Patricia Rice (11 page)

“Hugo?” Mac had lost track of the conversation.

“My older brother, the baron, remember? Father sent
him to persuade Overton to take a position on our Somerset estate, but
the chap is being stubborn. Can’t say as I blame him. If I had a little
land of my own, I’d not work for anyone else either.”

Mac had heard all this last night and could
sympathize, but not right now. Thoughts spinning, he fell in with
Carstairs’s request to accompany him into the village. The bank note for
the dogs and the coins in his pocket would give Miss C a little cash to
tide her over for a while.

Lord Hugo Carstairs, baron, looked amazingly like an
older, more cynical version of jolly Dav. He lifted a pointed dark
eyebrow at his introduction to Mac and didn’t immediately reach for the
bank note his younger brother requested.

“You sold him Miss Cavendish’s hounds?” he drawled.
“How generous.” Crossing his arms, the baron leaned against a wall and
watched the blacksmith shoe his restive stallion. “And where do you
intend to kennel these hounds, Dav, old boy?”

Holding his high-crowned beaver hat, Dav impatiently
brushed at a dirt smudge marring the expensive surface. “We have that
whole farm with nothing on it but sheep. It won’t hurt to kennel a few
hounds for the hunting season.”

“The sheep at least earn their way,” the baron pointed out. “That’s more than can be said of dogs.”

That was Mac’s opinion on the matter, but he didn’t
have time to barter with arrogant lordlings. “Sheep are barely earning
their weight, from all reports,” he said disagreeably. “Until someone
has the ambition to install a mill and those new looms, you’re stuck
with accepting a factor’s prices for their wool. Send a draft to Miss
Cavendish when you’re ready for the hounds. I bid you good day.”

He started toward the inn in hopes Digby might know where he could find Mary and the children.

“The squire owned the only mill,” the baron called after him. “It’s water I lack, not ambition.”

Damn.
Mac swung around,
examined the baron still lounging against the wall, and nodded
acknowledgment. Overton had told him the Cavendish land encompassed the
main river source, but the mill had closed because of the competition
from factories in the north. It wasn’t his concern. “Call on Miss
Cavendish,” he replied curtly.

Carstairs was naught but the heir of an earl. Mac’s
mother was the daughter of an earl. Titles were irrelevant in this day
and age. If the baron had any sense at all, he’d be courting Miss C in
hopes of acquiring a beautiful wife who owned a useful mill and a lot of
valuable land.

Mac figured Carstairs was waiting for the daughter of an earl to come along instead.
Stupid.

He tried not to imagine the cynical baron courting
Miss C. She might have a shade too much pride for Mac’s taste, but it
was obvious she didn’t have the sophistication of a man like Carstairs.
She needed a protector, not a seducer.

Mac rolled his eyes at his own thoughts. What Miss Cavendish needed or didn’t need was none of his concern.

Upon questioning, Digby gave Mac the location of
Mary’s parents. Mac had no idea how he would hide the brats until he
could set sail. He just knew the sleepy little village of Broadbury had
suddenly become too populated for comfort.

He growled at Mary’s mother when he learned the
children had already left. She backed away, and, feeling an oaf, Mac
hurried off.

As he returned to the Court, he heard laughter and
hurried a little faster up the drive. He would borrow the pony cart.
He’d see the cart returned with adequate compensation for its use. He
could hide at an inn....

He sprinted past a towering rhododendron and almost
stumbled over Miss Cavendish sitting on the grass, her full black skirt
spread around her, holding her hands out to an upright Bitsy. Mac held
his breath as the babe put one chubby leg before the other, obviously
determined to reach the outstretched hand. One step, two...

She plumped down on her padded backside, and Mac hastened to pick her up before she cried.

To his amazement, she was giggling, and so was Miss Cavendish.

“She keeps trying to walk, but her bottom is too
big.” Miss C laughed as the babe waved her hands at her. “I don’t think
she likes crawling in the grass.”

Mac had to stop a moment to readjust his thinking.
He’d been worrying and fretting all morning, anxious to spirit the
children away, and now she’d confronted him with a bucolic scene
contrary to all his fears.

Bitsy laughed proudly as she rose to her tiny bare
feet again, undoubtedly staining Miss C’s petticoats with grass but
undeterred in her quest to reach the first loving arms she’d probably
ever known. Had Marilee ever had a chance to hold her daughter, or had
she died without seeing her? Mac swallowed a surge of grief at the
thought.

