“Why, thank you, Bon,” Emma replied, visibly preening. “It’s always gratifying for a woman to find a man who appreciates her skills.” She turned her innocent smile on Jamie. “All of her skills.”
Jamie was forced to squeeze out his words from between clenched teeth. “Funny, Bon, but I don’t recall giving you orders to release our prisoner.”
“He didn’t require orders.” Emma gave one of Bon’s pointy ears a fond tweak. “He only required the promise of a piping hot scone fresh from the oven.”
Shooting Jamie a droll look, Ian helped himself to another scone. “You needn’t worry I’m going to stab you in the back just so I can steal your inheritance. As you can imagine, I was rather nonplussed when Miss Marlowe first told me the news. But upon reflection, I’ve decided I’m rather pleased by this fascinating development, if only to imagine the vexation it will cause my uncle.” He lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Better to lose my inheritance to you than some mewling infant I’d be tempted to smother in his crib. Perhaps now I can finally be free of that godforsaken castle and the petty tyrant who rules it.”
Jamie folded his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have been so eager to allow a cold-blooded murderer to take your place.”
“Interesting that you would bring that up. While I was enjoying your… hospitality, I struck up a conversation with a young man named Graeme who was sent to guard me. Of course, I had made his acquaintance once before when he came to the castle to deliver your ransom demand, but we had limited opportunities for discourse since it wasn’t exactly a social call.” Ian used the blade of his knife to slather some fresh cream on his scone. “He was kind enough to help me pass the long hours of my captivity by telling me a most intriguing tale about a vicious gamekeeper and a noble savior who came riding out of the mist to stage a most daring rescue. A rescue that resulted in the lad being fortunate enough to keep both of his hands.”
“What a thrilling story!” Emma exclaimed, ignoring Jamie’s glare as she slid onto the bench opposite Ian.
“Indeed.” Ian cast Jamie a narrow look. “A pity my dear cousin here didn’t share it himself instead of letting me believe the worst of him for four years.”
“Something you were only too eager to do. Even if I’d have told you the truth that day you rode up on the mountain to confront me, I doubt you would have believed me.”
Ian snorted. “And why should I have believed you when my uncle had just informed me that nearly every word you’d ever uttered to me was a lie?”
The flush creeping up Jamie’s throat only made him feel sulkier. “I didn’t lie when we were at St. Andrews. I just neglected to tell you that our families had been enemies for over five centuries and you were supposed to hate me and wish me dead with your every breath.”
“I wanted to do more than wish you dead that day,” Ian muttered, shifting his gaze to Emma. “When my uncle found out exactly who I’d been keeping company with at St. Andrews, he laughed so hard I thought he was going to give himself an apoplexy. He told me Jamie had doubtlessly been laughing behind my back the entire time, mocking me to our classmates and to the rough-and-tumble lads he rode with whenever he returned to the mountain. He told me that no matter how well I learned to use my fists, I could never hope to be half the man that Jamie Sinclair was.”
“That bastard,” Jamie breathed, despising the Hepburn anew for driving such an indestructible wedge between two devoted friends. “No wonder you tried to kill me that day on the mountain.”
“I thought it was time to put some of the skills you’d taught me to good use. You have to admit that I did manage to get in a few decent licks.”
Jamie glowered at him. “You broke two of my ribs and my nose.”
“But I was still no match for him,” Ian told Emma. “He could have easily killed me but he chose not to. I hated him even more for that. We never saw each other again after that day… not until he came riding into your wedding.”
“You poor dear! What a terrible ordeal it must have been for you!” Emma reached across the table to pat Ian’s hand with a tenderness that made Jamie stiffen.
“Aye,” Bon agreed, gesturing with his own knife. “The puir lad is lucky to be alive.”
“He broke two of my ribs and my nose,” Jamie repeated. But no one seemed to be paying him any heed. They were too busy clucking in sympathy over poor Ian’s terrible plight. “Now that we’ve all suffered through that touching little tale, perhaps one of you would like to tell me what in the bluidy hell is going on here.”
