Beguiled (3 page)

Like the shadow of the moon eclipsing the sun, the light faded from her eyes. Tears pooled, but she blinked them back. “Nay. Virginia lives, and I will not forsake her..”

“Virginia is dead, and you must get on with living,”

She stiffened. “I tell you, I will find her.”

The duke eyed her with cool regard. “Without money?”

“I'll earn it myself.”

MacKenzie chuckled, but the sound held no humor. Edward decided that the duke was goading his daughter into disobedience. A now familiar stubbornness engulfed her, and her expression mirrored her father's belligerent stare.

“Why can you not be like your sisters?” said the duke.

“Like Mary? Pregnant without benefit of marriage?”

“What?” His face turned crimson.

“You didn't know?”

“I know that she loves Wiltshire.”

“Then you'll have me be like Lottie, who pries into everyone's business?”

“Lottie is a good wife and mother.”

“Then like Sarah, who is not my blood sister.”

“Who told you that?” her father demanded.

“Sarah did.”

“We are not speaking of Sarah, Lottie, or Mary. We are discussing your sedentary future in Tain.”

“Nay.”

“Then I'll betroth you to Revas Macqueen.”

Revas Macqueen was the richest and most devout bachelor in Scotland. Although not yet thirty, the Highland earl epitomized the old patriarchal chieftain.

Lady Agnes huffed in mock laughter. “You'd sell me to him?”

“I'll give you away to the first man with the wherewithal to control you.”

“Do,” she spat, “and you shall never see me again.”

Anguish and determination made a battlefield of Lachlan MacKenzie's expression.

Guilt swamped Edward, for he was to blame for the enmity between the duke of Ross and his unconventional firstborn daughter.

Edward leaned over her. “I order you to rest.” Watching her, he admonished the duke. “As her physician, I insist that you leave her alone for now. She's not going anywhere.”

“As your better, I command you to hold your tongue.”

“Leave off, Papa.”

Edward had enough. “Stop! Both of you.”

A change came over the duke of Ross. He squared his shoulders, tipped back his head, and stared down his regal nose at Edward. “You overstep yourself, Cathcart. Should you do it again, you'll be very sorry.”

Not since his first year at Oxford had anyone spoken so disrespectfully to Edward. His pride smarting, he gazed at the beautiful and brave Agnes MacKenzie.

“Do not let my father bully you, Lord Edward.” Her friendly tone belied the tension in the room.

Edward had ceased practicing medicine in noble circles for precisely these reasons. The poor appreciated his help; the ruling class disdained him for his efforts in treating the person—above and beyond the illness.

“Stand aside, Cathcart.”

Agnes murmured, “My father thinks himself a king.”

Her strength and determination drew Edward like iron to a magnet. “Then it follows that you are a princess.”

“Without a kingdom at the moment. Have you room in Glasgow for an exiled Highlander?”

“I forbid it, Agnes MacKenzie!”

Her smile grew radiant. “Please, Lord Edward?”

His guilty conscience reigned. “Very well.”

The duke turned livid. “You cannot live unchaperoned in his household. Think what it will do to your reputation.”

“Auntie Loo and the earl's honor are enough chaperon. Isn't that true, Lord Edward?”

Now that the danger had passed and his patient would recover, Edward had second thoughts.

“I do so
love
Glasgow,” she said.

“If you step one slippered foot into that city, I'll betroth you to Macqueen.”

As if her father hadn't uttered the dire ultimatum, she said, “Take me with you, Lord Edward.”

“But I cannot come between you and your father.”

Lord Lachlan slapped the table. “Well said, Cathcart.”

“You can, and you must take me with you.”

“Why must I?”

“Because you owe me your life.”

“P
ISCINARIAN
!”

“Weasel brain!”

“Hannah! Christopher!” Lord Edward glared at his children. “Behave yourselves.”

To hide a smile, Agnes used her free hand to pick up her teacup. She sat with the earl and his children at a corner table in the public room of the Dragoon Inn. Three days had passed since the attempt on his life, and this luncheon was the first outing he had allowed her. In further compliance with his instructions, she had fashioned a sling from cotton cloth to cradle her right arm against her breast. The wrapping eased the pain in her shoulder, and she could use her left hand as well as her right.