“Where’s Buddy?” He sounded surly, but Miss
Cavendish was concentrating on Bitsy. She had a remarkable way of
ignoring him when he was at his worst.

“With Aunt Constance. I left the two of them
chattering away. She’s never had children of her own, and she dotes on
them. I’m sure he’s spilling all your secrets by now.” Bitsy fell down a
little closer, and Beatrice reached over to haul the toddler into her
arms, hugging her as she glanced up at him. “Did you sell the hounds?”

Mac dropped the pouch of coins on her skirts. “He
still owes a sum he’s persuading out of his big brother. Expect a call
from Lord Carstairs and don’t let the dogs go until he pays up.”

That sounded too much as if he were planning to
leave, and from her puzzled frown, he could tell the question had
crossed her mind. Fortunately for him, she wasn’t the type to nag or
interrogate. If he had time to think about it, he’d appreciate her calm
acceptance of his abrupt manners.

But her mention of Lady Taubee prying at secrets
increased his anxiety. He prayed four-year-olds didn’t know how to tell
secrets. “I’ll check on Buddy.”

“I was about to take Bitsy in. I’ll check on him.
The thatcher had a question I couldn’t answer. Could you...” She
gestured in the direction of the barn.

Heart thumping oddly out of kilter, Mac reluctantly
turned away to see what the thatcher needed. He couldn’t let Miss C’s
soft brown eyes distract him for long.

Hurriedly, he checked at the barn, answered the
thatcher’s question, verified that the pony cart had working wheels, and
retraced his steps to the house. Miss C was nowhere in sight, and with
relief, he headed inside. If he could retrieve the children...

Hearing Buddy’s rambunctious shouts from the nursery
as he entered, he started toward the stairs. An icy voice from the hall
stopped him in his tracks.

“I think, Mr.
MacTavish,
we might have a word in private.”

At this use of his full name, Mac heard the door of a dungeon cell clanging closed. He swung around to face the source of doom.

Lady Taubee stood imperiously outside the study, her
dark eyes snapping, daring him to run. He’d never run from adversity in
his life, but he considered it now. Unfortunately, the children were
upstairs, and he didn’t have the cart hitched to the pony. Not that one
could outrace pursuers in a pony cart.

He was trapped.

With arrogance, Mac nodded his head and changed direction to follow Lady Taubee into the study.

The aristocratic old woman gestured toward a
straight-backed chair across from her. Mac waited until she was seated
on the love seat, then usurped the desk chair.

“You don’t deny your true name, then?” she demanded.

“Do I stand charged of that? I didn’t know it was a crime,” he retorted.

Oddly enough, Lady Taubee smiled. “I can remember
your mother denying she flirted with my beau on the grounds that she’d
kissed him, not flirted with him.” The smile disappeared. “My niece is
not sophisticated enough to understand such refinements on truth. You
have lied to her, Mr. MacTavish.”

“For good reason, my lady.” Mac waited impatiently
for the boom to fall. He needed to know which way to dodge, and so far
they only danced around the subject.

Above them, Buddy’s shouts escalated into hysterical
screams. Mac didn’t wait for the lady, but, leaping from his chair, he
dashed into the hall, taking the stairs two at a time. Vaguely, he was
aware by the first landing that Miss C followed, but he didn’t question
her appearance. Somehow he’d known a child’s cry would bring her
running.

As Mac charged into the nursery, panting from his
race to the third floor, he looked desperately for spilled blood and
broken teeth.

“I was merely teaching them their numbers,” Mary cried from the window seat.

Bitsy sat sniffing and hiccuping in the far corner
of the room while Buddy stood protectively in front of her, hands on
hips and glaring a challenge at the adults invading his territory. He’d
freed his arm from its sling and bunched his small fingers into fists,
but his bottom lip was quivering. On the floor in front of them lay an
assortment of broken sticks.

“Counting sticks,” Beatrice said as she entered.
“Why on earth should they carry on over the counting sticks?” She bent
to retrieve one of the broken toys. “Aunt Constance taught me my numbers
with these.”

