The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (44 page)

Dominic told them, explaining the background to their adventure much as he had to Angelica that first night. Given his pending connection to her family, and theirs to his, there seemed little point in over-observance of any social niceties. When they questioned, he answered, but in large part they followed his reasons without difficulty or dispute.

Before they got halfway through, the boys were asleep. Angelica slipped away and summoned Mulley and Erskine to carry the boys to their beds; with sleepy, mumbled “G'nights,” they went.

As the story of successive months unfolded, first Breckenridge and Richard, and later Jeremy Carling, helped Dominic fill the narrative to the point where he'd traveled to London, kidnapping Angelica his goal.

“One question,” Devil said, fingers now steepled before his face. “Why didn't you just ask us—the family—for help?”

Dominic met his gaze. “If I had knocked on your, or Lord Martin's, door, and asked to be trusted with either Heather, Eliza, or Angelica, in order to pretend to kidnap her, take her into the highlands, and pretend to ruin her so that I could convince my mother, who wanted revenge on Lady Celia for being my father's obsession, to return the long-lost Scottish coronation cup to me, because if I didn't have it to hand over to a coterie of London bankers on the first of July, I would lose my estates and my clan would be ruined . . . what would you have said?”

Devil held his gaze levelly, then winced. “I see your point.” He waved. “Pray continue.”

Dominic, now aided by Angelica, did, relating how he'd removed her from Lady Cavendish's salon and taken her to Bury Street.

At that point, Gabriel and Vane joined in, interspersing Dominic and Angelica's actions with reports of how the family had reacted, and how ultimately their great-aunt had solved the riddle of just who Viscount Debenham was. But once they reached the highlands, the tale was Dominic's and Angelica's to tell, and while they recounted all the salient points, there were others they left untold.

When it came to what they'd had to do to convince Mirabelle to hand over the goblet, Angelica merely stated that after several days of being exposed to her superb histrionic skills, Mirabelle had deemed her sufficiently ruined and agreed to hand over the goblet's directions, at which point Langdon Baine's role in the entire plot had come to light.

They discussed Baine and his earlier attempt on Dominic's life, and his likely motives, then moved on to the story of the goblet itself.

Lucifer was fascinated, and so, too, was Gabriel. “If you're agreeable, I'd like to see that contract with the bankers—I've never heard of such a thing, at least not couched in such a way. I'd love to study its structure for future reference.”

Dominic agreed.

Demon, having at Dominic's invitation circled the room with the decanter, settled back in his chair. “Having heard so much about that huge horse of yours, I took a look in your stables. Your stableman showed him off to me—incidentally, that's a nice part-Arab filly you have there, too. But I was wondering if you have any other horses of Hercules's line?”

Dominic hesitated, then admitted, “I've managed to locate two mares.” When Demon gave an excellent imitation of one of the boys expecting a treat, Dominic grinned. “They're not at the castle but on one of the farms. I'll show you them tomorrow.”

Demon grinned back and toasted him. “Excellent.”

Jeremy was already scouting the shelves. Breckenridge and Vane wanted to know about the crops and the herds. Richard asked about the hunting, which subject snared all attention for some time.

Smiling, Devil sat back and let the others do all the necessary interrogating, even though he, and they, too, had already made up their collective mind. While they couldn't openly approve of Dominic's plan to reclaim the goblet, had they been in his shoes, every one of them would almost certainly have done the same, and if they were truthful, they might not have been able to pull it off—finding the way forward through so many twists and turns while walking the fine line between honor and dishonor—as well as Dominic had. They might not understand clan, but every man there understood family, and that sometimes one had to bend the rules to pull everyone through to the other side unscathed. If that's what was needed, then that's what one did; they couldn't hold what he'd done against him. And wouldn't.

Sipping again, savoring the smooth, malty taste, Devil listened to the others, to Dominic and Angelica, watched the pair as they reacted to each other, and let his smile deepen. In “kidnapping” Angelica, Dominic Lachlan Guisachan had made his own bed, and the entire family, Devil judged, would be far too pleased with the outcome to do anything other than help him lie in it.

Finally, they came to considering the days ahead and making the necessary plans.

Angelica suggested, and her brothers and the others readily agreed, that they should remain at the castle for at least the next day before setting out to ride back to London.

Perched on the arm of the chair in which Dominic was sitting, she glanced at him. “We'll need to remain here for the funerals. Mulley said they'll be held three days from today.”

His expression impassive, Dominic nodded. “If we leave the day after, we'll still have plenty of time to reach London by the last day of the month. I'll send word to the bankers to set up our meeting for the morning of the first.”

