The Devil Wears Plaid Part 13

"You must have waited your whole life for this chance. Why now?" She shook her head helplessly, the words spilling directly from her battered heart. "Why me me?"

"If it had been up to my grandfather, I never would have come back to the Highlands. But when I did, I discovered that he was no longer strong enough to lead his own men. He's dying, you see. His time is running out. He's lived for twenty-seven years with half the people on this mountain still believing it was a Sinclair hand that committed those murders. I won't let him die with the shadow of that suspicion still hanging over him. I owe him that much, especially after all he's done for me."

"And if the earl agrees to give you this necklace in exchange for me, if he all but confesses to the murder of your parents, just what are you planning to do then?"

Jamie shrugged. "The authorities will never believe a Sinclair or arrest a Hepburn so I guess I'll take the necklace to my grandfather, then sit back and wait for the devil to come collect the Hepburn's rotten soul."

"Without any help from you?" Emma had never known it could hurt so much to laugh. "Do you honestly believe that?"

"I don't know." He scowled, still possessing enough grace to look sheepish.

She wrapped her arms around herself, her laughter dying on a broken note. She might have had a hope of competing with silver and gold, but she couldn't compete with this. No matter how desperately Jamie wanted her, he would always want the truth more. She would never be anything more to him than a p.a.w.n to be moved about the board at his discretion until he could capture the king.

For the first time, Jamie's stoic countenance showed signs of cracking. "The earl won't live forever, either, you know, and I refuse to let that b.a.s.t.a.r.d take his secrets to his grave. This may be my last chance to find out what happened in this place on that turrible night. Can't you understand that, la.s.s?"

He reached for her but Emma backed away from him, no longer able to trick herself into believing there was any shelter or solace to be found in his arms. He was a far greater danger to her now than he had been when he stood in that abbey with a gun in his hand.

She should have heeded the warning he had tried to give her back at the campfire.

The truth really could kill you. Or at least break your heart.

"You were right all along, sir," she said coolly, squaring her chin to hide its trembling. "Your parents did make the greatest mistake of their lives when they fell in love."

Gathering her skirts, she turned and started back across the glen, deciding she would rather brave the ghosts drifting through those woods than the ones still lurking in Jamie's heart.

Chapter Twenty.

A FURIOUS HOWL ECHOED THROUGH FURIOUS HOWL ECHOED THROUGH the high-ceilinged corridors of Hepburn Castle. Doors came flying open with maids and footmen popping out of them like startled jack-in-the-boxes to see who-or what-was making such a tremendous racket. the high-ceilinged corridors of Hepburn Castle. Doors came flying open with maids and footmen popping out of them like startled jack-in-the-boxes to see who-or what-was making such a tremendous racket.

As the dreadful din swelled, shattering the tense hush that had hung over the castle since the earl's fiancee had been abducted, the three Marlowe sisters came running in from the garden, their freckled faces flushed and their bonnets all askew. Their mother trailed after them, her pale face drawn with a heartbreaking mixture of terror and hope, while their father emerged from the conservatory, his cravat untied and a gla.s.s of half-finished port dangling from his unsteady hand.

Ian had spent most of the morning closeted in the library, reviewing the estate's account ledgers and avoiding the stricken eyes of Emma's family. When he heard the racket he came rus.h.i.+ng into the corridor without bothering to s.n.a.t.c.h up his coat, even though he knew his uncle would most likely chide him for appearing in public in his s.h.i.+rtsleeves. Even if the castle was under attack or on fire.

Especially if the castle was under attack or on fire. if the castle was under attack or on fire.

It turned out the only one under attack was the lanky lad being dragged through the cavernous entrance hall by a thick shock of his bright yellow hair. Silas Dockett, his uncle's gamekeeper, was the one doing the dragging. The boy had clamped his thin hands around the man's meaty wrist to lessen the pressure on his scalp. His booted heels tattooed out a desperate rhythm on the slick marble floor, fighting for purchase. A steady howl poured from his throat, punctuated by a blistering stream of curses questioning both the temperament and virtue of Dockett's mother.

Appalled by the casual violence of the scene, Ian fell into step behind the man. "Have you lost your wits, man? What in the devil do you think you're doing?"

Without missing a beat of his stride, Dockett drawled, "Package for the master."

By the time the gamekeeper reached the earl's study, his curious followers had swelled to a virtual parade with Ian in the lead, several of the bolder servants and Emma's mother and sisters padding the middle and Emma's father bringing up the rear, staggering slightly.

Dockett didn't wait for the fl.u.s.tered footman standing at attention outside the door to announce him. He simply flung open the door with his free hand, dragged the boy across the study and dumped him in the middle of the priceless Aubusson carpet.

The boy scrambled to his knees, shooting Dockett a look of raw hatred and cursing him in a burr so thick most of the oaths were mercifully indecipherable.

Before he could climb the rest of the way to his feet, the gamekeeper gave the boy's ear a brutal cuff. The boy collapsed back to his knees, a fresh trickle of blood coursing down his rapidly swelling jaw.

"Mind that cheeky tongue o' yours, mate, or I'll cut it out for you, I will."

