Some Like It Wild (5 page)

She looked so hopeful that Connor bit back his sarcastic retort and instead said gently, “I’m afraid I haven’t had many chances to attend the theater of late. You mentioned earlier that your mother had passed on, but where is
Mr.
Darby? Why hasn’t your father locked you and your sister away in an attic or a convent…or perhaps an asylum?”

“There is no Mr. Darby,” she informed him. “Unless you count my mother’s father, and he died when she was still a babe.”

Her matter-of-fact confession only served to remind Connor that he had once been blessed with two parents who adored him. “So after your mother died, you decided to journey to the Highlands and kidnap the first highwayman who crossed your path.”

“Need I remind you, sir, that
you
were the one who accosted us,” she said with an exasperated sniff. “We came here searching for a man, not a
highwayman. And not just any man, but the heir to a vast fortune.”

Connor dragged a second chair around to face her and sank into it.
Now
she had his attention. “How vast?”

“His father is one of the wealthiest nobleman in all of England. And one of the most powerful. The Duke of Warrick can command a dozen households of servants, a fleet of trading ships and most of the members of Parliament with nothing more than the snap of his fingers.” She boldly snapped her own fingers beneath his nose to illustrate her point. “But none of his wealth or power has been able to win him the one prize he desires above all others—the return of the son who went missing nearly thirty years ago.”

Connor frowned. “What happened to the lad? Did he run away? Was he kidnapped for ransom?”

“Neither. Apparently, when he was younger, the duke had a bit of a roving eye. Most pampered ladies are content to look the other way when their husbands stray, but not his duchess.” An admiring glow warmed Pamela’s amber eyes. “After she found the duke’s mistress in their bed during a ball, she bundled up their newborn babe and ran away with him.”

Connor’s voice reflected his incredulity. “And the duke’s been searching for the lad for nearly thirty years?”

“I believe he lost hope a long time ago, but he’s recently redoubled his efforts.”

“Why now, after all this time?”

“Because he’s dying,” Pamela said flatly. “His health has been declining for several years now, and according to gossip he has only months—if not weeks—to live. I’m convinced that’s what prompted him to offer the reward.”

“Reward?” Connor edged his chair even closer to hers. He knew all about rewards. There was a rather hefty one on his own head right now. He also knew a reward on a man’s head didn’t mean he was worth anything.

Pamela leaned forward in her chair, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “The duke is offering ten thousand pounds to anyone who can bring him proof that his son is still alive.”

Connor let out a low-pitched whistle. “With a prize like that at stake, I gather you and your sister aren’t the only ones out searchin’ for the lad.”

“That may be true, but we were the only ones searching in the right place.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

She tilted her head to study him. “I’d be a fool to trust a man like you, wouldn’t I?”

“Aye,” he agreed solemnly. “That you would.”

She studied him for a few seconds longer, then shook her head. “I don’t suppose any of it matters now that we’ve learned the truth.”

Connor had believed his interest had reached its peak when the words
vast fortune
and
reward
had been introduced into the conversation. But he was wrong. As Pamela slipped a hand into the bodice of her pelisse, rooting around between the generous swell of her breasts, he sat up straighter in the
chair, feeling the rest of his body snap to attention with equal fascination. He was on the verge of offering her his eager assistance when she finally drew forth a folded scrap of foolscap, yellowed with age.

She laid the paper in her lap, handling it with the utmost of care. “For almost thirty years, everyone has believed the duchess took the baby and fled to France, which is why all of the searches have been centered there.” She tapped the paper with one neatly trimmed fingernail. “This document proves otherwise.”

“What is it?”

“A letter the duchess penned the night before she ran away. A letter addressed to her dear childhood friend—a woman she could no longer acknowledge in polite society without fear of damaging her own reputation but who had always been her most faithful and treasured confidante—one Marianne Darby.”

