carefully and risked so much wasn’t ended before it ever started. She’d already had to amend her plans once due to lack of funds. She had never thought to find herself working at a brothel. Mama had surely turned in her grave the day Isobel had begged for a job as a cook or a seamstress at Château Delatate. But everything had cost so much. Food. Lodging. Transportation. Ten years of imprisonment at Temsworth’s isolated country estate had left her ill-prepared for what to expect when it came to the financial side of escaping and building a better life. She wished Temsworth had been foolish enough to leave more money accessible for her to take.
She accepted the goblet Fanny offered and sniffed it. She wished the whisky had been ready. This was the fancy port reserved for the clients waiting in the sitting room.
“Do ye not think ye should at least give the man a chance to explain himself?” Fanny toddled over to the bench at the foot of the bed and lowered herself to it with a weary huff. “He seems a good man, lass, and good men be scarce as hen’s teeth.”
“He seemed quite genuine when he explained the circumstances,” Madam Georgianna said. She took a delicate sip of her port and gave a decided nod. “I trust both the Cameron Messieurs.”
Trust. Such a dangerous word. Isobel rolled the stem of her goblet between her fingers. “I can no longer afford the luxury of trust.” She had trusted Alasdair once. He had lied. She had also trusted her father to never put her in harm’s way. That, too, had been a lie. Her arranged marriage to the Duke of Temsworth had turned into an inescapable nightmare within days.
“Why did ye think Master Alasdair dead?” Fanny shifted as though settling in for a good story.
“Because I was foolish enough to believe he would never let another take me. I believed only the finality of death would keep him from my side.” Isobel washed the bitter taste of the words away with another sip of the sweet wine. A sour laugh escaped her. “That and the fact that Temsworth took great delight in reminding me at every opportunity that the entirety of Alasdair’s clan, as well as my own, had succumbed to the morbid sore throat.” She cradled the glass to her chest. “He enjoyed telling me on a daily basis that he was my only means of survival since all I had ever loved was gone.” Temsworth’s cruel laugh echoed through her mind. “I thought myself alone,” she whispered. “The only reason the duke allowed me the company of my aunt was to have yet another threat with which to torment me.”
“Monsieur Alasdair told us he did come for you in London.” Madam looked to Fanny for reinforcement. “Did he not?”
She nodded. “That he did. Spied on ye, in fact. Said ye looked to have fallen in love with yer new husband, so he left ye to what he thought was a better life than he could ever afford to give ye.”
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 2
