The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (41 page)

But Mirabelle halted at the foot of the bed. She looked down at Angelica, who didn't shift an eyelash. Mirabelle's gaze raced over Angelica's lax features, her tangled hair, over the evidence of her ravishment . . . then Mirabelle smiled like a child who'd just unwrapped her most longed-for gift.

She lifted her head and looked at him. He fought not to register what he could see in her face, but if he'd harbored any doubt that his jettisoning all honor had been every bit as important to her as Angelica's ruination, the look in her eyes at that moment would have slain it.

“At
last
!” Her voice rang with something far beyond triumph. “I'll fetch the directions to the goblet—they're in my bedroom.”

“Bring them to me in the hall.” He wanted her out of this room, away from Angelica, away from him. “I'll wait for you there.”

She nodded; after one last glance at Angelica, she walked quickly to the door.

He waited until her footsteps died away, then returned to the door and closed it. Locked it. He turned to see Angelica sitting up, a smile on her face that the glory of the sun breaking through clouds couldn't have competed with.

“We did it!” She kept her voice low, but her excitement was real. Bouncing from the bed, she started to strip off her ruined gown. “Quickly—help me change. I'll go around and into the kitchens, and watch from there. The instant you know where the goblet is, we'll go and fetch it.”

Halting before her, he looked down at her for an instant, then he swept her into his arms, lifted her high, and kissed her soundly. Deeply. Inexpressibly gratefully.

“Thank you,” he murmured as he set her back on her feet. “From the depths of my heart, forever and always.”

She considered him for an instant, then patted his chest. “I could say ‘thank you' in reply, but you won't understand. However, you have to admit we make an
excellent
team.”

Naked to the waist after having freed her arms from the gown, she wriggled, then sighed. “Now either rip this off me, or undo the laces—choose.”

He ripped. She cleaned herself, scrambled into a walking gown she'd left waiting, then together—him in the lead for once with her following—they headed for the great hall to wait for Mirabelle and the directions to the goblet.

Chapter Twenty-one

D
ominic sank into his great carver behind the high table, looked out over the empty hall, and told himself it was nearly over. More than five months of plotting, planning, missteps and failures, and now, finally, thanks to his amazing angel, within minutes he would have the goblet in his keeping once more.

And his clan would be safe.

And he would owe it all to her.

And the prospect of spending the rest of his life in thrall to her didn't bother him in the least.

Lips curving, he glanced at the archway that led to the kitchens, saw her peeking out. Smiled at her, saw her smile back.

Knew he was besotted and didn't care.

Angelica all but jigged. Mirabelle had to have reached her rooms by now, and given she herself had taken such pains to show the countess why she shouldn't deny Dominic the goblet, she really didn't believe Mirabelle would resile from handing it—or at least the directions to it—back now.

She told herself she should follow her own advice and possess her soul in patience, but—

A shout, distant and muted by the walls, reached her. She could hear the gentler noises of the castle folk enjoying their afternoon in the bailey, but that shout . . . sounded familiar. A familiar cadence, a familiar ring . . . what was it?

Less than a minute later, a clansman—one of the older crew who mounted guard at the gatehouse—came running into the hall. “My lord! There's a group of Sassenachs at the bridge demanding to see you.”

Dominic looked at Angelica, all good humor flown, then pushed back his chair. “I'm coming.”

She stared at him as he strode down the hall. A familiar hail . . . turning, she raced through the kitchens and into the gallery circling the great hall—then remembered she couldn't risk running into Mirabelle. Skidding to a halt, she turned and ran for the kitchen door. “Damn them! Did they listen to me? No. And, of course, they've picked their moment—them turning up now is the
last
thing we need!”

U
pstairs in her bedroom, Mirabelle stood by the window tying off and snipping threads from the embroidery she'd been working on for the past several weeks. It wasn't finished, but the part Dominic wanted was there. She could have simply told him where the goblet was hidden—any clansman would know the spot—but the embroidery was her final conceit. Embroidery was the one thing at which she'd always excelled; it had seemed appropriate to use the skill to communicate to her son, or to whoever she'd decided to gift the goblet to, where she'd hidden it, her so-useful Damocles's sword.

The last dangling thread fell to the floor. Setting her shears on the windowsill, she straightened the rectangle of fine linen and smiled at the picture she'd created. She was, she realized, happy. She'd finally found the way, seized the goblet, and used it to gain all she'd ever wanted—revenge on her husband, revenge on her son, revenge on Celia Cynster for all the long, wasted years of the mire of empty ugliness her life had become.

Never again would Dominic be able to take the high ground with her. She would never let him live down what he'd done, what he'd traded, to save his precious clan.

Her face relaxing into a long-forgotten expression—a genuinely happy smile—she turned to the door just as it opened.

