The Rogue (32 page)

“I don't suppose you mentioned the dagger you will be wearing or the parasol you will be carrying,” he said against her collarbone.

“No.” She stretched to allow him to trail kisses along her throat.

“Nor that you intend to use them on him.”

“Not that either, naturally.” She wove her fingers into his hair. “I was terribly relieved when I saw the rain clouds gathering this afternoon. It isn't really done to carry a parasol at night, but rain allows me to—”

“My God, how I want you.”

“Because I promised a night with another man or because I intend to maim him?” She laughed, but his eyes had sobered.

Gently he stroked the pad of his thumb over her cheek. “You are not afraid.”

“My maestro has taught me well. I am ready for this battle.” She thought he must be able to see the terror pressing outward beneath her skin. But he only lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them softly.

“We must bring in your cousin to plan,” she said and drew away to summon Lord Michaels.

C
onstance was obliged to convince her husband that if he went immediately to slay Sir Lorian Hughes in his drawing room he would not only
not
convince everybody he hadn't done away with Annie Favor, but he would be hung for the murder of a man anyway.

“We'll brochette him later, cousin, after you're clear of this tangle,” Lord Michaels said, bouncing on his toes. “That'll teach him to knock about with men like us.”

They were all agreed she should not accompany them to the Sanctuary. If Lorian got wind of it, he might cancel their appointment. Instead, upon their return they would shadow her meeting with Lorian and, once he had given her what she sought, they would confront him. And in the event that she needed assistance, they would be close by. It was not an ideal plan, but it had the advantage of simplicity.

At the door, Saint took her hand but said nothing, and she let him go. Through the window she watched them ride into the rain-misted darkness.

An hour passed, and another, during which her heart
leaped at the sound of every hoofbeat on street cobbles. The minutes stretched.

They were gone too long.

She wrote letters to the police investigator and the Lord Advocate, and gave them to Aitken with the instruction that if she did not return home he was to deliver them the following morning. Then she penned a brief message to her father. When the clock in the drawing room struck the hour, she called for her horse. Donning her cloak, she drew the hood over her hair, took up her parasol, and went out into the night.

D
YLAN HID IN
the stable across the drive from Loch Irvine's house as Saint went through the rain to the rear door. As he approached, Miranda opened it.

“You have
come
!” she exclaimed upon a breath of relief. “I watched for you from the window.” She ushered him into the unlit foyer and closed the door. “Mr. Reeve is upstairs. We must be quick—”

“You never expect it to be the good-looking ones,” Westin said behind him.

Saint's hand went to his sword. He struck and Westin hollered. Miranda screamed. Reeve appeared from the shadows and Saint's blade again connected with bone.

Then the world shattered.

A
LIGHT CARRIAGE
with a single lantern drew up before the entrance to the royal gardens. Empty of royalty at present, the palace was closed, but the gardens were bursting with summer flowers. Clouds obscured the moon and stars, and rain fell lightly now as Constance watched Sir Lorian descend from the vehicle. He wore a black cloak to his ankles, and his neck cloth was black as well.

She dismounted, drew Elfhame beneath the shelter of a trellis, and secured her.

“My lady,” he said, coming forward, “how prompt you are. I half expected you to renege, or at the very least to
bring along an escort.” He smiled as though he had said something amusing.

“Give me the knife and the letters. Now. Or I will not enter the carriage.”

“You are alone.” His eyes were lazy. “If I want you to enter my carriage, you will. But I do have your letters.” He drew forth two envelopes. “Do you wish to read them now?”

Tucking the parasol beneath her arm, she opened the letters. The first, penned in the same hand as the invitation to the Master's gatherings, declared that he, Lorian Hughes, had mistakenly made accusation against Frederick Evan Sterling in the matter of the murder of Annie Favor, and that he now withdrew the accusation without prejudice. The second letter, written in a rough, careful hand, stated that the writer, Ian MacMillan, had neither sold nor lent any blade to Mr. Sterling except the sale of a single dagger with ivory handle and leather scabbard, and the date upon which he had done so, and that he believed Mr. Sterling an honest, God-fearing man. The letter said nothing of the parasol sword stick, and she could only hope Mr. MacMillan had not told Sir Lorian of it. Perhaps Lorian had blackmailed him. Perhaps the omission in the letter was like the sword stick itself, a hidden weapon the bladesmith had given Saint in apology for betraying him.

