To Tempt A Rogue (15 page)

“Ye're staying in again, m'lord?”

Duncan merely lifted his brow. The servant blushed and lowered his gaze, as if realizing the impudence of questioning the laird's actions. The butler bowed, then left, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor.

Though Duncan had been annoyed by the butler's remark, he could not fault the man for his surprise. Duncan's social life had suffered drastically since the children arrived. Normally, he was a much sought after guest in the tight circle that made up Edinburgh society.

It was not something he enjoyed over much, but ever-conscious of his duty, Duncan made brief appearances at all the necessary functions. He also made the rounds at the gentlemen's clubs and gaming establishments when the mood suited him. Society here could not compare to the hurried and frantic pace of London Society, but there were distractions in the Scottish capital for men of wealth and power, such as he.

The one thing he did miss, however, was female companionship. He had not visited his mistress once since the children arrived, fearing that her luscious, sensual body would be too much of a distraction, and keep him too long away from home.

Anna had a fiery temper to match her passionate nature and she was no doubt made furious by the lack of attention. He had sent several bouquets of her favorite flowers, along with a charming note, but Duncan knew from experience it would take an expensive gem to turn her frowns and pouts into a welcoming embrace.

Although there were servants aplenty to perform the task, Duncan carefully walked through each of the downstairs rooms, checking and re-checking every window and door. Duncan took his temporary position as guardian and protector very seriously, even though he doubted Nathaniel's uncle, Lord Bridwell, had any idea where the children were being hidden.

For his own sanity, Duncan needed to ensure there would be no surprise threat in the middle of the night, no chance that any harm would come to those three young innocents. Once he was confident the house was properly secure, Duncan went upstairs to bid the children a final goodnight.

His first stop was Gregory's room, but, as usual, Duncan was too late. As he approached the bed, the nursemaid sitting quietly in the corner smiled and shook her head. Gregory was already sleeping. It seemed that the minute the child's head hit the pillow he was asleep.

Smiling, Duncan gazed at the innocent face. In slumber, Gregory's features took on an almost baby-like quality, reminding him of how young, helpless and dependent was this child that he had vowed to protect.

He next entered the chamber the girls now occupied. Since he wanted the children housed near him, the girls were placed in the room that had been his mother's. The chamber reflected the status and taste of its previous occupant. Expensive wallpaper adorned the walls, thick rugs covered the polished oak floors, and the massive bed was covered in satin and rich brocade.

Upon waking the first morning, young Jeanne Marie had solemnly reported the large, soft bed had “swallowed her up.” But she liked the pretty figurines and silk tasselled pillows, and as long as her sister Phoebe slept beside her, the younger girl was content to stay in this room.

The girls, unlike their slumbering brother, were waiting patiently for his arrival. With their nursemaid looking on, they solemnly recited their bedtime prayers. As always, Duncan was humbled to hear himself included, even if he was placed
after
the girls' ponies left behind in London.

He kissed each girl on the forehead, and helped them slide beneath the covers. They settled their heads on their pillows and fixed their eyes on him. Duncan squirmed a bit under such innocent trust, worried anew with the responsibility of keeping them safe.

“Sleep well, wee ones. May your dreams be filled with sweetness.”

As he spoke the words, Duncan knew their sleep would not be as restful as their brother's. The nursemaid who watched over the girls reported they often whimpered and cried out during the night, clearly troubled by nightmares.

Duncan wished that Nathaniel were here. Not that his bachelor friend could do any better, but these children were his flesh and blood. They asked for him every day. They needed him.

Duncan entered his room and dismissed his valet. He stood, folded his hands behind his back and broodingly gazed into the fire. In less than a week's time he would bring the children north, to Hillsdale Castle. He hoped that Nathaniel had managed to prepare everything properly and that the new governess either had arrived, or would do so shortly.

Duncan knew he should feel a sense of relief that his responsibility would soon be ending. He should be pleased that his household would once again be well-organized, his social life proper, his love-life fulfilled.

Yet instead all he felt was a confusing sense of lethargy and loss.

 

 

Lord Bridwell tried in vain to rein in his temper. For the past fifteen minutes, he had been listening to a progress report filled with no progress at all, only excuses and evasions.

“You have yet again nothing substantial to report?” he finally asked, letting both his ire and his exasperation show themselves. “Is that truly possible? Why did you even bother to come to see me today? Bloody hell, Brockhurst, if you are an example of the best the famed Bow Street Runners have to offer, I can only shudder to think what sort of mess the others would have created if I had hired them to perform such a simple task.”

