The McKinnon (3 page)

He had been gone for several months to escape the boredom of the long winter months and to sample the excitements London offered. Such diversions were not available on an isolated estate that sat on a piece of rock. He never would understand what his brother had seen in this hulking granite and limestone structure. Other than the wealth, he saw no advantages. However, he took the bad with the good. On the way back he had decided to appoint an overseer and spend his days in London. Problem solved.

Bordering on the west coast of England, Seabridge was a fearsome enough place in summer. In winter it was dreadful. With no company or entertainment, his boredom was complete. So he spent the Christmas season at the court of his King, Henry VII, and had decided to stay on past Easter, which was a bit longer than was his custom.

It was also a bit longer than he was welcome if Henry's reaction to his actions was to be believed .

Nevertheless, he was glad he had lingered, even if he wore out his welcome with Henry. Had he left when originally planned then he would not have gotten the news until it was too late for him to counter the move the King was about to make in regard to his niece.

Henry had decided it was time for Morgan to marry, and had promised her to a trusted knight of the king’s short list of favorites. He knew The McKinnon. The man was not one he would tangle with in a fair fight.

Damn, he thought again.

He should have been expecting this after Henry forcefully declined his petition to marry her the previous summer. In retrospect, it had been a poor strategic move on his part. Henry denied him the right to his dead brother’s daughter, and therefore, all her holdings. Making matters worse, he only succeeded in calling to the king’s attention that Morgan was of marriageable age, wealthy, and still not betrothed.

Lester reasoned he would marry the girl himself and deal with the fallout and Henry’s wrath. He'd claim ignorance and marry Morgan before Henry had a chance to finalize the formalities. Then he'd be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams and wondered why he had not married her sooner.

Besides, what could the King do after he compromised the girl? Henry was already angry with him, and no titled Lord would have her once she was a damaged commodity. Such a man would be the laughing stock of the kingdom. The wealth and title of Duke might be enough to sooth male egos, but he doubted it would be enough where the truly upper crust was concerned.

Brentwood smiled. His plans always worked one way or the other. Throw enough money, men, or threats at something, and it usually happened as planned.

Riding his prized Arabian into the courtyard and looking about, Lester wanted to be sure his groom was waiting to take his horse on his arrival at the stables.

“Gordon, I rode ahead,” Brentwood said looking down his nose at the servant. For Christ’s sake, Brentwood thought looking at Gordon, the man who had been the stable master for his dead brother. Now, Lester only allowed him to mucked the stalls. It was never a good thing to let a man have pride.

Why was he in rags and his face gaunt with hunger, Lester wondered.

“Why are you not dressed properly?” Brentwood was haughty enough to ask such a question, never seeing his own responsibility in the decline of the once magnificent holding.

The stableman knew better than to reply that Brentwood was an evil man and did not take care of those under his watchful eye. The Sixth Duke was a good man, and was probably rolling in his grave at the way Seabridge had deteriorated under Lester's oversight.

“Laundry day, sir,” Gordon replied.

“See to it you don’t look like this in public. You offend me,” he said, bringing his handkerchief to his nose.

“Yes, sir.” What was he going to say?

“The supply wagon will be along shortly. Take care of my horse and for God’s sake, make sure you do it properly. I had to beat that stupid boy of yours the last time for failing to do as I directed. My horses are extremely valuable.” Lester had spent a fortune of Morgan’s money on his stables. She would never miss it was his reasoning. “I trust you shall not make the same mistake?” Brentwood’s voice, although soft, carried total authority.

“No, my Lord, I'll not make the same mistake,” Gordon spoke, his head bowed, his pride crushed years ago. Raising the anger of his overlord in any way was never a good idea. Any man brainless enough to cross this devil simply disappeared after being sent on an errand.

Brentwood hurried to the stronghold. Before the sun set, Seabridge would be his to do as he saw fit. His lifestyle would be no different from the past seven years, he mused. It would just be permanent. No one would dare to challenge his right to the holdings once he had married and properly bedded the Seventh Duchess.

“Bring Morgan and the priest to me at once!” he bellowed as he burst through the castle doors.

