William smiled tiredly and stepped in, instantly turning and latching the door behind him. It was an automatic movement, one that played into his need for safety. He even checked the windows while Emma took the sack from him and blinked at how heavy it was. He turned his back to the window and braced his hands behind himself and the lines in his face deepened.
“You did not find him,” Emma said softly, as she set the sack on the table.
William shook his head, and Emma sighed under her breath. She came close and pressed two of her fingertips to the line that was deep in his forehead. Smoothing out the furrow, Emma smiled softly when the stiffness in his shoulder loosened and he visibly deflated. Her hand slipped to his cheek and softly caressed the growing whiskers.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
His longish locks were falling to his clavicle and his gray eyes were liquid and soft. He grimaced, “I dinnae ken when we are going to get out of here. I miss my home, Emma, an’ I ken ye want to go back to England someday. Yer Mother is there, that must be concerning ye. It would be rippin’ me up inside if I was in yer shoes.”
Truthfully, he was right. Emma had not outwardly admitted it but she did worry about her mother for lengths of time. But England was not going to be her home anymore and they both knew that. She just needed the confusion with her father and this Frenchman straightened out and put away so she could go on to live her life with William, as husband and wife.
“I brought you some goods,” William said, while nodding to the sack.
Curiously, Emma went over to the table and opened the sack to see three loaves of bread, a small jar of preserves, a comb, and a hefty wrap of what she smelled was roasted beef. “Seems like you got something for yourself, too.”
His smile was soft, “For us both.”
His words, for us both, enforced her love for him. The fact that he used the word ‘us’ told her that he did care for her and saw them as a pair. She took the meat out and set the rest of the goods down. She went back to the table where the making for the pies was set out and she called William over, hoping that with his attention on another subject, he would not be over-stressing about his failure in not contacting Goraidh.
“Do you want to help me with this?”
Reaching back for the half-kneaded dough, Emma nodded to the tester pie and chuckled. “I used too much sugar, too much salt, and too little cinnamon. It’s so sweet my head spins.”
Cocking an eyebrow, William tasted the pie and the mix of emotions running over his face made Emma laugh—shock, distaste, and finally repulsion, were animated on his face as he swallowed the lump. Her laughter bowed her over in two and she had to brace herself on the edge of the table with a sprinkled hand.
A handful of flour was lobbied softly to her face and Emma blinked to see William both scowling and smirking at her. She used a shoulder to wipe her cheek off while William wiped his thumb over her nose. “Sorry lass, but ye look guid covered with flour an’ cooking for me.”
Blushing, she turned back to her pie, “Um, since I know you do not like sweets, tell me how much to use.”
William settled behind her, pressing his body into her and grasping the empty Scotch bottle that she used as a roller. Pressing his nose into her ear, he whispered, his words tickling her sensitive skin, “Gently, Emma, you caress the dough.”
* * *
Durham, England
Henry was not going to pressure Katherine into speaking but he knew she was cognizant enough to do so. The lady’s eyes had gotten clearer and clearer with every mile that they passed, leaving the Northumberland home behind them.
“You did not take the laudanum, did you,” Henry noted.
His words were not uttered as a question but more of an observation. Her head swiveled to him and her eyes fluttered closed. Her mouth opened and a long breath left her lips. “He tried to kill me, Henry. My own son tried to kill me.”
Henry grimaced at the thought of Thomas. Why had he done it? Why had he kept his mother in a chained room with that harpy of a housekeeper and drugged to a stupor? “Is that a bit of a stretch, Katherine? When we spoke, he was very concerned about you, he even showed some signs of remorse.”
“He is a consummate actor,” Katherine said tightly. “He and the wretched Mrs. Briddle—whom foolish me should have let go for years now—kept drugging me over and over until I had the sense to throw it away in my chamber pot. I overheard them speaking that if I was not in a stupor every day, they would double my medicine. I kept acting like I was under the drug to make them believe it.”
Her last utterance surprised Henry, who sat forward in his seat with his mind spinning like carriage wheels. “Why would they double the dosage?”
“He gave it to me after my breakdown, Henry,” Katherine’s lips were bloodless. “Admittedly, I grew a bit hysterical seeing how Peter died, bloodless and with his mouth foaming, on the MacNair’s table. I could not believe that our friends and business partners would do such an evil thing to us.”
Unless they did not.
“I know the MacNair’s, in fact, I was the one who introduced them many years ago after my first trip to Scotland,” Henry added, while reaching over to grasp her hand. “Murdo MacNair would never do something like that. The man’s level of loyalty and respect for all those who come under his roof is little less than a King of old. He would never kill a man who was his friend.”
“Then why?” Katherine pressed, as confusion marked her face. “Why would they keep me drugged if it was not for confessing who murdered my husband?”
