Beguiled (20 page)

“There you are, Ally. A wonderful library,” Violet said.

She nodded. She wouldn't bring them fear or worry or put them into danger for anything in the world. “As you wish, my darlings,” she told them.

Still, when their coach was packed up again and Bertram set out to escort them through the forest, the younger set of hounds, Cally and Oz, running about them, she felt that sense of poignancy again. She hugged them fiercely one by one.

Merry was going to cry.

“Friday, then, my love,” Violet said, forcing cheer into her tone.

“Friday, then,” Ally agreed.

“Come, I shall show you to the library, Ally,” Lord Farrow said. “Don't worry—we shall know if anyone is remotely near. Wolfhounds are amazing guard dogs. You may read to your heart's content. I have new volumes, and a collection that goes back hundreds of years. And there's a typewriter on the desk in the library, should you wish to use it. If you need me, I will be in my office, which adjoins my bedroom.”

She nodded, still feeling lost. Yet the library, in a loft on the second floor, was stunning in its size and scope.

“Those…over there,” Lord Farrow said, pointing. “Be very careful with them. They are actual missives written during the Crusades,” he told her. “There is an original edition of Chaucer, as well.”

“I will be very careful.”

“I know you will.”

He left her there.

For a moment she stared at the volumes, entranced.

But then her eyes fell upon the typewriter.

They did not have one in the little cottage. To her own dismay, she ignored the volumes of historical importance and made straight for the desk.

There was paper by the typewriter. She quickly slid it into the carriage, then stared at the keys.

In a moment she began to type, her soul seeming to take flight as her fingers flew.

I
N THE POLICE OFFICE
, Mark pored over the various lists Ian had acquired and compared them to the ones he had made up of carriages and personages waylaid by the highwayman.

“So do you think Lionel Wittburg might be involved in any way?” Ian asked, sitting on the corner of his own desk.

“Lord Wittburg is definitely having difficulties with the situation, but…”

“And what of the man who would have broken into the cottage?” Ian asked. “Are these events related, do you think?” Mark had started to tell Ian about the events at the cottage the minute he had arrived, but thanks to modern communication, Ian already knew. He had spoken with Sir Angus Cunningham on the telephone.

Mark pointed at one of the lists before him. “This is the information about visitors at Giles Brandon's town house obtained from Eleanor and the housekeeper?”

“Yes.”

“Wittburg did visit him. And Sir Andrew Cunningham was there, as well. He escorted his cousin Elizabeth Prine, who lost her own husband to the killer, to visit Eleanor.”

Ian shrugged. “Well, the two women are friends.”

“True. And here—Lionel attended one of the meetings at Brandon's house.”

“I was quite surprised to see that. It was after the death of Hudson Porter. The list of visitors to his house is there—I acquired it from the housekeeper on Friday. Now, each of the women who answered my questions made certain to warn me that she was afraid she would not remember the names of everyone who had visited.”

“Hmm,” Mark murmured, studying the lists side by side. He looked up. “But even if they have forgotten someone, I see several names that are in common.”

“Of course. They were all involved in the same movement.”

Mark shook his head. “But…Lord Lionel Wittburg?”

“Would such a man, titled, close to the queen, really seek to tear down the monarchy?”

“Perhaps if he were going mad, or were on a vendetta,” Mark said.

“The writer—Thane Grier. He attended events at all three houses.”

“He's a journalist. He covers such events.”

“The highwayman has yet to accost any of these men.”

“A journalist wouldn't have a fine carriage.”

“Lionel Wittburg has a very fine carriage. So does Sir Andrew Cunningham.”

“But that alone—”

“No. Alone, it means nothing,” Ian agreed.

“I think it's possible that more than one man is responsible for these murders.”

“Yes, I agree,” Ian said.

“Not one of the homes showed signs of forced entry.

The wives and housekeepers were gone. Either the killers had a key or the victim let him in. With forced entry, the killer had access by one of these methods.”

“We're questioning everyone,” Ian said. “But people do lie to the police.”

“As soon as possible, the highwayman will stop Lord Wittburg and Sir Andrew,” Mark told Ian, and rose. Ian looked worried and depressed. Mark set a hand on his shoulder. “Don't look so weary, friend. We will find the answers.”

Mark left him and hurried to O'Flannery's. It was Monday afternoon, the time when the highwayman and his band regularly met for a meat pie and ale. When he arrived, he saw that Patrick, Thomas and Geoff were already seated. Flo had served them their ale; his pint was already in place.