Pamela’s amber eyes grew misty as she tenderly stroked the crumbling wax seal that had once shielded the letter from prying eyes. “This is the only document proving the duchess had no intention of ever boarding that ship for France. She confessed to my mother she booked that passage to France to deliberately mislead her husband, all the while planning to seek asylum with her maternal grandfather—a man who had once been a powerful laird in the Highlands of Scotland but—”

“—who had lost everything to the English,” Connor finished for her. Too many stories had the
exact same ending. Including his own. He nodded toward the letter. “How did you come by it? Did you find it among your mother’s things after she died?”

Pamela’s face hardened. “Her belongings were all destroyed in the fire that killed her. The letter was presented to us by her solicitor upon her death.” The corner of Pamela’s mouth quirked in a rueful smile. “Unfortunately, it was all she left us.”

“And your mother never received any other letters from this grand lady? Not even a note sayin’ she’d arrived safely at her grandfather’s house?”

“Not another word from her for all these years.” Pamela shook her head sadly. “But now we know why. According to an old woman Sophie and I found in Strathspey, they never made it that far. It was a harsh winter and both she and the babe died of a fever somewhere near Balquhidder.”

They were both silent for several minutes.

“Wouldn’t this duke be equally grateful for proof of his son’s fate?” Connor finally asked. “At least the poor man could die in peace, knowin’ his search was over.”

Pamela gave him a glum look. “Have you ever heard the old proverb about shooting the messenger? The duke has quite a fearsome reputation, and I’m afraid if we brought him ill tidings, he would be more inclined to have us tossed into Newgate, never to see the light of day again.” Still clutching the duchess’s letter, she rose from her chair and paced a few feet away before turning to face him. “That’s why I thought that perhaps it would be
far more charitable—and more profitable—to give him exactly what he’s been looking for.”

Her expression was so hopeful, so very winsome, that Connor could not resist asking, “And just what would that be?”

She smiled at him with all of the beguiling tenderness of a lover. “Why, you, of course!”

A
s Connor sprang to his feet, Pamela took a step backward, thinking it might be wise to stay out of his reach until he’d had time to fully digest her words.

He glared at her accusingly. “So that’s your game, is it, lass? You’re thinkin’ to set me up as an imposter so that when the truth comes out,
I’ll
be the one rottin’ away in Newgate while you and your precious sister make off with the reward.” He raked a hand through his hair, dragging the windswept strands out of his face. “Why, I should have shot you when I had the chance!”

Pamela took another nervous step backward, thankful there were no firearms in the immediate vicinity. At least not genuine ones. “Now, Mr. Kincaid, there’s no need for histrionics. Or gunplay. It would be a harmless-enough ruse. Why, we’d be fulfilling the dream of a dying man!”

Connor shook his head, visibly torn between disgust and admiration. “And they call
me
ruthless! You must have ice flowin’ through your heart. If you even have one, that is.”

Her conscience more stung by his words than she cared to admit, Pamela waved the letter at him. “I’ll have you know that this is the same man who took another woman into his wife’s bed while she was entertaining guests downstairs. The same man who vowed she would never again lay eyes on her own child if she dared to create a scandal over his affair. As far as I’m concerned, we’d be doing the scoundrel a far greater kindness than he deserves.”

“What would you have done?”

“Pardon?”

“What would you have done if you’d found your husband in your bed with his mistress? Would you have taken the child and fled?”

“Probably,” she replied with a sullen sniff. “After I shot the wretch through his miserable cheating heart.”

Connor surprised her by bursting into laughter. She had anticipated the devastation his smile might wreak on a woman’s heart, but the rich, warm timbre of his laughter proved to be even more hazardous. Especially since she suspected he wasn’t a man who laughed often or with such hearty abandon.

“Bloodthirstiness becomes you, Miss Darby. It makes your cheeks pink and your eyes sparkle.” Connor dragged his chair around backward and
straddled it, then shoved back his sleeves to reveal well-muscled forearms dusted with hair the color of maple sugar. Pamela tried not to gawk as he folded those imposing arms over the top rung of the chair’s ladder back. “Why do you need me? If your mother was a celebrated actress, you must still have friends in the theater. Why don’t you just trot back to London and hire an actor for your masquerade?”