“And we'll take your traveling coach from Edinburgh—
not
the mail.” When Dominic's lips eased and he inclined his head, she informed him, “We'll need the larger coach because we'll have the boys as well.”

His eyes grew wary. “We're taking them with us?”

“Of course. They need to meet the family.”

Richard sighed. “Before I left home, I was informed that after whatever transpired here was settled, I was to ride back to the Vale, and then together with my witchy wife, I was to travel to London—with the twins.” He looked at Angelica, arched his brows. “She said you would know why.”

She looked around the circle, saw the same inquiry in most faces. “Well of course there'll be a family dinner, probably on the evening after we reach town. And then, after Dominic hands over the goblet to the bankers, on the evening of the first of July”—she looked at him—“Mama and Papa, and Honoria, of course, will be hosting our engagement ball.”

Dominic looked into her eyes, then raised his glass to veil his reaction.

Eyes narrowing, Breckenridge pointed at Dominic. “You just sprung that on him.” He looked at Angelica. “Doesn't he have any say?”

Angelica retorted, “He's already had his say. It's my decision as to when and where.”

“But . . .” Jeremy frowned. “Surely there's no reason for it all to happen so fast?”

“But of course there is.” Angelica frowned back. “First, everyone will be ready to quit town by the end of June—they'll stay because of the ball, but not for longer. If it were held later, having everyone travel back for one major ball would be inconsiderate, not that everyone wouldn't come, but that's just not how things are done. Then there's the summer celebration in August at Somersham, and we all go to that. Then in September, in case you've all forgotten, the family has three weddings, all of which need to be organized between now and then.”

They all blinked; all looked a trifle stunned.

Several mouths opened, then shut.

She humphed. “Indeed. You know perfectly well that engagements and weddings are the province of the females of the family, and you can—” She broke off when Devil held up a staying hand.

Then he reversed his palm, waved like a conductor, and he and all the others chorused, “Leave it to you and our wives.”

Breckenridge and Jeremy had said “wives-to-be.”

Angelica smiled. “Precisely.”

Gabriel looked at Dominic. “Welcome to the family.”

Dominic drained his glass.

L
ater, when night had fallen and the keep had grown silent, Angelica lay in the big bed in the bedroom at the top of the east tower and watched her very own highland laird undress in the silvery moonlight—a sight she doubted she would ever grow tired of, not if she lived to be ninety.

The windows on both sides of the room were uncurtained; she'd opened the casements on both sides and discovered that the breeze that then blew through carried the heady scents of the roses blooming in the rose garden circling the tower's base.

Finally naked, Dominic turned and walked toward the bed, his stride fluid and graceful, and the moon paid homage, gilding his broad shoulders, skating over the broad muscles of his chest, rippling over his abdomen, and glinting off the dark hair adorning his magnificent body.

Lifting the covers, he sank into the bed alongside her; she let the dip in the mattress roll her toward him. Propping on one arm, he slid the other around her, gathering her close.

Placing a hand on his chest, she stopped him before he kissed her and all chance of conversation fled. “Your knee. I wondered if you'd injured it again when you leapt down to the ledge, but you haven't been limping.”

Eyes devouring her face, he shook his head. “No. I thought it would jar again, but it didn't. It feels stronger than ever—well, at least since I fell into that ravine years ago.”

She smiled. “Good.” She had a reason for asking, something she was planning, but it wasn't yet time to tell him about that.

“I take it that you announcing to your relatives the date for our engagement ball means you have, finally, agreed to marry me.”

“I can guarantee you'll be entirely safe in assuming that to be the case.”

“Thank heaven for that.”

“You never seriously thought I wouldn't agree.”

“No, but I did wonder what your price would be.”

She hesitated, then told him, “You paid it today. Abundantly, extravagantly, in more ways than one.”

He continued to watch her, as if waiting for elaboration. She looked into his eyes, and even though his face was in shadow she could still feel the emotion investing, infusing, the gray-green. Quietly marveling, lifting her hand, she traced her fingertips down one lean cheek. “You would willingly have died to spare me today.”

He turned his head, pressed a slow, heated kiss to her palm. “And I will die for you tomorrow if that's what fate demands.” His lips quirked. “But you won't let me.”

“Not today and not tomorrow. You're mine, and I have no plans to surrender you, not to fate or any other authority.”

His lips curved. “I thought that was my line.”

“It can be ours—I'm willing to share.”

“So am I.” He gazed into her eyes. “Forever and always, all I have, all I am, is yours, angel.”

