Heather and Velvet

  The hollow tick of the clock on the mantel mocked her as a liar. Tonight was only the beginning. The interminable moments of Tricia’s marriage stretched before her in a prison of minutes and years.

  She might be able to bear it if Sebastian grew bored with her cool reticence. It would just confirm her worst suspicions—that she was only a diversion to him, a mild flirtation easily forgotten in another woman’s willing arms. Would he seek out Devony or some other Northumberland County belle? He was a well-traveled man. Even now he might have a mistress lodged in London or Edinburgh.

  But deep in her heart, she knew Sebastian would not relent. He would continue to batter her feeble defenses with his love. How many tender glances across the supper table would it take? How many teasing games of whist? How many harmless strolls around the garden? How many of his lazy, beautiful smiles before she surrendered and became his mistress, condemning their love to tawdry dust? He had already broken her heart. If they became what society deemed they must be, he would break her very soul.

  She looked down to discover her fingernails had gouged an ugly scratch in the walnut dressing table. She gazed at her wild-eyed reflection, believing either herself or the mirror would shatter beneath the weight of her intolerable future. She could still scent Sebastian on her skin. She had been brought to the brink of something wondrous, only to be cheated of it by his ambition and her pride. She hugged herself, rocking back and forth. The pain was all jagged edges twisting in her gut. There wasn’t enough laudanum in all the world to dull it.

  Sebastian’s pistol gleamed against the wood of her dressing table. She had forgotten to return it. The sleek barrel had been polished to a high sheen with utmost tenderness. No instrument of death should be so compelling, she thought, so flawlessly beautiful.

  With a strange calm, she lifted the lid of her cherrywood box. The satin lining still held the recent indentation of her spectacles. She ran her fingers along the seam and the false bottom lifted easily. The leather pouch and slim rod lay nestled in the folds of velvet as they had on the day her papa had given them to her. Insurance for the future, he had called them.

  As her fingers followed the familiar routine with methodical precision, she felt as if she were watching herself from a great distance. She tipped the pouch, filling the barrel of the pistol without spilling a speck of gunpowder. She tamped down the ball with the slender gold ramrod. It wasn’t until the gun lay heavy across her palm, fully primed, that she began to shake. Unable to bear another tick of the clock in the stifling silence, she dragged on her wrapper, then unlocked and flung open the door.

  Her fevered strides carried her down the stairs and through the ballroom. The chandelier was dark, and the long room was drenched in moonlight and shadow. A broken champagne glass lay overturned in a puddle of amber. With every step, a dark anger grew in her. She wished she could be there in the morning when Tricia’s glib fiancé tried to explain why her dead niece was floating like Ophelia in the goldfish pool.

  She stopped, dashing away a furious tear. Why should she shoot herself? She ought to shoot Sebastian. She wheeled around to pace the length of the ballroom. The tall pier-glass between two windows threw back the image of a harried Medea, startling among the pale, impassive marble gods.

  God gave you a brain, child. Use it.

  Papa. It had been Papa who had first sensed the reckless passions that lurked beneath her calm, Papa who had urged control, assuring her she could think her way out of any dilemma. But her brain was no match for this bitter agony, this unbearable longing for something she would never have. She stared down at the gun in her hand, knowing she could not use it.

  She could not remain at Lindentree either, though. She refused to stand beneath that floral bower and watch while Sebastian burned their lives to ashes. She would go upstairs, pack her trunk, and quietly take her leave on the next coach to London.

  Her resolve was no comfort. She still wanted to smash something. She tore open the terrace doors. A gaudy scarlet mask skittered across the tiles, caught by the fingers of the wind.

  The voice came out of the shadows, its clipped tones softened by empathy. “Where’s your charming costume, Prudence? Did you feel compelled to return it to its rightful owner?”

  She turned slowly, staring at nothing as the man reached over and gently pried Sebastian’s pistol from her limp fingers.

  The masquerade was done.

  Sixteen

  Jamie shimmied up the trellis. A mist of rain slickened the iron, and as he reached for the window sash, his foot slipped. He slid down, barking his knee on a crossbar. Grunting an oath, he started up again.