Scowling, Pamela shook her head. “Actors are a greedy and ambitious lot. You can’t trust them.”

“Unlike highwaymen,” Connor pointed out, his voice gentle with sarcasm.

“Is there no such thing as honor among thieves?”

He snorted. “Not among any of the thieves I’ve met. Most of them would slit their grandmothers’ throats for a jar of whisky and a used pair of boots.”

“Including you?”

“I don’t have a grandmother. So tell me, lass, just what do
you
hope to gain from this balmy scheme of yours?”

She clasped her hands beneath her breastbone and offered him a benevolent smile. “The joy of reuniting a dying father with the man he believes to be his long lost son.”

Connor cocked one eyebrow, inviting her to tell him another lie.

She sighed, feeling her smile fade. His gaze was entirely too sharp. It was going to take every acting trick she’d ever learned from her mother to shield her secret from him. “Is it so unthinkable that I
might just want the reward? You’ve seen my sister, Mr. Kincaid. I’m sure you can imagine the challenges of being responsible for such a ravishing young creature.”

“She’s comely enough, I suppose, if you fancy the type.” His frank gaze skated lower, deliberately lingering on her generous hips and the swell of her bosom before returning to her face. “I happen to prefer a lass with a wee bit more meat on her bones.”

Although Pamela knew she should probably scold him for his insolence, she felt a perverse little thrill of pleasure. Hoping to hide it, she paced a few steps toward the hearth as she spoke. “If Sophie had a father or an uncle to look after her, her beauty would be a blessing. But in our circumstances, it’s nothing but a curse. I already have one married viscount desperate to seduce her. If we return to London even poorer and more helpless than when we left, I’m afraid he’ll try something even more nefarious.”

“Would you like me to kill him for you?”

Pamela jerked her head around to meet his steady gray gaze. She would have laughed, but she wasn’t entirely sure he had made the offer in jest.

She cleared her throat. “I’m hoping that won’t be necessary. With the reward I could provide a dowry for Sophie and find her a decent husband—not a nobleman of course, but some nice young man in trade. Or perhaps a second son in the militia or the clergy.”

“What about you? What’s to become of you once
you have your sister safely tucked away in some pious vicar’s bed?”

Connor’s blunt question unsettled her. “I haven’t really thought about it. I suppose I could purchase a small cottage with the remaining money and retire to the country or the seaside.”

“To do what? Bake shortbread and collect cats?’ ’Tis a bit tame for a lass like you, don’t you think? Especially after a career of kidnappin’ bandits and swindlin’ wealthy gentlemen out of their inheritances.” One corner of his mouth quirked upward in a lazy smile. “You might just decide a life of crime suits you.”

She gave him an icy look.

“What are you really after, lass?” He tilted his head to the side, studying her through narrowed eyes. “You just don’t strike me as the sort who would make off with what doesn’t rightly belong to her.”

“Why, Mr. Kincaid,” she said lightly, “you of all people should understand the irresistible temptation of ill-gotten gain.”

“You’re forgettin’ one thing, Miss Darby. A man who lies, steals and cheats for a livin’ can usually tell when someone else is lyin’.”

Pamela swallowed but his frank gaze made it impossible to keep choking back the truth. Lifting her chin to meet his gaze squarely, she said, “You’re absolutely right. I’m not a thief by nature but by necessity. I do desperately need the means to protect my sister, but I’m also after the monster who murdered my mother.”

N
ow that the dam was broken, the words came pouring out of Pamela in a steady stream. “Sophie doesn’t know. She
can’t
know. It would break her heart. But my mother’s death was no accident. Someone set the fire that killed her. And when her solicitor gave us this letter—the one he’d been protecting for all these years at my mother’s request, I knew why. Because—”

“—someone wanted to destroy the letter and anyone who might have known about it,” Connor finished for her. “Someone wanted to make sure the duke’s heir was never found.” He scowled at her, haunted by a grim image of what might have happened had she and her sister been in the theater when that fire was set. “Once you knew, why didn’t you go straight to the law?”