Jerome Brockhurst, a seasoned and experienced detective, lifted his chin and returned the hard stare. “The task is hardly simple, my lord. Your nephew and wards appear to have vanished. London is a large city, especially for someone with deep pockets. There is also some evidence to suggest that Lord Avery has departed from Town, which widens the area to be searched considerably.”

Lord Bridwell's temper rose a notch. “I expect results, not excuses. You have been in my employ for over a fortnight and have yet to discover any trace of the missing children or my nephew.”

Mr. Brockhurst's mouth turned down. “I am not entirely convinced that your nephew is responsible for the children's disappearance. Perhaps that is the reason my investigation has yielded no results.”

For a moment, doubt nibbled at Lord Bridwell. Ever since he had learned that the children had disappeared, he had assumed Nathaniel had taken them and refused to allow Brockhurst to pursue another course of investigation. He was convinced that if Lord Avery could be located, the children would be found. Could he be wrong?

“There has been no demand for ransom,” Lord Bridwell exclaimed. “My nephew would call each day and visit the brats, yet the moment they disappeared he ceased calling. I've made a few inquiries of my own and no one can recall seeing him about Town for two solid weeks. That cannot be a mere coincidence.”

“Lord Avery told several of his friends he was not leaving London until the spring,” Mr. Brockhurst said. “That could have merely been a ruse, if indeed your nephew is involved in this affair, especially since there was some general confusion as to his exact destination. Most of the gentlemen I spoke with were under the impression he was traveling north.”

“Lies! If he said north, you should be looking south. Do I have to tell you how do to everything?”

Brockhurst's posture stiffened. “I have several men making discreet inquiries in the north. But we must be prepared with an alternative strategy if Lord Avery is found and the children are not with him.”

“Who else would want them?”

Brockhurst frowned. “This city is filled with all manner of people, my lord. The girls are rather young, but I've been told they are very pretty children.”

“And the boy? He is little more than an infant. Of what use would he be to anyone?”

A red flush stained Brockhurst's cheeks. “Perversion in all forms thrives among men. I've seen more than my share of it in my line of work.”

Lord Bridwell tried to feel an appropriate degree of horror at the thought of the children meeting such a dire fate. Yet he could not summon the necessary emotion to care. Unless the boy was dead. If so, his claim to the dukedom would be clear and with his nephew away from Town, Lord Bridwell could begin legal proceedings immediately. But first he needed solid proof.

“Have you searched the morgues?”

“Normally it is among my first stops, however you were adamant that your nephew had taken the children, so I have not put any of my resources in that direction.”

“Then do so at once.”

Brockhurst cast him a curious look. “The extra cost?”

“Damn, the cost! They must be found. Dead or alive. Do I make myself clearly understood?”

Brockhurst bobbed his head. “I've been going over the facts very carefully and there is a doubt concerning exactly when the children disappeared. No one seems to know with any certainty. When did you last see them?”

Lord Bridwell gripped the edge of his desk and glared at the runner. He didn't like Brockhurst. The man didn't show the proper deference or respect to his betters. Nor was he in awe of the aristocracy. If he had his way, Lord Bridwell would not even have hired the man, but he was reputed to be the best and Bridwell was in desperate need of his skills.

He fixed a disdainful eye on Brockhurst. “I have already explained that I rarely had contact with my great-nieces and great-nephew. Therefore, I can be of limited assistance. The servants would know best. I have ordered them to cooperate fully with you.”

“Your staff has been most forthcoming in my interviews with them, however many of them are new to the household and know little about the children,” Mr. Brockhurst said.

Lord Bridwell heaved an annoyed sigh. “Ask the housekeeper, Mrs. Hutchinson. She has been on staff here as long as I can remember. She doted on those children, yet her reaction to their disappearance has been most telling. While initially upset, she has said very little these past few days. She must know something.”

“I have questioned Mrs. Hutchinson on three separate occasions,” Brockhurst replied. “She knows nothing.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am very good at telling when people are lying.” Lord Bridwell rested one elbow on the arm of his chair and set his chin upon his closed fist. “If the housekeeper suspected that someone besides my nephew had taken those brats she would be up in arms. Hell, she'd probably be scouring the streets herself searching for them.”

“Her loyalty speaks well of her character.”

“Her loyalty is only useful if it is pledged to me!” Lord Bridwell pursed his lips in a disapproving manner. “Mrs. Hutchinson's acceptance of this situation is further proof in my mind that my nephew has taken them away.”

Brockhurst shook his head slowly. “I still contend she knows nothing of this matter. She's either the best liar in the world or an accomplished actress.”