Both letters were signed and dated.

Folding the papers, she turned and walked into the garden. When she returned to the entrance, Sir Lorian was grinning.

“You really don't trust me,” he said. “It is positively delicious.”

“Search as long as you like for those letters. You will not find them.”

He came close. “Have you hidden lovers' notes in these gardens before, my lady? And here I had been thinking you so . . .” He stroked a fingertip across her breast. “
Good.
”

“Give me the knife.”

A single sandy brow perked upward. “Not yet. I have
plans for that knife tonight.” He moved toward the carriage. “But I hold by my promises. You shall have it by morning.”

Her feet were blocks of stone on the path. “You killed her. Annie Favor.”

He looked around at her. “Of course not. She changed her mind at the last moment. I was remonstrating with her when she stumbled and accidentally fell on the blade. Now, don't be afraid. If you do exactly as I instruct, you will only feel a little prick.” He gestured her into the carriage. “Now come along.”

The rain fell about them, and she was alone. Her note to her father had told him where to find the letters. But Saint knew where she was now. The longer she delayed here, the better.

“At the last moment?” she said.

He smiled patiently. “Before the ritual.”

“What ritual?”

“The equinox ritual, of course.”

“Are you mad?”

“No. I am a man of faith, and your husband and Lord Michaels will not come for you now.”

Her fingers slid into place on the parasol.

“My wife is a pretty thing,” he continued, “but she is astonishingly transparent. Unlike you.” He returned to her and stared quite fixedly into her eyes. “Blue. So blue, like the sea, even in this wretched rain. The moment I saw your eyes again I realized Providence had put you in my path. I had been searching, you know. And then you appeared in Edinburgh with your blue, blue eyes. Perfect.” He set a gloved fingertip beneath her chin. “Now you have come here of your own accord, suspecting me of all sorts of wickedness. And yet still you have come. Really, you are more remarkable than Styles gave you credit for. But he is a dilettante, after all.”

“A dilettante at what?”

“Enough questions. The hour advances and we mustn't be late.” He turned again toward his carriage.

The blade snapped free of the parasol handle and sliced his wrist with silent speed.

He shouted and whirled around, yanking a knife from his belt.

“This knife is supposed to remain purified until the ritual,” he said furiously. “But I will use it now if you do not drop that.”

She gripped the familiar handle, gauged the distance between them, his stance, the terrain, and smiled. “Make me.”

S
AINT AWOKE TO
pulsating pain in his head and a woman shouting.

“You promised not to harm him!” Patience Westin's voice broke through his skull.

“Why do you care?” Westin's mutter was weak.

“He is an innocent man, Robert.”

“S'not what Hughes says. God damn it, the son of a devil nearly cut off my hand. Reeve, bring me a tourniquet.”

“My husband is a liar,” came close by his side.

Saint opened his eyes to Miranda kneeling in the shadowed darkness, her face blotched with tears.

“Oh, heaven
is
merciful! I was afraid you would never wake. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I had no idea they were there.”

He flexed his cramped shoulders and rope cinched about his wrists. He was sitting against a wall, his wrists bound to either side and his ankles bound together with leather straps.

“Don't move, Sterling.” Westin came into view. “I've got your sword. Stupid fool, Reeve, letting him inside with it, for God's sake. If I had been prepared for that—”

“You would have wet yourself anyway?” Patience said.

“Be quiet, you.”

“If you promise not to fight them,” Miranda said, reaching for Saint's wrist, “I can untie—”

Westin's fist swung. She fell aside.

Patience leaped on him. “Don't touch her!”

He pinned her arms to her sides.

“Look what you've done, Sterling. Roused the cat.” He glanced at Miranda lying motionless. “Well, I'll pay for that. Lorian won't like a bruise on her face.”

Patience's body had gone slack in his hold as she stared at Miranda.

“I am sorry, Mr. Sterling,” she said. “It was too good to be true, wasn't it? But I am sorry for involving you in it. You will not
harm
him, will you, Robert?”

“Well, what do you imagine I'd do, you little fool? I'm not Lorian to host an all-night ritual, now, am I? Reeve's got it, anyway, as soon as he bandages that eye. Bad form, Sterling, murdering that girl.”

