The Taming of a Scottish Princess

  “Snape,” Michael said to his butler, refusing to acknowledge Jane’s cheery ramblings, “send a footman to my room to collect my luggage.”

  “Yes, sir.” The butler bowed and hurried off, dispatching two footmen to Michael’s bedchamber.

  Jane eyed Michael’s face. “You forgot to shave.”

  He rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin so that it rasped. “No, I didn’t forget. I chose not to shave. It’s my face, after all.”

  “Hmm.” To his disappointment, she merely shrugged and said in an annoyingly happy voice, “It is going to be a lovely day to travel.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She gestured to the darkness outside the windows. “It’s a bit misty and cold this morning, but I’m certain it will get better as we trundle along, rocking over the rutted road, jouncing along like a bag of loose bones.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “I’m sure it will be. I might even sing a bit to alleviate the boredom of the trip.”

  “Jane?”

  She lifted her brows. “Yes?”

  “If you so much as hum one word, I shall stuff one of your gloves into your mouth.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” She assumed an exaggerated sad look. “It’s like that, is it?”

  He looked at her.

  She sighed and then plunked her bonnet upon her head, one ribbon tangled at her ear. “Very well. I shall attempt to be quieter. I can’t promise, of course, but I can try.”

  “You’d better.”

  Her brows rose. “Or?” She held up one of her gloves, dangling it before him.

  He could tell from the laughter in her eyes that she hadn’t believed his empty words that he would stuff her glove in her mouth, and he wished he could think of a more credible threat that might swipe the irritating smile out of her eyes.

  Fortunately, before he could say anything, two footmen brought down several bulging portmanteaus while Snape brought Michael his coat, hat, and gloves. Michael issued some orders for his household, though their patient expressions told him that Jane had already done so.

  Irked even more, he turned on his heel and strode to the waiting coach, not waiting to see if his annoying assistant followed or not.

  He glanced at the lined-up coaches, a faint sense of satisfaction rising through his gloomy temperament. Jane had done her usual magic. The travel coach was piled with his usual boxes and trunks, while two smaller coaches waited behind, carrying Ammon and other servants, ready to follow at a moment’s notice.

  “Here we are,” Jane said breezily, coming to stand beside him in the cold morning air, every word punctuated with a brisk puff of condensation. “We’re off to find the Hurst Amulet! You must be quite excited.”

  He gave her a basilisk stare.

  She patted his arm as if he were a child of two and said in a soothing tone, “I’m certain that once we’re under way, your sense of adventure will awaken.”

  “My sense of adventure will not rise until noon.”

  “You were the one who insisted upon a six-in-the-morning departure time.” Her voice was sharper now, far from the fake cheerfulness she’d been exuding in an effort to annoy him.

  He narrowed his gaze on her, hoping his sleepy brain would make a sharp retort, but he instead found himself noting how her spectacles framed her mahogany-colored eyes, which were flecked with gold, her thick lashes swooping delicately. Had her eyes attracted the camel traders? Or had they noticed her mouth, the bottom lip slightly longer than the top and—

  He ground his teeth and turned on his heel. As he climbed into the coach, the coachman said, “Pardon me, sir! Miss Smythe-Haughton didn’t say where we was headin’ to.”

  “Oh, yes!” Jane said briskly. “We’re to Dover, and then on to—”

  “No, we’re not,” Michael said.

  Her gaze flew to his. “But the map said—” She sent a quick glance at the coachman and then said in a low voice, “The map said to look for an isle off the shores of Dover.”

  “We had it wrong.”

  “But you said—”

  “Get in the coach.” Michael turned to the coachman. “Turner, drive the North Road. We’re to Scotland.”

  “Yes, sir,” Turner said cheerfully. “Any place in particular?”

  “The port town of Oban on the west coast. We’re not changing horses unless we find some likely ones, so don’t push them.”

  The coachman bowed. “As you wish, sir.”

  Michael climbed into his seat inside the coach and tossed the carriage blanket over his lap. The door, however, remained open.

  He waited, frowning as the cold seeped in, before he leaned past the footman holding the door to where Jane still stood on the walkway.

  She was in the same stance in which he’d left her, hands clasped before her, her eyes wide, as if with surprise. She appeared frozen in place. “Jane, aren’t you coming?” he asked impatiently.

  She blinked as if waking. “What? Oh. Yes. Of course. I was just—” She shook her head, as if to banish some lingering thought and came forward, though she moved without her usual crispness.

  He settled back and watched as she allowed the footman to assist her into the coach. The door closed, and with a lurch they rumbled forward, leaving London under the dark of the cold, chilled morning.

  Michael settled once again into his corner and stretched out his legs beneath the warm blanket, noting that Jane sat perfectly still, her gloved hands clasped before her, her expression serious. The coach rumbled along and he realized that he’d never seen her sit immobile for such a length of time.

  He let the silence rest as long as he could stand it. Finally, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t try to cozen me. You’re upset. I can tell, so don’t deny it.”

  “I’m not upset, I’m just . . . you surprised me. When did our destination change? The map’s markings indicated England, not Scotland.”

  “True, if we’d interpreted the map correctly.”

