The Reckless One (19 page)

“No, thank you,” she said, aware she sounded disgruntled.

As if he knew the reason for her glum expression he grinned. “Here, little falcon. I may not be one of Carr’s well-heeled
roués
but at least my character is not so poor that I would ply my slight amorous skills here for any chance passerby to view. Neither, do I think, would you want that.”

“Of course not!” she huffed, dusting off nonexistent pieces of grass, avoiding his amused eyes. Damn the man’s arrogance!

“I don’t know what momentary aberration clouded my judgment, but you may be well assured there shan’t be a second such lapse,” she said.

She clambered to her feet, ignoring his offer of assistance and turned a quelling eye on him. She acknowledged with gratification his bow in deference to her terse statement.

And missed the smile his deferential pose concealed.

Favor meandered toward her suite, peeling back her riding gloves as she went. She’d been away from Rafe only an hour and already she missed him. Not that she’d ever allow him to know that. And truly it had been insanity to let him kiss her.

Let him?

An impish smile appeared on her face, born of the knowledge that he was attracted to her far beyond what he was willing to admit. And if she suffered from similar pride—or fear—well, she didn’t really care.

She’d just arrived at her chambers when the door swung open. Muira seized her wrist and yanked her inside, slamming the door behind her. Startled, Favor jerked away from her, only then realizing that Muira wore none of the makeup that created Pala or Mrs. Douglas. Instead a livid red welt crossed one weathered cheek.

“What happened?” Favor asked in concern.

“What
hasn’t
happened?” Muira snapped in reply. “While you’ve been licking icing from your fingers beneath some tree, ‘Pala’ had an audience with Carr.”

“Did he do that?”

“Do what?” Muira asked irritably, and then, seeing the direction of Favor’s shocked gaze, she touched her cheek. She made a dismissive sound. “This is nothing. We have far graver matters to consider.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course not, you stupid girl,” Muira said. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done. Because you were too delicate, too sensitive to endure Carr’s attentions, he’s decided that he needs a
love
potion to make you more receptive.”

“What!”

“Yes. A love potion. Which I will provide him. And later, when he hands you a drink, my girl, you will take it and drink it and within an hour act like his Cheapside doxy.”

“I will not,” Favor breathed, repelled.

“Don’t worry,” Muira sneered. “You’ll have at least one day to practice puckering your lips. Carr made sure of that by marking me with this.” She touched her cheek. “No paint will cover it and you can’t appear unchaperoned. I’ll send word that you have the headache. Tomorrow you’ll be ready to play Carr’s cooing lovebird.”

Every fiber of her body rebelled at the notion. “No,” she said. “I will not do it.”

“By God, you will!” Muira’s hand darted out with the speed of a striking snake, slapping Favor hard across the face.

Instinctively self-protective, Favor grabbed hold of Muira’s arms above the elbow, stopping a second blow. Stunned, Muira stared at Favor’s hands. Her mouth fell open.

Instinct might have incited Favor’s action, anger caused her hands to tighten.

“Listen, old woman,” she said in a low, hard voice. “Long ago, you assured me that simply showing interest in Carr would be enough. I’ve been able to carry my role this far only because I did
not
have to pretend I was smitten.

“I would
never
be able to carry off such a farce and not all your slaps or threats can make it so. I can barely tolerate his breath on my cheek! If you force me to try, you, and only you, will be responsible for the failure of your plan. Do you understand me?” She shook Muira, rage and pain and regret overwhelming her.

“Now,” she grated out. “I shall not drink any vile brew and pretend that that bastard fills me with lust. Do we understand each other?”

Muira, eyes wide and unblinking, nodded. “But what shall we do? He trusts Pala to make him a potion. She dare not show up without one. And it must work or he will never again trust her.”

Favor released Muira’s arm and stood back, as disgusted with her violence toward the elderly woman as with Muira herself. She wondered if Muira was even aware that more and more often lately she spoke of Pala as if the character were a real woman.

“Make your potion,” she said. “Deliver it to Carr. He’ll have to combine it with drink or food he intends to give me. I shall find excuses not to eat or drink anything he offers me. At the same time, I’ll make clear that the only time he will be alone with Janet is after he marries me.”

