The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (36 page)

Given the tenure of the cold-eyed, black-hearted witch she'd just met, it seemed nothing short of miraculous that the inside of the keep exuded warmth and comfort, security, and, above all, peace, as if those qualities were embedded in the stone. Dominic's grandmother had decorated the Edinburgh house; Angelica suspected that it was her influence that still lingered, still dominated, here. That had proved strong enough to hold against Mirabelle's bleakness.

Angelica had thought she'd been prepared to meet Dominic's mother, but the moment she'd first looked into Mirabelle's eyes had been a shock. One thing to think one knew; another to know.

Mirabelle might have insane ideas, but that didn't mean she wasn't intelligent, cunning, and calculating. Dominic had warned Angelica, and he'd been correct; their charade wasn't going to be as easy to pull off as she'd hoped.

“I'll send some girls in to make up the bed and set things to rights, at least enough to look as if you are staying in here.” Mrs. Mack looked at Angelica. “If that won't disturb you, miss?”

Dominic glanced at her. “I'll be showing Miss Cynster around between now and dinner.”

“As to that, my lord,” Erskine said, “do you wish us to move dinner back?”

When Dominic paused, Angelica asked, “What time would you normally serve the meal when the laird is in residence?”

“Six o'clock, miss,” Mrs. Mack replied.

Angelica caught Dominic's eye. “It would be best to adhere to your usual schedule. There's no reason to convert to ton hours because I'm here.”

He nodded and looked at Mrs. Mack. “So we dine at six.”

“Thank you, my lord. Miss.” Mrs. Mack bobbed, Erskine bowed, then they left.

Dominic turned to Angelica. She smiled and waved to the secret door. “Why don't you show me where this leads?”

Crossing to her, he took her hand, opened the door fully, and led her through.

A
few minutes after the clang of the dinner gong faded, Dominic propelled an apparently fearful and cringing Angelica into the great hall and onto the dais. He steered her past his mother, seated at the high table in her accustomed place to the right of his great chair, past his own chair to the smaller chair on its left. He drew the chair out and pushed Angelica into it. “Sit.”

Wild-eyed, she collapsed as if her legs had given way; the damned woman had a histrionic streak a mile wide.

Jaw clenched, he dropped into his own chair. He didn't look out over the familiar faces gathered about the lower tables, but instead scowled at his plate as the footmen served the three of them the soup course.

The emotion fueling his scowl was real, although he doubted his mother, shooting sidelong glances at him, would guess that it was the necessity of Angelica having to appear before his people as a weak and near-hysterical female, his cowering captive to boot, that was its cause. And gads, the woman could act.

Every second of her public charade was rubbing some part of his psyche raw, but he had to put up with it; she needed his support, not his reluctance.

Luckily, his black temper fitted the persona he needed to show his mother. She would never believe he was happy with the situation, but she might believe—and had thus far seemed to have accepted—that he'd been pushed to the limits of desperation and had surrendered to her demands, and was now darkly brooding over his lost honor.

Well and good.

Setting down his soup spoon, he raised his napkin to his lips and glanced at Angelica.

She'd hunched over her plate, somehow pulling in her shoulders so she appeared more frail, more pitiable. Eyes wide, she was casting furtive glances about the room, and stirring her soup spoon around and around the plate, from which she'd taken no more than two mouthfuls. Her other hand was clenched tight, crushing the napkin in her lap.

If he didn't know better . . .

“Which cell did you put her in?”

Angelica jumped at his mother's question, releasing the spoon with a clatter. Clenching both hands on the napkin, she stared at the soup.

Slowly, Dominic turned, took in the cold joy in Mirabelle's face as she looked across him at Angelica; she was all but salivating. “I'm keeping her in the store room beneath my tower.” Mirabelle didn't know of the secret stair.

“Why not the dungeons?” She frowned at Angelica. “The lower levels are cold and dank, and so dark—
perfect
for her.”

“No.” When Mirabelle looked at him, he stated, “As I said earlier, after going to such lengths to get her here, I wouldn't want to lose her before you deem yourself adequately revenged. I'll keep her where I think it's safest—close enough that I or the staff will know if she escapes.”