  Her lips parted. “We were wrong?”

  “Don’t look so surprised; you were the one who suggested I should have our calculations examined.”

  “A suggestion you promptly said was ‘balderdash.’”

  He shrugged. “After some thought, I decided it was worth the effort and I sent the map off for analysis by an expert. For the record, we were not wrong. Much.”

  “No?”

  “No. We were purposefully led astray. The original cartographer hid clues about how to read the map within the border of the artifact.”

  “So there was a guide that we missed.”

  “Exactly. Then, to further ascertain that no one would break that code, he then drew the entire map backward.”

  “Backward? That’s diabolical!”

  “I thought so, too,” Michael said with satisfaction. “To a certain extent, it also proves the validity of the map.”

  Her brows shot up, and she said in a thoughtful tone, “No one would go to such trouble with a fake map.”

  “Exactly. We thought the island where the amulet was located was off the northern shore of England, when in reality it’s off the southern shores of Scotland. An island, in fact, that was once—”

  “Which island?”

  He frowned at the sharp note in her voice. “I’m getting to that. The expert I sent it to—Palmer is his name; you may remember him from when he assisted us when we were attempting to decipher those maps of ancient Alexandria two years ago—said the map is actually of an island in the Hebrides.”

  She flinched.

  Michael found himself staring at her. In all of the years they’d been together, he’d never seen her flinch. Not in the face of flying bullets from a band of thieves trying to waylay their caravan in the desert nor a fierce monsoon that threatened to sweep them away with a blistering wind and sheets of rain. “Jane, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I was just—” She straightened a bit in her seat, her face assuming a bl
and expression. “It’ll be very cold in the Hebrides at this time of the year.”

  “It’ll be horrid, I’ve no doubt. Why did you flinch?”

  Unfortunately, she’d regained control of herself and gifted him with a cool, disbelieving stare, though her cheeks were faintly stained pink. “I didn’t flinch.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No,” she said, her tone sharp. “I didn’t.”

  He narrowed his gaze. Should he call her out? Or would that just make her dig in and refuse to discuss the issue?

  If there was one thing he knew about Jane, it was that she didn’t suffer prying gladly. It had never been an issue for the two of them, of course, because before now, he’d never bothered to ask her anything of import. But over the years, he’d seen her cut off more than one noisy porter or curious fellow traveler without the slightest remorse. At the time, he’d just thought it was because she felt such questions impertinent, as did he. Now he wondered if it was something more—if perhaps she’d been hiding something all along.

  Her steady gaze convinced him to bide his time. He shrugged and leaned back in his seat. “I’m just glad we discovered our error in reading the map before we left town, or we’d have headed in the wrong direction.”

  She gave a short nod, fidgeting with the edges of her sleeve. “As am I.”

  She offered nothing more, though her fidgeting increased and she shifted several times in her seat. Finally, she said, “Hurst, are you certain about this? Palmer is an excellent cartographer, but I wonder if he had time to thoroughly examine the map.”

  “I’m positive. What he said makes perfect sense. Here, see for yourself.” He reached over to open the seat box. He searched a few seconds and withdrew a small satchel. He kicked the door closed, opened the satchel, and pulled out three matching oblong onyx boxes. “Look at them.”

  With a flick of his thumb, he opened one box, which unfolded on small hidden hinges until it lay flat. He did the same to the other two boxes. Once they were all flattened into panels, he locked them into place so that they made one large panel. “Here’s how we interpreted it, though it was backward all along. We thought this was the northeastern coast of England, but it’s not. Instead”—he turned the map around—“it’s the southwestern coast of Scotland.”

  She took the map and held it toward the faint light, staring at it before she turned it around.

  Behind her spectacles, her eyes widened.

  He leaned back against the squabs. “So now you see. The amulet is located on a small island in the Hebrides in Scotland called—”

  “The Isle of Barra,” she said in a whisper-soft voice. She stared at the map with an unseeing look.

  Michael frowned. “What’s the matter?”

  She blinked. Once. Twice. Her gaze slowly found him. “Barra,” she said again, wonder in her voice.

  He examined her pale face. “You know this island.”

  She stiffened, her fingers visibly tightening on the map before she shook her head. “No.” She said it as if in denying it, she could make it so.

  So now we’ll find out what’s what. Michael crossed his arms. “How do you know this island?”

  She looked down at the map once again, her mind obviously miles away.

  Impatient, he leaned forward. “Jane, what do you know of Barra?”

  She didn’t respond, so he placed his hand upon her knee. “Jane?”

  Her jaw tightened mutinously and her gaze locked on his hand where it rested upon her knee. “Remove your hand, if you please.”

  Michael did as she’d asked, though he had to grit his teeth to keep from snapping at her. “How do you know this isle? And don’t pretend you don’t, for I won’t believe it.”

  Her lips folded with irritation. “I’m not pretending anything. It’s just something I don’t wish to talk about. I admit that I’m familiar with the island, and that’s all you need to know.”

  He crossed his arms and quirked a brow.

  She gave a frustrated sigh. “I haven’t been on Barra for years and years. Most of the information I have is quite old and inconsequential.”