He waved to Flo as he took his seat, and she nodded, ready to see that their food was prepared. “Well?” Patrick asked quietly.

“I need help—as Mark Farrow,” he said, looking from face to face.

“Oh?” Geoff said.

“Someone attempted to break into the cottage where Ally Grayson lives with her aunts,” he told them.

“Attempted?” Thomas demanded.

“I arrived in time to scare him off, though I'm ashamed to say I didn't apprehend him.”

“So what help do you need?” Patrick asked.

“I would like us to take turns watching the cottage at night.”

Patrick groaned. “We're to…stare at a cottage in the woods all night?”

“Well, if Alexandra is there…” Thomas murmured, grinning.

Mark shook his head. “She's staying with my father at the lodge.”

“Oh?” Geoff said.

“So we are to watch three elderly women in the woods,” Patrick said.

“Why would someone attack your future bride?” Geoff asked.

Mark shook his head. He thought he knew why, but he wasn't about to say so. Not even to these, his closest friends.

“So when do we meet to ride out again?” Patrick asked.

“I need to discover a bit more about the schedules of certain men,” Mark said. He fell silent; Flo was coming with their meals.

“Piping hot. I've seen to it,” Flo announced cheerfully. She lowered her voice. “Such a strange mood in here. It's as if people are waiting to hear about another murder. It's been a quiet week, thank God. Not even the highwayman and his band have struck of late.”

“What is the political mood?” Mark asked.

“How strange. That young journalist, Thane Grier, was in here just an hour ago, asking the exact same question.”

“Does he come here often?” Mark asked.

“He likes to watch people,” Flo said.

“He
is
a journalist,” Patrick said.

“Yes,” Mark agreed, and made a mental note. He thanked Flo. When she was gone, he said, “Patrick, will you take tonight? Geoff, Tuesday, Thomas, Wednesday. I will take Thursday night. We'll see where we are at that point. And then…”

“And then?” Patrick asked.

“I'm being married on Saturday at Castle Carlyle. I hope you will all attend.”

 

A
LLY INTENDED TO SEARCH
the stables for signs of Mark's secret life that afternoon. Unfortunately, just as she set out to do so, Mark Farrow made his return.

“Going riding, are you?” he asked.

“Yes, I had thought to,” she lied.

“Alone?”

“I—yes.”

“Dangerous indeed,” he informed her. “But if you are eager to ride, I will certainly accompany you.”

“But you've just returned. You must be weary from…whatever it is you do all day.”

“It's not so late. I'm happy to ride with you. Although,” he noted, “you're hardly properly attired.”

She was wearing a simple day dress. She had ridden often enough on the old pony the aunties kept, but…She flushed and decided honesty would not work against her. “I'm accustomed to climbing up bareback.”

“In bloomers?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“These are hot-blooded horses, Miss Grayson. They're not slow and plodding.”

“I'm quite capable.”

“I'm sure you are, but…ride with me?”

She hesitated. Then he reached down a hand, and she met his eyes and accepted it. He easily lifted her to sit before him in the saddle. His arms around her, he tightened his knees, and they were quickly riding hard over the lawn that led to the road.

She might have felt precarious, but his arms around her gave her confidence that he would never let her fall. He moved as one with the horse.

Easy for a bandit, she thought.

She had to admit that the ride was exhilarating. The wind whipped through her hair and stung her cheeks. The smell of the day was clean and fresh. The afternoon was waning, but a beautiful pink light remained. She felt strangely comfortable with Mark, braced against his chest, seated between his thighs. For long moments she let the arousing sensations race through her in time with the smooth gallop of his steed.

He reined in at last beside a brook. After leaping from the saddle, he reached for her. He set her down, then patted the horse. “This is Galloway. He's a fine fellow.”

“A very fine fellow,” she agreed.

As the horse lowered its head to graze, Mark met her eyes. “The wedding is to be this Saturday.”

“So I understand.”

“You are willing?”

“Are you?”

“I have always been willing.”

She paused, smiling, lowering her head. “I have decided that there is little I can do but go through with it. However, you must be warned.”

“Oh?”

“I don't intend to follow orders.”

“What made you assume I intend to give them?”

She lifted a hand in the air. “Certain aspects of my life must remain…my life.”

“As it should be.”

She hesitated, feeling a surge of mischief. “I lied to you the other day.”

“Already? We're not even married yet.”

“You asked me if there was someone in my life.”

“Yes?”

