Maid of Deception (37 page)

And now I had to play mine.

Because of course, I could not meet an untimely end. I could not run, I could not escape. If I did, then my troubles might well be over . . . except for those of my immortal soul, of course. But far worse would be the plight of those I left behind. My father would be disgraced by my death or flight, but he would not have time to dwell on that long. Instead he would be thrown instantly into Cavanaugh’s snare. The letter would be revealed, the Egyptians found on our property. My parents might be beheaded or simply exiled, but all of Marion Hall would be destroyed by the scandal.

I could not do it.

I stared at the fountain in the center of the space, my hands working over each other as though I were a washerwoman rubbing cloth over stones. I could sense Alasdair behind me, of course. He had not let me far from his view
since I’d left him yesterday afternoon, full of information to share with the Queen.

Except I’d still not talked with Elizabeth. Even though all the terrible things that Cavanaugh had said about me were true—I
was
cunning and conniving, I
had
been trained to bring others low—my body now shook with every step, my eyes swam with tears. My mind and heart were choked with the wretched business of my own life. I could not divulge Alasdair’s secrets to Elizabeth on the cusp of my own humiliation; if she still wanted the story after I was destroyed, then so be it. She was my Queen and country.

For at least another little while.

But Alasdair did, at the very least, deserve to be set free of me before I shamed him publicly at Cavanaugh’s side. And so I straightened my back, sensing his approach. A few moments later I heard his quiet footfalls, and then his calm, sturdy presence was at my side.

“You are very sad, my lady,” he observed, as always not wasting time on pretty speech.

I twisted my lips. I’d spent a lifetime finding ways to craft unpleasant news in a manner that would leave my victim feeling strangely comforted by my dismissal of him, but now I found that all my careful training deserted me. As it always seemed to do around Alasdair. “I am, good sir,” I said, turning to him and raising my face to his.

He lifted his brows, his gaze searching my face. “ ‘Good sir’?” he asked. “You think you may want to try using my first name, as we are to be wed?”

And here it was. I swallowed again, and forced myself
to keep my hands at my side. “About that,” I said. “I—” The words would not come for a moment, and I gritted my teeth, steeling myself to get through this as I had ever gotten through every shaming conversation of my life. “I fear we do not suit, good—Alasdair.” I could hear the words, mocking me even as they recalled what I had said to Elizabeth. But I believed them, didn’t I? They were the truth, weren’t they?

Of course they were.

I could never love Alasdair MacLeod—his strength, his power, his sense of purpose. His loyalty, his grace. He was not for the likes of me.

“I fear we do not suit,” I said again. The dam broken, it was as if some other person began to speak for me, her words calm and measured and haughty, though I could feel my body turning hollow, tears melting my bones. “I think you should return to your home without a bride in tow. We are so dissimilar.”

“We are not so dissimilar as that, my lady.” Alasdair’s rebuttal was quick and comforting, and sent a knife into my heart.

“No!” I said harshly, raising my hand to cut him off. “Allow me to finish.” My voice sounded ugly now, rough and untutored, and I built all of the reasons—the good, valid, and wholly true reasons—that condemned any relationship between us before we even began. “I love luxury and comfort, and you live on a hulking rock on an island in the middle of a barren and desolate country. I am learned in languages, music, and the arts, and you know only the life of a warrior. I would be no good bride for you, and you would soon
learn the dark side of my nature. My mother you have met; I am but her daughter. My father you have met; I am but his daughter as well. The worst of both their natures commingle in me, and I would betray you at a moment’s notice to get my way. And my way would be to return here, to the gentle life of the Englisher. I am not meant for the harsh and terrible winters of the north.”

Alasdair made to speak again, but I could feel the tears threatening and I placed my hand against his chest, savoring the solidity of him for a precious moment before I pushed him roughly away. “No, I say!” I fairly shouted, lifting my chin to say the most hated part of my carefully prepared little speech. “I am not for you, good sir. I crave to return to Lord Cavanaugh. He is the man that I love, for all his flaws. He is the man I will be with, however he will have me.”
He is the only man despicable enough to deserve me, a woman who lies and deceives with every waking breath.

“Lord Cavanaugh!” Alasdair said, the shock on his face plain, anger and outrage threading through his voice. “You cannot be serious!”

“Pray, did someone say my name?” The drawling voice I had once thought so cultured now crawled like beetles along my skin, and I turned, legitimately surprised to see Cavanaugh strolling toward us. He was outfitted in the highest fashion of the court, his foppish attire immediately labeling him the buffoon beside the powerfully built Alasdair.

“Beatrice,” Cavanaugh breathed my name as though it were an intimacy, and he caught up my hand and held it to his face. It took every ounce of strength for me to let him do
it and not shiver with revulsion. “How good it is to see you again, and how lovely you look.”

I bared my teeth at him with sick sweetness, then turned to Alasdair again, staring at him blindly as I was smote with the extraordinary wave of pain, sorrow, and outrage that seemed to roll out of his body like a crushing tide. I tried to pull my hand from Cavanaugh, but he held fast, and I was left with trying to speak words over the crashing of my own heart. “You see, good sir, I—”

“Yes,” Alasdair said curtly. “I do certainly see. Fear not, my lady. I will not stand in your way. And now I bid you a good day.” He bowed to me, so shallowly that it was barely a brief nod. Then he turned on his heel, completely ignoring Cavanaugh, and stalked back through the garden until he disappeared into the shadows of the growing evening. I thought I would hear his diminishing footsteps for the rest of my days, around every corner.

A lifetime of Alasdair walking away from me.

But Cavanaugh did not give me long to grieve. “That was well done, Beatrice,” he said sarcastically, lye dripping from his words. “I should not have wanted to deal with the indelicacy of that oaf calling me out in front of the Queen.”

