Once Upon a Highland Summer (3 page)

He would have made it if it hadn’t been for the broken glass and the spilled perfume. It made the floor slick, and he slipped, landed hard on his hands and knees, and dropped the letters. The ribbon broke, and they fell to the floor like leaves around him.

As the countess’s shrieks gathered power, he scrambled for the envelopes in the dark, cursing in Gaelic as the perfume soaked into the knees of his breeches, stung the places where the shards of glass bit into his flesh like sharp-toothed guard dogs.

By the time he’d regained his feet, the countess was sitting up, staring at him, her mouth wide in the darkness, the sheets clutched to her bosom, her screams ear-splitting. He had no idea a lady could shriek so unceasingly, without even pausing to draw breath. He threw open the door, and her alarm followed him down the hall as he ran toward the window at the end, his point of entry, and his escape route. He heard footfalls behind him, pounding along the corridor, and hoped they’d pause to check the countess first, and buy him precious seconds. The window was just ahead, and he hunched his shoulders, made ready, and jumped. He tumbled through the opening, cracking his shoulder on the frame, tasting the night air. He ignored the pain and rolled down the slate roof of the porch, and fell heavily to the ground. There was glass in his knees, and in his hands too, and he grunted as shards renewed their assault.

He could still hear her screams as he fled. Surely the entire household and half the neighboring ones had woken by now.

He heard the cry from the window, a male voice, baritone to the lady’s soprano in a very bad comic opera. “Stop, thief!” But Alec was running over the greasy cobbles, praying he didn’t slip, hoping Countess Bray hadn’t gotten a good look at him. He didn’t stop until he was well away, and sure he wasn’t being followed. He ducked into the blackest alley he could find, and flattened himself against the wall, his heart slamming against his ribs, his lungs burning, and sent up a prayer that whoever might be lurking in the alley wasn’t worse than those pursuing him.

Nothing. The only rats were the four-legged kind, the only cats the hopeful moggies searching for food.

He stepped out under a streetlamp, looked at the blood on his fingers, saw the glitter of glass. He used his teeth to pluck the shards from the cuts, and spat them out. He patted his pocket, making sure the letters were still safe against his pounding heart, and took a flask of whisky out of his coat and drank. There was more blood on his knees, but that would have to wait until he was home.

He was back at his lodgings within a half hour, a dozen streets and a whole social class away from Lord Bray’s fashionable Mayfair town house. He poured himself a tumbler of whisky and emptied his pockets, dropping the crumpled, bloodstained letters on the table, letting his heartbeat slow. He dropped his breeches and grimaced as he plucked the glass out of his knees.

He cursed aloud. He wasn’t usually clumsy. In fact, he was the best “retriever” the Crown had, the one they called upon for the most sensitive, important missions. But he knew there was always a chance of being caught. It took just one small mistake. Like knocking over a perfume bottle. He shut his eyes as he tossed the last bit of rose-scented glass into the chamber pot. He crossed and splashed cold water over his face, and stared into his own hollow eyes in the small oval mirror. He looked like what he was, a hard, desperate creature of the night, dark-haired, gray-eyed, muscular; a thief, a man with no home, no family, no honor. He turned away, stared instead at the letters on the table. There was no need to worry. Even if the mission hadn’t gone exactly according to plan, it hadn’t failed. He had the letters he’d been sent for. It had been a close call, but he hadn’t been caught.

He glanced at the letters, eight billets-doux that were important enough to the Crown to ask a man to risk life and limb to retrieve. He wondered what was in them that could be so damaging, but it wasn’t his job to ask questions. He was expected to steal them, not read them. Tomorrow he’d deliver them, and the problem the letters represented, whatever that might be, would be resolved. He looked at the clock. It still lacked several hours until dawn. He didn’t want to sleep. He never slept after one of his excursions. He sat and drank whisky and wished he were in Ceylon, where his family believed he was. He’d left Glenlorne eight years ago, bragging how he intended to make a fortune as a planter in the South Seas. He’d never made it farther than London, and he wasn’t a planter. He was a thief.