Her smile grew wider when she saw who'd arrived. “You'll never guess! Dominic brought me Angelica Cynster, but oh, my dear, it gets
much
better than that.” She wanted to crow with delight, with triumph.

His lips curving, her lover stepped into the room and shut the door. “I see. It looks like I got here just in time.”

She beamed like a girl. “Just in time to share my celebration.”

“Indeed.” With long, stalking strides, he crossed the room to her side.

D
ominic stood on the castle battlements opposite the bridge from the loch's southern shore and studied the eight horsemen who were squinting up at him; six had crowded onto the bridge, while two remained on the shore.

The six on the bridge had halted; any nearer and they would be within pistol range.

Angelica popped up beside him; from behind one of the crenellations, she peeked out.

“I assume that's them.”

“Damn it, yes! All
six
of them—both my brothers, and my four older cousins. The other two, the ones hanging back on the shore, are Breckenridge and Jeremy Carling.” Turning, putting her back to the high stone, she met his eyes. “If Mirabelle sees them, she'll balk. God knows what she might do.” She glanced back at the bridge. “They're going to spoil everything!”

“Can they swim?”

Angelica looked at him. “What?”

“Can all six on the bridge swim?”

She stared, thought, then nodded. “Yes. Why?”

Dominic looked past her. “Ready?”

Swinging around, a little further along the battlements she saw three large men manning a massive lever that connected with a huge, notched wheel.

“Aye, m'lord,” the men chorused.

Turning back, she saw Dominic glance at the bridge, then she peeked out again. Her brothers and cousins were still there, talking, scanning the castle, planning . . .

“Now,” Dominic ordered.

She swung back to see the three men heave, strain, and slowly push the heavy lever over. Released, the huge wheel started slowly, ponderously, turning.

“What the—!”

Demon's yell had her whirling to look out at the bridge again.

Her jaw dropped. “Oh, my God.” The entire surface of the wooden bridge was slowly and smoothly tilting from the horizontal, gently tipping horses and riders into the rippling waters of the loch. Mesmerized, she watched as, unable to turn their horses back to shore, one after another her six closest male relatives were forced to take the plunge into the no doubt very cold water. All slid out of their saddles; bobbing alongside their mounts, they swam a little way to where the shoreline dipped. One after another they emerged, dripping and cursing fit to turn the air about them blue.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, tried to choke back her laughter, felt her eyes tear. “Oh, Lord! They will never, ever, forgive you for that.”

Dominic shrugged. “They're in London, I'm up here. I'll survive their displeasure.” After one last look, he turned away. “The dip should cool their blood long enough for us to fetch the goblet. My mother and her directions should be in the great hall by now.”

Angelica hurried alongside him as he strode along the battlements to the steps leading down to the bailey. They went quickly down and crossed to the keep, tacking through the crowds, thinning now as the keep staff and others returned to their abandoned chores. “Wherever you have to go to fetch the goblet, I'm coming, too.”

Looking ahead, he nodded. “Just hang back until I have the directions in my hand. Don't let her see you until then.”

She obediently slowed, letting him go up the keep steps before following. Reaching the porch, she hung back outside the doorway until he'd crossed the foyer and stridden into the great hall, then she slid into the shadows edging the foyer—

“
Aa-aahh!
”

The scream brought them both up short. Dominic swung around; eyes locking on her, noting it wasn't her who'd screamed, he strode back into the foyer.

Echoes reverberated off the stone, confusing the direction, but Angelica had heard the original sound. Stunned, she pointed. “Mirabelle's tower. Upstairs.”

Dominic ran for the stairwell.

Picking up her skirts, she raced after him. Brenda and Mulley came hurrying along the gallery. Seeing them, Angelica pointed upward, then dashed into the stairwell. As she climbed in Dominic's wake, she could hear awful, hysterical, gulping sobs coming from one of the rooms above.

She followed Dominic and the sounds to Mirabelle's bedroom.

The door had been pushed wide. Elspeth stood to one side of the doorway, hands pressed to her mouth, staring in disbelief at the figure Dominic had crouched beside.

Dark skirts flared over the floor. One hand lay flung out, clutching a crumpled piece of embroidery.

Slowly, Dominic rose. Staring down at his mother, he shook his head. “She's gone.” His voice was flat, empty.

Reaching him, Angelica looked at Mirabelle's empurpled face, her tongue protruding, her blue eyes vacant and staring, then she turned and waved Brenda to Elspeth; while the maid folded Elspeth, shocked and starting to shake, into her arms, and drew her away, Angelica gripped Dominic's hand and held on.

After an instant, he gripped her fingers—too hard, but he immediately gentled his hold. “She's gone, and we don't know where the goblet is.” He shook his head. “But who killed her—and
why
?”