  A muscled forearm clamped around his throat.

  Jamie choked. His feet flailed at empty air. The night went gray before a veil of translucent black descended over his eyes. Heat filled his ears, roaring like the sea beating against distant cliffs. His hand fumbled at his stockings, fingers straining toward the hilt of his skean dhu. The forearm cut into his windpipe and the precious air fueling his hand was cut off abruptly.

  The wet grass slammed up to meet him. Through the roar in his ears, he kept hearing the words, “He got to you, didn’t he? Damn his black soul! He got to you. Answer me, damn you!”

  Powerful hands gripped his shoulders. As his head bounced on the turf, Jamie was thankful the lawn had been softened by the day’s dismal rain. He caught a bleary glimpse of handsome features contorted in rage, eyes darkened to murky accusation.

  Fearing Sebastian might kill him before he could choke out an explanation, Jamie used the only weapon he had. He opened his mouth and emitted a keening shriek. Even in his rage, Sebastian winced. He was forced to stop shaking Jamie and clap a hand over his mouth before the entire household of Lindentree descended on their heads.

  He lay on top of Jamie, stilling his squirming. “How much did the bastard offer you?”

  Jamie mumbled a garbled answer. Sebastian lifted his hand so he could repeat it. “A thousand pounds.”

  Horrified wonder touched Sebastian’s eyes. “Oh, my God. I know men who would kill their own mothers for fifty.”

  Jamie frantically clutched Sebastian’s forearms. “Listen to me. I didn’t come to kill the lass. I came to warn her. I tried to see her today, but all that fish-faced butler would tell me was that she was locked in her room with an achin’ head.”

  Sebastian’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. That part of Jamie’s story was true. His own repeated attempts to return Prudence’s spectacles had met with icy silence from behind a locked door. At mid-morning, he had given them to a sneering Old Fish, concocting some story about finding them in the library.

  Jamie stirred restlessly. “Ye’re goin’ to have some fancy explainin’ to do when that fine lady of yers catches ye rollin’ on the lawn with yer own coachman.”

  Sebastian freed him, and they both sat up, breathing hard.

  Sebastian rubbed at a grass stain on his kilt, absently smearing it into the tartan. “He won’t stop, will he?” he said. His voice was strangely distant. “Not even if I become king of all England. His precious appointment means more to him than her life. He means to see her dead.”

  Jamie shifted uneasily. “What are ye goin’ to do?”

  Sebastian pulled a pistol from his sash and checked the charge with cold efficiency. “Whatever I have to.”

  The wet grass felt suddenly cooler, and Jamie shivered.

  Sebastian looked at him, really seeing him for the first time. He caught his elbow in a hard grip. “Be packed and ready to leave by the time I return.” His eyes softened as he lifted his gaze to the shiny blank panes of Prudence’s window. “Go to her. Tell her to pack light and be ready to ride.”

  Jamie’s homely face split in a grin.

  Sebastian stood, tucking the pistol back into his sash. “If I’m not back by midnight, take her and go without me. She won’t be safe here. Trust no one but Tiny.” He paused. “And tell her I love her.”

  “Aye, that I will. Let no one say ye ca
n’t count on Jamie Graham.”

  Sebastian gave his bony shoulder a brief touch, then he was gone, running low toward the stables. Jamie watched until he vanished into the mist, then turned to scale the wily trellis. His sense of purpose sharpened his reflexes, and he made it without mishap. Balancing on the top rung, he tapped at the window with his grimy nails. The room within was dark. When an even sharper knock earned no response, he shoved at the sash. The window was not latched. It slid up without a sound.

  He flung his leg over the sill and climbed into the room.

  “Pru?” he whispered.

  Silence greeted him. His eyes adjusted with the rapidity of someone who has spent much of his life working in the dark. A chill touched him. The room was empty.

  Prudence’s brush and mirror lay in symmetrical precision on the dressing table. The small tent-bed was neat and unrumpled. The room looked as if it had been unoccupied for a long time. Jamie nearly screamed when something hairy rubbed against his ankle.

  He scooped up the little cat, bringing him to eye level. “I eats wee fellows like ye fer breakfast, ye know. I don’t like ’em.”