“And I'll be yours, and you'll be mine, to the end of our days.”

He bent his head and she drew him down and their lips met in a slow, achingly tender caress.

In the silvery moonlight, with the scent of roses wreathing about them, they revisited all they were, all they'd already found and claimed, and boldly, brazenly, beyond joyously, set out to claim it again.

Confidently they reached out, and together touched love and made it theirs again. Drew it in, wrapped it about them, held it to their hearts again.

Drank it in and rejoiced, reacquainting themselves with each other's bodies in slow reverence and exquisite harmony.

With unwavering commitment, they reaffirmed their faith in all that had grown between them, in their togetherness, their closeness, their soul-stealing intimacy.

Their celebration was simple, but unrestrained. They had won all their hearts had ever desired, yet both knew their most stunning victory hadn't been on the physical plane.

They'd both needed and had sought, and had ultimately been rewarded with the greatest prize in heaven or on earth.

They loved.

Loved, worshipped, and strove until they reached that pinnacle where love itself, pure and sharp, shone like the sun.

And its beauty shattered them.

Broke them, fused them, forged and remade them.

Two bodies joined. Two hearts beating as one. Two souls in perfect communion.

Then the grace of love swept over them and filled them, settling to lie in the moonlit night the gentlest of benedictions upon them.

Sinking back to the bed, settling in each other's arms, they reached for love and held it close.

They had made love theirs, let it thrive in their hearts, acknowledged and accepted. They had ceded love free reign, of their hearts, their bodies, their souls, and through that act had been gifted with its shining truth: Love won and embraced was the ultimate joy, and the ultimate triumph.

Chapter Twenty-three

T
hree days later, Angelica stood beside Dominic in the tiny graveyard of the local kirk in the nearby hamlet of Cougie and watched three coffins lowered into three graves.

The new laird of Clan Baine, Langdon Baine's much younger brother Hugh, had arrived at the castle the day after the deaths. He'd been under no illusions as to his older brother's infamy. “He got it from some of the elders who'd always resented Clan Guisachan's better lands and greater wealth, and used to preach the old ways, saying we should simply take what we wanted.” Hugh had shaken his head. “Even when those elders passed on, Langdon wouldn't listen to reason.”

Hugh had thanked Dominic for sending his brother's body home. For his part, Dominic had offered to aid Clan Baine should they require it, and Hugh, in particular, in taking up his unexpected lairdship.

They'd parted as neighbors resolved to the common good.

As part of that joint aim, they'd agreed to hold a combined church service, by mutual accord attributing the three deaths to an unfortunate pact between unstable personalities, thus, they hoped, limiting the scope for any further feuding.

Mirabelle, Countess of Glencrae, was buried first, in a plot beside her husband's stone-encased grave. The congregation then shifted to the Baine section, where Langdon was laid to rest, then everyone moved back to the Guisachan area to watch McAdie's coffin lowered into the ground.

His burial elicited the most tears.

Angelica stood beside Dominic and the local reverend, with Hugh and his young wife on the minister's other side, and thanked those who had attended, mostly locals, but a few from the surrounding glens and clans. That she was to be Dominic's wife seemed understood by everyone; she was deferred to as if she were already his countess. She had half expected her brothers to try to convince her to return to London with them, but although Gabriel had voiced the idea, he hadn't pressed, having by then grasped the reality of her position within the clan, and that it was more important to her and to others that she be there by Dominic's side.

She and Dominic were the last of Clan Guisachan to remount and ride back to the castle.

Dominic let Hercules set an easy pace along the narrow lanes, but when they reached the turnoff to the castle, he checked the big chestnut and glanced at Angelica, managing a dancing Ebony alongside. He met her eyes. “Let's go for a ride.”

She grinned. “Lead on.”

Hercules surged. With a laugh, she gave chase.

Dominic led her at an easy pace off the track and onto a long stretch of sward—then he let Hercules have his head. The big chestnut thundered down the familiar straight, then veered around to continue along the edge of the loch. Ebony flew alongside, black legs flashing, mane whipping back. Angelica let out a joyful halloo.

Pushing Hercules on, feeling the rhythm of the heavy hooves find an echo in his blood, Dominic rode hard for the end of the cleared shore, only at the last slowing the big horse. He sent Hercules into a wide turn, breathing deep and exhaling, feeling more alive, more free, than he had in years.

Angelica pulled Ebony up a little earlier, then walked the black filly until Ebony's shoulder bumped Hercules's.

