Patrica Rice (17 page)

The ivory letter opener in Gavin’s hands snapped, and he rose angrily. “You damned conceited young pup! Do you not think mobs are made up of people? Why should those thousands of British citizens suffer to enable a few narrow-minded bigots like you to stay in power? Had you listened to their rational concerns from the start, there would be no mobs now. We’re talking of men who have reached the point of desperation, women whose children die of exhaustion and starvation. They are not just mindless mobs!” He snorted in disgust. “I’ve half a mind to find the radicals and join forces with them.”

His wife’s bouncing dark curls and troubled eyes peered around the corner. “I just put Madeline to sleep. Must you shout? And I daresay the radicals need money more than your bluster. They would sooner welcome Blanche than you.”

That ridiculous observation drained some of the tension. The duke bowed. “Lady Effingham, it is good to see you looking well. I understand you have not heard from my cousin recently?”

“It’s not been quite a week, and the mails from the village can be dreadfully slow, you know. I should think you ought to take precautions for yourself more than for Blanche. The message from Fiona sounded as if anyone in your vicinity might be in danger.”

“And that is another thing.” The duke swung around to confront Gavin. “Why must your brother bring a dangerous Irish female into my household? I cannot believe he didn’t know she was some part of this nefarious plot. I’m going to advise the Home Office to have that alley taken apart brick by brick until we find her.”

Gavin sank tiredly into his seat. “We have no certainty that there is a plot. We only have an eccentric message from a Bow Street Runner and a few suspicions. I am sending a messenger after my brother as we speak. We might deploy a few more men in the alley to keep an eye on what’s happening there. You must see if you can locate Lady Blanche.”

The duke’s glare didn’t waver. “How long will it take to find your wretched brother?”

“Michael always leaves a trail I can follow should I need. It’s just a matter of thinking as he does. My cousin Marian says her husband’s stable is untouched. If none of your carriages or horses are gone, he’s taken coach or shank’s mare. I have men checking the coaching inns now. If you will start looking on your end, we might make some progress.”

Dillian sent him a worried look as the duke bade his farewells and departed. “Do you think there is any chance that they’re traveling together? If so, sending Neville looking for them is not a wise idea.”

“Even Michael isn’t that big an idiot,” Gavin said. “Neville would cut out his throat. No, he’s stashed her somewhere safe. It’s this Fiona who concerns me. If Neville won’t hire more men to help that Runner, then I will.”

Dillian didn’t look reassured.

* * *

“Rise and shine, my lady,” the maid called cheerfully, setting a tray on the bedside table and pulling back the draperies. “His lordship’s already eaten and gone to call up the carriage.”

Prying her eyes open, Blanche scowled at the maid and the otherwise empty room. If Michael had come in last night, she’d seen or heard none of him. So much for any hopes of his taking advantage of their new disguise.

She frowned again after she’d dressed, broken her fast, and proceeded to the inn yard. Michael awaited her on the back of his horse. He wouldn’t even ride inside with her.

Trying not to notice the way the sun played on the dancing auburn highlights of his hair, Blanche glared up at him. “You may as well send me home if you won’t tell me what you found or where we’re going.”

“We’re going to Scotland. It’s a long day’s ride to the coast where they picked her up. There’s rumors of more unrest in London. I’ll not send you back there.” His posture was stiffly correct on the back of the prancing horse.

Blanche wanted to make him notice her the way she noticed him. She wanted him to talk to her, to discuss what had happened the other night. And if all else failed, she wanted to knock him off his high horse. Instead, she smiled, bobbed a docile curtsy, and stalked back to the carriage. She would get even somehow. It would just take thought.

Steaming, she sat in the carriage with arms crossed, not even glancing up as Michael rode beside her window. He hadn’t needed her for this trip. He’d simply kept her out of trouble. She didn’t suffer fools gladly, and men who thought they ran the world were fools.

Unable to keep from looking out as the coach rolled down the road, Blanche admired the way Michael’s muscled thighs gripped the horse, emphasized by his tight breeches. She remembered how his naked legs had parted her knees without effort and held her positioned so she could have done nothing to fight him had she tried. She shivered and picked up her book.

