Part 13 (1/2)
”You must have waited your whole life for this chance. Why now?” She shook her head helplessly, the words spilling directly from her battered heart. ”Why me me?”
”If it had been up to my grandfather, I never would have come back to the Highlands. But when I did, I discovered that he was no longer strong enough to lead his own men. He's dying, you see. His time is running out. He's lived for twenty-seven years with half the people on this mountain still believing it was a Sinclair hand that committed those murders. I won't let him die with the shadow of that suspicion still hanging over him. I owe him that much, especially after all he's done for me.”
”And if the earl agrees to give you this necklace in exchange for me, if he all but confesses to the murder of your parents, just what are you planning to do then?”
Jamie shrugged. ”The authorities will never believe a Sinclair or arrest a Hepburn so I guess I'll take the necklace to my grandfather, then sit back and wait for the devil to come collect the Hepburn's rotten soul.”
”Without any help from you?” Emma had never known it could hurt so much to laugh. ”Do you honestly believe that?”
”I don't know.” He scowled, still possessing enough grace to look sheepish.
She wrapped her arms around herself, her laughter dying on a broken note. She might have had a hope of competing with silver and gold, but she couldn't compete with this. No matter how desperately Jamie wanted her, he would always want the truth more. She would never be anything more to him than a p.a.w.n to be moved about the board at his discretion until he could capture the king.
For the first time, Jamie's stoic countenance showed signs of cracking. ”The earl won't live forever, either, you know, and I refuse to let that b.a.s.t.a.r.d take his secrets to his grave. This may be my last chance to find out what happened in this place on that turrible night. Can't you understand that, la.s.s?”
He reached for her but Emma backed away from him, no longer able to trick herself into believing there was any shelter or solace to be found in his arms. He was a far greater danger to her now than he had been when he stood in that abbey with a gun in his hand.
She should have heeded the warning he had tried to give her back at the campfire.
The truth really could kill you. Or at least break your heart.
”You were right all along, sir,” she said coolly, squaring her chin to hide its trembling. ”Your parents did make the greatest mistake of their lives when they fell in love.”
Gathering her skirts, she turned and started back across the glen, deciding she would rather brave the ghosts drifting through those woods than the ones still lurking in Jamie's heart.
Chapter Twenty.
A FURIOUS HOWL ECHOED THROUGH FURIOUS HOWL ECHOED THROUGH the high-ceilinged corridors of Hepburn Castle. Doors came flying open with maids and footmen popping out of them like startled jack-in-the-boxes to see who-or what-was making such a tremendous racket. the high-ceilinged corridors of Hepburn Castle. Doors came flying open with maids and footmen popping out of them like startled jack-in-the-boxes to see who-or what-was making such a tremendous racket.
As the dreadful din swelled, shattering the tense hush that had hung over the castle since the earl's fiancee had been abducted, the three Marlowe sisters came running in from the garden, their freckled faces flushed and their bonnets all askew. Their mother trailed after them, her pale face drawn with a heartbreaking mixture of terror and hope, while their father emerged from the conservatory, his cravat untied and a gla.s.s of half-finished port dangling from his unsteady hand.
Ian had spent most of the morning closeted in the library, reviewing the estate's account ledgers and avoiding the stricken eyes of Emma's family. When he heard the racket he came rus.h.i.+ng into the corridor without bothering to s.n.a.t.c.h up his coat, even though he knew his uncle would most likely chide him for appearing in public in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves. Even if the castle was under attack or on fire.
Especially if the castle was under attack or on fire. if the castle was under attack or on fire.
It turned out the only one under attack was the lanky lad being dragged through the cavernous entrance hall by a thick shock of his bright yellow hair. Silas Dockett, his uncle's gamekeeper, was the one doing the dragging. The boy had clamped his thin hands around the man's meaty wrist to lessen the pressure on his scalp. His booted heels tattooed out a desperate rhythm on the slick marble floor, fighting for purchase. A steady howl poured from his throat, punctuated by a blistering stream of curses questioning both the temperament and virtue of Dockett's mother.
Appalled by the casual violence of the scene, Ian fell into step behind the man. ”Have you lost your wits, man? What in the devil do you think you're doing?”
Without missing a beat of his stride, Dockett drawled, ”Package for the master.”
By the time the gamekeeper reached the earl's study, his curious followers had swelled to a virtual parade with Ian in the lead, several of the bolder servants and Emma's mother and sisters padding the middle and Emma's father bringing up the rear, staggering slightly.
Dockett didn't wait for the fl.u.s.tered footman standing at attention outside the door to announce him. He simply flung open the door with his free hand, dragged the boy across the study and dumped him in the middle of the priceless Aubusson carpet.
The boy scrambled to his knees, shooting Dockett a look of raw hatred and cursing him in a burr so thick most of the oaths were mercifully indecipherable.
Before he could climb the rest of the way to his feet, the gamekeeper gave the boy's ear a brutal cuff. The boy collapsed back to his knees, a fresh trickle of blood coursing down his rapidly swelling jaw.
