Beguiled (7 page)

Why? What set Edward Napier apart from other men who had courted her? She didn't know but suspected his vulnerability was the cause. That or the fact that she'd temporarily lost sight of her own mission: finding Virginia. On a favorable note, she could more easily conduct her inquiries from Glasgow. But she must forewarn him that if news of Virginia reached her, she'd leave immediately.

With a last inspection of the undercarriage, she satisfied herself that no one had tampered with the conveyance. Elbowing her way under the vehicle had been easy; getting out proved much more difficult. After several tries, she gave up and called for Jamie, the driver, to help her.

The pallet began to move, and she was pulled free, not by the driver but by Lord Edward himself. A very disgruntled Lord Edward.

From her vantage point, being flat on her back, he looked too imposing. He wore riding boots, the distinctive Napier kilt, and a tailored frock coat. Were she a hand's length closer, she'd have an unobstructed view of his manly assets. She fought a blush at the unladylike thought and looked away. Staring at his bootprints in the soft earth, she noticed a band of wear in those impressions. From experience she knew that stirrups had caused the marks on the soles of his boots.

Encouraged by this small example of her special insightful gifts, she again gazed at him, only to find him surveying her unconventional attire. Before her eyes his sheer exasperation turned to outright fury.

He reached for her.

Prudence made her yield her hand.

Through clenched teeth he said, “A wise choice, Agnes MacKenzie.”

His tone sparked her defiance. To prove her fitness and capability, she pushed herself to her feet and even did a little hop. With her free hand, she dusted the leather breeches she had donned for the dirty job of examining the carriage.

“You cannot even dress yourself in proper clothing, and yet you crawl about on the stable floor.”

“I've only begun, and these clothes are perfectly suited to what I was doing.”

“You cannot possibly be well enough to toil 'neath a carriage.”

“Have you ever treated a woman with a bowshot wound?”

“Of course not.”

“Then explain to me how is that you know precisely at which rate I or any other female heals from such a wound.”

“I know because you are weaker physically.”

“Weaker? I'd cherish seeing you give birth.”

“Have you given birth?”

In most circles the question would be considered slanderous, but she'd broached the subject herself. “Nay, but I held Lottie's hand through the daylong ordeal. Travail you call it. Ha! 'Tis a flowery word coined by men to describe a tribulation they cannot fathom.”

“Fathom this, Lady Agnes.” He pointed a finger at her. “If I ever again see you on your hands and knees while you are under my domain, I will save your father the price of passage and personally put you aboard the next ship to China.”

He'd sprout gills and fins first, but telling him so would only heighten the dispute. She'd risked her life to save his. The challenge of finding his enemy beckoned, a task she was more than qualified to meet. Her father could curtail her movement, but he would not send her to China. What this Glaswegian nobleman would do was a mystery as interesting as the identity of his assassin.

A graceful retreat was her only option. “You see me at my most foolhardy, Lord Edward.”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

Good intentions fled. “May I suggest you concern yourself with helping me find out who tried to kill you?”

He threw up his hands. “Driving a man to madness only scratches the surface of your abilities. Curse me for thinking Lord Lachlan exaggerated.”

Agnes couldn't help but say, “He often does.”

“Not about you.” Lord Edward pivoted and yelled, “Jamie! Saddle my horse.”

If he preferred a mount to the carriage, who was she to argue. She grasped his arm. “Have the farrier examine the harnesses.”

“Why?”

She gave him a crooked smile. “Because I doubt you'll want me to do it.”

“Your intuition grows by the moment.”

The subtlety in his reply surprised her. The muscles in his arm felt like steel beneath her hand. “Why are you so angry?”

He looked at her and sighed. “I do not know.”

At least he was honest. For her part, she thought it best to change the subject. “I'll summon back the farrier.”

“How do you know that he will not sabotage my mount?”

“Because he is trustworthy. He belongs to a respectable guild, and his wife thinks well of him. She also bakes the best oatcakes I've ever tasted.”

“You know the farrier and his wife?”