"That will be quite enough," Ian snapped, striding forward to place himself between the gamekeeper and his quarry.

Ian had never cared for the man. After the untimely death of his uncle's previous gamekeeper, the earl had returned from a trip to London with Dockett in tow. Ian suspected his uncle had plucked the hulking East Ender from the bowels of the London slums for the very qualities Ian most despised in him-brute strength, unquestioning devotion to whoever paid his salary and a s.a.d.i.s.tic penchant for cruelty. A sinister scar ran from just beneath his left eye to the top of his upper lip, drawing his mouth into a perpetual snarl.

Dockett gave Ian a look that left little doubt he would be just as pleased to cuff him b.l.o.o.d.y if the earl would allow it. But Ian coolly stood his ground and the man was forced to back away.

The earl rose from his chair, peering over the desk at the boy as if he were a piece of sheep's dung someone had sc.r.a.ped off the bottom of their shoe. "And just who is this upstanding young fellow?"

"I found 'im lurkin' outside the dovecote, m'lord," Dockett said. "Claims 'e 'as a message from Sinclair."

"Oh, my baby!" Mrs. Marlowe cried, clapping a hand to her ruffled bosom. "He's brought word of my lamb!"

She began to sway on her feet, going as white as a sheet. Two of the footmen lurking by the door rushed forward to shove a delicate Hepplewhite chair beneath her. As she collapsed into the chair, Ernestine began to fan her with the Gothic novel she had been reading in the garden while Emma's father drained what remained of his port in a single gulp.

"Well, don't just sit there bleeding all over my carpet, lad," the earl said. "If you've a message to deliver, then spit it out."

Ian stepped back as the boy staggered to his feet, plainly the worse for wear after Dockett's manhandling. Still glaring daggers at the gamekeeper, the lad swiped a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand before tugging a rolled up and slightly battered piece of foolscap from the inside of his jacket.

The earl reached across the desk and plucked the missive from the boy's hand with two fingers, his upper lip curling with distaste. While he took his own sweet time retrieving a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles from his blotter and perching them on the tip of his nose, Mr. Marlowe rested a trembling hand on his wife's shoulder. Ian couldn't tell if he was doing it to comfort her or steady himself.

The earl used one yellowing fingernail to slide the leather band from the tube of paper. "Let's see just how much of my hard-earned gold the insolent lad plans to steal from me this time," he said, snapping the paper open with more than just a hint of unseemly glee.

Even from where he stood, Ian recognized the untidy scrawl. He'd seen it often enough on school a.s.signments and on notes addressed to him, many of them containing private jokes and clever little sketches of their cla.s.smates designed to make him laugh.

As his uncle scanned the missive, an expectant hush fell over the room. The servants kept their eyes glued to the floor, thankful no one had remembered to order them to return to their duties. Mrs. Marlowe revived from her near swoon and rose to her feet, pressing a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her trembling lips. The Marlowe sisters huddled together in a nervous knot, their freckles standing out in stark relief against their fair skin.

Finally Ian could no longer bear the suspense. "What is it, my lord? How much is he demanding for her return?"

His uncle slowly lifted his head. A rusty sound rattled up from his throat. For one chilling moment, Ian thought it was a sob. Then it came again and Ian's blood ran even colder.

His uncle was laughing.

They all gaped in astonishment as the earl collapsed into his chair, his papery cheeks growing even more sunken as he gasped for air.

Ian took an involuntary step toward the desk. "What is the meaning of this? Are his demands so outrageous?"

"I should say not," the earl replied. "They're perfectly reasonable... for a madman madman!" He pounded on the desk, crumpling the ransom demand in his fist and wheezing himself right into a fresh gale of laughter. "So the lad thinks he's canny enough to outwit me, does he? Well, we'll just see about that!"

Despite his uncle's unfettered amus.e.m.e.nt, there was a sparkle strangely akin to admiration in his eyes. Ian had never once seen that look in his uncle's eyes when his uncle looked at him. The man might deny his b.a.s.t.a.r.d grandson with his dying breath, but he also considered him that rarest of creatures in his Machiavellian mind-a worthy adversary.

"But my daughter, my lord?" Mr. Marlowe stepped forward, the beads of sweat on his brow betraying the effort it was taking to remain on his feet. "What's to become of her?"

The earl rose and came around the desk, still looking alarmingly amiable. "Have no fear, Marlowe. Young Emmaline is my concern now and I give you my word that I'll look after her. I don't want your wife or your other daughters to worry their pretty little heads about any of this." He beamed at the girls, who could not help brightening just a bit beneath the unexpected flattery. "Just continue to be patient and I'll make sure Sinclair gets what's coming to him. Everything coming to him. Everything that's coming to him." that's coming to him."

Still murmuring a stream of soothing rea.s.surances, he somehow managed to use the sheer force of his will to steer the entire Marlowe family past the gawking servants and right out the door.

"Wot should I do with 'im?" Dockett gave the young messenger a wolfish look as if he could think of any number of possibilities, none of them pleasant or possibly even legal.

The earl waved an impatient hand. "Take him down to the old dungeon and lock him up. Both he and his master can cool their rash young heels for a day or two."