A mulish expression settled over his mother's once beautiful countenance. After searching his face, she narrowed her eyes. “I think you're right to take such care—indeed, you should restrain her. Tie her up so she can't escape.”

“No.”

Mirabelle's lips thinned. “At the very least hobble her—she's supposed to be a prisoner, isn't she?”

Resisting the urge to glance at Angelica, he lowered his voice to a warning growl. “I'm the laird here. Do you seriously imagine she could make it outside without anyone stopping her?” He wouldn't, in fact, put that feat past his bride-to-be, not least because all the interested spectators seated at the tables in the body of the hall were eagerly listening, and not one of them seemed anything other than interested in seeing what happened next. Which meant Mulley, Jessup, and the others had spread the word widely and well, so if Angelica did suddenly bolt for the door, everyone would just watch, and wait for the next act in the drama to unfold.

Luckily Mirabelle had never paid attention to his people; she neither saw nor sensed their interest. So it was she who backed down from their staring contest. With a sniff, she sat back as a footman retrieved her empty plate. “Very well. As you wish.”

Noting the platters being ferried out from the kitchens, he turned and studied Angelica, then added as if in an absentminded aside to Mirabelle, “Don't worry. She won't escape.” He met Angelica's green and gold eyes—for a fleeting second saw a smile reflected there—but then she looked down, and he concluded, entirely truthfully, “Believe me, she won't get away.”

“S
he wants to gloat.”

“Well, of course she does.” Lying on her back beside Dominic in his now thoroughly disarranged four-poster bed, Angelica settled the covers over her breasts and stared up at the canopy. “But she'll grow tired of that soon enough, then she'll hand over the goblet and all will be well. Did you glean any insight into what she's looking for in terms of me being ruined?”

“No.” Turning onto his back, Dominic raised his arms and crossed them behind his head. After dinner, having informed his mother that Angelica was not a guest to sit in the drawing room with her, he'd dragged his cowering captive back to the tower store room. The bed had been made up and a candle left burning on a crate. She'd rummaged in her bags, hidden among the room's other debris, hauled out the Robinson, and declared she would be comfortably occupied for several hours. He'd intended escorting her straight up the secret stair so she could wait in the comfort of his rooms, but she'd insisted that it was better she be in the store room in case, while he visited the boys, Mirabelle came knocking.

With the vision of the wicked witch in the fable of Snow White haunting him, he'd locked Angelica in, taken the key, and gone to see Gavin and Bryce.

She turned to him. “How were your wards? You didn't say.”

He grunted. “Ecstatic to have me back, but predictably much less pleased by their confinement.”

“I assume they normally have the run of the keep?”

He nodded. “They'll toe the line for a little while—I just hope Mirabelle deems you ruined enough, soon enough.”

He'd been returning from the boys' room in the west tower when Mirabelle had waylaid him in the foyer. She'd been strangely—even more strangely than usual for her—enthused, expectant. Her eyes had glittered in the darkness. She'd been on her way to see him to tell him that she intended inviting Angelica, “the poor ruined child,” to sit with her the following morning. Mirabelle had sworn to “keep an eye on” Angelica to ensure she wouldn't escape.

He hadn't wanted to agree, but he'd known Angelica would want to seize the opportunity, so he'd nodded, and then stalked to the staff's quarters to make suitable arrangements. “I've spoken with Elspeth and Brenda. Brenda will escort you to the sitting room and remain with you while you're there. If Mirabelle does anything too particular, anything you don't like, just look at either Elspeth or Brenda, and one of them will come and get either me or one of the others.”

Settling on her back again, Angelica smiled; her knight's armor was still shining through the mire he was certain he'd smeared all over it. “Don't fret. This will play to our advantage. Having a sniveling young miss wailing ‘woe is me' at her is sure to grate on her nerves. Leave her to me, and I guarantee it will.”

He huffed, but didn't argue, which made her smile all the more.

“Meanwhile . . .” In her opinion, he needed further distraction to take his mind off his mother's behavior so he would sleep. “You have to admit that my performance today was nothing short of brilliant.”

Another, stronger huff answered her.

Smile deepening, she rolled to her side, then, lifting up, shifted until she was perched across his waist. As naked as he, her hands splayed on his chest, arms braced, she looked into his face.