He turned back to the letters, and stacked them as neatly as possible given their tattered condition—his fault entirely. He’d even gotten blood on the edges of the vellum. He noted the royal seal on the envelopes, the gold edges of the expensive stationery. Important letters indeed. He’d been told there were eight letters in all, a collection of indiscreet romantic thoughts carelessly put to paper, irrefutable evidence of a royal affair, now long over. The contents of the letters had become a threat to someone important, a potential source of embarrassment or scandal for the Crown, perhaps, or even blackmail—which was why he was sent to fetch them back, before any mischief was done that could not be undone. He counted the letters as he stacked them. His throat closed and he counted again.

And again.
Seven.

He searched his pockets, looked on the floor. It wasn’t there.

He sat heavily in the chair and ran a hand over his face. He’d dropped one—lost it in the street, or left it behind in Lady Bray’s bedchamber.

That, of course, meant disaster. His stomach turned to water, and he swore, cursing his carelessness.

He pulled on his coat and headed out into the night once again.

He had to find the missing letter.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

C
aroline ran smack into a wall that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the dark sidewalk. She bounced off the hard surface as if she weighed nothing. If not for the hands that grabbed the front of her cloak, she’d have toppled backward into the dirty street.

For an instant she hung in the grip of the dark, terrifying figure as he dragged her into the light of the closest streetlamp and loomed over her. The bitter taste of fear dried her throat, and she scrabbled at his gloved hands uselessly with shaking fingers. He could see
her
, but with the light behind him, he was just a shadow, huge and sinister. Her heart began to pound, and she almost wished she’d stayed safely at home.

Almost.

She tried to pull away, to run, but he held her as easily as if she were a child with no strength at all. Real fear coiled through her like smoke, making her weaker still. Had Somerson seen her leave the house, and sent him after her? If he was a footman, he wasn’t one she knew, nor was he wearing Somerson livery. He was dressed in black from head to toe, part of the night. Terror turned her knees to jelly, and she sagged, but he hauled her up and set her on her feet without letting her go. One fist held her cloak under her chin.

“What the devil are you doing, careering around the streets in the dark?” he demanded. “I might have cut your throat, thinking you a pickpocket!”

Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. He thought
she
was someone to be afraid of? “I’m not!” she protested, stepping back, pulling out of his grip. He let her go and she backed into another wall, a real one this time. She shrank against it, laid her palms flat on the rough bricks. “I didn’t see you. I must have tripped on my cloak. It’s borrowed, you see, and—”

“Borrowed?” he growled. She detected a burr in his voice, an accent of some kind. She felt his eyes scanning her, assessing her, and knew what he must be thinking. A lady on the street alone was unheard of in Mayfair, especially at night, in clothes that weren’t her own. Her cheeks heated despite the damp chill in the air.

She pushed farther back into the wall, fearing the gentleman was about to hook his fingers into her borrowed cloak once again and frog march her back to Somerson House.

If, of course, he
was
a gentleman. Her heart leaped into her throat and cowered there, making speech impossible. She could not scream or plead or reason with her captor.

“Where are you going at this hour of the night?” he demanded.

Caroline’s mouth worked soundlessly as her mind searched for an answer to that. Where
was
she going? She hadn’t even thought of that when she raced out of Somerson House.

“North.” The word popped into her head and out of her mouth before she knew she was going to say it. “I’m going north,” she said again, testing it, liking it. The Somerson estate in Northumbria where she’d grown up was north. But it would be the first place he’d look for her.

“Scotland? Gretna Green, perhaps?” the shadow demanded.

“Scotland?” she croaked as if she were an idiot who’d never heard of the place.

“To marry in secret? You’re eloping, aren’t you?”

“Eloping?” she gasped. If he only knew it was quite the contrary!

“I beg you to reconsider your plans. You shouldn’t be wandering the streets alone, and if your intended was any kind of man at all, he wouldn’t put you in such danger. You’d do better to go straight back home and forget—”

“No!” she cried. He tilted his head, and the lamplight caressed the right side of his face, revealing a strong jaw, a high cheek, a broad brow, and a lock of dark hair. One gleaming eye gazed at her, sharp as a raven’s. She swallowed. “No, I can’t go home. I am going to meet—him—at the Ram’s Head Inn. Is that not where the stagecoaches leave from?”