  Sebastian-cat was not intimidated. He pawed his way onto Jamie’s shoulder and nestled his nose in Jamie’s matted hair.

  Jamie surveyed the empty room, shaking his head. “I don’t like this either. Not one wee bit.”

  • • •

  Mist rose in ribbons from the cooling earth. Sebastian slapped the reins on the bay’s neck, driving it through the dense forest with as much haste as he dared. A sheaf of wet leaves smacked his face, and cold water trickled down his neck into his shirt. He hugged the damp plaid tighter at his throat. The pistol in his sash lay heavily against his hip. He lowered his mask. Tonight the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick would make his last ride.

  He dodged a glossy branch, his mind racing in time with the horse’s hoofbeats. The time had come to end it with D’Artan. This was not as he would have chosen it, but the crafty old man had left him no choice. Without warning, Sebastian remembered his first glimpse of his grandfather.

  Sunlight had poured through the iron-barred window of the filthy Jedburgh cell, shimmering off the gold brocade of D’Artan’s frock coat. He had bent over Sebastian with a murmur of ruffles and lace. He smells like a woman, Sebastian had thought. D’Artan gripped his chin with two fingers, as if he did not care to dirty his hands. He tilted Sebastian’s face to his with ease, for beneath the fragile, white skin of his fingers was steel. Sebastian’s mouth tightened in a mutinous line to hide his fear. They were going to hang him. He had heard the guards laughing about the infamous Jedburgh law—execute the criminal first, try him afterward.

  A deeper fear touched him when he met the old man’s gaze. “My Michelline’s eyes. My daughter gave you her eyes.”

  His mother’s name spoken in his mother’s language.

  Sebastian had heard no French since she had died. The melodic notes poured over him like honey. It wasn’t until much later that he discovered the honey was tainted, like everything else about his grandfather.

  D’Artan had introduced him to all that was civilization—a heady, bittersweet seduction. The memories rushed back over Sebastian. Sinking up to his chin in his first hot bath. Smoking his first cigar. The dark, bitter taste of cognac on his tongue. His first woman. Lisette had been so clean and had smelled so sweet, he had believed she must be a princess. Only after he’d killed a man on the dueling field defending her honor did he discover she was a whore, a mere travesty of what she pretended to be—an empty mask, like everything else D’Artan had given him.

  After the first woman came the polished elegance of his first set of pistols and their return to Scotland. His task was simple enough. Rob the English. Fill his grandfather’s coffers with enough gold to ship gunpowder and weapons to the revolutionists in France. Sebastian was but one tiny fly buzzing along the Scottish border, drawing England’s attention away from France and the impending revolution. D’Artan found his career of highway robbery to be a colossal joke on the English. The old man lived for the imminent day of war with Great Britain.

  After the revolution, D’Artan’s web of intrigue slipped like a rope around Sebastian’s neck. Always in front of him, like a carrot on a stick, dangled the hope of returning to the Highlands, of winning Dunkirk back from MacKay. But the harder he strained, the more the rope tightened.

  Sebastian guided the horse through a ravine, where the rain had swollen a trickle to a shallow, rushing burn. He emerged on a narrow path and dared to kick the horse into a canter. Chunks of mud flew from the bay’s hooves. The moon peeped through the rushing clouds, slanting its beams across the thinning trees.

  The wash of light tipped the wet leaves with silver. Once Sebastian would have cursed the rain. Now he inhaled deeply, savoring a fragrance as clean and fresh as Prudence. His pulse quickened at the thought of holding her again. He would bring her to a place like this. He would lay her down on some misty hillside and let the forgiving rain wash over their skin. Then they would go and he would build her a house. Not a drafty old castle perched on the edge of nowhere, but a handsome cottage nestled beside the sky-blue waters of a loch. On sunny days they would sit outside and watch their children tumbling in the grass.

  To hell with Dunkirk and MacKay.

  A shadow blurred the moonlight. He caught the faint hint of movement from the corner of his eye. It could have been a bat flitting through the trees or a leaf twirling to an early death, but Sebastian’s instincts were honed to razor precision. He dug his heels into the bay’s flanks as the underbrush exploded in a flurry of silvery droplets and heaving horseflesh. Three dark shapes hurtled after him.

