The Reckless One (16 page)

“Ye told her?”

“I didn’t need to tell her. She must know but if she sleeps easier at night by telling herself Carr will live a long life after she weds and leaves him, fine. If it makes it possible for her to do what needs doing, then I’m for it.”

Jamie watched her dip the rag into the water bucket and scrub violently at her face. “Yer half mad with what happened that night, Muira Dougal. Ye know that, don’t ye?”

She grinned up at him, correctly reading his weary tone as one of capitulation. “And even half mad I’m cannier than most sane, eh?”

He snorted but finally nodded in answer. Immediately the humor left her expression.

“Remember, Jamie Craigg, ’twas me who tended you and the others that survived the demon earl’s ride. ’Twas me that found the means to bring back those McClairens that were exported for their ‘crimes.’ It’s me who brought those McClairens to the village on the north coast, that village where you hide your contraband.

“I did it.
Me.
We’ll get back the land. A McClairen will live in Wanton’s Blush again. And Lord Carr will die.
I swear it.”
Her voice shook with vehemence.

Jamie’s brow furrowed as he looked down at the old woman shaking with rage, but he said nothing. For all the years she’d led the clan and held the clan together by force of her will alone, he’d said nothing. Now, just because he looked at Favor McClairen and remembered a time when Highland lassies were courageous and blithe, free-spirited and generous, he had no right to speak. Even if Muira and her plots destroyed her.

“Damnation!” Muira exclaimed, her gaze once more on the mirror, “This mark will never fade by nightfall and no amount of paint will conceal it. The girl will have to plead the headache tonight. Thankfully, tomorrow is the masque and believe me, I shall be wearing one!”

“Innkeep! Another mug of ale,” the stranger shouted.

“Me, too,” Franny cooed.

The handsome, bruising brute didn’t appear to hear her; he kept staring at the foamy waste in the bottom of his mug. She was about to repeat her demand when he raised his head. He stared at her startled-like, as though he’d forgotten she was on his lap. At twelve stone, few men forgot if Franny was on their lap.

It was a testament to the fellow’s own big, manly build. Franny wriggled in pleasure. The man held up two fingers. “Her, too, Innkeep.”

“Right you are, sir. Be but a minute. Gots to tap another keg, here, and I don’t have no help to take care of the place whilst I do it, tha’ help be currently helpin’ herself to the contents of yer pocket, sir, if yer not careful,” the innkeeper returned, shooting Franny a venomous glare.

“I never stole a penny from a gentleman, and well you know, it!” Fran squalled, but her protest was lost on the innkeeper, who was manfully upending another keg. Not that Fran cared a fig for what the innkeeper liked or didn’t like. The rough-looking stranger had a look of generosity about him and Fran wasn’t one to make a mistake about such a thing. He’d come in an hour before, set on getting drunk if she knew anything about it … which she did. Ill-humored, vexed, and needing a release. She’d decided to offer herself as a likely one.

Because, besides being generous-looking, weren’t he handsome? Rugged sort of handsome. A bit of wear on him for all that he looked young, but then, she’d a bit of wear on herself, too.

“You. Sir!” A voice called from across the sun-dabbed room. “Are you from these parts or just traveling through?”

The stranger’s head swung around at the sound of the slurred male voice and Fran’s mouth twitched with irritation. Damn Davie Duff, anyway. He rose unsteadily, snagged his beer mug with his free hand and lumbered over. “Well?” he demanded.

The stranger regarded him evenly. “Why do you ask, friend?”

“Because,” Davie said, peering down, “you remind me of someone I knew once. Bosom companion of my misspent youth.” He seemed to like the sound of the phrase, for he repeated it several times. “Mis-spent youth. Misspent. Youth.”

“Do I?” The stranger readjusted Fran on his lap. “Forgive me for not rising.”

“Never!” Fran crowed, thrilled with her witticism. Davie leered appreciatively.

“And who might this lost companion be?” the stranger asked, not nearly interested enough in the bounty she sought to display.

“Fellow named Raine Merrick. But you’re not him, are you?” Davie asked.

“Are you so sure?” the stranger asked, and something in his voice made Fran turn her head and look hard at him.