The one dark eyebrow she could see shot into his hairline. “You’re taking public conveyance? A stage? The bas—groom—could have at least agreed to pay for a seat on the Royal Mail,” he growled. His hand gripped her elbow so suddenly she flinched. “Oh, lass, he’s not worthy of you! I have three sisters of my own, and if any man dared to—”

She plucked her arm out of his grip. She couldn’t turn back now. If he knew what she was facing, if he could imagine for just one instant what his own sisters would do if faced with such a choice, he’d let her go on her way, but there was hardly time to explain. “Please, just tell me the way!” She glanced back down the street, half expecting to see a gang of Somerson footmen coming after her, carrying torches and toasting forks, leading Charlotte’s dreadful little dog on a string to sniff out her trail.

He shifted his booted feet on the cobbles, and the sound made her jump. She swallowed, clenched her fists inside her cloak, took a grip on herself.

“You’re certain you won’t change your mind and let me escort you home? You haven’t even got any baggage,” he mused. “Or gloves.”

“Sent on ahead,” she said breathlessly. She would have to step around him to flee, but in the dark, he looked as wide as he was tall. He could stop her easily. He could probably break her in half if he wanted to. She began to edge along the wall, making ready to pick up her skirts and run, should wits fail her, and it was beginning to look as if she’d left those behind at Somerson House along with everything else.

“Have you any money?”

That stopped her. She felt the blood drain from her limbs. She couldn’t get on a coach or even take lodgings without money. She felt hot blood flood her face. She must have glowed as brightly as the streetlamp, for he sighed.

“Never mind, I can see you haven’t.”

He picked up her hand and turned it over in his own, the leather of his glove cool against her skin, and dropped a purse into her palm and folded her fingers over it. “Since you are determined to pursue this foolish and dangerous course of action, allow me to ensure you reach your intended as safely as possible. Take the mail coach, not the stage. It’s faster, and less likely to be troubled by highwaymen, though you’ve nothing to steal. Only board if there’s another woman on the trip, is that clear?”

Her cheeks blazed all the hotter. What must he think of her, a foolish girl running away from home to an uncertain future? She must look far younger than her twenty-two years, and as dim as an unpolished apple. She swallowed, raised her chin, and nodded, trying to appear a woman of the world. He was crushing her mother’s ring against her finger with his grip. It reminded her she had one item of value on her person. She could not bear to think of it in the hands of a common thief or a highwayman. This man had shown her kindness, and a lady paid her debts.

She pulled her hand out of his and took the ring off. It glittered like a drop of blood in the yellow lamplight. “Allow me to repay you, sir. I assure you I am not in the habit of taking money from gentlemen I don’t know.” He didn’t touch it, and she pushed it toward him. “Take it. Better you than a highwayman.”

He took it from her hand, held it carefully between his thumb and forefinger and studied it. Was he wondering if the stone was real? She didn’t dare wait for him to decide. She began walking, moving as quickly as she could without running. She held her head confidently, proudly, but her ears were pricked for the sound of his footsteps behind her, but there was only silence.

Caroline turned once, but the street behind her was empty. She swallowed, and felt a shiver of fear race up her spine. She was truly alone, then. She slowed for an instant, wondering if it was too late to turn around, to go back, and . . . It began to rain, the heavy drops slapping against her hood.

Scotland.
Would Somerson look for her there? Would he look for her at all, or be glad she was gone, an unwanted burden removed from his shoulders?

Caroline swallowed. Whatever her future held, it did not include Viscount Speed or Lord Mandeville.

She felt the reassuring weight of her benefactor’s purse in her pocket, and tightened her cloak around her shoulders against the rain, and resumed the long walk toward the coaching inn.

A
lec felt a surge of annoyance. He had things to do, more important things than protecting some chit on a fool’s errand. He should be searching the streets for the damned letter, as he had been doing when she almost knocked him over.