Lord Bridwell let out a loud curse. “She is neither, Brockhurst. She does not possess the wit to sustain an elaborate deception for any length of time. Though apparently she has been able to easily outsmart you.”

He glared at the runner, challenging Brockhurst to dispute the insult. Brockhurst looked sharply at him, but said nothing.

“What news from the local employment agencies?” Lord Bridwell asked. “If my nephew has taken the brats, he would need someone to look after them.”

Brockhurst consulted his notes. “I have checked the most reputable agencies, and no one matching Lord Avery's needs has hired any nursemaids or a governess.”

Lord Bridwell snorted. “Then make inquiries at those establishments that are less stringent about experience and references. My nephew is very particular about the brats, but he would have needed help with this stunt.”

Brockhurst made a few notations on his pad. “Is there anything else?”

“Do not return until you have something of significance to report,” Lord Bridwell commanded, in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

The Bow Street Runner was shown the door. Once he was alone, Lord Bridwell felt the bluster drained out of him. He poured himself a glass of claret, sat at his desk and brooded.

The matter had to be resolved. Quickly. He was already having difficulty getting at some of the ducal funds. He could not press for complete legal guardianship, fearing it might become known that the children were no longer in his possession.

He had underestimated his nephew, never imagining he would go to such lengths. Lord Bridwell was not completely convinced his nephew's motivation was purely the welfare of those brats. There was far too much money at stake to make that claim.

Yet there was no denying the feat had been daring and effective and a bloody nuisance, too. The more he thought of it, the more Lord Bridwell's gut churned with the familiar mingling of anger and fear. Anger, at being so easily duped. Fear, that he might not win this all-important contest.

Seething with frustration, Lord Bridwell banged his fist sharply on the desk, causing the goblet to tip over and shatter. Cursing loudly, he rang for a servant to clean up the mess. Armed with a clean goblet and a fresh bottle of wine, he spent the remainder of the afternoon barricaded in his study, plotting his revenge.

It was the strangest week of Harriet's life. She began each day caring for Kate, an odd reversal of roles for the mistress to care for the maid. It was necessary however, because even though she posed no great risk to anyone else's health, the castle staff had no interest in being near the sick Sassenach woman.

Fortunately, Kate was rapidly improving. Each day she required less assistance and was eager for Harriet to leave so she could “rest.” Harriet soon realized this was merely an excuse to be alone when Mr. MacLeod arrived. He visited his patient daily, staying longer each time. She joked privately that Kate was improving through sheer force of will, just to become a testament to Mr. MacLeod's skill as a healer.

Once Kate was comfortably settled for the day, Harriet was free to do as she pleased. Initially time hung heavy, for Harriet was not used to being idle. And while she greatly enjoyed reading, the meager selection of books in the dusty, grimy library were mainly historical tomes.

Deciding to treat this unexpected free time as a holiday, Harriet set about exploring the castle. Though she found it forbidding and mysterious, there was something mystical about the towering battlements and ancient keep that drew her to them.

She explored each afternoon on her own, amazed and fascinated by what she discovered. The drum towers on each corner around a high curtain wall held great appeal, so they were her first destination. Harriet assumed she would have to brave the elements and walk the narrow parapets to reach the top interior of each tower, but purely by accident she found a hidden passage and circular staircase leading to the inside of the first tower.

She climbed the little-used stairway carefully and stepped inside the round tower. It was like being transported back through time. There was a hard stone floor, whitewashed domed walls, and narrow slit windows without glass designed to allow a skilled archer to shoot through it and defend his position.

Set beneath one of these windows was an elegant carved trunk. Her hands itched to explore the contents, but it was locked and no key was in evidence. Hoping there would be time to return on another day, with a tool capable of forcing the lock, Harriet proceeded to the next tower.

Here she found remnants of a weaving room for the castle. Harriet closed her eyes and tried to imagine how the room had appeared several hundred years ago when it was bustling with activity and gossip as the women worked their skillful magic on the hand looms.

The third tower room was empty and the crumbling masonry in one part served as a grim reminder that the castle was very old and not in the best repair. Yet it was in the fourth and final tower where Harriet made her most amazing discovery.

Resting prominently in the center of the room were the effigies of a medieval knight and his lady. The edge of the tomb depicted in carved stone the main pursuits of a lord of his time—the hunt, the land, the battles. A Highland claymore was also inscribed, beautifully depicted with its characteristic cross guard with four ring quillons.

Harriet knew that the two-handed sword known as the claymore was often the weapon of choice for a Highlander. It exemplified the arrogance and recklessness of these mighty warriors, who disdained the protection of a shield in order to wield this lethal weapon with both hands.