“Well…”

“Who is he?”

“It doesn't matter. Just someone who intrigued me.”

“Really? I would be greatly distressed, had I not shared your kiss,” he told her.

Again, she waved a hand in the air. “A kiss?” she said dismissively.

He led the horse back to her, standing very close. She felt her knees tremble and her will weaken. No. She would not falter.

“You're so experienced?” he inquired.

“Would that stop the wedding?”

“No.”

“You are…quite the modern thinker.”

“What matters is after the wedding,” he said. There was an edge to his voice, no matter how pleasantly he spoke.

“Then, we are fine.”

“I wouldn't want to bore you with my past.”

She was stunned by the surge of jealousy his casual words created in her heart.

“Thank God,” she managed to murmur. “I'm afraid that day could go to night, and night to day again,” she murmured.

“So…who is this rival?” he inquired, standing nearly against her.

“Someone totally inappropriate,” she assured him.

“Sad,” he commiserated. “But you will do the honorable thing and obey your godparents.”

“Just as you are doing, obeying your father.”

“You're quite mistaken,” he told her.

“I am?”

If he came any closer, she thought, he would be standing on her feet. “I'm looking forward to this marriage. It may have been just a kiss, but a kiss can promise so much.”

“Really?” she murmured. “Forgive me, but I was not quite so impressed.”

“Then I must try again.”

“I—I—”

There was no opportunity to say more. He dropped the horse's reins, and suddenly his arms were around her. And this kiss was not a simple thing. It was all consuming, filled with fire and passion. She was pressed hard against the length of him, feeling the promise of which he had spoken.

She felt the pressure of his mouth, the heat of his tongue in her mouth, sending liquid fire rushing through her, her lungs, her abdomen…lower. She could feel herself melting into his very being, felt his fingers on her face, her neck, sifting through her hair, on her breast, her waist, her hips….

She wanted to feel more of him, not just his touch. She wanted to reach out, feel the power in his muscles, brush her fingers against his naked flesh….

He released her suddenly. She swayed and nearly fell. He had already turned away, seeking the horse's reins. “I don't think it will be so bad,” he said casually.

She fought the soaring rise of her temper. “May we return?”

“Your every wish is my command, Alexandra.”

He set her atop the horse and leapt up behind her. They returned to the stables at the same fierce pace at which they had left. He rode past the stables and set her down before the lodge. “Thank you for the lovely ride,” she said curtly.

“No,” he said huskily from behind her. “I thank
you
for the lovely ride.”

He was laughing at her, she was certain. And yet, she was going to marry the man. And her decision had nothing to do with honor.

Rather…all she could think of was his touch. Was this feeling, this thing like desperation, falling in love? Was love a simple hunger, a need…?

She lifted her chin. She was going to marry him. She might well be falling in love.

But she wasn't going to make it easy for him.

 

“W
HOA
!”

The coachman reined the elegant carriage bearing Lord Lionel Wittburg to a halt. Patrick rode up alongside the man, taking care to see he was disarmed even as he tried to draw out his pistol. Thomas stood by to assist Patrick; Geoff reined in by Mark.

Mark dismounted, throwing open the door to the carriage. Lord Wittburg was also in the process of reaching for his sidearm.

The last thing Mark wanted to do was hurt the elderly gentleman, but neither did he wish to be shot himself.

“Stop, my Lord. I wish no injury to you,” he ordered.

He realized, watching Wittburg's expressions change, that he didn't wish for a gun battle, either, but his pride was at stake.

“My lord, if you will just be so good as to step down from the carriage?” he suggested.

Stiffly, with the utmost dignity, Wittburg did so. The minute he was clear of the carriage, Mark nodded to Geoff and stepped inside himself.

It was a fine though aging coach, and it did not take Mark long to search. He found a cloak, but the black garment showed no signs of blood. There were boots in the compartment, as well, but they appeared to have no trace upon them of anything but dirt.

“Does he carry that much treasure?” Geoff called from outside. Mark knew the men were less comfortable holding a gun on Lord Wittburg than on any other person they had stopped.

“He carries nothing of value,” he called out in reply, as if disgusted. But he went over the compartment again, searched the cloak inch by inch, studied the boots once more.

At last he emerged.

“He carries nothing,” he complained, jumping atop his horse.

“His watch and bob are fine enough,” Thomas pointed out.

“'Tis not worth it,” Mark said with a shake of his head.

Wittburg never lost his dignity. “You will hang,” he assured Mark.