Last Night's Scandal

  “Begging your lordship’s pardon,” said a big, burly man. “I’m John Larmour, the blacksmith, sir. You don’t need to wait for me to open the shop tomorrow. I’ll do it now, if you like. The fire’s low, but we can blow it up quick enough if we need to. Looking at that chest, though, I don’t think we need the fire.”

  A chorus of cheers greeted this offer.

  You people, Lisle thought. You remarkable people.

  He said, his voice a little choked. “Thank you, Larmour. That is most gracious.” He cleared his throat. “MacEvoy, get the chest loaded onto the cart and take it to Larmour’s shop. Herrick, send someone to the castle to invite Ladies Cooper and Withcote to join us.”

  “And the ladies’ maids,” Olivia said.

  He looked down at her. “And the ladies’ maids—and everybody. Bring our prisoners, too. I wouldn’t have them miss this for the world.”

  They came out of their cottages as well, men, women, and children. A great crowd formed in front of the blacksmith’s shop. As many as could squeezed inside. Others clustered at the great open doorway. Fathers hoisted their children onto their shoulders.

  The flickering candlelight threw dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling and over the faces of the eager audience.

  Ladies Cooper and Withcote sat at the front of the audience, on a pair of cushioned stools the footmen had brought for their comfort. The upper servants stood nearby.

  Jock and Roy stood within the shop door, legs and hands securely chained, and guards on either side.

  John Larmour studied the chest for a time, then he said something.

  Herrick had to translate, because Larmour’s burr was thick. Lisle had barely understood his speech at the church, and that was slow and simple. But Larmour was excited, and as he spoke more quickly, he became harder to understand.

  “It’s a fine piece of workmanship, he says,” Herrick said. “He regrets having to do it a violence, but he will have to take a hacksaw to the outer locks.”

  Lisle nodded, and the blacksmith went to work.

  It didn’t take long. With the padlocks off, Olivia could once more tackle the locking mechanisms with her picks. It took her some time to work out the sequence, but she finally got one keyhole cover released. She moved that aside and after experimenting with some of the blacksmith’s keys, and having him file one to her specifications, she unlocked that part. Then came the business of rotating some metal buttons, and simultaneously withdrawing hooks. Lisle had to help her. There was yet another mechanism, but by now she’d worked out the system, and that didn’t take as long.

  She was careful, Lisle noticed, to position herself to block the onlookers’ view.

  When she was done, she moved aside.

  The audience cheered and applauded. There was a chorus of congratulations for Olivia, which seemed to be along the lines of “Well done, lass.”

  “You do the honors,” she told Lisle.

  He lifted the heavy lid.

  Under it, an ornate metal screen concealed the intricate locking mechanisms. Atop the open chest lay a metal tray, elaborately decorated.

  People promptly started wagering about what was under the tray. Coins, some said. Jewels, said others. Books. Plate. Dirty laundry, said a few jokesters.

  “Dirty pictures,” said Lady Cooper. “I’ll wager you five pounds, Millicent.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Lady Withcote. “Papers aren’t that heavy. What they’ve got in there is sculptures. Some of those brass satyrs, most likely. Very popular in olden times.”

  “I always liked a satyr,” said Lady Cooper.

  “You mean Lord Squeevers, I suppose.”

  “Squinty Squeevers? Certainly not. He was Cyclops.”

  “But he had those hairy legs—”

  “You should have seen his nether parts.”

  “Oh, I did.”

  “Do you remember the time—”

  “Speaking of time,” Olivia said. “All bets in? Good. Lord Lisle, please end the suspense.”

  He took out the metal tray.

  No jewels or coins glittered up at them from inside the chest—not that Lisle had expected to find any.

  Within lay a thick brocaded cloth.

  “Oh, dear,” Olivia said. “An old dressing gown, I fear.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Lisle said, reaching down. “Who’d go to so much bother to hide old clothes? This thing hasn’t been opened in centuries. Those locks hadn’t been oiled in—” His hand struck something solid. “Wait.”

  He removed the cloth carefully. More cloth lay beneath, but that seemed to be wrapped about the solid object.

  He lifted out the parcel and set it down on the workbench. “Whatever it is, it isn’t lightweight,” he said.

  Murmuring came from the crowd, people in the back asking what it was and those in front saying they didn’t know.

  He drew away the wrapping to reveal a rectangular lead casket. This one, thankfully, had only a simple lock.

  It took Olivia mere minutes to open it. After a bit of experimenting, she unlocked it with one of the curious keys in her collection.

  A hush fell over the blacksmith’s shop as she raised the lid.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she said. “Oh, my goodness.”

  Even Lisle caught his breath. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “What is it, damn ’em?” Jock growled “How long before we find out what they’ve got?”

  “They’re doing it a-purpose to vex us,” said Roy.

  It was a thick vellum document, the ink faded to brown but the neat Chancery script perfectly legible. The paper was wider than it was long. From it an immense seal dangled.

  “It’s old papers,” someone near Lisle said.

  Jock groaned loudly. “Rubbish! All that work! Years! For rubbish!”