She read the same page a dozen times before giving up. She watched the rolling hills and the bleak clouds scuttling in to obscure the sun. She prayed the rain held off until they arrived. The roads this far north were insufferable.

The innkeeper had provided a basket for a mid-day meal, but Michael didn’t allow the coach to stop until they reached an inn to exchange horses. She had already nibbled her share of the meat pies, but she was thirsty. When they halted, she didn’t wait for permission to leave the carriage. She signaled the driver to set down the steps.

She smelled rain, but a brisk wind held off the clouds. The ancient stone inn appeared as if it had stood since the Picts controlled the northern lands. No other carriages or horses idled in the yard. Picking her way across the mud, she headed for the door where she assumed she’d find Michael.

Inside she regarded stone walls scarred with fires of long ago and a rough plank floor worn from centuries of boots. A cheerful woman bustled out, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Aye, and it is your ladyship! Your man was to bring ye a wee dram shortly. Have a seat, my lady, and aren’t ye the daintiest thing I’ve ever set eyes on?”

Unable to distinguish more than one word of three through the woman’s heavy burr, Blanche took a seat on a long bench while the woman rushed to find a drink. A moment later, Michael appeared from the rear of the inn, followed by a burly man with a beard. The man nodded, holding out his hand and saying something in the same thick accent. She deciphered what sounded like “Lady Michael,” but she saw no point in correcting his usage.

“Mr. Malcolm welcomes us to Scotland. We have crossed the border,” Michael explained as the innkeeper’s wife hurried out with glasses of water. He leaned over and whispered, “We’re MacDermots here, for the record.”

Unsurprised that he preferred to register under an anonymous name, delighted that she finally visited another country, Blanche listened as Michael spoke to the innkeeper, but she could understand little.

“Mr. Malcolm inquires if we will spend the night here. He has a clean room available, and the next inn is some distance. With the rain, we might not arrive until late.”

She couldn’t believe he actually asked her opinion. She stared, waiting for the jest, then responded warily to his tense eagerness in awaiting her response.

“If you think it best to stop early, of course,” she agreed. “Do you think we might explore the countryside before it rains?”

“If you so desire, my lady. A brisk walk before we’re confined to the inn, by all means.” He helped her rise and nodded to the innkeeper. “We’ll take the room, sir. My wife wishes to explore your hills. Is there a path you might recommend?”

Still suspicious of his sudden good humor, Blanche tried following the discussion. She gave it up after a while, letting her attention wander to the thick glass in the mullioned windows and to the huge book the innkeeper’s wife laid on the table.

At a nod from the innkeeper, Michael signed them into the inn. The woman held out a pen for Blanche to do the same. Finding that quaint, Blanche boldly signed herself as Lady Blanche MacDermot. She refused to lower her rank for an imaginary husband.

The woman nodded and bustled off again, returning moments later with an armload of fresh linen she carried up the stairs. Well, at least they would have clean beds.

“Shall we bring the lunch basket with us then?” Michael asked, taking Blanche’s arm and guiding her toward the door.

As they exited the cozy inn for the brisk, raw day, he brushed a kiss across her cheek, and smiled when she touched her cheek wonderingly. He retrieved the basket from the coach, took her hand again, and led her up the hill.

“You’ve been to Scotland before, haven’t you?” she asked as they strolled up the path. She brushed an unruly strand of hair from her face to admire the luminous green of Michael’s eyes against the background of billowing gray clouds.

“Aye, a dozen times or more, I ken,” he answered mischievously. “It’s a braw enou’ country.”

Blanche playfully slapped his arm. “And I suppose now you’re a MacGregor or some such. When will you decide who you want to be when you grow up?”

“When I find out who I am, I suppose. Do you think we might stop here by this hedge to eat? I’m that famished, I am.”

The rough hedgerow sported several flat stones at its base that would serve nicely as table and chairs. And the hedge formed a windbreak. With Michael’s aid, she arranged herself on a wide ledge and set the basket on a rock. To her surprise, Michael sat beside her rather than on the other stone. While Michael ate, they gazed over a panoramic landscape. Blanche thought she might enjoy the life of a shepherdess if it meant living this simple beauty every day. The April wind carried the first scents of spring, and the signs of the earth’s awakening appeared in patches of gold and green.