Only took a second to decide he was twitting Davie. He weren’t Raine Merrick. She’d known Raine Merrick. Not well, but well enough to enjoy a tumble or two with the lad. He’d been a big lad, square and brawny.

This man was taller than Raine and though wide-shouldered, lean made. His hair was darker and his face more angular than Raine’s. But most of all, she remembered the driving anger in Raine. He hummed with it like a piece of metal before a lightning storm. Biting words, clenched fist, bitter laugh—that’s what she remembered about Raine Merrick.

Not that this fellow looked like he’d be a stranger to clenched fists. But this fellow looked like he owned the devil, whereas Raine Merrick had looked like the devil owned him.

Which, seeing how Lord Carr was his father, was probably close to the truth.

“—lucky you aren’t Raine Merrick. Heard he died in some French crib,” Davie was saying.

“Clearly, you grieve for him,” the stranger answered with a touch of mockery.

“Me? Nah! He weren’t really a chum, mind you. I only said that thinkin’ you were him. He was just a lad always had a notion to spite his da, poor bastard. Only time his father even noticed him was when he nearly got himself hanged for raping a nun.”

The stranger’s head shot up at that.

“Ach! Davie, why’d ye want to go dredging up that poor, sordid tale?” the innkeeper called out.

“ ’Cause that’s the only sort of tales there are about Raine Merrick!” Davie cackled.

“Sounds the very devil,” the stranger said.

“Well, that’s what the McClairen clan thought sure enough—they’re the ones that almost snapped his neck,” Davie said. “ ’Twas a McClairen lass the lad was supposed to have raped.”

The stranger had returned his attention to his beer.

“But wouldn’t they have been red in the face if’n they
had
stretched the lad?” Davie chuckled.

“Why do you say that?” the big man asked dully.

“Because it come out later that Merrick didn’t rape no one.”

“What?”

Davie nodded. “Merry McClairen, the girl they caught with him, confessed a few years afterward that she and Raine had been lovers. Said she couldn’t live with the lie no longer.”

“What did they do to her?”

“Do to her?” Davie looked confused. “Nuthin’. First off, ’cause there was no one much left to do anything anyway and, second off, because what are you going to do to a Mother Superior?”

The stranger’s sherry-colored eyes had gone wide. “You jest.”

“Nope.” Franny confirmed Davie’s tale. “Mother Perpetua Augusta of the Sacred Order of—ach! Some sacred order or other. Runs the abbey about a half day’s ride south of here. We keeps discreet up here. No one mentions the abbey, nor Mother Augusta’s tame priest.”

The stranger smiled, then began to laugh. “Well, if nothing else your Raine Merrick had the devil’s own luck.”

“Since he was heir to a demon, makes sense, don’t it?” Fran said, finding herself caught up in the story.

“Ah, yes. Carr. The Demon Earl,” the tall man said. “I’ve heard of him.”

“You and everyone else,” Davie said smugly. “But
I
knew him.
And
Raine.”

Fran nodded wistfully. “Aye.
’Tis
sad. Raine weren’t evil, you know. Just … poisoned like.”

“I’ll tell you about him for the price of a brandy, Mister …” Davie suggested.

Fran, abandoning tender reflections on past lovers, decided it was time to concentrate on the present ones. “Clear off, David Duff!” she exclaimed, “yer not wanted here. The gentleman and I are quite cozy enough without yer company. Besides, who’d want to hear stories about some poor sot of a dead boy?”

“Why, indeed?” the gentleman murmured, smiling down into his empty mug. “Best leave, Davie.”

Thwarted, Davie snatched his mug from the table, nursing it to his chest. “Ah, now that I see you, you look nuthin’ like him,” he said, and with that parting salvo, slunk back to his original companions.

Finally, the innkeeper arrived at their table and thumped two overflowing mugs on the sticky surface. The stranger placed one in her hand. She nudged her thigh between his legs, wriggling deeper onto his lap.

“Ah,” she breathed, her eyes lighting with discovery. “There ye are. I was wonderin’ when ye’d make yerself known, if ye catch me meaning.”

He moved his mouth a few inches from her ear. “I’d sooner make a proper accounting of myself, Franny.”

She glanced at the door that led to the only private room the inn boasted. “ ’Sblood, I’d like to get to know you better, too … but I gots to work.”

He tickled her chin. “There’s not so many here that you’ll be missed for a while.”