Beatrice watched as Mr. Warwick squatted to lower
his large frame to the boy’s height. She noted how his shoulders
strained at the coat seams, and his boots muddied his trousers, but he
paid no notice to his attire. She tried sweeping past him to pick up
Bitsy, but he held up his hand to prevent her from passing. “Buddy,
what’s wrong?” he asked carefully.

Buddy looked uncertainly from Mr. Warwick to Beatrice, then flung himself, sobbing, into his father’s arms.

Behind them, Lady Taubee stumbled in, panting with
exertion, her turban tilting at a precarious angle as she took stock of
the situation.

Not understanding any of this, Bea ignored Warwick’s
warning, marched past him, and lifted Bitsy. Settling in the rocking
chair, she cuddled the little girl in her arms as if she belonged there,
and for the first time, she considered what would happen when Mr.
Warwick took the children away. Would he find someone who would look
after them and hug them and reassure them as they needed?

“Buddy, tell me what’s wrong.” Mr. Warwick sounded as desperate as the child sobbing in his arms. “Are you hurt?”

“Bad sticks,” he said through hiccups. “Bad, bad, bad, sticks.”

“I simply spread them on the floor,” Mary explained.
“Nanny Marrow used to teach us to count with them. Then we’d stick them
into potatoes and make dolls of them.”

Mr. Warwick picked up one of the slender, pointed sticks and held it in his palm. “It’s a toy, Buddy. Just a toy.”

Buddy grabbed the stick in his pudgy fist and jammed it into his father’s knee.

Mr. Warwick yelped and hit the floor hard, accompanied by the ominous sound of a tearing trouser seam.

Bea gasped as she caught the implication behind
Buddy’s action. “Get rid of those sticks at once,” she said as softly as
she could through her fury. “He learned that from someone. Children
imitate what they see.”

Bea scarcely heard her aunt’s cry of dismay as Mr.
Warwick’s gaze met hers, and she read his answering anger and
helplessness. What kind of parent didn’t even know when someone tortured
his children?

Not Mr. Warwick. She could tell by his rage that
he’d just discovered what the children had suffered, that he understood
what she wasn’t saying out loud. Maybe it was time she demanded a few
explanations. She couldn’t believe a man who could walk the floor with
his daughter all night would let anything—or anyone—harm his children.

Mr. Warwick removed the stick from his son’s hand
and snapped it in two. “No more sticks, Buddy. We’ll count toes and
fingers from now on. And no one will hurt Bitsy, either. Look, she’s all
wrapped up in Miss C’s hair.”

Beatrice ignored the sticky fingers pulling the long
curls beside her ears into wispy ringlets. Tears welled in her eyes at
the thought of what these children must have endured. What satisfaction
could anyone achieve from jabbing pointed sticks into tender flesh? It
had never even occurred to her that toys could be used in such a
fashion.

Aunt Constance and Mary were already gathering up
the sticks and systematically breaking them into little pieces. Mr.
Warwick carefully rose with Buddy in his arms, promising him a pony
ride, and Beatrice closed her eyes at the sight revealed as he turned
toward the door. At least he wore underdrawers beneath the split seam.

But oh, my...
The
possibility of what the underdrawers covered tickled fantasies she’d
rather not examine, and she hugged Bitsy tighter, ignoring the thumping
of interest in her breast.

“Mr. Warwick,” she called daringly, “you might want to stop at the cottage before going to the stable.”

“Right.” He sounded gruff, and she didn’t have to
peek to know his cheeks were stained with color as he strode out, the
hole in his trouser seam gaping.

It seemed that the bluff, giant American embarrassed as easily as she did.

“He’s a good man, Bea,” Constance said softly from
the floor as she gathered up the last of the sticks. “You couldn’t do
much better than to latch onto a man like that.”

She sighed wistfully after their guest’s departing
back. “In another day and time, I would set my cap for him myself, but
I’ll make the sacrifice and give him up for you.”

Beatrice ignored her aunt’s wishful thinking.
Remembering Mr. Warwick’s high-handed manner of taking command of her
house, her servants, and her tenants, Beatrice thought maybe he was a
good man for anyone but her.

Lady Taubee didn’t corner Mac again until an hour
before dinner. At wit’s end after the nursery episode, he’d spent the
afternoon calming Buddy, without completing plans for their escape. He
figured that if he ran now, the lady would have the authorities after
him in a minute. His only hope was to reason with her.