”Mind that cheeky tongue o' yours, mate, or I'll cut it out for you, I will.”
”That will be quite enough,” Ian snapped, striding forward to place himself between the gamekeeper and his quarry.
Ian had never cared for the man. After the untimely death of his uncle's previous gamekeeper, the earl had returned from a trip to London with Dockett in tow. Ian suspected his uncle had plucked the hulking East Ender from the bowels of the London slums for the very qualities Ian most despised in him-brute strength, unquestioning devotion to whoever paid his salary and a s.a.d.i.s.tic penchant for cruelty. A sinister scar ran from just beneath his left eye to the top of his upper lip, drawing his mouth into a perpetual snarl.
Dockett gave Ian a look that left little doubt he would be just as pleased to cuff him b.l.o.o.d.y if the earl would allow it. But Ian coolly stood his ground and the man was forced to back away.
The earl rose from his chair, peering over the desk at the boy as if he were a piece of sheep's dung someone had sc.r.a.ped off the bottom of their shoe. ”And just who is this upstanding young fellow?”
”I found 'im lurkin' outside the dovecote, m'lord,” Dockett said. ”Claims 'e 'as a message from Sinclair.”
”Oh, my baby!” Mrs. Marlowe cried, clapping a hand to her ruffled bosom. ”He's brought word of my lamb!”
She began to sway on her feet, going as white as a sheet. Two of the footmen lurking by the door rushed forward to shove a delicate Hepplewhite chair beneath her. As she collapsed into the chair, Ernestine began to fan her with the Gothic novel she had been reading in the garden while Emma's father drained what remained of his port in a single gulp.
”Well, don't just sit there bleeding all over my carpet, lad,” the earl said. ”If you've a message to deliver, then spit it out.”
Ian stepped back as the boy staggered to his feet, plainly the worse for wear after Dockett's manhandling. Still glaring daggers at the gamekeeper, the lad swiped a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand before tugging a rolled up and slightly battered piece of foolscap from the inside of his jacket.
The earl reached across the desk and plucked the missive from the boy's hand with two fingers, his upper lip curling with distaste. While he took his own sweet time retrieving a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles from his blotter and perching them on the tip of his nose, Mr. Marlowe rested a trembling hand on his wife's shoulder. Ian couldn't tell if he was doing it to comfort her or steady himself.
The earl used one yellowing fingernail to slide the leather band from the tube of paper. ”Let's see just how much of my hard-earned gold the insolent lad plans to steal from me this time,” he said, snapping the paper open with more than just a hint of unseemly glee.
Even from where he stood, Ian recognized the untidy scrawl. He'd seen it often enough on school a.s.signments and on notes addressed to him, many of them containing private jokes and clever little sketches of their cla.s.smates designed to make him laugh.
As his uncle scanned the missive, an expectant hush fell over the room. The servants kept their eyes glued to the floor, thankful no one had remembered to order them to return to their duties. Mrs. Marlowe revived from her near swoon and rose to her feet, pressing a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her trembling lips. The Marlowe sisters huddled together in a nervous knot, their freckles standing out in stark relief against their fair skin.
Finally Ian could no longer bear the suspense. ”What is it, my lord? How much is he demanding for her return?”
His uncle slowly lifted his head. A rusty sound rattled up from his throat. For one chilling moment, Ian thought it was a sob. Then it came again and Ian's blood ran even colder.
His uncle was laughing.
They all gaped in astonishment as the earl collapsed into his chair, his papery cheeks growing even more sunken as he gasped for air.
Ian took an involuntary step toward the desk. ”What is the meaning of this? Are his demands so outrageous?”
”I should say not,” the earl replied. ”They're perfectly reasonable... for a madman madman!” He pounded on the desk, crumpling the ransom demand in his fist and wheezing himself right into a fresh gale of laughter. ”So the lad thinks he's canny enough to outwit me, does he? Well, we'll just see about that!”
Despite his uncle's unfettered amus.e.m.e.nt, there was a sparkle strangely akin to admiration in his eyes. Ian had never once seen that look in his uncle's eyes when his uncle looked at him. The man might deny his b.a.s.t.a.r.d grandson with his dying breath, but he also considered him that rarest of creatures in his Machiavellian mind-a worthy adversary.
”But my daughter, my lord?” Mr. Marlowe stepped forward, the beads of sweat on his brow betraying the effort it was taking to remain on his feet. ”What's to become of her?”
The earl rose and came around the desk, still looking alarmingly amiable. ”Have no fear, Marlowe. Young Emmaline is my concern now and I give you my word that I'll look after her. I don't want your wife or your other daughters to worry their pretty little heads about any of this.” He beamed at the girls, who could not help brightening just a bit beneath the unexpected flattery. ”Just continue to be patient and I'll make sure Sinclair gets what's coming to him. Everything coming to him. Everything that's coming to him.” that's coming to him.”