The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (8 page)

He looked at her in shock for a moment then laughed, but there was no humour in the sound. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

“I hoped to bring you here tonight as Sir Anthony’s wife, and tomorrow, when we were both refreshed, I was going to tell you the truth about myself, in private, giving you time to come to terms with it before discussing the various options open to you. Your premature recognition of me spoilt things a little.” He yawned and stood, retaining his grip on her wrists. “Let me make a suggestion. Let us go to bed and get some sleep. You can have your own room. I will not disturb you. In the morning we will both be more refreshed, and we can talk then. I have a lot to tell you, and I’m sure you have a lot to ask me.”

“How do you expect me to sleep?” Beth retorted, as he started to lead her towards the door.

“If you are as tired as I am, long and deeply, the moment your head touches the pillow.”

He led her upstairs, opening the door to a room on the first floor.

“Your bedroom,” he said, pushing her gently inside. “As I said, I will not disturb you. I have never murdered anyone in their sleep yet, and I am not about to start now. I’ll see you in the morning.” He left, closing the door behind him. She heard the key turn softly in the lock, and she was left alone in the dark with no alternative but to undress and lie down, where, in spite of all her belief to the contrary, she did indeed fall asleep the moment her head made contact with the soft feather pillows.

CHAPTER FOUR

When Beth awoke in the morning, the sunlight was slanting in through the pale green curtains, bathing the room in a light so reminiscent of her bedroom in Didsbury that for a moment, in her pleasantly semi-slumberous state, she thought she was at home, and half expected Jane or Grace to knock lightly on the door at any moment to announce that breakfast was ready.

Then the last vestiges of sleep cleared from her mind and she remembered with a sickening lurch to her stomach that Jane and Grace were far away, and the chances of her riding to join them today were non-existent. Instead she was a prisoner in this house, in the custody of a man who…

Who what? Who he was and what he intended to do with her, she had no idea. She sat up in bed and examined her surroundings in an attempt to calm herself. They were elegant and tasteful. The oak bed she lay in was solid and well made, as was the rest of the furniture in the room, a large wardrobe and dressing table, and a chest for the storage of bedding. The room was wallpapered in a pale green stripe, with matching window curtains, whilst the large carpet on the floor was a darker, sage green. Sir Anthony, as she still thought of him, must indeed be reasonably wealthy then, to be able to afford to rent such an elegant house and clothe himself in such an ostentatious manner. Her eye came to rest on a large leather-bound chest which had been placed at the foot of her bed. During the night, someone must have brought her trunk into the room and closed the curtains, which she now recalled had been open when she had fallen into bed the night before.

If he intended to dispose of her, surely he would have done it whilst she was asleep and utterly helpless? It was some consolation, although not much, to realise that her life seemed to be in no immediate danger. It was more consolation, she noted as she slid from the bed and peeped between the curtains, that although the sun had risen, it was still very early. The window was painted shut and had clearly not been opened for some years. Even if she were able to prise it open without alerting the household, her room was at the back of the house and looked out onto the garden, beyond which fields stretched away into the distance. There was no chance of anyone hearing her if she cried for help from this room.

Moving silently across to the door, she tried the handle, in the hope that whoever had brought her trunk to the room had forgotten to re-lock the door. To her surprise, this was indeed the case, and she eased the door open a fraction, listening carefully. Silence. Quickly she went to her trunk, and dressing as speedily as possible in her least cumbersome gown, a dark blue linen day dress, she quickly searched through the rest of the trunk for the carefully wrapped package containing the three things she possessed that held value for her; her knife, her rosary and the six sovereigns that would guarantee her passage home if she succeeded in leaving the house unobserved.

She strongly suspected that the man who called himself Sir Anthony Peters was a spy. There was no other satisfactory explanation for the fact that he moved in both Hanoverian and Jacobite circles under at least two different identities. Whether he was in the pay of the Jacobites or the Hanoverians she had no idea, and although she was curious as to which was the case, as well as about many other things concerning the man she had married, she was not curious enough to miss the chance to escape if possible.