“As of half an hour ago, aye.”

“You interviewed him—in his home? This morning?”

“Of course. I always rise before dawn.”

“You are no ordinary female, Agnes MacKenzie.”

“Why, thank you, Lord Edward.”

His expression grew blank, but an instant later he again became the determined earl of Cathcart. “Go and ready yourself. It'll be nightfall before get home.”

That said, he strolled toward the sorrel gelding that Agnes had earlier admired.

*  *  *

Twenty minutes later, as Agnes secured her hat she heard footfalls in the private parlor. From the quick pace and lightness of the steps, she knew that children were approaching her door. She didn't need her sister Sarah's mathematical mind to suspect who was coming to visit.

A knock sounded. “Come in,” she said.

Christopher pushed Hannah through the door before him. The girl's determined expression told Agnes that they'd come with a mission in mind. She'd seen it often on Lottie's face, because Lottie couldn't hide her feelings.

Christopher's eyes did meet Agnes's, but then he searched the room until he located her traveling bag. “We came to see if you're ready to go.” Moving toward it, he said, “I'll carry this.”

“Thank you, but I can manage it myself.”

“Oh, but I must. If you carry it, my father will send you someplace faraway.”

“Stay with us,” Hannah pleaded.

“Did your father send you here?”

“Nay, and I was hoping you'd say we happened upon each other and I was . . .” He shrugged.

“Merely being a gentleman?”

Nodding vigorously, he said, “Yes, exactly.”

“ 'S'good. 'S'good.” Hannah clapped her hands and chirped, “Then Papa will be happy.”

Considering how angry the earl had been at their last meeting, Agnes awaited his good humor. “What if we each carry a handle?”

Christopher stared at his boot tips. “Any compromise on the matter will be seen as disobedience.”

“Your father said that?”

“Aye. I think you should know that he always gets his way.”

“You discussed it with him?”

“Of course.” Squaring his shoulders, he looked very much like his sire. “I argued my point most fiercely.”

An exchange she hoped to witness one day, for it reminded her of discussions she'd had with the duke of Ross. “Where is your father now?”

“He's offering the farrier a position in our stables at Napier House.”

She took great satisfaction in the news. With that came the realization that even unbeknownst to one another, the Napiers worked as a team. An admirable practice, she had to admit, and one she'd grown up with.

Pleased with herself, she allowed Christopher to act the porter.

He hefted the bag to his shoulder and motioned them toward the door. “On the way home we'll play every game we know.”

*  *  *

Hannah was taking her third turn at “What's in the big dipper” when the carriage approached a horseshoe-shaped drive that was lighted by at least a dozen post lamps.

“Haggis and hashes!” the girl declared.

“There's no food in the sky. You're a Piscinarian!”

“Dishclout.”

“Capricornified!”

“Cribbage face!”

“Haud yer wheesht!”
Agnes stared out the window and counted to ten, hoping they would obey. Their good behavior had ended at the gates of Glasgow. Nudging had turned to pinching; separating them had brought on the name-calling.

The carriage slowed. They passed a brick column bearing a shield emblazoned with a hand holding a crescent, a heraldic symbol Agnes recognized as that of the Napiers. Against the night sky she could discern the shape of an ancient stone tower rising behind the elegant Georgian entrance.

When the children remained silent, she relaxed. The conveyance stopped, then rolled backward a bit. They had arrived.

As stoic as a statue of the mother of Khan, Auntie Loo opened the carriage door.

Jamie helped them down. A stableman held the reins to the sorrel gelding, now riderless and lathered. Agnes spied Lord Edward. Surrounded by a group of important-looking men, he stood before the open front doors of the estate. One of the visitors drew her attention. She recognized his chain of office as that of the Constable of Glasgow. A tidy porter who wore a fresh bandage around his head stepped into the circle of men.

Something was wrong. The constable was speaking to Lord Edward. She could almost hear him curse to himself, so violent was his reaction to the news. His jaw tight with restrained anger, he glanced through the opened doors, then looked to the injured servant.