“Katherine, do you think that perhaps you could have seen who had given your husband the poison? Laudanum dulls someone’s memory,” Henry proposed.
“But why?” she asked. “If I had seen who did it, why would they keep me from remembering it?”
Henry grimaced as a very reprehensible thought came to him, “Katherine… maybe it was of our own people who did it. Peter was not a likable man and many may have taken that opportunity to kill him and blame it on the MacNair’s.”
The lady’s eyes lowered to her lap and her lips were worried by her teeth. Henry followed her gaze to where her hands twisted on the lap of her drab blue dress. “I know that my husband was not one of the best people in England. He was sometimes harsh and uncaring but I grew to love him nonetheless. He… I turned a blind eye to many of the wrongs he did, Henry, especially to Thomas. But who would be so heartless to kill him that way?”
Peter’s domestic enemies were too many to count so Henry did not even attempt to sieve out who might have both motive and opportunity to kill him in Scotland. Sighing in resignation, Henry sat back. His present goal was to get Katherine out of Marston Manor and nurse her back to health.
There was an Abbey in his county but he had only used the Sisters of Mercy as a ruse to get Thomas to hand Katherine over to him. His sister-in-law needed good food, a soothing atmosphere, and comforting people around her to get her back on her feet. The austere environment of the nunnery was the furthest thing from that. Katherine needed personalized care.
He looked out the window to decipher where they were and decided to use the same Inn at Newcastle where he had stayed on his trip to Northumberland. The day was coming to dusk and he knew that Katherine had to be tired. She was already weak when they had gotten her into the carriage after ten o’clock in the morning, and eight hours of riding had to have drained her more.
“Katherine,” Henry asked. “Do you know where Emma is?”
She frowned. “What do you mean? Emma should be at home.”
“Have you seen her?” her brother-in-law pressed. “Even once since Thomas and Mrs. Briddle put you in the room? I think she would have come to visit you.”
“No…” Katherine’s voice had dropped to startled wonder. “I do not believe I have ever seen her. Do you think Thomas did something to her? Did he send her away? What did he do with her?”
At the end of her question, Katherine’s voice had gone hysterical wi
th worry and her breath shortened to the gasping point of hyperventilation. Henry reached out to grasp her shaky hands and clasped them between them.
“Katherine, calm down and breathe, please,” Henry tried to console her. “The reason I had come in the first place was because I got a letter from Emma, though I do not think she wrote it herself. She asked me to come and check up on you because she is somewhere in Scotland.”
“Scotland?” Katherine squeaked. “Why would she be back in Scotland? We left right after Peter died and I had thought she was at home and well.”
“He told me she was ill, too,” Henry said. “That she had suffered an episode and had to be given medicine, too. He said she was in her room but I knew he was lying. I did not let him get any the wiser because I think that wherever Emma is, she might be deathly scared of Thomas. She might be hiding from him.”
“But why would she go back there?” Katherine mused as her eyes shifted from left to right in contemplation. “We only went there to celebrate the young MacNair’s birthday and get Emma engaged to him.”
“Pardon me?” Henry asked. “You were going to marry Emma away to William MacNair, a man who she had not seen in over ten years mind you, like a birthday gift with a pretty ribbon on top?”
“It was Peter’s idea for us to solidify our businesses ventures with the Clan,” Katherine added bashfully. “Emma resisted at first but she came to understand why she needed to play her part in helping our family expand and grow financially. I did not see a problem with it. Emma had refused all her suitors last season and MacNair was a man we could trust. We knew she would be financially stable and be safe. What else could we have wanted for our child?”
“Love, perhaps?” Henry replied. “Katherine, you of all people should know that Emma is a dreamer. As a child, she devoured books that spoke of undying love and happiness. I would have thought that you would have considered her wanting that instead of being foisted upon a man who did not know her.”
The carriage passed down a road where the trees overhead had interlocked branches and temporarily hid them from the sun. “Even if I had, how would that have overturned Peter’s decisions?” Katherine argued with a huff, “His word was law and you know that.”
Pain was growing in the depths of her eyes and the lines in her face were getting deeper. Her stress was showing and Henry castigated himself for pushing her so far. “I am sorry, Katherine. I am so sorry. I should have known better, to not aggravate you when you are still so fragile.”
“I am not,” Katherine objected but Henry was not going to allow this troubling conversation to go any longer.
“Yes, you are,” he shook his head. “You have been ill-treated, Katherine, even if you do not see it that way. You were held against your own will and given medication you did not need.”
Her smile was humorless, “But I did need it at first, Henry. I was distraught when my husband was killed.”
“My apologies,” Henry corrected himself. “But since that first episode, you did not need it anymore. The laudanum has affected you, Katherine, even if you do not see it now. And I am sorry for pushing you about Emma. Please, try and rest. I am sure that wherever she is, she is being taken care of.”