She soon realised, to her dismay, that her trunk had been carefully searched and her knife was missing, although the rosary and the sovereigns were still there. She pocketed them quickly, and then picking up a heavy cloak she edged her way out of the door on to the empty landing. The stairs curved in a semicircle down to the hall below, and she descended them cautiously, stepping carefully at the edges of each tread so as to avoid any creaking steps.

It was with a sinking heart that she saw the young man as soon as she turned the bend of the stairs. He was sitting between her and the front door, in the very chair where she had herself sat some four months before when she had come to apologise to Sir Anthony. Abandoning her attempt at stealth, she continued resignedly down to the hall, and he stood politely as she approached, bowing deeply.

“Good morning to you,
mo phiuthar-chèile,
” he said, a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes. “Your name is Beth, is it not?”

Beth betrayed no emotion at his greeting, instead looking the young man in the eye with a calmness she was far from feeling.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” she said coolly. “You did not oblige me by revealing your name when you escorted me home from Manchester.”

“Aye, that’s true, but circumstances were somewhat different then,” he replied. He bowed again. “Angus MacGregor at your service, madam,” he announced formally. “Although I generally go by the surname Drummond, you understand.”

No, she didn’t understand, but she was not about to demonstrate her ignorance by asking him to elaborate.

“Shall I take your cloak?” Angus asked. “Ye’ll not have need of it for the present, I’m thinking, and I can hang it here.” He pointed to the coat rack by the side of the door, then glanced back at her, intercepting such a look of longing as she gazed past him to the front door, to a freedom so near and yet unattainable, that his heart was moved to pity. “You need have no fear, lassie,” he said softly.

The longing was instantly veiled, and she briskly handed him her cloak, as though that had been her express purpose in coming downstairs.

“He’s in the dining room, having breakfast,” Angus continued as he carefully hung the garment on a peg. “He wants you to join him, if ye’ve a mind to.” He waved in the direction of a white-painted door that led off the hall.

Gathering her wits and her skirts together, she nodded her thanks to Angus and strode to the door, opening it with a flourish and entering the room as though marching to war.

The dining room was dominated by a long table lined with high-backed dining chairs. Places were currently set for two people. Along a side wall of the room was another table with a series of platters containing various foodstuffs. Her husband was making his choice of breakfast and had his back to her, but as he heard her enter he turned round, stopping her dead in her tracks.

She stared at him, completely nonplussed. Her first thought was that this was some sort of joke. The handsome young man standing facing her could not possibly be Sir Anthony Peters. He was taller, for a start, and seemed broader as well. He was dressed very casually, technically speaking only half-dressed, in a fine linen shirt and black silk breeches. He was barefoot and wore no stockings, and his legs were powerful, his calves heavily muscled. His shirt sleeves were rolled up revealing the brawny forearms she remembered from Manchester. He did not speak or move, but allowed her to observe him at her leisure.

His face was tanned through years of exposure to the elements, and, she noted with surprise, there was no sign that he had ever suffered from smallpox. His skin was clear, his features strong and regular. His hair was, as she had seen last night, a rich dark shade of chestnut brown, now brushed and tied back with a blue ribbon. Only his eyes were the same as those of the Sir Anthony she had known for over eight months; slate-blue, long-lashed and beautiful. And anxious, she realised with a start which brought her back to herself. He seemed as nervous as she was about this meeting, although she had no idea why he should be, when he had her so completely at his mercy.

Determined to make a fight of it, she straightened and walked a few more paces towards him.

“Good morning, Mr MacGregor,” she said. “Or is it Mr Drummond today?”

His eyes widened in shock, she noted with satisfaction.

“How did…?” he began, then stopped. “I assume, then, ye’ve met Angus already this morning,” he continued, with a slight smile. His voice was deep and rich, with a soft Scottish burr.

“Indeed. I met him just now, and as he called me sister-in-law before he introduced himself, I assume you are brothers and therefore have the same surname, although whether I should assume anything about you, I don’t know, as everything I thought I knew up to now appears to be false.”