“Welcome home, Lord Brentwood,” his housekeeper spoke, yet startled at his sudden return. Darcy was thankful for having spent those extra hours cleaning his chamber in spite of the fact it was her usual day for resting.

Brentwood smiled sadistically feeding off her fear. She was afraid of him. Everyone was afraid of him. He knew the hold he had over the individuals in his charge. It gave him a thrill to know he had such power over their pathetic lives. He did not care about them except that they serve. The outcome and consequences of poor action was his to dole out and he did so in good measure.

"I wish you had sent a messenger ahead. I could have seen to your meal," she prattling on nervously. 

“Shut up and go find the priest! Bring him and the girl to me in my study at once.”

At that same moment, Cyril stepped in from the courtyard. As Seabridge’s Captain of the Guard, it was his duty to be the bearer of the news all had been dreading to deliver. They still killed the messenger these days in the remote outposts.

“That directive is impossible to follow, Sir.”

Brentwood slowly turned to see who would dare to counter his demands. “And, I wait with baited breath as to why.” His voice was cold as steel and dripped with sarcasm.

Shit, Cyril thought. This was not going to be pretty. Not that he expected it to be. After all, this was Brentwood he was facing.

“She is gone, Sir,” Cyril said flatly.

Brentwood’s veins rose thick on his forehead and neck, giving Cyril the impression the masochistic devil was about to explode. Cyril had seen him angry many times before, and he feared  for Darcy who was standing too close for Cyril's comfort. Brentwood was an evil man, never bothering to hide that personality trait. This far out in the Marches there was no one to stop him.

“Gone! What in the devil do you mean she is gone?”

His eyes hardened combing the foyer waiting for an answer. No one was crazy or stupid enough to speak. The silence was deafening, but more to the point, the silence was deadly.

Cyril spoke, breaking the silence that would bring more bad than good the longer the question went unanswered.

“Sir, we set the guard to watch the door. That said, we do not know how she  escaped. She simply vanished. The best we can determine is it has not been more than three days based on the last time she ate.”

“Have you been starving her? If I find that to be the case, I will kill you myself for overstepping your boundaries.” In his mind, he was the only one with the authority to punish her.

Darcy spoke, coming to Cyril’s defense. “Oh no, Sir, it was not our doing. It was her Ladyship’s choice. I swear on me mum's grave.”

Darcy explained how Morgan refused to eat and had starved herself for some time. It did not seem out of the ordinary that the duchess did not touched her food for several days.

Cyril drew Brentwood’s gaze from his wife.

“On the third day we went to give Her Grace some exercise as you had ordered and the room was empty.”

“What did she take with her?” Brentwood had to know what resources she had managed to steal from him.

“The only possession we know that disappeared around the same time was Demon.”

“Demon?”

That was a surprise. Brentwood doubted Morgan could handle the magnificent beast, but if she were desperate enough, he supposed anything was possible.

“She could not have taken such a beast and managed him. I think it is just coincidence.” Cyril made the mistake of offering his unsolicited opinion.

“I pay you to guard. I do not pay you to think!”

By this point, Lord Brentwood was blood red in the face. Without warning, he backhanded Darcy slicing her face open with his signet ring. The blow sent her to the polished stone floor. On reflex, the captain stepped forward to defend her. Cyril was not so fortunate. Brentwood drew his sword and ran the man through on the spot without warning or just cause in a sane man's mind. 

Looking down, Brentwood watched in sadistic satisfaction as the blood began draining out of his guard. That crimson fluid slid like a serpent across the floor pooling at his booted feet as if to point the way to the one who bore the guilt. Darcy was sobbing over Cyril’s body. He kicked her like an errant dog nipping at his feet.

“You will stop your infernal wailing at once and get this mess cleaned up or I will have you joining your husband." 

"You devil! I'll kill you!" Darcy scrambled to her feet.

Brentwood was ready. Driving his dagger through her heart, he shoved it in to the hilt then pushed her back to fall over her dead husband. 

"Anyone else want to cross me?" Brentwood asked the staff that had gathered and looked on in horror. They began to scatter, not wanting to be the one he turned on next.