“A short while?” she asked, tempted.

“If I’m to give a proper account of myself, I demand enough time to do so. I’d hate to rush the process.”

She would, too, but she’d always prided herself on her practicality and if this young buck wanted more than a quarter hour of her time, he was going to have to convince her of it. “As sad a thing as it is, ’tis a fact that pleasure don’t pay the landlord.”

There was nothing overt. Nothing so apparent as a grimace, yet something rueful seeped into his expression. Still, he whispered, “Pleasure might not, but I will.”

She promptly shoved herself from his lap and took hold of one of his large hands and tugged him upright. “Well then, come on, love,” she said. “Follow me.”

A flotilla of fat-bellied white clouds drifted overhead in a slow procession. There would be hours more sun to enjoy before October remembered herself and took her role as winter’s vanguard more seriously.

The picnickers from Wanton’s Blush took the warmth for granted, being far more interested in earthy diversions. They lounged on wool blankets, masculine heads lolling on female laps, tongues wetting lips, signals flashing amid ribald repartee, assignations covertly arranged.

Raine Merrick stood with his hand on his horse’s bridle ’neath the branches of a rowan tree. He was well inured to such behavior, having been raised among its most avid practitioners. He waited a few minutes longer, scanning the party for her.

If she thought to sneak off for a spot of slap-and-tickle with some would-be suitor, she’d best think again. He had no intention of releasing her from their search. His knuckles stretched the black leather of his glove as his hand tightened into a fist. Somehow she’d arrived at the misguided notion that she and he were compatriots of a sort, and that she could follow her own whims, decide when and where she would attend him. She’d soon learn the error of that idea.

He looped his mount’s rein over a tree branch, anger building in him and with it his sense of offense at her … her faithlessness. And if it occurred to him that he’d originally intended to keep her near him only that he might discover some way in which to repay his debt to her, he did not let that inconsistency trouble him.

As far as he was concerned, she had much to answer for, did Favor McClairen. She infiltrated his thoughts and dreams, disrupted his stratagems, undermined his intentions, and destroyed his desire to bed another woman—damn her to hell! There was no possible way he was going to allow her to indulge herself when he could not.

He’d find her, by God, even if it meant questioning each one of these bejeweled mannequins. He cared little that someone might note he had not been one of their original number. He cared less for the consequences of such a discovery.

He strode toward a small clutch of lounging revelers. A few gentleman watched his approach incuriously. Several of the women noted him with a good deal more interest.

“Where is the wench?” he said in a loud, exasperated voice as he drew near. A dandy, his chin propped in his hand inches from a brunette woman’s bosom, raised his brows questioningly.

“We’ve a veritable buffet of wenches, sir,” the dandy said. “Which delectable morsel would you be seeking?”

“Miss Donne.”

The dandy
tched
softly. “Too bad, old son. I fear Miss Donne is being … sampled even as we speak.”

“Really?” Thank God, years of prison had stood him in good stead. He was still smiling. After a manner.

“Coo! Don’t ’e look nasty?” A beauty in blue silk breathed, revealing origins that had never included silk. “Don’t worry, sir. With your looks you won’t ’ave too long a wait afore you find yourself another.”

Raine ignored her. “By whom?”

“Tunbridge,” another man answered wistfully. “Lucky bastard.”

“And where is the happy couple?” Raine asked, less than pleasantly.

The beauty with the dockyard accent pointed. “That way they went, quarter hour at most.”

The dandy glanced up at Raine and smiled nastily. “If you run you might just make opening curtain, if you know what I mean. There still might be some good seats left—”

Raine seized a fistful of waistcoat, shirt, and skin. The dandy yelped and thrashed his arms, dangling horizontally three feet above the ground.

The rest grew hushed. The dandy kept yelping. Raine bent over him. “I dislike your manners, sir. Perhaps your friends here”—he cast a harsh smile around the group, daring any interference—“consider your filth wit. I do not. I suggest you remember that.”

Raine dropped the dandy. He scuttled away on his bootheels, clutching at his chest. “Who the bloody hell do you think you are?” he ground out, fear and fury matched in his quavering voice.

Raine, already moving in the direction the girl had indicated, did not stop. “No one,” he muttered. “No one at all.”