“Where is Hughes?” he said through the morass of clouds and pain in his head.

“At the ritual, of course.”

Saint blinked hard. Tried to focus. “Ritual?”

“The solstice ritual. She didn't tell you?”

“It isn't solstice yet.”

Westin laughed. “Lorian rushed it up. What with your trial any moment now, I imagine he wanted to ensure your wife'd still be in town. He's had his eye on her for weeks now, though I think he imagined she'd be more enthusiastic about it. Now quiet down, Patience. I need a drink.”

“
No.
” She struggled against him. “Let me see to her.”

“Damn little feline. Do you want me to knock you over too?”

She twisted her head around and bit him on the chin.

“Damn you!” He pushed her away and grabbed his face. “Take a chunk out of me, will you, cat?”

“I will do much worse if you don't help me with her.”

Together they hoisted Miranda's limp form from the ground.

“Reeve'll be in shortly,” Westin said. “Best of luck with that trial. And don't worry about the ritual. Lorian won't leave a mark on her except the one.”

Patience threw him an anguished glance, and then they were gone.

Swiftly Saint studied the room. He was in a bedchamber, presumably still in Loch Irvine's house, furnished simply and lit with only a single lamp, the glow from the sputtering wick casting uncertain shadows about. The ropes around his wrists were tied to iron loops bolted to the walls. Other objects adorned the space: carriage whips, a cudgel, more ropes, and leather straps with buckles. Apparently the Master's guests were not only interested in trading spouses.

He slid his feet to the left and barreled his boots against the ring at his hand. It held fast. He tried again, then turned to the other ring. It proved equally solid.

With fogged eyes and head aching from the pummelling Westin had given it with something far too hard, he studied the floor, furniture, walls, and ceiling and he tried to focus his mind, to drag it away from where it wished to go, to remain in the moment where his first purpose must be to gain freedom.

The door cracked open and Patience slipped in.

“I have already tried the ropes,” she whispered. “Reeve tied them too tightly. I cannot pry them apart with my fingers.”

“Unbind my ankles, but leave the appearance that they are still bound.” She knelt and did so.

“Are you able to reach the door on the landing below unseen?” he said.

“I think so. Robert went into the Sanctuary chamber for a glass of wine. Miranda is still unconscious.”

“Beyond that door is a gallery. Beneath the display case you will find a knife. Swiftly now.”

She darted to the door and out. He prayed that no one had locked the gallery since Constance had picked the lock weeks ago. And he prayed that wherever she was now, his wife was showing Lorian Hughes precisely what she thought of him.

“D
O YOU SEE
that boy on the pony over there?” Sir Lorian huffed, his panting breaths making clouds of cold mist in
the drizzle. Blood seeped from a wound on his chin and his left arm hung at his side. He was so much easier to fight than Mr. Viking; she was downright buoyant.

“I do not,” she said, the sword stick poised before her, the closed parasol in her left hand.
Never remove your attention from your opponent.
“Tell me about him, why don't you?”

“He is prepared, at my command, to perform an errand for me.” His eyes glittered in the blackness.

“What errand is that?”

“Your husband is at this moment bound like a beast in Mr. Reeve's care. With a single word I can send the boy riding swiftly to give Mr. Reeve permission to put a knife in Mr. Sterling's heart.”

“Prove it.”

“Boy!” he shouted.

Beyond Lorian's shoulder, in the shadows by the palace wall, a mounted figure appeared.

“Now, will you wager his life against my word?”

Constance lowered her left hand but kept the point of the sword stick aimed at his face.

“What will you do to me?”

“Wise woman.” He smiled. “Now the sword.”

With the dagger burning against her ankle, she set the sword stick and parasol on the ground and stepped away from them. Knife still raised, he came to her and took her arm.

“I should like the details,” she said and allowed him to lead her toward the carriage, where his voice if he shouted would be muffled from the boy's hearing.

“You will see soon enough. I promise, though, that if you behave, you will have a delightful reunion with your husband tomorrow. If he is still alive. Broken bones can splinter and cause infection, of course. Do you know, this all would have been so much easier if you weren't so tiresomely virtuous.”

The laughter of hysteria bubbled up in her.