He opened his eyes wide. “Now what?”

“Now, my lord, it's time to pay the piper.”

“In that case, my lady, consider me entirely at your service.”

She took the statement literally, and over the following half hour, held him to it.

Chapter Eighteen

“S
o. Tell me about your first ball.”

Angelica blinked. “M-my first ball?”

“Yes.” Seated in an armchair before the window in her sitting room, Mirabelle waved imperiously. “Your first ball, miss—where it was held, what you wore, whether you danced every dance, everything you can remember.”

Shifting on the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair Mirabelle had insisted she take, set facing the window and the armchair as if she was a maid applying for a position, Angelica frowned. “You mean my come-out ball?” While technically considered her first ball, it hadn't been the first she'd attended.

Mirabelle frowned. “Yes, that one—the big one.”

“Oh. Well . . .” Fingers twisting a fold of the drab gown that Mirabelle had had delivered to her that morning, a dampened handkerchief clutched in her other hand, Angelica clung to her teary, wilting, helpless persona. “All the balls are big, of course, but that one . . . it was held at St. Ives House—my cousin, Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives's London residence. His duchess, Honoria, was co-hostess with my mother.”

“Of course.” Mirabelle's eyes glittered.

Keeping her eyes wide, Angelica paused as if frightened.

Her face contorting, Mirabelle gestured irritably. “Get on, girl! Tell me more about it.”

Angelica swallowed. “Well, it was big, as you say.” She let her voice hitch—as if remembering something lovely that was lost to her. “A very large number of the ton attended, and I wore a white gossamer silk gown over white satin, with tiny teal rosebuds around the neckline and waist, and about the edges of the hem and sleeves.” What lady ever forgot her come-out gown? “I wore teal ballroom slippers, and carried a teal silk reticule, and there were teal silk roses in my hair, anchored by pearl pins. I had on my grandmother's pearl necklace and earrings, and a pearl armlet and ring my father gave me.” She paused to draw a shaky breath, then rushed out, “And I definitely danced every dance.” That was all but obligatory at one's come-out ball.

“Who was your first partner?”

Impressed by how thorough Dominic's father's informers had been, she sniffed, then nearly wailed, “His Grace, the Duke of Grantham. Oh, my heavens—I should have accepted him when I had the chance. I'll never get a better offer, not now!”

Gulping back sobs, she mopped her eyes with the handkerchief and kept her head bowed. From beneath her lashes, she watched Mirabelle eye her coldly.

“Stop sniveling.” Mirabelle shifted in her chair. “Now tell me about your sisters. What gowns did they wear to their come-outs?”

Angelica managed to drag the information from her memory, but was relieved when, from there, Mirabelle's attention, albeit increasingly avid, deflected first to her brothers and their offspring, then to ton events, and from there to the customary pattern of tonnish ladies' days.

Such questions she could answer without thought, but judging that she'd satisfied Mirabelle as to her identity, she seized every pause, every opportunity, to weep and rail against fate, and turned every question to her own purpose, bemoaning the loss of the life she'd led—the very life Mirabelle seemed so keen to hear about.

Mirabelle grew increasingly restive, eventually becoming sufficiently irritated by Angelica's whining to dismiss her.

Angelica quit the sitting room in Brenda's charge. She and Brenda exchanged a speaking glance, but said nothing as they walked back to her store room-cum-cell.

The gong for luncheon sounded as they reached the door, and they diverted to the great hall. Angelica slipped into her shrinking, cowering role as they entered the cavernous room, allowing Brenda, her supposed jailer, to roughly escort her to her chair.

Dominic appeared, nodded to Brenda, and dropped into his chair. Without looking at Angelica, he murmured, “How did it go?”

“I passed the identity test, but she was even more interested in hearing about ton life, how we live in London, that sort of thing. And no, I have no idea why she's so interested in that.” She'd kept her head down, murmuring at her plate.

Beside her, Dominic shifted. “Here she comes.”

Angelica clung to her pose of weak, wilting, crushed violet. At one point Dominic glanced at her, then asked his mother, “So, are you satisfied?”