Bon and Ian took a renewed interest in their scones but Emma rose, coming around the table to face him. “We’re plotting my revenge against the Hepburn.”
“Your revenge?”
“Yes, my revenge.” She lifted her chin, looking every bit as defiant and magnificent as she had the first time she’d stood up to him. “Do you think the Sinclairs have some sort of monopoly on revenge? It was me he tried to kill this time, not you. What right do you have to deny me the satisfaction of watching that shriveled little toad of a man crawl at my feet?”
“I told you I’d take care of the Hepburn.”
“I don’t need you to take care of the Hepburn. Or me, for that matter.” She drew even closer to him, so close he could smell the tantalizing fragrance of her skin. He could remember every nuance of what it felt like to trail his fingertips over that skin. “I’ve never fought for anything in my life. Don’t you think it’s time I started?”
Something in her expression warned him that she was talking about more than just defeating the Hepburn. And that she just might be a far more formidable opponent than he’d anticipated.
He shifted his gaze to Ian. “And I’m just supposed to believe you’re willing to throw in your lot with us? With your family’s sworn enemies?”
Ian rose to his feet, a mocking smile curving his lips. “And why not? There’s obviously no love lost between me and my uncle. He didn’t even care whether or not I survived the ambush. And besides, lest you’ve forgotten, you are my family.”
“And if he’s yer family,” Bon said, rising to clap Ian on the back, “then he’s my family, too!”
Jamie studied Emma through narrowed eyes, allowing his curiosity to overrule his caution. “So tell me, lass, just how do you intend to bring the earl to his knees? To make him rue the day he crossed Miss Emmaline Marlowe?”
She exchanged a glance with the other two men before giving him a bright smile. “How else? I’m going to marry him.”
Chapter Thirty
SILAS DOCKETT DIDN’T EVEN flinch when his master’s bony hand went whipping across his face, leaving a vivid print against his pock-marked cheek. He was too well compensated to complain about a little abuse. Being an earl’s lackey was much better than fishing bloated corpses out of the foul-smelling muck of the Thames for hours on end, all in the unlikely hope of finding a gold tooth or a crested signet ring.
“You fool!” the earl spat. “How dare you come crawling back here just to tell me you haven’t succeeded in finding my bride! She can’t have just vanished into thin air!”
“Your men and I ’ave spent the last week combin’ every inch o’ mountain around that glen, m’lord. There’s no sign o’ your bride. Or your nephew.”
The earl waved away his words. “I’m not worried about that fool nephew of mine. I should have known the hapless idiot wouldn’t even have the good sense to take cover once the firing started. If Sinclair’s men captured him or put a pistol ball in his worthless hide, it was no more than he deserved. It’s the girl I need. The girl I must have!”
Dockett shook his shaggy head, wadding up his hat in his hands. “I’m tellin’ you, sir. I saw ’er go down. I’m a crack shot. There’s no way I could ’ave missed from that distance and there’s no way she could ’ave survived.”
“Then you mustn’t give up until you find her. I want you to take the men back out there without delay and keep searching.” The earl grabbed the mu
ch larger man by the lapels of his cheap woolen coat and shook him, spittle flying from his lips. “If I’m going to bring the redcoats down on Jamie Sinclair’s head and rid myself of him and his kind forever, I need a body!”
“M’laird! Is that you over by the fountain?”
The earl shuddered as Mrs. Marlowe’s voice came drifting to his ears. Mrs. Marlowe and her remaining daughters had spent most of the past week weeping and honking into their handkerchiefs so violently one would have sworn a flock of consumptive geese had invaded the castle.
He had deliberately chosen this secluded corner of the garden for his meeting with Dockett, hoping to elude the ever-present Marlowe family. But it seemed there was no longer any corner of the castle free from their wretched interference. He couldn’t wait for the day when they could take their daughter’s body and go, never to darken his doorstep again.