His words sounded hollow to even his own ears but he tried to believe them anyway. She took his apology with grace but it was clear she was not convinced Emma was being taken care of wherever she was and Henry did not blame her. Empty platitudes could only go so far.
Changing the subject to softer topics, Henry did not have to wait long for Katherine to drift off to slumber. A painful one, by the look of her contracted brows. Sighing, Henry turned away from her and began praying that Emma would be safe, Kathrine would find some peace, and the mystery of who had killed Peter would be solved soon.
As she slept, Henry went back to the first thought he had about why Thomas had abused his mother? Even if she had seen something, why drug her to the level of an infant? Henry shuddered—had Thomas inherited his father’s sadism? Was he just being cruel for cruelty’s sake? If so, God help them all.
Chapter 26
Marston House, Northumberland
Settling into the large wingback chair in his father’s study—or rather, his study now, since his father had suffered his untimely passing—Thomas coddled the glass of wine in his left hand. As much as he loved his state of being as the newest Earl of Dawaerton, Thomas was not completely pleased.
His Uncle—thank God for His mercies—had taken his addled Mother out of the manor to lock her up in a nunnery where she would probably never see the light of day again. Moreover, since the laudanum had clearly affected her mind, nothing she said would ever be taken seriously by anyone, so that was one thing he did not have to worry about. However, he did have a problem and that was Emma. Thomas’ hand tightened around the bowl of the wineglass so hard he nearly shattered it in his grip.
That little hoyden he sneered. Why could she not bow and go do what was told of her? I need the Frenchman on my side to give this family the international acclaim it should have had when father—that blind bastard—was heading it.
He needed her back in his clutches so he could use her as influence with the Frenchman. If she was shipped away to France, he could go ahead with exterminating the MacNair’s from the face of the earth.
He had always hated the Scots and did not see them as fellow men. To him, the Scots were a dirty breed, little better than dogs. William MacNair, the large good-for-nothing Scot, had always been a thorn in his side.
From that day he had beaten me in the mock fight—thanks to precious Emma—I have always wanted to get rid of him. Who does he think he is to shame a Brit? My race is superior, you dog, and it is about time you understand it.
Thomas had never agreed to have Emma marry the MacNair, as he hated the lot of them. Instead, he had wanted her to be married off to the Frenchman. But that night, seeing the disagreement in the library, he had jumped on the chance to get his father’s approval for once, by pushing Emma to marry MacNair.
If he could just get Emma back from where she was and have Pierre Belmonte take her off his hands, life would be a dream, as having her on this side of the channel would be his continuous nightmare. His scouts in Edinburgh, Perth, and even London had reported no sign of her and he was nearly at his wits’ end in figuring out where she was. Thomas would not stop until she was back home and locked up in an asylum or sent over to France.
Where was she? Clearly, she was not back at Clan MacNair, as his contact there would have told him weeks ago. They did not have any aunts or uncles as his mother was an only child, and his father only had Henry.
Thinking back on how their mother would coddle Emma while their father would task him for the simplest mistakes, his temper flared when he remembered that one time his father had belted him for not reading Voltaire fluently when Emma could get away with fumbling through saying her name with dozens of mispronunciations. His back had bled for two days with how severe the beating was. His skin was still scarred from it.
No son of mine is going to be so worthless, his father had sneered, I would rather see you dead than have you embarrass me in London.
The glass stem snapped in half and the empty bowl shattered on the floor under Thomas’ flaring anger. Where are you now, Father? With your cruelty, I thought you would replace the Devil on his throne but now, now I hope he taxes you double for it all.
His door was knocked on and Thomas looked from the wet shards on the floor to the butler at the door, “Yes?”
“There is a man, My Lord, a Mr. Cinead Gregory, who says he has some information you would like to know,” the manservant said.
His words evoked curiosity from Thomas, who, after frowning at what information this man could possible offer him, stood and nodded. “Send a maid in first, to clean up this mess, and then usher him in.”
Settling back, Thomas was content with watching the maid greet him and clean up the shards, while thinking of what news this man could possibl
y have to give him. When she was finished, Thomas dismissed her and told the butler to send the man in.
Just for politeness, he stood as the man entered but did not offer to shake his hand. Instead, he settled for a regal nod and a greeting, “Mr. Gregory, what news do you have for me?”
The man, clearly a Scot by his name, had dark hair and narrowed blue eyes, a square face sporting matching sideburns, a thin mustache, and a pickedevant beard. “So, ye are Lord Thomas Marston, Earl of Dawaerton, eh?”
“I am and this is my home,” Thomas said, while controlling the spark of anger that was born in his chest. “Please sit. What do you have to tell me?”
Sitting on the chair as directed, Mr. Gregory leaned back and folded his hands over his lap while his long legs stretched out before him. He gave Thomas a knowing smile, “That depends on how much money ye’ll give me for it.”
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