  “That’s for me to decide. I never knew you’d even been to Scotland.”

  “Well, I have,” she said, her voice unusually soft, her gaze suddenly far away. “Aye, but it was a long, long time ago.”

  Aye? Since when does Jane say “aye”? This was getting more and more intriguing. “How long ago?”

  She sent him a look that flashed with caution, and then tapped a finger on the map. “So you think the Hurst Amulet is on Barra?”

  She was trying to change the subject. He’d allow it—for a moment. “I’m certain the amulet is there. If I’m reading the map correctly now, then the caves near the southernmost tip hold our final clue.”

  Her gaze dropped to the map. “The southern caves,” she murmured, her gaze unfocusing, as if she saw the very caves before her. “I haven’t thought of those caves in so long, but now that you mention them, they would be a perfect place to hide something.”

  So she knows those caves. Interesting. “What do you know about the caves?”

  “They’re on the coast and they’re treacherous.”

  “But you’ve been inside them?”

  “Once.” Her brow furrowed as her gaze dropped back to the map. She traced a line on the map with the tip of a gloved finger. “There are ancient markings upon a high ledge of the main cave chamber. Odd markings. Ancient, I’d say.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. I was so young when I was last there and—” Her gaze locked with his, her brown eyes gleaming golden with growing interest. “Hurst, do you think that whatever the caves hold will lead us directly to the amulet?”

  “I’d wager my right arm that the amulet’s on that blasted island somewhere, probably very close to those caves.”

  She clasped her hands together, eagerness brightening her gaze. “Amazing! And to think that I was almost trapped in those caves when I was young.”

  “How young?”

  “Six, maybe seven.”

  He tried to imagine her as a child of six and was instantly rewarded with the image of a young girl with long brown braids and huge eyes.

  She shook her head in wonder. “There have been rumors for centuries that those caverns held treasures, but . . .” She gave an odd laugh. “The Isle of Barra, of all places. I simply cannot believe it.”

  “Why is that so strange?”

  Framed by her spectacles, her gaze met his, and for a second, he thought she’d explain; but instead her thick lashes dropped over her eyes and she snapped the map apart, then folded each piece before she packed them back into the satchel and restored it under the seat. “It’s a lovely island, but very small. If the amulet is there, we shouldn’t have much trouble finding it. We could be there for less than two days if we plan things well.”

  What are you hiding, my prim little wren? Whatever it is, it’s obvious you don’t wish me—or anyone else—to know. Well, he’d tried being subtle. Perhaps it was time for some direct questioning. “So you’re not going to tell me how you know this island?”

  Her brows lifted. “Does that really matter?”

  Yes, it did, damn it. He shrugged. “It’s a simple question. Why shouldn’t you answer it?”

  Her lips quirked with humor. “We’ve known one another for four years and you’ve never once asked me a single question about my personal life.”

  “Of course I have.”

  “Oh? When’s my birthday?”

  “It’s—” He searched his memory, but no answer appeared. He scowled. “You don’t know mine, either.”

  “Your birthday is April second. What about my family? How many brothers and sisters do I have?”

  “None. No one could be as bossy as you and have siblings.”

  She burst out laughing, which made him flash a grin. “Fair enough,” she said. “You happen to be right—”

  “Ha!??
?

  “—but that was luck, not knowledge.”

  “You don’t know those things about me.”

  “You have two brothers, both older, and three sisters, two older and one younger. Your father is a vicar, and your mother writes lovely long letters about their travels in Italy.” She fixed her gaze upon him, triumph in her smile. “Well?”

  “You read that in the serial Mary writes under my name. I’m sure she blathers about family business when not making up outrageous tales about crocodiles and arrows.”

  “Actually, she’s rarely mentioned your family. She keeps the serial focused on you and your expeditions, a fact you’d know if you ever bothered to read it.”

  “I can see that I need to.” He rubbed his chin, the stubble rough against his palm. “I suppose you think I should have paid more attention to your personal life.”

  “No.”

  He frowned. “But you said—”

  “My point is that you don’t pay attention to those things, and I’m quite happy with that. In fact, I would like it if you’d leave things the way they are—quite satisfactory for us both.”

  The irritation in her voice made him eye her with sudden caution. She looked a bit put out, and God knew he didn’t want to lose his crisp bacon every morning.

  But on the other hand, he was afire with curiosity. This entire situation was getting more and more interesting. The hunter in Michael had come roaring to life. His mousy little assistant—mousy in appearance, not in manner—was hiding something. And she was hiding it from him.

  He was astounded, and more than a little intrigued. Before the events of the last two days, he’d thought he knew this woman well. Better, perhaps, than anyone else. But now he wasn’t so certain. Something was going on inside that head of hers, something that had to do with the Isle of Barra. More intriguing yet, the stubborn jut of her jaw told him that it was going to take some finesse to dig the answers from her.

  He forced himself to relax against the carriage squabs as he affected an unconcern he was far from feeling. “Jane, don’t be silly. I wouldn’t have any questions if you’d just state your connection to Barra and leave it at that.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a connection exactly.”

  “That’s for me to decide. I’m not interested in your history for any other reason than that your knowledge of the island could be useful.”