“You think this will work?” Muira said, her shock at Favor’s ferocity fading. She eyed the girl with hidden acrimony.
She
was the one who’d held the clan together for the last bleak decade, not this little uppity bitch. It was
her
plan that would return the McClairens to power and prestige, not this …
child’s.
She, Muira Dougal, was the dark heart of the clan. And now this barely weaned little slut challenged her.

“Yes,” Favor said, unaware of the dark path of Muira’s thoughts.

Muira, her gaze never leaving Favor’s hard, determined countenance, nodded her compliance. And made plans of her own.

“… and if what yer da says is true, ye’ll be in London by Christmas,” Gunna prattled on, she who was not given to chatter. Fia continued watching Gunna’s reflection in the mirror hanging above the dressing table. The twisted old woman brushed through Fia’s hair, turning the curly mass into a rippling, shimmering veil of black. “I’m thinking ye’ll like London. What do ye think?”

“How can I fail to like it? It’s not Wanton’s Blush,” Fia replied.

“Aye,” Gunna said. “That’s for certain and right ye are to be putting this wretched place behind ye. It’s no but a mausoleum yer father’s guests use like a brothel.”

“What lovely imagery,” Fia said, softly ironic. “You’ve such a gift for words, Gunna.”

Gunna cackled. “Well, I have no love of the great gloomy place but”—her eye fixed on Fia—“I thought ye’d a bit of care fer it.”

“I’d an interest,” Fia corrected. “I should have liked to have known the castle when it was called Maiden’s Blush. As a matter of curiosity.”

Gunna did not reply, concentrating on a snarl. Moments passed. The setting sun filled the bedchamber with amber light. Outside, the bare limbs of the oak trees tapped lightly on the windows, like a lover come begging.

“You know he’s here, don’t you?” Fia said.

Gunna’s hand checked. “Who be that?”

“Raine,” Fia replied, and turned in her chair to search Gunna’s face. The ravaged countenance gave little away. It never had. “You knew he was here, didn’t you?”

“Aye,” Gunna admitted.

Fia nodded as she turned back around, facing the mirror. She’d thought so. And that Gunna, whom she’d always trusted, had kept this from her caused only a small prick of anguish. She was used to being disillusioned. “When did you find out?”

“Yesterday. He’s been here some weeks and me never knowing, nor anyone else neither.”

“How enterprising of him. Not even Father?”

“No. I dinna tell ye because he did not want ye to know and I wouldna have ye hurt by his seeming indifference, though I do believe it’s not indifference as much as mistrust.” She caught Fia’s eye. “He doesna know ye, Fia,” she said flatly. “And what he remembers is that ye were yer father’s shadow.”

“He’s quite right on both counts,” Fia replied calmly. “He has no reason to show interest in me or to trust me.”

“Do not act callous for my poor benefit, Fia Merrick. ’Tis a waste of a good performance. I know ye better than that.”

“Do you?” Fia whispered suddenly. Her voice was that of a lost little girl unable to hide her wistful hope that deep within she really was decent and honorable and … good, when she knew how unlikely that to be. She bowed her head, ashamed of such emotions.

Gunna’s hand hovered briefly above Fia’s bowed head, hesitated and was retracted. She cleared her throat. “How did ye find out about Raine?”

Relieved that Gunna would not pursue other topics, Fia answered. “He was on the picnic this afternoon. Attending Miss Donne.”

“Miss Donne?”

“Thomas Donne’s sister.”

“Aye. I remember ye remarking ye were surprised by yer father’s interest in her. Ye thought it odd as he hadn’t paid much attention to her until the last week or so.”

“Yes. Apparently not only my father but my brother is interested in Miss Donne. The Donnes hold some sort of fatal magnetism for us Merricks.” She regretted the words as soon as she’d said them. Even Gunna did not know exactly how much Thomas Donne had hurt her. She would just as soon not hint that the injury she’d sustained still bled.

She could still hear Thomas’s voice, carrying above the gales blowing up from the sea to the garden where he’d led Rhiannon Russell for privacy. It had carried, too, over the garden wall where she’d knelt, listening:

“This isn’t simply a rather nasty family. It’s evil.”

“Carr killed his first wife.”