There was a coat of arms on the edge of the lady's tomb with the chilling motto
“Virtue flourishes with wounding.”
After realizing she had found no evidence of a chapel elsewhere, this no longer seemed such an unusual resting place for this noble pair, for it was the perfect reflection of a military society and religious piety.

Invigorated by her success, Harriet bolstered her courage and next descended to the depths of the castle. She both hoped and feared to find some long forgotten dungeon but instead happened upon a barrel-vaulted storage basement. It contained all the necessary equipment to operate a malt whiskey distillery and judging by the smell that permeated the room, Harriet decided it was very much operational.

As much as she had enjoyed her forays into the interior of Hillsdale Castle, the following day Harriet was pleased to accept Mr. Wainwright's invitation for a late morning ride. The weather was still brisk but sunny, and for once not a cloud appeared in the endless blue sky.

There were two horses saddled and ready when Harriet arrived in the stableyard. Though it was not strictly necessary, it certainly would have been proper to have a groom accompany them. Apparently that was not to be the case on this ride.

Harriet smiled briefly, silently applauding Mr. Wainwright's skill at maneuvering this private time together, by arranging for them to be free of any servant's inquisitive stares. Her body fairly tingled at the possibilities.

“Good morning.” Mr. Wainwright looked so delighted to see her that for a moment Harriet felt giddy. She dipped her head in uncharacteristic embarrassment and stroked her mare's velvet nose.

She was inwardly glad that she was wearing her sapphire blue riding habit, complete with a whimsical hat adorned with a jaunty feather. The trimly fitted coat was comfortable and showed her figure to its advantage. Though Harriet scoffed at other women who continually fussed over their appearance, she admitted to herself that she possessed just enough feminine vanity to want Mr. Wainwright to remember her looking her best.

“ 'Tis a fine morning to go exploring,” Harriet said as she checked the straps of her saddle and gathered the reins to one side. “I look forward to seeing more of this rugged countryside.”

There was no mounting block. Harriet cast an expectant glance at the stable hand but Mr. Wainwright waved the lad off. With a mysterious smile, he cupped his hands for her booted foot and gave her a leg up.

Harriet adjusted her position in the saddle and arranged her skirts, while Mr. Wainwright swung up, unassisted, onto his own mount. She was pleased to note that both horses were prime animals, sleek and young and full of energy.

Mr. Wainwright led the way. The stable lad, with a disgruntled expression on his face, opened the gate for them.

“We shall return for a late luncheon. Please make sure Mrs. Mullins is informed of our plans,” Mr. Wainwright commanded.

The young man nodded his head. Though he made a brief attempt to doff his cap, the half-hearted gesture did little to conceal his exasperation with them.

“Was it something I said?” Mr. Wainwright asked as they cleared the stableyard.

Harriet shrugged. “We are outsiders, Mr. Wainwright. English. Though I do not understand their continued dislike and mistrust of us, I have no cause to criticize their forthright manner. I confess that I have often been accused of being blunt to the point of rudeness.”

“But must he narrow his eyes at me as if we are bound on some mischief? Or something far more dire?”

Harriet smiled. “I can tell you are not familiar with the pitfalls of unpopularity.” Though in truth she wondered why a man with his arrogance and confidence would care about the opinion of a servant. “Being tolerated is something I have often experienced. The situation here is no exception, though it seems more intense because the Scots do not endeavor to hide their feelings, even if they are servants. I swear there have been times when Mrs. Mullins regards me as if I am a particularly unpleasant insect.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “Does it bother you?” “I am used to such reactions.” Harriet grinned mockingly. “And I usually can't understand what Mrs. Mullins is saying most of the time, so I am probably missing the majority of her direct insults.”

“All I know is that the Scots are a far different breed of servant from the ones I am accustomed to having around.”

“Why didn't you bring your own people with you?”

“There wasn't adequate time to make the proper arrangements,” Mr. Wainwright explained. “Besides, the price of the lease included a fully staffed establishment.”

“Perhaps you can negotiate a partial refund,” Harriet remarked.

“Clearly you have had no financial dealings with a Scotsman,” Mr. Wainwright countered, reining in his horse as they came to an open field.

Harriet pulled alongside him. It was a flat, inviting landscape of hard-packed earth not yet tilled for the season. The horses, as if sensing what was about to come, pawed at the ground anxiously.

Harriet tightened her grip on the reins, crouched low and bent forward. “Shall we?” With no other warning than those softly spoken words, she dug her spurs into her horse's side and took off.