The embroidery in Mirabelle's hand drew Angelica's eye. She bent, eased the worked linen free of the clutching fingers. Straightening, she smoothed out the piece. Felt her heart catch. “It's a map.”

“What?” Dominic glanced at her.

She showed him, turning him from his mother. “See—here. That's the goblet.” She tried to orientate the design, but bits of the map hadn't been finished. “Can you tell where it is?”

He took the embroidery, walked to the window, studied it, then turned the fabric—and swore. “It's the cairn by the waterfall. She's hidden it there.”

Angelica looked at his mother. “I suppose it'll be safe enough—”

“No, it won't be.” Dominic glanced at the woman who had given him birth, then flung the map down and headed for the door. “Whoever killed her wants the goblet—that's why she's dead. Someone else knew she had it—and that someone else now knows where it is, and they also know that the future of Clan Guisachan rides on that goblet.”

He met Mulley on the landing. “Take care of this—I'm going after the murderer and the goblet.”

“Aye, m'lord.”

Dominic went down the stairs three at a time. He heard footsteps behind him. “You can't come,” he yelled back at Angelica.

“Don't waste your breath,” she yelled back.

He swore again but didn't stop, going straight past the ground level to the lower level and the store room that housed the postern gate. Shoving open the door, he raced across the room—and almost tripped over McAdie.

“Oh, no!” Angelica dropped to her knees beside McAdie.

Dominic crouched on the old man's other side. McAdie had been stabbed twice, both strikes close to the heart, almost certainly ultimately fatal; he lay with his eyes closed, his lips parted. His breathing was labored.

Angelica's hands fluttered around the hilt of the dirk buried in McAdie's chest. “What should we do? Do we pull it out, or . . . ?”

“No. Leave it.” Noting the worn crest on the dirk, Dominic clasped one of McAdie's cold hands in one of his.

McAdie's lids fluttered. “Is that you, my lord?”

“Aye. Was it Baine?”

“Aye.” McAdie's features fleetingly hardened. “It was Langdon Baine.”

“Thank you. I'll see you avenged.” Dominic tensed to stand, but McAdie gripped his hand.

“No, wait. Have to tell you.” Eyes closed, McAdie moistened his lips. “Baine was my lady's lover—it was he who talked her into stealing the goblet. He said just now that he was going to take it and rid the highlands of the Guisachans once and for all.”

“Over my dead body.” Dominic's tone was harsh. He gentled his voice. “Rest. The others are coming, but I must go if I'm to catch up with Baine.”

McAdie's head moved in an infinitesimal nod; his hand slipped from Dominic's.

“Who's Baine?”

Dominic looked at Angelica. “The laird of a neighboring clan.” He rose. “Fetch Griswold, Erskine, or Mrs. Mack for McAdie.”

She scrambled to her feet and ran for the door.

Reaching it, she looked back—and saw Dominic disappear through the open postern door.

She swore—not in Gaelic—glanced at McAdie, then raced up the stairs. “Griswold! Erskine. Mrs. Mack!” She knew where Dominic was going; she could spare a minute to get McAdie help.

D
ominic raced up the tunnel and straight past the grille Baine had left hanging open. Exploding into the small clearing beyond the tunnel's mouth, looking down as he concentrated on keeping his footing over the rocky ground, his mind already following Baine up the track, he didn't see the men in his path until he mowed into them.

Their presence shocked him more than his appearance had shocked them, but his momentum carried him well into the pack, forcing some of them back, but they didn't get out of his way.

He stopped; so did they. For one fleeting instant, they looked at him, and his brain caught up with who the hell they were—

They threw themselves at him, grappled, caught, and clung. Hands seized; wet bodies slammed into him. He flung them off, struggled to get clear, to get free and on up the path.

Punches were thrown, not by him, but he hardly felt the impacts to his torso, and he avoided the blows to his face. He tripped three of them, almost got away, but the rest flung themselves on him and nearly brought him down.

He had to turn and fight them off.

One on one, even two or three to his one, he might have managed, but eight to one was impossible.

Eventually, two men hanging on each arm, they trapped him, held him, forced him to still; all of them were breathing heavily.

“
What are you doing
?”

They all jumped at the ear-splitting shriek. All turned to look at the point from where the sound had come—the mouth of the tunnel—but Angelica was already streaking across the clearing toward the path to the waterfall.

Two of the men who'd been squaring up to face him turned and gave chase.

One, brown-haired, snagged her arm. “Angelica—”

She abruptly halted and slammed her elbow into his side. “Don't you
Angelica
me!” Her brother doubled over. She wrenched her arm free—and quick as a flash raced on and up the path, avoiding the dark-haired man who'd been circling to cut her off. Not knowing the lie of the land, he ended facing a rock wall and had to turn back.