Susan Johnson (6 page)

Short moments later, Queensberry returned from the dressing room, his troopers following him. “No sign of him.”

“Check the bedclothes. You’ll find evidence he was here, and that should put my slut of a daughter-in-law in the Tolbooth—for harboring a felon.”

“If anyone touches my bed, I’ll put a bullet through your head, Agnes … with pleasure.” Roxane raised
the pistol. “Be my guest, Queensberry,” she dulcetly went on.

The dowager countess blanched, her mouth opening and shutting without any audible utterance. And for a breath-held moment a tremulous silence prevailed.

“I’m a very good shot,” Roxane noted.

“Now, Roxie, don’t do anything foolish. There’s no need to check your bed. If you say you were alone, I’m quite ready to accept your word.” With the young Carre gone, there was no point in belaboring her credibility. Whether there was stains on the bedclothes scarcely mattered without the young earl in custody. Better to wait until he visited the beautiful Roxie again—as he most certainly would, the Carres’ libidinous impulses being what they were.

A gunshot suddenly exploded outside, then another and another. Roxane visibly paled.

“I knew he was here!” Agnes crowed, a flush of color returning to her face.

“Excuse me, my dear.” Queensberry addressed Roxane with a feigned courtesy as a new flurry of gunshots exploded outside. “They must have found the intruder on your grounds.” He executed a brief bow as he passed her. “Never fear, my men will dispatch him.”

It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to appear composed. “How convenient you were here.”

“A fortuitous circumstance,” he silkily replied, already contemplating the length of time before he could legally hang Robbie Carre and eliminate another threat to his appropriated properties. “I hope you’ll be able to sleep after our disturbing entrance.”

“I’m sure I will,” she said, as mendaciously polite as he.

“They’re going to hang him—or drown him and save the cost of the rope,” her mother-in-law gloated, the two women alone now.

“I can still shoot you, Agnes. Perhaps I have even more reason now.” Roxane aimed the pistol once more at the malevolent woman. “And Queensberry and his men aren’t here to protect you.”

Seconds later, Roxane found herself alone, her mother-in-law having sensibly retreated, the sound of her running feet a minor solace in the vast terror of the moment. Sinking into a nearby chair, Roxane trembled uncontrollably, fearful for Robbie’s safety, terrified he might have been hurt. Pray to God he was safe. Pray to any God who would protect him. Or was it too late? Had those gunshots already proved fatal? She couldn’t bring herself to go downstairs to discover the truth. Instead she desperately prayed that he be delivered from his enemies.

He shouldn’t have come back to Scotland. She shouldn’t have allowed him to stay tonight, she reflected, chastising herself for her lack of restraint. Oh, Lord, should he die, she was to blame—unbearable thought. Gripping his pistol, she held on to it as though it were her lifeline to sanity and hope, her last link to him.

R
OBBIE WAS A STREET AWAY, BLOODIED, BRUISED
, out of breath, running hard, still prey to the pursuit behind him. He’d been hanging from the third-floor dressing room window, about to drop on the roof
below, when he’d been sighted by Queensberry’s men. The first shots had missed him; he’d dropped too quickly. But the jump from the second floor roof to the ridgepole of the adjacent building was such a deadly distance, he’d hesitated a second too long and his pursuers had had time to sight their muskets. The shot he’d taken had brought him briefly to his knees, but driven by necessity, he’d come to his feet and leaped. Managing to grab a scrambling handhold on the ridgepole by sheer luck and grit, he’d heaved himself over the top of the roof and then out of sight. Gasping for breath, he’d rested against the cool slate. Gingerly moving his wounded arm, he tested its reliability and range of motion. If the bleeding didn’t worsen, it should function adequately. Not daring to linger with a score of troopers on his trail, he slid down the roof tiles to a decorative parapet and, easing himself over the edge, dropped to the porch roof. The impact jarred his wounded arm, the corrosive agony bringing a beading of sweat to his brow, and he lay utterly still for a breathless moment until the worst of the torment receded. Drawing in a sustaining breath before swinging from the lead rain trough to the ground, he landed with a muffled grunt of pain.