  “It’s no rubbish,” said Roy. “There’s fools like old Dalmay who pay a pretty penny for old papers.”

  “He’s dead! Who’d buy them now? Jewels, you said. Gold and silver. All those years, digging.”

  “You did well enough by that.”

  “A few trumpery coins! An old tankard. A spoon. The one earring. What did they fetch?”

  “These are letters patent,” Lisle said.

  The brothers demanded to know what those were. A few voices promised trouble if Roy and Jock didn’t hold their tongues. The Rankins subsided, muttering.

  Lisle took out the documents and perused the Latin. He was aware of Olivia at his elbow, reading, too, though with more difficulty, undoubtedly. She hadn’t had Daphne Carsington drill Latin, Greek, and six other languages into her as Lisle had. Still, she must have got the gist of it, because she wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

  He oughtn’t to feel moved; he’d held objects far older than this. But none of them had been personal. His throat tightened.

  “What is it, your lordship?” someone called.

  Lisle quickly composed himself. “It isn’t what most people mean by treasure, but it is a family treasure,” he said. “This document, dated the twenty-first of June, fourteen hundred thirty-one, bears the signature of King James I of Scotland.”

  A chorus of aahs told him that his audience understood this was an important relic.

  Amidst the murmurs Lisle heard the Rankin brothers arguing about whether it was or wasn’t rubbish before someone stifled them.

  He went on, “In this the king grants my ancestor, Sir William Dalmay, the right to build Gorewood Castle. ‘A castle or fortalice,’ it says, ‘to surround the same with walls and ditches, and to defend it with gates of brass or iron; and also to place on the summit defensive ornaments.’ ”

  “May we hear it all, your lordship?” said Tam MacEvoy.

  Lisle
read it through first in the Latin, because it sounded mightily stirring that way. Then he translated it. The English of four hundred years ago sounded quite as impressive.

  When Lisle was done, MacEvoy said, “I reckon this means Gorewood Castle is well and truly yours, your lordship.”

  “Like it or not,” someone called.

  The crowd burst into laughter.

  “And us, too, your lordship,” Tam said. “We come with the place, and all our troubles as well.”

  The crowd agreed with a chorus of ayes, and more laughter.

  Lisle looked about him. They were laughing, but they meant it. He remembered what he’d heard last night.

  He felt Olivia’s hand on his arm. He looked down.

  “You’re wearing that look,” she said in an undertone.

  “What look?”

  “Your conscience-stricken look.”

  “These people,” he said. “My father. What he’s done.”

  “Yes, I know.” She squeezed his arm. “We need to talk about that. But later.”

  She carefully replaced the document in its casket. She started to close the lid, then paused and put it up again.

  “What?” he said.

  “There’s something in the corner,” she said. “A coin, I think. Or . . .” She smiled. Her slim fingers closed over the object and she lifted it out.

  It was a ring, a lady’s ring by the looks of it: a gold band set with red cabochon stones, rubies or garnets. Stones like the color of her hair.

  She held it up so that the people in front could see it. They passed the word to those in back.

  There were oohs and aahs and scattered cheers.

  Groans came from the Rankins’ corner.

  She looked up at him. “You see? This is a fine, happy moment—for everybody except the villains. Enjoy it.”

  Some hours later

  Lisle stood in the window recess looking out into the night. A few stars were visible in the cloudy sky.

  By the time everyone had finished exclaiming over the treasures and they’d got the chest packed into the cart again and returned to the castle in a procession—during which he heard more of the sorts of things he’d heard in the Crooked Crook—it was very late. Even the ladies were ready for bed.

  He’d had Roy and Jock thrown into the dungeon, to be dealt with later.

  One more thing to deal with.

  He’d confronted hosts of such matters in Egypt—discontented villagers and workers, cheating and stealing and assaults and such. Excavations went awry. Boats sank. Rats invaded. Diseases struck. It was his life. It was interesting, even exhilarating at times.

  Now . . .

  A light knock at the door made him start.

  He left the window recess and opened the door.

  Olivia stood before him. She was all in white, in a dressing gown with fluttery things on it—ribbons and ruffles and lace. Her hair was down, tumbling about her shoulders in glorious disarray.

  He pulled her inside and closed the door.

  Then he changed his mind and opened the door and tried to push her out.

  “Make up your mind,” she said.

  “You come to a man’s bedchamber in the dead of night, dressed in your nightgown—and you expect him to have a mind to make up?”

  How long had it been?

  Days and days and eons.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  He pulled her back into the room and closed the door again. “Let me explain something to you,” he said. “A girl who comes to a man’s room wearing practically nothing is looking for trouble.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “As long as that’s settled,” he said.

  He threw off his dressing gown.

  That left him in his nothing.

  “Oh,” she said.

  The firelight made liquid rubies and garnets of her tousled hair. Her skin glowed like a midsummer moon. The faint, shadowy scent of her hung in the air.

  He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the high bed. Bracing her against him, he threw back the bedclothes with one hand. Then he set her down on the side of the bed.