“ 'Tis your fault,” Christopher grumbled.

“ 'Tis yours,” Hannah argued.

Until moments ago, the Napier children had behaved surprisingly well. Now they were restless and eager for dessert.

Hannah wore a pink satin gown fashioned with small panniers and puffed sleeves. The ensemble was stylishly feminine, with one outrageous exception: a man's cravat, tied in intricate loops, cascaded from her neck. Her father, dressed in his tartan kilt and black velvet coat, and her brother, garbed in a brown frock coat and knee breeches, wore identical scarves. How interesting, Agnes thought, that the earl indulged his daughter. Had he tied the scarves himself?

The children squirmed. The earl glanced at the front doors. He'd done that often since Agnes joined them. He should have chosen the table in the far corner, between the kitchen and the side exit. She'd apprise him of that later.

Christopher wadded his napkin. “You've botched it now, Hannah.”

“Have not.”

“Both of you will stop bickering or forfeit your dessert.”

The lad dropped his fork. “She started it, Father. She kicked me.”

“He pinched me with his crepit thumb.” Turning and holding the back of her chair, the four-year-old Hannah scrambled to her feet and pulled up her dress. Twin bruises the size of a lad's thumb and fingertip marred her chubby thigh. “See?”

Murmurs rumbled from a table nearby, but the earl didn't seem to care that others were observing him in the act of disciplining his children.

How uncommon and welcome.

“Sit down, Hannah.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Agnes choked back laughter. The earl's eyes snapped open, and he stared at her, startled.

Words failed her, and with alarm, she worried that he might change his mind about taking her with him. He had not mentioned it today, and her father had been present during his brief doctorly visits. She must not give him any reason to withdraw his offer. Leaving Edinburgh in his company posed her best escape from her father. Once they were settled in Glasgow, Edward would come to appreciate her expertise. For now she must appease him.

She scanned the diners. Her sister Lottie occupied a table with the mayor of Edinburgh, but they were blessedly out of earshot. Two clergymen sat near the hearth and cast disapproving glances at both the earl and Agnes.

“Have we mortified you, Lady Agnes?” The earl popped a last bite of bread into his mouth.

“Mortify me? Impossible. My family is quite large,” she began by way of honest explanation. “We often bickered and usually embarrassed our parents. Yet we were welcome at table.”

That got Christopher's attention. “What if the king came to visit you?”

Agnes pretended to ponder it. Putting down her cup and keeping a straight face, she said, “Then I would have sat close by His Majesty and discovered if he talks with his mouth full.”

Hannah erupted with giggles. Christopher guffawed. The earl made an admirable effort to contain his laughter. He failed, and when humor overcame him, Agnes felt her heart tumble in her breast. Edward Napier didn't laugh often, she was certain of that. But what man could with an assassin on his heels? Agnes would ease his burden and in the doing gain a respite from the guilt that weighted her soul.

When he'd mastered his mirth, he said, “I'm glad you can speak kindly of the duke of Ross.”

The duke of Ross.
The battle between Agnes and her father had been years in the making, but no matter their difficulties, she loved him deeply. A final resolution would come; she lived every day of her life with that goal in mind, but the separation was pure torment.

Quietly, she said, “He's the best man o' the Highlands.”

A hush fell over the table. Into the silence Lord Edward said, “I cannot argue that, nor would I try. But I am encouraged to know that all of us poor Scotsmen
below
the Highland Line have a prize of our own at which to aim.”

At his engaging remark, her melancholy fled. “Are you the best man o' the Lowlands?”

“Oh, nay,” he said, but his expression told a different tale. “I'm average on the most successful of days.”

And she was a goose without wings. Edward Napier, the brilliant and forward-thinking scholar, was also a bit of a rogue. The subtle challenge in his eyes begged her to trade quips. The urge to play his verbal game thrummed through her. A part of her longed for the distraction of a courtship, but she'd answered that call once before and regretted it to this day. Like others of life's best distractions, Edward Napier would have to wait.