  Sebastian bent low over his horse’s neck. Her coarse mane whipped tears into his eyes as he careened down the narrow path.

  D’Artan.

  Rage blurred his vision. Once again, the old man had beat him to the ambush. Was he so damned predictable? He jerked a pistol out of his sash, cocked the hammer, and twisted around to fire.

  The rope strung across the road caught him neatly across the chest. His weapon exploded with a shattering roar, imprinting an arc of light on his pupils. He sailed from the horse, his flight ending with the dull thud of a rock striking the back of his head.

  Mud cradled him. A twig poked his thigh. He must not be dead, he thought. But his limbs were sprawled in an uncooperative puddle. His bad ankle throbbed. He lay there, helpless to stop the mist swirling around him from creeping into his head. A comfortable languor claimed him. Clouds rushed across the pallid moon as he waited for one of D’Artan’s men to blow off his head.

  A horse nickered as a pair of boots hit the ground. The moon swooped down toward him. Sebastian blinked, bringing into focus a pleasant face crinkled in a mask of concern.

  “Terribly sorry, old chap.” Long aristocratic fingers probed the back of his head, then reappeared smeared with blood. “I’m afraid you’re going to have the very devil of a headache in the morning.”

  “Tugbert,” Sebastian whispered.

  His lashes fluttered down, ushering in the merciful oblivion carried by the cool fingers of mist.

  Seventeen

  Sebastian’s ankle ached as he was led from the damp cell. The rope binding his hands behind his back chafed the raw skin. His jaw itched. He longed to claw at the first prick of stubble, and thought with dull amusement how civilized he had become that it should bother him. His mouth tasted like he’d been chewing rusty nails and his throbbing head felt stuffed with cotton batting.

  As they reached the slat of light at the end of the slim corridor, Tugbert gave him an unmistakable shove. Sebastian stumbled and whirled around, his dubious patience at an end. His fierce glare was enough to make Tugbert step backward, rope or no rope.

  Then the sheriff’s eyes lit with smirking amusement on something behind him.

  Sebastian turned slowly. Its emptiness made the small, dusty room seem larger than it was. A watery dawn seeped through the window. For a
long moment, the only sound was the hiss and sputter of a tallow candle drowning in its own fat.

  Sebastian sucked in an audible breath as the niggling suspicion he had shoved to the back of his aching head hardened to icy certainty.

  Prudence sat in a rustic, cane-backed chair, as prim and proper as if she perched on a Hepplewhite chair in some Edinburgh tea room. Her posture was perfect, her gloved hands folded demurely in her lap. A lavender dress of watered silk set off her fair skin to perfection. Her hair was caught in a chignon and molded to the delicate bones of her head in a shiny cap. Not one wisp was out of place.

  She lifted her head. Light reflected off the glass of her spectacles, erasing her eyes. He started to shake.

  His harsh laughter grated in the silence. “I was a fool to trust you, wasn’t I?”

  “You left me no choice.” Her voice was calm, resolute.

  “You swore.”

  “I did not break my oath. I told Tricia nothing.”

  He smiled nastily. “Of course you didn’t break your oath. You’re a respectable woman.”

  Without warning, he lunged for her, not sure himself what he might do if he reached her.

  Tugbert wrapped both arms around him and jerked him back.

  Prudence lifted a white-gloved hand. Despite her steady voice, that hand trembled. “Arlo, please. It’s all right. You may let him go.”

  “I hardly think that would be the wisest—”

  Sebastian twisted away from him. “You heard Miss Walker, Arlo. I can hardly strangle the lady with my hands bound.”

  The sheriff stepped back to lean against the wall by the door, his arms crossed, his eyes wary. Sebastian paced the room, stretching his legs.

  “Why, Prudence?”

  She took a deep breath. “It would have been wrong for you to marry Tricia. You don’t love her.”

  He kicked a stool. It bounced off the wall and splintered. Then he turned on her, his fury erupting. “Are you so desperate for a man that you’ll even take one at the end of a rope?”