  “All right,” she said. “We can talk later.”

  “Oh, yes. We’ve a good deal to talk about,” he said. They had a lifetime to talk about.

  She put her hand up and slid it over his chest. “You turned out well,” she said.

  “So did you,” he said.

  He pushed his knee between her legs, and she inched back, drawing her feet up onto the bed.

  “I cannot begin to tell you how exciting this is,” she said.

  “You can write me a letter,” he said. “Later.”

  He took a fistful of her nightgown and dressing gown in each hand and pulled them up. He looked at her legs.

  “You like my legs,” she said.

  “To a disturbing degree,” he said. He bent and kissed the front of her lower leg, the way he’d done at the White Swan in Alnick, paying homage.

  “Oh,” she said. “You wicked man. You cruel and heartless—”

  “Fiendish,” he murmured. “Don’t forget fiendish.”

  He stroked the insides of her thighs, teasing, up and down. She threw her head back.

  He pushed her nightclothes up higher. He trailed his fingers upward, then lightly over the soft place between her legs.

  “Oh, your hands, your hands.” She pressed her hand over his, pressing him harder against her core. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. What am I to do?”

  She rose to her knees. She tore at the ribbons of her dressing gown and flung it off. She pulled the nightgown up over her head and threw it aside.

  The copper curls fell over her shoulders. A small triangle of copper glistened between her legs. That and her pearly skin was all she wore.

  It was so easy to picture her dancing naked in the desert moonlight.

  “Enough,” she said. “Enough of this nonsense. I’ll never be good. You can’t ask me to be good.”

  “That was the last thing I was going to—”

  “Come here,” she said. She slid her hands down over her belly and down over the silky mound between her legs. “Come here.”

  He came up onto the bed, and knelt in front of her. She grasped his hands and brought them to her breasts.

  He leaned in and kissed her, a long, sweet kiss. He kneaded her breasts and she wrapped her hands around his neck and let her head fall back, giving him room to touch her as he wanted and as she wanted.

  She touched him, too, her hands roaming over his arms and his back and down to cup his bottom. She moved closer, and pushed herself against his groin. His cock throbbed eagerly against her belly.

  She reached down and grasped it. She slid her hand up and down, then paused and drew it lightly over the crimson head. He made a strangled sound.

  She looked up at him.

  “Are you done playing?” he said thickly.

  “Not by half.” She gave him a light push. He took the hint and went down. She climbed on top of him.

  “I know this can be done,” she said. “I’ve seen pictures.”

  He laughed.

  He grasped her hips and lifted her up. He eased her onto him. “Oh,” she said. She let out a long, shaky breath. “Oh, Lisle. Oh, my dear.” She bent forward, and the movement squeezed his cock, and he gasped at the pleasure of it. She kissed him. It was deep and fierce, and dragged him down deep into hot darkness. He grasped her tightly and she moved, sliding herself up and down his length and setting the pace.

  It was a fast and furious pace, as though it was the first time again, as though they’d spent forever waiting, saving it up, and this was their last and only chance.

  He watched her, b
ent over him, her blue eyes as dark as midnight, her wild hair a fiery halo about her face.

  “I do love you,” he said.

  He pulled her down, to kiss her, to hold her tightly as they rose and fell together, faster and harder until there was nowhere left to go. The rush of pure pleasure came, and carried them along. And then, suddenly, the world went quiet.

  A long, long time passed.

  Then she slid off him and onto the bed alongside him. He lay on his back, listening to her breathing slow while he stared up at the canopy.

  She put her hand on his chest, still rising and falling. He wasn’t entirely at rest yet, but he was sure of one thing, absolutely sure.

  He covered her hand with his. “I do love you,” he said.

  Chapter 20

  Olivia drank the words in and let them slip down, down to her heart, and she held them there, with her many secrets.

  She drank in the quiet, too. The castle’s thick walls blocked out the outside world and deadened sound from within. All she heard was the crackling of the fire and the sound of his voice, low and husky, and the quick beating of her heart.

  She raised herself up on one elbow to look at him, without moving her other hand from his chest. It was warm there, against the steady beat of his heart and under his strong, clever hand.

  “I was beginning to suspect something of the sort,” she said.

  “You ought to love me back,” he said. “I don’t see how you can’t. We’re meant for each other. Surely it must be obvious.”

  She drew in a long breath and let it out again.

  “Stay here,” she said.

  She slid from the bed, grabbed her nightgown, and threw it over her head.

  He bolted up to a sitting position. The firelight turned his skin to gold, and caressed the rippling muscles. His silvery eyes were wide, shocked. “Olivia!”

  “I want you to see something,” she said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He was up and in his dressing gown and pacing by the time she returned with the box.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Bailey, as always, was awake when she ought to be asleep. She’s always on the watch, like Argus with his thousands of eyes. She had to stuff me into a dressing gown and scold me about catching my death. Come back to bed.” She set the box down on the bed and climbed up. “Come,” she repeated, patting the bedclothes. “I want to show you my treasures.” She folded her legs to sit cross-legged.