“I congratulate you,” Mirabelle said. “She is, indeed, Angelica Cynster. However, to fully realize my enjoyment of my revenge, I believe I'll need more information from her. I'll have to think about it, but not this afternoon. I'll speak with her again tomorrow.”

Angelica inwardly frowned, perfectly certain Dominic was doing the same thing. What was in his mother's twisted mind? Deeming that a question impossible to answer, Angelica shifted her attention to the hall and its occupants. Reasonable enough that, having been forced to stay, she should at least look around.

No one was paying any particular attention to the three occupants of the high table . . . except for two small boys who had slipped into seats at the far end of the hall. The pair's big round eyes were fixed on her. She let her gaze sweep over them before returning it to her plate. From beneath her lashes, she watched the pair observe, then talk to each other—back and forth, punctuated by glances at her. She debated warning Dominic that his wards' anticipated step over the boundaries he'd set had already occurred, but she was curious to see what they might do and was reasonably certain that, if explanations had to be made, the pair would understand the concept of a necessary make-believe.

Lunch ended. Dominic glanced at her. She didn't meet his eyes, but ducked her head in a cringing manner and whisperingly offered, “I suppose I'd better go back to my room.”

He momentarily closed his eyes, then opened them and mildly glared at her. Then he looked up and summoned Brenda with a nod. She came; in her charge, Angelica slipped out of her chair and, giving Dominic a wide berth, scuttled past and out of the hall, back to her room.

Safely inside, she made herself comfortable on the bed, propped Robertson's tome open, and settled to read.

T
wo hours later, when Brenda looked in to ask if she wanted tea, Angelica shut the Robertson and stated, “Prisoners are customarily allowed to take the air. Let's go for a walk on the battlements.”

Brenda readily agreed. She led Angelica through the corridors, away from the north tower and the witch therein. Angelica glanced into the library, but Dominic wasn't there. Skirting the kitchens, she passed numerous castle staff, all of whom beamed and bobbed curtsies or bows, murmuring a polite “miss” or, more often, “m'lady.” Clearly the entire castle, barring only Mirabelle, knew of their charade.

Angelica had to admit that made her feel a great deal more comfortable. Having Dominic forced to portray himself as a violently aggressive, dishonorable man hadn't sat well, no matter how essential.

Brenda led her to the battlements along the castle's south wall. “Even if her ladyship gets some bee in her bonnet and looks out of her bedroom window over the bailey, she still won't be able to see you here.”

“Good.” Climbing the steep steps beside Brenda, Angelica admitted, “It'll be nice to stand straight and stride about a bit. That hunching is making my shoulders ache.”

“Don't know how you do it, myself.” Brenda looked at her with admiring amazement. “You really do look like a weak feeble thing, so spineless you'll collapse if her ladyship blows hard at you.”

“Yes, well, let's hope that's all she sees until she hands over the goblet. Once she does”—stepping onto the battlements, Angelica smiled—“she'll rapidly learn her error.”

Pausing, she stretched her arms over her head, then out to her sides, breathing deeply, savoring the tang of the forests and the crisp, bracing air. Then she and Brenda set out, swinging along the empty walks.

When Angelica asked about the lack of personnel, Brenda replied, “There's only guards at the gatehouse, two older clansmen, just to keep watch. If anyone they don't know approaches, they come along here and hail them as they reach the bridge.” Brenda tipped her head beyond the wall.

Angelica stopped to peer out between the crenellations at the bridge from the loch's shore to the smaller island; it lay directly across from where they now stood. She considered the two swiftly running stretches of water, one separating the shore from the smaller island, the other the smaller island from the castle. “I've seen a few castles, and this would rank as the most defensible. Is it possible to swim across?”

“Possible, but difficult, and risky, too.”

They heard footsteps and turned. Angelica smiled as Dominic joined them.

He nodded to Brenda. “I'll see our prisoner back to her cell.”

“Aye, m'lord.” With a curtsy and a grin, Brenda headed back to the steps.

Dominic fixed his gaze on Angelica's face. “What brings you out? Boredom?”

“Not so much that as frustration.” She turned to look over the roofs of the numerous buildings hugging the walls, over the bustling bailey to the keep. “There's so much I want to learn about this place and the people in it, but I have to hold back until we're finished with this charade.”

“Sadly, that's true.”