He had the grace to look ashamed.

“Aye, well, as I explained last night, I had intended to tell ye the truth about myself under slightly less strained circumstances. I’m sorry.” He ventured a smile, which she answered with a stony look. “Why don’t you help yourself to some breakfast, sit down and I’ll answer your questions while we eat. It’ll be a wee bit more congenial than standing here as though we’re about to fight a duel,” he finished.

That was exactly how she did feel. She hesitated for a moment.

“Can ye eat?” he asked, suddenly concerned. “Is your mouth paining ye? I didna mean tae hit you too hard.”

“It is sore. Very,” she replied, casting him a withering glance. Her stomach rumbled loudly, and she reddened slightly. “But I think I can eat a little.” She bustled about, choosing some bread rolls, butter, cheese, cold meat, while she marshalled her thoughts.

They ate in silence for a few minutes at the dining table, and she glanced surreptitiously across at him whilst he was eating, noting the swelling at the bridge of his nose and the dark bruising under his eyes. It would be churlish not to say something about her assault on him, especially as he had expressed concern about her injury. After all, she had attacked him first.

“Can you breathe?” she paraphrased his words. “I’m afraid I did mean to hit you hard. I think that makes us even.”

Amused by the honesty of her words, he smiled.

“I had no choice. I couldna risk you exposing me in your temper.”

“Was Lord Edward very angry?” she said, sounding completely unconcerned as to whether he was or not.

“I think ye could say he was happy to see the back of you, aye. I may as well tell ye now, I had to give some reason for you striking me, so I told everyone you’d caught me flirting wi’ a maid, and after hitting me, had fainted at the sight of the blood. There was a guid deal of it,” he finished ruefully, gingerly touching his nose.

“Thanks,” she replied tartly. “So now, as well as being an ill-bred harridan, I’m also violently jealous. My cousin will never admit me into his rarefied society again.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s the best I could come up wi’ at such short notice, ye ken. If ye’d warned me in advance that you were going to break my nose, I’d have maybe been able to think of something that met with your approval.” There was more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone, although he didn’t sound angry.

 The silence resumed, broken only by the clatter of cutlery and china, and the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

She was aware that he was politely allowing her to take the initiative in the conversation, and tried to work out how to turn it to her advantage.

“So,” she commenced. “You said last night that you’d answer all my questions.” He nodded, his mouth full. “What I want to know is, will you answer them all honestly? Do you actually know what the word means?” Her tone was belligerent, and he stopped eating and looked her straight in the eye. They locked gazes.

“Aye, I ken well what honesty is,” he said softly. “I’ll answer all your questions truthfully, or not at all. What are ye wanting to know?”

 To her annoyance she was the first to look away, angry and ashamed that she had tried to provoke him, and failed.

“Your name would be a good start,” she said icily.

“My full name is Alexander Iain MacGregor,” he replied. “I’m the eldest son of my parents. For my sins, I have Angus for my youngest brother, and there’s another between us, Duncan, although he’s away hame at the minute. Ye’ll meet him at a later date.”

“I assume by ‘away hame’ you mean in Scotland,” she said.

He nodded.

Well that was a relief at any rate. If he intended her to meet his brother, he clearly did not mean to do her any harm in the near future. She thought for a moment, wanting every question to count, occupying herself by spreading butter on a roll, while her mind raced.

Whether friend or foe, he was truly remarkable, she thought with reluctant admiration. Not just his physical appearance, but everything about him was different from Sir Anthony; his stance, his voice, accent, manner. Which observation brought her neatly to her next question, for her the most important one in determining their future relationship, if there was to be one.

“Are you a spy for the Hanoverians or the Jacobites?” she asked bluntly, watching him carefully in the hope that his eyes would betray the true answer to her query, whatever his lips might say. But apart from a brief flicker of shock at the unexpected question his expression was unreadable. Of course, he had no doubt had years of practice at veiling his true feelings, she thought sourly.