Practicality forced her to turn the conversation to Hannah. “That's a lovely neckcloth.”

Wiggling with glee, the girl slid her brother a coy look. “Papa made it all tied up—for me.”

“ 'Tis silly,” spat Christopher. “A lassie cannot wear a man's clothing—”

With only a stern gaze, the earl silenced the boy, but in that glance passed a wealth of communication. Christopher succumbed to good manners.

The earl turned to his daughter. “Sit down, Hannah.”

“ 'S'Christopher's fault.”

“You put my toad in the laundry basket.”

“You took all the letters.” Her bottom lip quivered, and she sent her father a beseeching look.

His features softened, and he reached for her. “You're tired, aren't you, Button?”

Her head bobbed, setting her ringlets and her cravat to bouncing.

Button. Yes, thought Agnes, admiring the sweet-faced, dark-haired Hannah. The name suited her perfectly. She must favor her mother, the earl's angular face and strong, square chin were anything but buttonlike.

He kissed her forehead. “Bid good day to Lady Agnes, and I'll have Peg take you upstairs.”

In the absence of the nanny, a local girl named Peg had cared for his children. The woman's sudden disappearance from the church was one of dozens of things Agnes intended to question him about.

“Christopher, finish your food and say good day.”

“Oh, please no, Father,” Christopher begged. “You said if we didn't pick our noses or spill our cider, we could take our whole meal with you and Lady Agnes.”

Suddenly alert, Hannah yanked her thumb from her mouth. “I want lemon cake.”

“You promised,” said her brother, a whine lifting his voice. “I get clotted cream on my cake.”

“Very well. Would you like clotted cream, too?” he asked the girl.

She shook her head so vigorously, her black ringlets slapped his face. “I want . . .” Now that she had his attention, she took full advantage of it. Agnes knew the ploy well; as a child she'd often used it herself. “I want . . . partridge pie.”

Humor danced in his eyes. “On lemon cake? How thoroughly individual of you, Hannah Linnette.”

She basked in his praise. “I want May posies and angel bugs, too.”

“You'll spend the night retching in a pot,” said Christopher.

Hannah stuck out her tongue at him. “And toy soldiers.”

“Not
my
toy soldiers.”

The girl giggled and flung an arm toward Agnes.
“Her
toy soldiers.”

Christopher sighed dramatically and turned baleful eyes to Agnes. “You must give them over to her, my lady, else she'll pout until your ears ache.”

“No, she will not.” The earl put Hannah into her chair and lifted his arm to attract the serving girl. “There'll be no pouting at the table.” To Agnes, he said, “Will you have cake, my lady?”

“Yes, with a new carriage filled with rose petals on top.”

He laughed again. His children chortled.

When the serving girl arrived, he instructed her to bring dessert. That done, he addressed his children. “We haven't even inquired after Lady Agnes's health.”

Nodding, Hannah said, “She got hurt in church and fall down.”

“Our father made her all better.”

Although the children addressed the adults at the table, they spoke to and through each other. Beneath the squabbling lay genuine fondness. Agnes thought it sweet that they conversed so easily. However, she did not condone their being kept ignorant of the danger. Their father should explain the circumstances, prepare them.

“Not all better,” the earl corrected.

“Oh, but I am, and by tomorrow I'll be as fit as a Flandersman.”

Hannah looked curiously up at her brother. “What's a Flanerman?”

“ 'Tisn't a person, but a witty rejoinder Lady Agnes made. You know, 'tis the same way the Lady Georgette speaks when she wants Father to have a look at her finances.”

“Why, thank you, Master Christopher.” To the earl she said, “Finances?”

“A gentleman serves where he may. As your physician, I forbid you to travel for a fortnight.”

“But I'm hale and hearty.”

Authority gave him a hawkish air. “I've seen soldiers take to their cots for a week with a slighter injury.”

“I'm perfectly capable of travel.” To prove her point, she wiggled her fingers.