“I’m the illegitimate daughter of an actress,
Mr. Kincaid. What was I supposed to do? March up to the nearest constable and accuse someone in the duke’s household of burning my mother alive? Why, they would have laughed in my face and thrown me into Newgate! Or Bedlam!”

“So you decided to take matters into your own hands.”

She nodded. “And what better way to foil this murderer’s plot and lure him out of hiding than to show up on the duke’s doorstep with the man’s long lost heir in tow?”

Connor shook his head, torn between disbelief and admiration. “’Tis a crafty plan, lass. And it might even have worked if the duke’s heir had been long lost instead of long dead.”

“Which is why I need you to help me resurrect him.”

Pamela crumpled her mother’s fragile letter in her white-knuckled fist, her gaze both fierce and pleading. It had been a long time since a woman had looked at him like that.

A lifetime.

Connor’s voice came out far brusquer than he intended. “Last I heard, there was only one fellow who could raise the dead. And he came to a very bad end at the hands of the law.” He shook his head with genuine regret. “I’m truly sorry about your mother, lass, but my services are not for hire. I can’t help you.”

Pamela’s lips tightened. “If you won’t help me, then why don’t you help yourself? Have you thought about what
you
would stand to gain?”

“What? Another date with the hangman? One I won’t be able to wiggle my way out of this time?”

As Pamela took one step toward him, then another, he sat up straight in the chair. Her voice softened, hypnotizing him with a beguiling note of huskiness he hadn’t noticed before. “What about wealth and power beyond your wildest imaginings? What about never having another door slammed in your face but being welcomed into the drawing rooms of noblemen and the palaces of kings? What about having your opinion lauded and your approval courted by everyone you meet? You could have respectability, admiration”—she dared to draw within his reach, leaning close enough to whisper in his ear—“and all the willing women you care to woo.”

Connor surged to his feet, his hand shooting out to seize her wrist. She tried to twist away from him, but he bent her arm up between them, drawing her roughly against his chest. The lush lips that had courted him so boldly only seconds ago were now trembling just a few inches away from his.

He gazed down into her eyes, noticing for the first time how thick and dark her spiky lashes were. “It sounds like you’re tryin’ to trap me in a cage, lass. A gilded one, but a cage all the same. At least if I die swingin’ at the end of a hangman’s noose here in these mountains, I’ll still be free.”

He allowed his gaze to linger on her lips for a dangerous moment before releasing her wrist and turning his back on her.

He was striding toward the door, eager for a
breath of fresh air to drive the enticing scent of lilac from his nostrils, when she said, “There’s one more thing you stand to gain.”

He didn’t slow or turn around. “And what would that be?”

“Revenge.”

Connor stopped and slowly turned on his heel to face her.

This time she was wise enough to keep her distance. “You can’t honestly believe I’ve already forgotten all of your impassioned speeches about the oppression of your people by the English. If you agree to play this role for me, you’ll still be a thief. You’ll simply be stealing an Englishman’s birthright just as Jacob stole Esau’s. It will be your ultimate joke on your enemies.”

Connor studied her through narrowed eyes. However lovely and clever she might be, she was still one of those enemies.

But she was also offering him a way to take a life without staining his hands with a single drop of blood. A way to take revenge on the ruthless redcoat bastards who had murdered his parents and the wealthy landowners who had sent them. And he would still be doing what he’d always done best—robbing the English.

His time was running out. He had left behind his ancestral lands and his clansmen almost five years ago, hoping to make a better life for himself. But all he’d done was fall in with an even motlier crew of cutthroats and smugglers. More than once in the past six months he had awakened from
a restless sleep, clawing at an invisible bond that sought to strangle the life from him. It was just a matter of time before he met the end he deserved and his body was tossed in some unmarked grave where the one person who might still care if he died would never find him.