“Merrick skewered a man’s hand just for cheating.”

“His brother raped a nun.”

“They are all as bad as their sire.”

And finally, the mortal thrust,

“Fia is nothing but Carr’s whore, groomed to fetch the largest marriage settlement possible.”

Her entire body jerked in physical repudiation of the memory. She closed her eyes, hating that it still had such power, hating more that she, who’d spent her life building walls, was so vulnerable in this one last area. Once she’d loved Thomas Donne. But now, as with all love betrayed, she hated him with surpassing fervor.

If only she could stir within herself some animosity for his sister, she might find she liked the taste of revenge. But she couldn’t.

She glanced at Gunna. The old woman stood motionless, the half of her face revealed by her mantilla taut with concentration. “What is it, Gunna?”

“What was Raine doing at yer picnic?”

Fia lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know. He pretended not to know me and I returned the favor. Why is he here, Gunna? What is going on?”

“He’s looking fer some treasure he says his mother had keep of. He came to find it without yer father’s knowledge and to take it away.”

Fia smiled, slightly bemused, a trifle sad. How in keeping with what she remembered of her brawny middle brother. Impetuous. Bold. Doomed.

“Ye say ye found Raine and this girl together?” Gunna asked.

“Like a dovetailed joint,” Fia replied flatly, “fitted at the lips. Quite protective of her, he was. Nearly snapped my head off when we came upon them. And she … well, she was obviously intent on distracting me and my companions from asking too closely about him.”

“I
thought
someone had been there with him,” Gunna murmured.

“What?”

“I found him in the old chapel. Or he found me, is more like. Sprung at me, arms raised to strike and his face hard with violence. It makes sense now.
She’d
been with him and he’d been protecting her.

“And later, as we spoke his eyes kept moving about the room, touching on bits of trash and turning tender. He was thinking of her.” She passed her slender hand over her face. “Oh, Raine!”

“Why do you say that?” Fia asked, perplexed. “So, Raine has found himself a light-skirts. What of it? You can’t be surprised? Not what with Raine’s reputation. Even I have heard tales about him, tales old by the time he was sixteen.”

“Ach!” Gunna shook her head, setting the mantilla swinging. “Ye never knew him at all if ye think that. He was ever the reckless one, set on racing the devil to damnation, but only because no one ever bade him stay. No one ever cared enough to stop him.

“He knew plenty about tupping, I’ll grant ye that, but naught about love, either the giving or the receiving of it. But I always ken that once he’d learned to love, he’d do it as he did everything. Wholeheartedly, recklessly, without a thought to consequence or the risks to his heart.”

“You think he
loves
Miss Donne?” Fia asked, taken aback.

“I don’t know,” Gunna answered flatly. “I do know he deserves to be loved. He’s waited for it long enough.”

Fia laughed, made nervous by the pity and confusion Gunna’s revelation awakened in her heart. “And Miss Donne? Have you any thoughts on her emotional state?”

“Don’t use that tone on me, Fia. Save it for yer sophisticated friends,” Gunna reprimanded her sharply and Fia’s eyes fell. “I know nothing of this girl; perhaps she’s no better than she should be, but Raine … yer father’s taken so much from him already. He mustn’t take her, too.”

Lord Carr uncorked the crude bottle a footman said had been delivered by a raggedy-looking tinker a few hours earlier. He waved it under his nose, his nostrils quivering.

Not too vile a brew: a hint of almond, a soupçon of orange blossoms. But then, Carr reminded himself, it was a love potion. What would it smell like, brimstone?

He lit the candles on his desk before working a key into the lock on one set of drawers. It was dusk and he’d need to hurry to finish his preparations.

He opened a drawer and removed a short tray. Several small vials clinked together as he set it on his desktop. He removed an empty one and fitted it with a small funnel, humming as he filled it with the potion. By midnight, Miss Donne—and Janet—would follow him anywhere.

Not that he couldn’t have brought the girl round entirely with his own charms. But when so expeditious a solution was at hand, why exert oneself needlessly?

Having filled the vial, he sealed and pocketed it before returning the tray to its original location. He locked the drawer. He had to remember to take the tray with him when he vacated Wanton’s Blush. Its contents might prove useful in London.