Raising one hand to hold back her hair, drifting in the light breeze, she looked up at him. “One thing I wanted to check—is there anyone in the castle who, while they might remain loyal to the clan, might also feel sympathetic to your mother? If there is anyone in that category, I should be more careful around them.” Her gaze went past him, then her eyes widened. “Oh.”

Hearing the clicking claws, he swung about.

“What
lovely
dogs!”

About to step in front of her and halt the charging beasts, he pulled back and let the three water spaniels romp up; they barely paused to lift their dark heads to him for a pat before, tails waving, heads bobbing, pushing past to greet the new person.

Holding out her hands, then ruffling their ears and ruffs, she laughed as the three dogs—any of which could easily bring her down—cavorted around her. “They're beautiful. What are they?”

“Water spaniels.” Pushing the three back, he commanded, “Sit.”

They thought about it, but eventually all three obeyed.

“This is Gwarr, the eldest, and this is Blass, and the lady is Nudge—for obvious reasons.” Nudge was already leaning heavily against Angelica's legs, looking up in blissful adoration. He'd never seen the dogs so readily accept anyone . . . but he and Angelica were sharing a bed; they might be able to smell his scent on her.

He stood and watched her speak with each dog, solemnly telling them her name and repeating theirs, and felt a lightness in his chest that, after a few moments, he identified as simple happiness. His lips curved . . . then he realized that where the dogs went . . .

Raising his head, he looked back along the battlements. Sure enough, two small figures stood watching from twenty feet away.

Gavin met his gaze. “Is she your friend we can't come near?”

He nodded. “Her name's Miss Cynster.”

“But you can call me Angelica.” Still patting the dogs, Angelica smiled at the pair.

Both regarded her steadily, then the one who hadn't spoken earlier asked, “Why can the dogs go near, but we can't?”

“Because dogs can't get illnesses from people, just as people can't get sick from dogs.” She pulled a funny face at them. “I'm sorry, but I hope we'll be able to get to know each other soon.”

They seemed to accept that at face value.

Dominic walked back to them; standing behind them, facing Angelica, his face softer, his expression one of pride and unabashed love, he put a hand on each shoulder. “This is Gavin.” He whispered something, and Gavin smiled shyly and executed a small bow. “And this is Bryce.” The younger boy bowed more jerkily.

Patting both shoulders, Dominic said, “Take the dogs off, now. I'll come up tonight and read you the rest of that story, all right?”

Their eyes still on Angelica, the boys nodded. Dominic whistled—the boys did, too—and the three dogs, interested spectators to the little exchange, rose and obediently ambled to them.

Dominic saw the group off, watching as they ran back along the battlements, then clattered down the steps.

Angelica walked slowly to join him where he stood watching boys and dogs race away across the bailey. “They planned that, didn't they?”

“Almost certainly.”

She grinned. “They're sweet.”

He looked down at her. “Never tell any male that he's sweet. It's an invitation to be anything but.”

She laughed, then she linked her arm with his and they headed back to the keep.

“Y
ou asked about any who might be sympathetic to Mirabelle.” Dominic slid beneath the covers of his big bed; propping on one elbow beside Angelica, he looked into her face. “There's only one I can think of—McAdie, the old steward.” He grimaced. “I replaced him after my father died—if I'd been here, I would have had him replaced sooner. He's a good man, but ineffectual. Sadly, he never understood, and so I'm not his favorite person, but he has nowhere else to go, so he's still here, wandering the corridors and keeping an eye on Erskine, his successor, trying to find fault, which he never does because John's excellent in the role, but still McAdie gripes.”

“Is he a little on the shortish side, round like a top, with gray hair that's like a tonsure, and he wears a robelike coat over his trews?”

Face hardening, he nodded. “Has he approached you?”

“No, but I noticed him watching me in a puzzled sort of way in the great hall. I don't think he's seen me out walking, or at any time when I've not been playing my crushed violet role.”

Dominic considered, then said, “He is, ultimately, loyal to the clan, but he's always been . . . accommodating, possibly even a trifle toadying, toward Mirabelle, and I expect that's grown more marked in recent years. However, he's not generally out and about. He keeps to himself, mostly in the staff quarters, so you should be able to avoid him.”