She heard Mr. Wainwright's delighted laugh, but dared not glance behind to see him, knowing it would waste her ill-gotten start. Earlier she had admired his command of his horse and excellent form and knew he was a skilled rider. Their horses appeared equally matched in strength, but Mr. Wainwright's mount was larger and therefore had greater stamina. Harriet knew if she had any hope of winning this impromptu race it would have to be a short one.

The ground was flying beneath the horse's hooves, the cold whipping at her cheeks, the feather in her riding hat bobbing wildly. Basking in the excitement and exhilaration, Harriet felt more alive at that moment than she had in months, perhaps years.

A gate came into sight, marking the end of the field and beginning of the woods. It was the natural finish line and both riders knew it. Harriet could sense her opponent drawing closer and soon the horses were galloping neck and neck. She urged her horse on, crouching lower, realizing with just a few yards to go she would win.

Harriet barely contained her shout of excitement as she reached the gate a few seconds before Mr. Wainwright. Her feelings of euphoria unleashed an avalanche of emotions. She raised her arm in triumph and began to laugh, unable to remember ever feeling such unencumbered joy, coupled with a sense of well-being.

While she did not completely understand how a silly race could create the depth of these emotions, Harriet knew that somehow these feelings were directly related to the man who had shared the experience with her. With him, everything seemed more intense, no matter what the activity.

Mr. Wainwright looked across at her, a smile in his eyes. “You won.”

“Did I?”

“Such coy surprise, Harriet?” He lifted his brow in a mischievous expression. “Of course the race was unfairly played.”

“Spoken like a totally trounced man.” Harriet grinned. She turned her horse, walking the animal slowly so it could cool down. Mr. Wainwright did the same with his mount.

“I know of a trail that leads up the hill to a small summit,” he informed her. “ 'Tis a picturesque spot. Follow me.”

Harriet fell into place beside him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. They trotted along in companionable silence, enjoying the rustling of the leaves, the sway of the tree branches, and the brightness of the sunshine.

The increasingly loud sound of water let Harriet know they were nearing a stream. It came into view quickly as the denseness of the trees lessened. The water flowed down the side of a jagged cliff, almost like a waterfall. It was surrounded by lush, green undergrowth, mossy rocks and a score of wild flowers just on the verge of blooming.

“Let's stop here,” Mr. Wainwright suggested. “I'm sure the horses are thirsty.”

Harriet nodded and dismounted. The animals had more than earned a rest and she was enjoying being outside, even in such cool weather. Mr. Wainwright moved closer, clasping her waist with a strong grip, Harriet assumed to steady her, though in truth her feet were already firmly planted on the ground.

Until he dipped his head and kissed her.

She closed her eyes and savored the sensations. The wonderful feeling of his arms tight and possessive around her back and waist, his warm, hard body pressed so intimately against her softness, the intoxicating smell of earthy woods mixing with his cologne.

He parted his lips over hers and licked at the seam with his tongue. She granted him entrance and kissed him back, angling her head and touching his tongue with her own. She nearly jumped, as every part of her body sizzled with awareness. Desire, low and deep in her belly, began to ache and throb.

The kiss deepened, became more frantic and frenzied. Every inch of Harriet's body came alive. His grip tightened for a moment and he feathered kisses on her cheeks, her eyes, her temples. He lifted his head and she could feel him looking down at her. Slowly she opened her eyes. His features were slightly distorted and yet she still thought he was the most attractive, appealing man she had ever known. Harriet's flesh tingled and for a split-second she swore she felt her heart move.

“I've been thinking of this kiss from the moment you appeared in the stableyard,” he said in a husky tone. “And when you won our race I nearly lost my seat with the urge to seize you and pull you into my lap. My concentration has been so lacking for the past hour that just before we stopped I nearly led my horse into a ravine.”

Harriet gave a shaky laugh. “Now that you have kissed me, am I exorcised from your system, sir?”

“Just the opposite, as you well know. One taste has merely whet my appetite for more. But alas, this is neither the time nor the place.”

He turned from her and walked away. She was glad of the physical distance, for she needed the space to regain her composure. Harriet watched him pace for several moments near the edge of the rushing water. She opened her mouth, then caught herself just before calling out a caution to be careful of his footing.

He did not need her warning. He was a man very much in control of himself and his surroundings. As he stood high atop a rounded boulder, an image came to her mind of the first time she had seen him, standing in the entrance hall of the castle—powerful, mysterious, and menacing. He had frightened her almost beyond speech at that initial meeting, but she had faced him down, albeit not with her usual bravado.

When she thought about that first encounter later that night, Harriet worried that her courage had nearly failed her because her fiancé's betrayal had changed her utterly. It had damaged her spirit, stolen her confidence, wreaked havoc with her already fragile sense of self-worth.