Lester grabbed a man by the arm before he could escape. "Toss their bodies over the cliff. They do not deserve a Christian burial. And you," he pointed to another, "have Stewart meet me in my study!” 

Taking the stairs, two at a time he needed to survey the tower for himself. From the center of the cold and bleak cell, he made one slow turn.

She had cost him dearly in the loss of his Captain of the Guard. His killing the man was entirely Morgan's fault. Her confinement was Cyril’s responsibility.

Cyril had failed.

She would pay once he got his hands around her slender throat. He smiled bitterly as he headed back downstairs to his study. Yes, she would pay for a great many things, and, oh yes, she would pay in a great many ways.

Stewart Whittaker stood facing the fireplace as Brentwood entered. With his hands behind his back, he studied the over-sized portrait of the Fifth Duke of Seabridge, Lord Brentwood’s stepfather.

Stewart resented the feeling the painting gave him, as if even from the grave, the Fifth Duke was lording over him, mocking everything he had ever tried to become, knowing all the while, he had fallen short in the eyes of this great man.

Slowly, Stewart turned.

“I understand you need my services,” he said softly. Choosing to never draw attention to himself, Stewart found it to his benefit to hold an appearance of servitude.

Brentwood took a brief survey of the man. Noting Stewart’s modest dress and clean-cut appearance, Lester had always sensed something familiar about the man. He could not put his finger on it, and he usually did not dwell, feeling more important things needed his attention and efforts than Stewart.

In his opinion Stewart was not a man most would think to fear on first glance. He was sure such an advantage was useful for him and the primary secret to his success in his chosen profession. However, appearance could be most deceiving. He was a man Brentwood was glad was on his payroll and not another’s. Moreover, there was always a place for such an asset as Stewart. He was ruthless and uncaring. He was almost a machine in Lester's mind. Brentwood easily found a place for him at Elderage Estates, and then Seabridge, keeping Lester's hands clean as Stewart did the dirty work.

Brentwood largely doubted Stewart was his real name. Besides, who was asking? He surely was not. When Stewart had appeared at Elderage Estates eight years ago with no explanation about whom he was, or why he had just shown up, Brentwood briefly wondered who he might be. However, he stopped caring almost immediately on Stewart’s arrival.  The man owned a bag full of neat little tricks extremely useful at times just like this. He had discovered the man to be most worthwhile. So, who he was failed to matter.

Lester nodded. “Yes, I find myself in need of your special skill set. It seems my disobedient and most ungrateful niece has seen fit to flee the confines of my tender care.”

Stewart snorted. “Tender care, indeed,” he mumbled under his breath. “Imagine that.”

Brentwood ignored the comment as he pulled out a locked metal box from his desk drawer. “I need you to find her and bring her back before the King gets wind."

Or more importantly in Lester's mind, he needed to get her back before her husband arrived at his doorstep, demanding his rights by royal decree. An ugly encounter that would prove to be, he felt certain. Brentwood was capable of defending himself under usual circumstances. Henry's knight was not usual if his sources were to be believed. A huge man with a natural ability to knock heads, Nic McKinnon would make Lester his play thing.

Stewart, on the other hand, actually found the thought amusing and was almost willing to stick around to watch the predictable outcome. Nevertheless, Lester had other plans for his time.

"You have my permission to use any and every means available to you, Stewart. My only stipulation is you are not to openly beat her if she is uncooperative. And you know she will be.” He was beginning to think he might go with Stewart after all. The prospect of hunting her down and tying her up had a nice feel to it.

Stewart shrugged. “Ensuring her cooperation will not be a problem.”

He had his ways of ensuring obedience. Brentwood thought he was cleaver in the art of torture and manipulation. Stewart knew, without a doubt, he could teach Brentwood a thing or two.

“Good,” Brentwood said.

Leaning over the large desk once belonging to his brother, he handed his puppet a leather pouch heavy with the coins that he had pulled from the strong box. He failed to notice it was several coins lighter from Morgan's reaching in and grabbing a handful as her last ditch effort as a means of self support.