His arm was bleeding heavily now, but after years of carouse he knew the streets of Edinburgh better than most and with luck, he’d reach his lodgings before his strength faltered. Cautiously moving through the courtyard gates, he sprinted across the open thoroughfare and into a dark alley that gave him protection. But eventually he was forced to cross a more conspicuous thoroughfare, and when he did, Queensberry’s scouts caught sight of him. After that they were in full cry.

With his bleeding wound leaving an easily identifiable trail, it was imperative he staunch the blood flow before coming within range of his lodgings.

Scanning the street ahead for refuge, he slipped through the open door of an alehouse a half block distant, entering a low-ceilinged room dim with smoke, flickering lamps casting only a desultory light over the rough interior. Scrutinizing the occupants with a quick glance as he moved toward the bar, he met only blank, suspicious stares. But the crisis required taking risks, and approaching the barkeep he murmured, “A hundred pounds for your shirt and deliverance from Queensberry’s men.” With the duke universally despised in Scotland, he hoped for, if not aid, a minimum of hindrance. “Is there a back door?”

The man gazed at him for a moment. “Back there,” he gruffly muttered, indicating a shadowed corridor with a nod of his head. Motioning a serving wench to take his place behind the bar, he followed Robbie.

“I need some kind of bandage for this,” Robbie noted, handing him a purse. “I’m leaving a trail for Queensberry’s men.”

“The bastard should be hung for a traitor,” the bar-keep growled, jerking his rough shirt over his head and handing it to Robbie.

“Amen to that.” Robbie wrapped the garment around his arm. “Tie this for me,” he murmured, indicating the makeshift bandage. “And take care if the troopers come in to question you.”

“Ain’t no one in here going to give the court’s troopers naught for answers. And I dinna’ want no money for helping someone escape from the likes of
that blackguard Queensberry,” he said, slipping the purse back into Robbie’s jack.

Grinning, Robbie put out his hand. “Then I’m in your debt. Robbie Carre, at your service—if I get out of this alive.”

“You’re a rash young buck to be back in town,” the burly barman declared. Edinburgh was a small town; everyone knew of the outlawed Carres and Queensberry’s rapacious appropriation of their estates.

“I missed my lady.”

The man chuckled as he jerked the knot tight on the bandage. “Cunt can do that to ye. Now begone so ye can fuck her anither day.”

Robbie’s arm was throbbing violently now, a stabbing pain pulsing through his shoulder and across his chest. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled the stench of ale and smoke, the pungent air like a brisk jolt to his senses. “My thanks,” he gravely said.

“Fuckin over Queensberry’s a pleasure, me laird. Watch that first step in the dark, sair,” he added, guiding Robbie down the dark corridor with a hand on his arm.

Moments later Robbie was warily moving down a silent, shadowed alley, his nostrils flaring like a dog on the scent, as if he could smell Queensberry’s men on the night air. But regardless of the two-score troopers who had spread out to search him down, he made his way through circuitous byways, stealthily traversing narrow mews, silent courtyards, and shadowed streets he’d known from childhood, until he was within the safety of the stables behind his Edinburgh apartments.

He waited there for a lengthy interval, not wishing
to carry disaster to those inside should Queensberry’s men be near. But after a considerable time, when no sign of pursuit was evident, when the first light of dawn clarified his view of the alley devoid of troopers, he slipped through the stable doorway into the walled yard and entered the back door of his lodgings.

F
OR YOUR OWN SAFETY,” QUEENSBERRY WAS
saying sometime later, seated on a chair in Roxane’s boudoir, “I’d suggest you stay within the confines of your house until further notice.”