Ever since they had received word that Sinclair had double-crossed them all—shooting Emma, capturing Ian and making off with the ransom—they’d been fluttering about the castle like a flock of vultures. They had no way of knowing that it was his own gamekeeper who had shot Emma and that both the wagon and the gold were hidden beneath a bale of hay in his stables.
As the days passed without any trace of Emma’s body being found, he had gently encouraged them to return to England, promising to send word as soon as there was news. But they’d refused to go, insisting that they could not possibly abandon their daughter as long as there was any hope she might still be alive.
When the earl turned to find the entire family descending upon him en masse, it was all he could do not to duck behind Dockett’s beefy shoulders and order the man to shoot them all.
Mr. Marlowe led their bedraggled little parade with his wife clinging to his elbow. The daughters followed, carrying parasols to protect their already freckled complexions from the threat of the afternoon sunlight. They certainly weren’t any more attractive with their noses and eyes reddened from their incessant weeping.
The earl moved to intercept them on the flagstone path, plastering what he hoped was a sympathetic smile on his lips. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for being such a wretched host. I often enjoy a walk in the garden as the day begins to wane. I find the solitude to be a balm to my aching heart.”
They all blinked dully at him, showing no sign of taking or even understanding his hint.
Mr. Marlowe cleared his throat awkwardly. The earl peered at him, wondering if the cloudiness that had plagued his own eyesight for the past few months was worsening. As unthinkable as it was, he would almost swear the man was… sober.
“My wife and I have been discussing the current situation. We would never presume to question your experience or gainsay your judgement in these matters but we think it might be time to call in the proper authorities to assist in the search for Emmaline.”
The earl felt his smile begin to thin. When an Englishman used the word proper, he could only mean one thing—another Englishman.
“I can assure you that I have every intention of contacting the proper authorities, but I fear it might be a bit premature to seek their intervention. They’re usually reluctant to get involved until the time comes to bring the suspected culprit to justice.”
“But perhaps they would have the resources to enable us to find our dear Emma,” the chit’s mother offered timidly. “Aside from the testimony of your men, we have no proof that her wound was mortal. She might still be alive out there somewhere, just waiting for us to come for her.”
The earl gently gathered the woman’s gloved hands into his own, giving them a fatherly pat. “My dear Mrs. Marlowe, I wish I could share your hope, but I feel it would be cruel to allow you to entertain such an unlikely scenario. My own Mr. Dockett here saw your daughter fall after that miserable wretch Sinclair opened fire on her. If not for the resulting confusion, he would have been able to retrieve her body before it was snatched by those ruffians. I can assure you my own men will continue to search until it—until she—is found.”
Exchanging a glance with his wife, Marlowe deliberately squared his sagging shoulders. “While we appreciate the efforts of your men, my lord, I’m afraid they are no longer enough to satisfy us. I simply must insist that the authorities be notified.”
“Fortunately, that won’t be necessary.”
As that mellifluous voice rang out, they turned as one to find Ian standing beneath the elaborately scrolled arch of the iron trellis that separated the garden from the churchyard. Despite the yellowing bruise on one of his cheekbones and the sling binding his left arm, he seemed to be standing even taller and straighter than when he’d left.
A strangled gasp escaped the earl as Emmaline Marlowe appeared at his nephew’s side.
A dazzling smile lit her face as she came flying toward him. She threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Darling! I’ve come home to you at last!”
Chapter Thirty-one
EMMA FELT THE EARL’S slight form stagger beneath her overly enthusiastic embrace. “Oh, my dearest,” she crooned, suppressing a shudder as she leaned down to press her cheek to his dry, papery one. “What a joy it is to be back in your arms! You can only imagine my distress when I thought I’d never see you again!”
He stood frozen in her embrace like a mummified corpse for several awkward moments before finally lifting one bony hand to give her back a feeble pat. “There, there, dear. I was just explaining to your family that it was far too soon to give up hope for your return.”
“My baby!” her mother sobbed, running forward to wrest Emma from the earl’s arms.