I turned to Cavanaugh and felt my heart harden into a small knot of stone. For Alasdair, I would sacrifice my pride. For my family, I would sacrifice my position. But this man, who would take so much from me without a second thought, him I would kill one day. It almost made what was about to happen to me worth it.

Almost.

“So let us go over the terms of our contract,” Cavanaugh said with relish, drawing me to a bench closer to the edge of the garden. “Sit, sit. I would that you be comfortable while we discuss your disgrace.”

I sat, but I found I was no longer numb. A cold sort of certainty was growing inside me, starting from my belly and extending out through my arms and legs and hands and feet. The very last portion of my body that it affected was my mouth, which now curved into a brittle, perfect smile—and my eyes, which turned to my tormenter with a calculating precision that even I recognized from somewhere else, someone else.

I suddenly found myself thinking of Jane, when she had been brought into the castle, not flailing and kicking as Meg had been, nor wide-eyed and wondering as Anna had been. Nor even as mute with confusion and worry as Sophia had been.

When Jane had been brought into the castle, she had been silent, stoic, and brutally hard. Her eyes had been those of granite; her very skin had seemed chipped with ice. And her mouth had formed a hard line of both resignation and fierce intention. She had already killed by then. And she had already died.

Thank you, Jane.
With her as my mentor, I could get through this. I would get through it.

“Now,” Cavanaugh said, drawing the word out. “Allow me to recap.” He pulled out the accursed letter, fluttered it in front of me. “I have here proof of your family’s unfortunate transgression with the Egyptians on your land. A
transgression I will not hesitate to share with the Queen. To assure my silence, you will agree to consort with me however and whenever I choose, in public or in private, and to deny no one when they ask if I have ruined you. Which I certainly will have done, before this night is through.” He glanced over the letters and eyed me keenly. “In case you were wondering.”

I stared back at him, plotting his death in horrible ways. I was up to thirty-two when his expression faltered, but only slightly.

“It will be my absolute pleasure to do so, you should know,” he said. “And then, when I am through—quite through—and you are sufficiently punished for daring to embarrass me, then I shall deposit you in whatever hovel is still willing to claim you. You will know your family is safe—from your servants to that horde of foundlings who plague your halls, from your deranged mother to your insufferable father.”

And then came a movement beside us that sent a chill anew down my back, and my mortification was complete. Was there nowhere in the castle where one could speak and not be heard?

Apparently not this night.

“Insufferable!” came the deceptively mild voice. “I say, my good Lord Cavanaugh, I am wounded.”

My father strolled into the garden.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

To his credit, Cavanaugh did not even flinch. He’d spent more time at court than even I had, and he was well used to being overheard. A dim part of me wondered if he’d sought me out in this garden exactly so he could be overheard. The plan had a certain malicious merit to it.

But now he stared at my father, and I finally turned as well, forcing myself to lift my gaze to the laughing drunkard, the fawning courtier, the charming secret-gatherer I’d known all my life.

And I blinked.

My father’s face was still set in its outwardly cheerful manner, his eyes bright, his grin easy. But something had changed beneath the surface. There was a cold fury that had taken hold of his bones somehow, rendering them thick and unyielding beneath the malleable skin. His body, too, belied an intensity I’d never seen before, even as he sauntered up to Cavanaugh with the affected grace of a lifelong courtier and stood at his leisure, absently drawing his fine lawn gloves off his hands and tucking them into his waistband.

The move looked oddly like that of a man about to do battle with his fists. Cavanaugh must have thought so too, because he immediately began to bluster.

“You have
nothing
to say to me anymore, Knowles,” he said. “What goes on between your daughter and myself is our own affair. There is
nothing
she is doing here that she hasn’t agreed to fully, and there is
nothing
you can do about it.” He caught my hand and pulled me to him, a parody of two young nobles in love. “She’ll be the first to tell you.”

“My daughter’s mind is ever her own, and has been since she was scarcely five years old,” Father said, smiling benignly at me even as his eyes flicked down, coldly, to stare at Cavanaugh’s hand gripping mine. I was slowly coming out of my fog, realizing that I needed to turn this conversation into safer waters—but to where? I wasn’t sure how much my father had overheard, but his crime in this was far greater than what mine was about to be in the eyes of the court. Surely the sacrifice of his daughter was worth saving the family’s lives?

“Nonetheless,” Father said smoothly. “I should say for shame, Lord Cavanaugh, for feeling that you need to compel any woman, let alone a gently bred girl, to lie with you in your bed.”

I felt my eyes go wide even as Cavanaugh stiffened. “How dare you!” he spit out, his face turning a shade of purple. “How dare you insinuate—”

“And how dare
you
,” my father returned, cutting him off. “From what I overheard, you are behaving as boorishly and scandalously as the most common of brigands—and trust me, I can repeat it to the word, to the letter.”

That stopped me, and I shot a glance to the shadows of the garden. My father could generally be expected to remember no more than what room he’d most immediately left. Was Meg somewhere, lingering in the darkness? Had he brought her here?

“What I heard was a man reduced to creating trumped-up nonsense in order to cajole, coerce, and then downright threaten a woman of proud and noble standing to be his doxy. Really, my lord Cavanaugh. I did not expect much of you, but I did expect more than this.”

“ ‘Trumped-up nonsense’!” exploded Cavanaugh. He yanked the copy of the letter out of his doublet and shoved it at Father. “This is hardly ‘trumped-up nonsense.’ This is an accounting of treasonous and criminal activities taking part on your property with your full knowledge and approval. Do not even think to say that because you are an absent landowner, you are not responsible for what goes on at your estate.”