She studied Dominic's face, then, reaching up, laid a hand against his lean cheek, looked into his stormy eyes, then drew his face to hers and kissed him, but lightly.

When she drew back, he stopped her, held her within one arm and touched his forehead to hers. “I can barely believe it's all over.”

She smiled as he released her. “Let's go home.”

They cantered back side by side through the glow of the summer morning, through the mild sunshine and the scents of the forests. As the castle rose before them, the stone softened by the golden light, the rich tapestry of the forests' greens and browns spread like a cloak to either side, the flashing waters of the loch adding movement to the scene, she looked, heard, sensed . . . and felt in her heart that peace, gentle and abiding, had returned, creeping slowly over the mountains, rolling over the trees and the loch, to settle over the castle and spread through the glen.

They may have reached an end, but inherent in it was another beginning—the start of their own story, the beginning of their shared tale.

Dominic glanced at her. When she looked his way, he arched a brow. “A guinea for your thoughts.”

She smiled. “I was just thinking that these last months were in essence the epilogue of your father's life.” She met his eyes. “And the prologue of ours.”

He held her gaze for a moment, then nodded. “And from here on, the rest of this tale is ours.”

“Ours to create—ours to live.”

“Ours to enjoy.”

She smiled and rode beside him over the drawbridge, into his castle, and on to the keep.

T
he afternoon continued with the same sense of newfound freedom, of new directions, and their first steps along their now joint road.

In midafternoon, Dominic and the boys found Angelica in the gallery and persuaded her to allow them to kidnap her again—this time for a long ramble through the wilderness to the west of the castle.

As she walked beside Dominic, her hand locked in his, she watched the boys range ahead, along with the three dogs. Nudge had apparently adopted Angelica as her person, circling back frequently to bump her along, before padding away to rejoin the boys and the other two dogs.

When they'd first arrived at the kirk that morning, Dominic had detoured to stand before a double grave by the wall in the Guisachan section. She'd gone with him, had stood beside him, and had read the inscription. “The boys' parents?”

He'd nodded. “Krista was swept away in a flood. Mitchell tried to save her, but was badly injured himself. He died a week later from his injuries. I swore I'd look after the boys as my own.”

She'd merely nodded, but later, while Dominic had been talking with others before the church, she'd slipped back to the grave, stood at its foot for some time, then quietly made a vow of her own:
I will care for all three of them as my own. You can rest easy now, and leave them to me.

As she walked through the dappled sunshine, the words of that vow echoed in her mind.

Eventually they reached the western tip of the island. She and Dominic sat on the raised bank and watched the boys and the dogs cavort in the shallows. The boys threw sticks into the water and the dogs dived in, retrieving and returning them, then shaking the water from their thick, curly pelts to shrieks of delight from Gavin and Bryce, who were soon nearly as damp as the dogs.

The sun was westering, still warm and golden, turning the summer air hazy.

“Stag,” Dominic suddenly said. Both boys froze and looked expectantly at him. To Angelica, he whispered, “Don't move.” Then he slowly raised a hand and pointed at the shore to their right.

Following the direction, Angelica saw the proud head and a massive set of antlers rise as the stag lifted its muzzle from the waters. Surrounded by thick forest, it looked across at them, at the dogs still milling about the boys, then looked at Dominic and Angelica, studied them for a long moment, then the beast turned, and with a rustle, was gone.

“Oh.” She sighed. “He was magnificent.”

Dominic glanced at her, smiled. Arms draped over his raised knees, he looked back at the boys. “I've hunted him for years. He knows me. I've had him in my sights countless times, but never taken the shot. He knows he's safe in our lands now.”

Angelica leaned her head against his shoulder. The stag had reminded her of him. The animal had the same regal but wild beauty—visceral, powerful, untamed, and just a little dangerous. Her hero was a true son of the highlands.

Sitting beside him, she watched the boys, laughed at their antics as the sun slowly sank.

As the shadows lengthened, she breathed deeply in, felt her heart, her very soul expand, and knew she'd found her rightful place.

Fate and The Lady had brought her a long way, far from her birthplace, far from London and the life she'd known.

They'd brought her here—because here, with him, with his people and the boys . . . this was where she belonged.

S
even days later, Dominic followed Angelica into the front hall of Lord Martin Cynster's house in Dover Street.

As Dominic waited beside Angelica while the butler closed the door, he was conscious of nerves the likes of which he hadn't felt since his school days, and it wasn't the prospect of meeting her father that was to blame.