Agnes hurried up the steps and to the earl of Cathcart's side. His troubled frown worried her more than the presence of the authorities. “Is something amiss, my lord?”

Rather than answer her, he said, “Lady Agnes MacKenzie, may I present our good constable, Sir Oliver Jenkins.”

“Sir Oliver.”

“ 'Tis an honor, Lady Agnes.” Bristling with excitement, he swept off his hat, made a courtly bow, and motioned for his minions to do the same. Replacing his hat, he said, “Would you be of the Saint Andrews' MacKenzies?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lord Edward shift his weight to one booted foot and stare into the lane, as if searching for someone. Absently, she said to the constable, “Nay, my father is the duke of Ross.”

His earlier enthusiasm paled. “You're one of Lord Lachlan's lassies?”

“Aye, what has occurred here?”

“A burglary,” said Lord Edward, his words dropping into the polite conversation like the banging of a temple bell. “Mr. Boswell will escort you to your rooms.” Catching the servant's gaze, he added, “The blue apartments, Bossy. Keep the children close to you for now, and put a guard outside their door when you retire.”

Mr. Boswell nodded and moved into the foyer. “Aye, my lord. This way, my lady. Hannah and Christopher.”

Innocent of the proceedings, the children skipped up the steps and queried Boswell about his injury. A refusal to follow them perched on Agnes's lips, but another glance at Edward Napier stifled the words. Restrained anger simmered beneath his facade of civility, and she was reminded of a man poised to do battle with his sworn enemy.

“Go along now,” he said.

Not “Go along, Lady Agnes” or “Excuse us, my lady.” The absence of protocol gave further proof of his distraction. She'd get settled in her room and wash her hands and face. Then she'd find him and learn the details. Or perhaps she'd ask the fellow named Bossy. But no matter the source, she'd learn the particulars about the burglary.

“Thank you, my lord.”

As Edward watched her leave, he chided himself for bringing her here and again placing her in danger. First thing tomorrow he'd send her back to the duke of Ross. He had his own demons to deal with now.

He removed his cloak and handed it to the housekeeper, Mrs. Johnson. Sadness wreathed her face. “ 'Tis a gift of the Almighty himself that you and the wee ones wasn't here, my lord.”

Putting on a smile he didn't feel, he patted her arm. “Worry not, Hazel.”

Then he asked the constable to show him what had occurred.

The tour began with a broken window in the old wing and ended in Edward's study. The destruction he found there, and the threat it carried, chilled him to the bone.

T
HE PORTER
, M
R
. B
OSWELL, PROVED AS
tight-lipped as he was polite, and to Agnes's dismay, she left her room with only one more piece of information than when she'd arrived. In keeping with their routine, Auntie Loo had retired for a few hours. Agnes would sleep later or not at all. Even as a child, three or four hours' rest a night had been sufficient for her. At the moment she couldn't have slept had she tried; trouble awaited her. Convincing Edward Napier of the danger posed an additional problem.

Making her way down the lighted corridor that led to the main staircase, she organized her thoughts and arranged her plans. A few elementary precautions would help secure the family living quarters, which would form the center of an ever-widening circle of protection around the Napiers. The concept and execution were as basic to Agnes as brushing and plaiting her hair for the night or writing letters to her father on Saturday.

No children would be ripped from the Napier family, unless God himself called them home. Safeguarding the innocent was her special ability; employing it was her salvation.

Buoyed by the challenge ahead, she tested the banister and found it secure, then started down the marble stairway. Tomorrow she would order a carpet and better the odds against serious injury, should an accident occur on the stairs.

In the entryway she peered through the leaded glass panels that flanked the front doors. One of the men she'd seen earlier guarded the residence. Turning left, she found herself in an odd portrait gallery. Beginning with a carved wooden rendering of its first chieftain and continuing in chronological progression, Clan Napier was immortalized on the wall. Unusual about the wall was a sampling of textiles, from exquisite medieval tapestries to a more modern panel of woven silk, that mingled with portraits of past earls and countesses of Cathcart.