“’Tis a lovely sight, isn’t it?” Michael asked, leaning back on his hand.

“Wild and lovely. I can’t wait to see the sea. Shall we reach it tomorrow? Did you find out where Fiona landed?” Michael’s closeness made her giddy. She luxuriated in the opportunity much as she admired the natural wonders spread before them.

“I have. It’s no more than a fishing village. The accommodations will be poor. If we leave early in the morn, perhaps we can ask our questions, and be gone before we must spend the night there. I don’t know that it will have a ship safe for your passage.”

“Are you regretting that you brought me along?” she asked, not wanting to disturb this moment of peace but needing to know. She didn’t want to leave him, but she must put Fiona ahead of herself.

“It may come a time that you’ll regret it,” Michael said, tracing a finger down her jaw. “But I’ll not give up a moment of it to save the world.”

Before Blanche could fully register his meaning, Michael leaned over and kissed her.

Shocked that he’d actually taken the initiative, Blanche reveled in his slow, tasting kiss. He almost seemed to be questioning her, waiting for her to accept him. She eagerly slid her arms around his broad shoulders, savoring his strength, his heat, and the way his kiss instantly deepened.

He hugged her close, crushing her breasts against his chest and urgently claiming her mouth. When his kisses traveled down her throat to nibble and caress, he whispered impassioned phrases and slid his hand down her spine to her bottom, lighting a fire between her thighs.

She needed to be closer, to feel him naked against her as she had before. The magical hands she so dearly loved explored daringly, molding her breasts, encompassing her waist, drawing her hips tighter as he ravished her mouth. She wanted to rip off his cravat and slide her hands beneath his shirt, but she had no idea how to go about it.

He lifted her long skirt and caressed sensitive skin. She cried out in surprise at the intimacy. He broke their kiss to meet her gaze with a heated question in his eyes. Blanche didn’t know why he had changed his mind, but she welcomed the change with all her heart. Not knowing how else to reply, she leaned closer, kissing the corner of his mouth and whispering with excitement, “Please.”

Wordlessly, he grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet, and ran with her to the bottom of the hill, toward the welcoming inn and away from the impending storm.

Laughing, their hair and clothes rumpled by the wind, Michael and Blanche dashed through the inn door. The men waiting in the lobby smiled at them in understanding.

Blanche halted abruptly, aware of the appearance she must make running like a hoyden through a public place. Michael slid his arm around her waist and cheerfully greeted the innkeeper and his new guest, showing her that her appearance didn’t matter. Her behavior would have scandalized Neville, but Michael could accept anything. She thought she might learn to love him just for that, except she was in a hurry to retire upstairs.

“Lord and Lady Michael MacDermot,” the innkeeper acknowledged them with a bow, then gestured at his guest, “The pastor of our little church, Mr. MacGregor.”

Blanche stifled a giggle at the coincidence of the local minister having the same Scots name she had just given Michael.

Michael teasingly pinched her waist and held out his other hand to shake MacGregor’s. “It’s good to make your acquaintance, sir. We’re in for a bit of weather, I’m afraid. Do you stay until it blows over?”

“Aye, I might, but I dinna live far. Will you share a dram with me awhile?” The minister indicated the steaming mugs Mrs. Malcolm carried from the kitchen.

Blanche wanted nothing more than to escape to their private chamber, but doing so in front of a man of the cloth would no doubt be a mortal sin. She took the mug and let Michael lead the conversational path. “And have ye been married long?” the minister asked as she sipped the hearty drink.

Blanche quivered in panic at the direction of the conversation, but she had confidence in Michael’s ability to lie their way through anything.

“Truth is, this is our wedding journey. My wife has never seen the north country, and I promised to show her what I could.” Protectively, as if she were made of porcelain, Michael took Blanche’s elbow and helped her to the long bench there in the narrow lobby. She rather liked the security of someone taking care of her.

“Aye, and is it that way noo?” MacGregor answered with pleasure. “And Lady Michael, how do ye find our fair land?”