He and Angelica, along with the same five staff who had accompanied him to London earlier, plus several others and the boys, had arrived in town the evening before. Angelica had made no bones about her intention to reside with him in Bury Street; he'd shared her bed in the countess's suite last night.

That morning, while she'd set about transforming his house, he'd slipped away and called on her father. Lord Martin, primed no doubt by Gabriel, Lucifer, and most likely Devil, had been severe at first, but civil, and finally understanding, welcoming, and even congratulatory. The bottle of the clan's finest old malt Dominic had brought as a peace offering had set the seal on what he hoped would be a lasting accord with his soon-to-be father-in-law. Cynsters, he'd realized, were partial to good whisky.

So as the butler ushered them into a long drawing room, he wasn't feeling nervous about meeting any of the males. Following Angelica into the room, he swiftly took stock of the company.

Gabriel was there, smiling, a tall brown-haired lady, presumably his wife, Alathea, beside him. Lucifer stood beside her, a slighter, dark-haired lady, his wife, Phyllida, by his side; Angelica had provided the names and descriptions.

The lady standing beside Devil Cynster, his wife, Honoria, looked exactly as Dominic had pictured her—a duchess to her toes. Breckenridge was there with Heather on his arm, alongside Jeremy and Eliza.

The latter two ladies Dominic knew by sight, but neither had seen him other than at a distance. Both unabashedly surveyed him, then their gazes flicked to Angelica and they grinned. He didn't want to know what was going through their minds.

The last lady in the room was seated in an armchair to one side of the fireplace, but because of the arrangement of people, he couldn't get any clear view of her.

Gabriel was closest; Angelica stopped before her older brother, stretched up and kissed his cheek, then touched cheeks with Alathea before introducing Dominic.

Taking the hand Alathea offered, Dominic bowed over it and murmured a greeting. Straightening, he met a pair of shrewd hazel eyes; after a finite pause, those eyes twinkled and Alathea smiled.

“Welcome, my lord. I believe you'll do very well in this family.”

“Dominic, please.” He returned the smile with a semblance of charm, but his mind had fixed on the lady in the armchair.

But before he reached her, faced her, he had to run the gauntlet of introductions—to Phyllida, who smilingly bade him welcome and asked after his wards, to Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, who considered him, then deigned to smile and welcome him to “our clan.”

While Heather and Eliza were curious, and he found them charming and engaging, he left them feeling—as Angelica had told him—that in deciding the outcome of each of his attempts to kidnap one of Celia's daughters, fate had successfully served all their best interests.

Finally, Angelica drew him past Breckenridge and Jeremy to the lady in the armchair. Martin stood beside the chair; as Angelica with Dominic in tow approached, the lady rose to stand beside her husband.

Celia Cynster, Dominic judged, was a quiet matriarch, one of those strong women who by her natural demeanor seemed less forceful . . . but Angelica's spine of tempered steel hadn't come from her father.

Barely taller than Angelica, with graying hair that once must have been a similar if less intense shade as that of her youngest daughter, Celia stood rigidly upright, her chin tipped high—while her eyes devoured his face.

He halted before her and waited for her verdict. For her censure, her repudiation, if she so decreed.

Angelica sensed his tension. Beside him, she looked from him to her mother and back again.

Martin stepped in and performed the introductions. Both Celia and Dominic responded by rote, but when he would have released her hand, Celia gripped his. With her free hand, she waved the other two away. To him, she simply said, “Walk with me.”

He very correctly offered her his arm. She laid her hand on his sleeve and together they walked down the long room to the alcove of a bow window.

There, Celia stopped and faced him. Closely studied his face. “You don't look anything like your father, yet I can see something of him in you.”

He suppressed a grimace. “My eyes.”

She looked again, then nodded. “Yes, but yours are . . . less simple. More complex.” Her gaze again roved his face. “Do you take after your mother, then?”

“No. Or at least she didn't think so. Only the color of my hair.” After a moment, he added, seeing she seemed so intent, “I'm said to be the image of my great-grandfather—my father's father's father—except for having black hair.”

Her fingers still touching his sleeve, Celia drew back, head tipping in a gesture she'd passed on to her youngest daughter, lips slightly pursing—he recognized that, too. After a long moment of intense scrutiny, during which he had to force himself not to fidget, she said, “From all I've heard, and all I can see, you're not in the least like your father—and certainly not like your mother, either. I suspect you're a throwback to an earlier age, your great-grandfather's possibly, to the days when clan chiefs ruled with wills of iron and performed great feats . . .” Her lips slowly curved. “And if you're marrying Angelica, you'll need to be able to do both.”