Even though her healing shoulder throbbed a sharp protest, Emma was only too happy to trade the earl’s embrace for her mother’s. As she was enveloped in the familiar scent of rice powder and lavender water, genuine tears stung her eyes. It made her feel as if she was a little girl again. Her mother had no way of knowing she was a woman now. Jamie Sinclair had seen to that.
Her mother held her at arm’s length to study her, her eyes still brimming with tears. “Why, just look at your poor hair! I do believe it’s more impossible than ever. Have you been carrying a parasol to protect your complexion from the elements? No? Well, I didn’t think so. You’re more freckled than a brown egg fresh from the henhouse. We’ll have to send one of the earl’s servants to the village immediately for a new jar of Gowland’s Lotion. And I do believe you’re even scrawnier than before. No man is going to want you if we don’t put some meat back on those bones.”
Emma had to bite back a secret smile as she remembered Jamie cupping the softness of her breasts as if they were the most exquisite treasures he had ever been allowed to touch.
As her mother’s gaze returned to her face, her plump bottom lip began to quiver anew. “Oh, my precious girl!” she cried out, fresh tears spilling from her eyes. “You’re the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen!”
As she snatched Emma back into her embrace, Emma became aware that someone else was gently stroking her hair. She opened her eyes to find her papa standing beside them. Although his face bore all too clearly the ravages of recent drink, his eyes were clear and his hand steady.
“Hello, pet,” he said, offering her a shy smile. “We’re glad to have you back.”
Then all was chaos for several minutes as Emma’s sisters descended upon them, chattering like a flock of magpies.
“So what was it like to be the captive of such a dastardly villain?” Edwina asked.
“Did he tie you up and insist upon having his way with you?” Elberta inquired, ignoring their mother’s scandalized gasp.
“Repeatedly?” Ernestine added hopefully.
“In truth, this Sinclair fellow hardly paid me any heed at all,” Emma lied, beset by memories: Jamie kissing her for the first time on that moonlit bluff; Jamie carrying her through the snow at Muira’s cottage, the glittering flakes catching like diamond dust in his lashes; Jamie kneeling naked before her, no longer able to hide his desperate hunger for her
. “Whenever he looked at me, I’m sure all he saw was the fat purse of gold he hoped to win by selling me back to the earl.”
All three of the girls looked woefully crestfallen.
“Did he at least threaten to ravish you if you dared to defy him?” Elberta ventured.
Emma sighed. “I’m afraid not. I spent most of my confinement tied to a tree, watching Sinclair and those savages who ride with him swill whisky and make ribald jests at my poor bridegroom’s expense.”
The earl ground his porcelain teeth.
“We’ve been positively ill with worry, child,” her father confessed. “Only last week the earl’s men returned with word that you’d been shot when they were delivering the ransom. He’s had men out combing the mountainside ever since. Just how were you able to make your escape?”
The earl swallowed, looking as if he was on the verge of being ill. “Yes, I’m sure we’d all love to hear how you managed to slip through the clutches of those scoundrels.”
“Oh, I owe it all to your courageous nephew here!” Emma reached back to twine an arm through Ian’s, drawing him into their joyful little circle. “It was his astonishing reflexes and quick thinking that saved me.”
Ernestine claimed Ian’s other arm, blinking up at him like an adoring rabbit. “That doesn’t surprise me in the least. From the first moment we met, I could tell that Mr. Hepburn here had a heroic nature.”
“You are too kind, miss,” Ian gritted out. He tried to retrieve his arm but Ernestine dug her nails into it, refusing to release him.
“It didn’t hurt that Sinclair has wretched aim,” Emma said. “Fortunately, his shot only grazed my shoulder.”
The earl cast a murderous glance at the beefy man standing behind him with hat in hands, making a noise in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl.
“After he saw me fall, Ian here managed to whisk me away to safety when the other men opened fire and keep me in hiding until he thought it would be safe for us to make our way down the mountain.” Emma gave Ian’s arm a fond squeeze. “Who would have thought a gentleman like Mr. Hepburn here would have such a gift for surviving in the wilderness?”