He slowly sauntered toward Pamela. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Darby. Are you sure you haven’t a drop or two of Scot’s blood runnin’ through your veins?”

“Not that I’m aware of, Mr. Kincaid,” she replied, forced to tilt back her head to look him in the eye as he stopped a scant foot in front of her.

He had to admire her courage as well as her wits. Although she looked as if she would have liked nothing better than to bolt, she stood her ground as he cupped the softness of her cheek in his callused palm. “If I’m to inherit this kingdom you’ve promised me, lass, then perhaps you’d best start addressing me as ‘m’lord.’”

Pamela sat with her back to the wall, watching Sophie sleep. A pale stream of moonlight trickled through the jagged gash in the stone, bathing her sister’s angelic face in a wash of silver. Pamela smiled ruefully as a less than angelic snore escaped Sophie’s puckered lips. She had been a sturdy seven-year-old when Sophie was born and she could still remember rocking the rosy-cheeked babe to sleep every night in her cradle while their mama took her final bows and gathered the roses thrown to her by her adoring admirers.

Pamela hugged the woolen blanket tighter around her shoulders and rested the back of her head against the wall, allowing her eyes to drift shut for a few precious seconds. Her own body was beginning to ache with exhaustion. She longed to stretch out next to Sophie on the makeshift pallet, but she had no intention of leaving her sister unguarded with that motley crew of bandits and smugglers still making merry in the vault below.

As she felt her head beginning to nod toward her chest, she jerked her eyes open and gave herself a brisk shake. She gazed around the dusty tower, wondering if it had once been a bedchamber shared by some lusty lord and his lady. Except for a crude table and chair, there was nothing left of its furnishings but piles of splintered sticks. A fretful squeaking emanated from the walls, warning her that she and her sister were not the tower’s only occupants.

Perhaps it was only fitting that she be denied the sleep of the innocent. Now that she’d convinced Connor to help her swindle the duke out of his title and riches, she supposed she was no better than a common thief herself. She sighed, envying Sophie her untroubled conscience. She had always sworn she would walk through the fires of hell to protect her sister, but this was the first time she’d felt the flames tickling her toes.

Her heavy eyelids were beginning to drift shut again when she heard the ghost of a sound outside the wooden door. She jerked, suddenly wide awake. The blanket slipped from her shoulders as she rose
to her feet, afraid she was about to be rewarded for her vigilance by an uninvited visitor.

She cast about for a weapon but all she could find was the leg from a splintered bedstead. She tested its weight in her hand, grimacing in dismay. Even a toy gun would have been a better comfort.

Stealing a glance at Sophie to make sure she was still sleeping, Pamela crept toward the door. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find it locked—leaving them at the mercy of whoever held the key. But when she tugged the iron handle, the door inched open.

She pressed her eye to the narrow crack.

Connor Kincaid was sprawled in a wooden chair at the top of the stairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him to bar the passageway, and a pistol laid across his lap. His eyes were closed, but there was a lingering tension in his muscles that belied his casual sprawl, warning that he was not a man to be trifled with, even in sleep.

Pamela’s first thought was that he didn’t trust her. That he believed she might try to renege on their bargain and stage an escape.

But then she realized the mouth of the pistol wasn’t pointed toward the tower but toward the stairs. Connor wasn’t holding them prisoner. He was guarding them.

Holding her breath, Pamela gently eased the door shut, marveling at her discovery. Connor had promised her he wouldn’t let her sister come to any harm and in this—if in nothing else—he was evidently a man of his word.

She briefly considered returning to her own guard post but an enormous yawn seized her, making Sophie’s nest of blankets look even more inviting. She hesitated for a moment, then padded over and curled up next to her sister. She gently tucked the blanket around Sophie’s shoulders before falling into a deep and untroubled sleep.