“Am I under arrest?” She’d dressed in the interval when Queensberry had left to pursue Robbie, and she faced him now in a simple gown of brown serge. Any other woman would have been undistinguished in such a plain garment, but Roxane’s pale skin glowed, her titian-colored hair framed her face in a riot of lush curls, and her seductive violet eyes were never anything but graphically sensual, while her sumptuous body would have dazzled in sackcloth.

“You’re simply detained for your own security until we find—er—”

“Robbie Carre? Does the name stick in your throat, James? I didn’t realize you had scruples.”

Her gaze flashed with heated indignation that made him briefly fantasize about another kind of heated ardor. If he didn’t know with certainty she’d be repulsed, he would have bluntly propositioned her. But the lovely Roxane had been able to indulge her own fancy in bedmates from a very young age, her flagrant sensuality bringing every man with breath in his body
under her spell. Independent now, financially secure, assured of her allure, she was beyond his reach. A considerable irritation to a man of his wealth and power. “Scruples are much overrated, my dear. As you should know, with your unwise choice of lovers.”

“I choose my lovers for their sexual expertise, not for the size of their purse. Which puts you out of the running, now, doesn’t it.”

“Take care your rudeness doesn’t jeopardize your future, my dear.”

“Fortunately I have a new protector in Argyll. His interest should be sufficient defense against your threats. Or do you have the queen’s ear again?” she inquired, her disrespect oversweet.

He rose with a small sigh, fatigued in the early morning hours, frustrated by his lack of success in capturing the young Carre, not inclined to exchange insults with a woman. “A word of caution, my dear. I always prevail in the end, which Argyll will discover soon enough. Our young general’s a tyro in this game he’s playing. So I’d suggest you remain in your house, until I give you leave. Is that clear?”

“We’ll see if your orders are clear to the duke as well,” she smoothly replied. “I have a feeling we’ll be meeting tonight at Catherine’s soiree.”

“Then I wish Argyll his pleasure of you, if that’s your bargain. Remember he knows how to negotiate for what he wants, my dear. As evidenced by my presence in Scotland once again, over even the queen’s most vociferous protests. So don’t sell yourself too cheaply, or your darling young Carre lover will have to call out Argyll to uphold your honor.” He bowed, his smile wicked with the truth of his words. “You could
do worse than Argyll, though,” he gently added. “At least he won’t end up on the gallows.”

He walked from the room, leaving in his wake the cruel reality of his threats. Queensberry knew better than most how to expose a person’s vulnerabilities. It was his greatest talent.

L
ATER THAT MORNING, HE MET WITH THE DUKE OF
Argyll, apprising him of the previous night’s events.

“You should have notified me before you attacked the countess,” Argyll coolly observed. “You overstepped your bounds.”

“Time was of the essence, my Lord Commissioner, after Agnes Erskine sent her message to me. Even with our expeditious action, the rogue escaped.”

“Are you sure he was there?”

“The countess was holding one of his pistols. The Carres have a penchant for Venetian niello-work on their weapons—a distinguished mark of their ownership. And he left his gloves.” Queensberry tossed the fringed gauntlets on the table between them. “Florentine, as you see. Nothing but the best for the Carres.”

“Then it’s a shame you didn’t have enough troops surrounding the house.” The duke raised one disdainful brow. “Your lack of military experience proved your undoing. But then politics is hardly a suitable training ground for tactical skirmishes.”

Swallowing the humiliating rebuff without argument, since he needed Argyll’s cooperation, Queensberry continued his flattery unabated. “I fully defer to your battlefield experience, my lord, but do you not think it useful to institute a full-scale search for
Carre?” Leaning forward in his chair, he obsequiously smiled. “His capture would be a fine feather in your bonnet, my Lord Commissioner.”

“I doubt Robbie Carre’s capture will influence union negotiations,” the duke briskly countered, staring down his prominent nose with barely concealed temper. Argyll knew full well why Queensberry wanted the Carres dead. But that personal fight had nothing to do with his orders from Queen Anne and her ministers. “I prefer not devoting my troopers to extraneous duties. They have better things to do.” His voice was crisp with finality.