Before Ian could protest, Dockett started toward the boy, baring his teeth in a feral grin.

"Wait. Not you," the earl snapped. "I wish to have a word with you." He crooked one bony finger at the two footmen who had provided Mrs. Marlowe with her chair. "The two of you can take him."

The footmen exchanged another doubtful look. They were accustomed to being ordered to polish the silver or light the carriage lamps, not cart snarling lads off to a dungeon that hadn't been used in a hundred years.

At least not to their knowledge.

But obedience was as ingrained in them as deference to their betters so they finally shrugged and moved to seize the lad by his elbows. He put up a savage struggle, getting in a lick that would probably end up blacking one of the footman's eyes and b.l.o.o.d.ying the other's lip before they were able to muscle him out the door.

When the sounds of their struggle had faded, the earl swept his withering gaze over the remaining servants. "I'm not paying you to stand around and eavesdrop on matters that are none of your concern. Get back to your posts immediately before I dismiss the lot of you."

As they hastened to obey, bobbing a flurry of awkward curtsies and bows as they departed, the earl turned and gave Ian an expectant look.

Ian frowned, growing ever more bewildered by his uncle's peculiar behavior. He had made it clear from the first moment Ian had set foot in Hepburn Castle that Ian would never be anything more to him than a burden and a disappointment. But that had never before stopped him from confiding in Ian or using Ian as an audience while he gloated over his latest triumph or plotted to avenge some petty slight, either real or imagined.

"You heard me," his uncle said coldly. "I have business with Mr. Dockett."

"But, my lord, I think we should discuss Miss Marlowe's situation and-"

"Private business." business."

Ian stood there for a moment, feeling as if the gilt hands of the ormolu clock on the mantel had somehow gone sweeping backward. He was once again a lonely ten-year-old boy, mourning his parents and desperate for a sc.r.a.p of his uncle's affection, no matter how bitter or stale.

The clock chimed the half hour, breaking the spell and reminding him that he was no longer that boy. He was a man now. The man his uncle's indifference had made of him. It was his uncle who had taught him how to hate, but he was only now beginning to realize just how well he had learned that lesson.

His pride still stinging, he offered his uncle a curt bow and went stalking from the study. Before the footman could sweep the door shut, blocking the room from his view, Ian glanced over his shoulder and caught one last glimpse of Dockett standing in front of the desk, his beefy arms folded over his chest and a smug smile twisting his lips.

Chapter Twenty-one.

JAMIE COULD HEAR THE fuse attached to the legendary Sinclair temper smoldering in his head. It grew louder each day as they waited at the auld abbey ruins carved out of the stony hillside for Graeme to return with word from the Hepburn. fuse attached to the legendary Sinclair temper smoldering in his head. It grew louder each day as they waited at the auld abbey ruins carved out of the stony hillside for Graeme to return with word from the Hepburn.

Jamie had spent a lifetime striving to master that temper, but he feared it was only a matter of time before that slow, steady hiss drowned out all patience and reason, resulting in an explosion that could destroy them all.

The last time he'd lost it, a man had ended up dead. Some might argue the man had needed killing, but no amount of justification could wash the stain of his blood from Jamie's hands. That stain had cost him his dearest friend and it would be there until the day he died.

He had spent the long hours waiting for the Hepburn's response prowling the crumbling ruins, his burning gaze searching the vale far below for any sign of an approaching rider. The morning of the fourth day found him simply sitting at the foot of a flight of stone stairs leading to nowhere, his stillness more ominous than the brooding underbellies of the clouds hovering over the mountain.

His men sought to relieve their tension by stuffing one of Angus' auld s.h.i.+rts with dead leaves, hanging it from a tree and using it as a target to practice their archery. Which wouldn't have been so distracting if they hadn't invited Emma to join them.

Jamie's eyes narrowed as her merry laughter rang out like one of the bells that had once graced this abbey. She'd barely spoken two words to him since following him to the glen where his parents had died but now she was grinning at Bon as if they'd been lifelong mates. It was impossible to tell if she was oblivious to the brewing storm or just didn't give a flying fig. Jamie suspected the latter.

She'd somehow managed to twist her rebellious copper curls into an untidy knot, exposing the graceful curve of her throat and the downy dip of her nape where Jamie longed to touch his lips. His eyes narrowed further as Bon put his wiry arms around her slender shoulders to help her nock the arrow and draw back the string. The arrow left the bow with a sprightly zing, zing, sailing across the clearing to pierce the crooked heart Malcolm had traced on the chest of the target with berry juice. sailing across the clearing to pierce the crooked heart Malcolm had traced on the chest of the target with berry juice.

The men set up a hearty cheer but it died in their throats when one of them glanced over his shoulder and saw Jamie watching them. Emma marched blithely over and wrenched the arrow from the target, a triumphant smile curving her lips.

She was probably wis.h.i.+ng it were one of his s.h.i.+rts, Jamie thought grimly. And that he was wearing it.

He ran a weary hand over his jaw. It was no wonder his nerves were shot. It wasn't as if he'd been sleeping very well.

Or at all.

How was he supposed to sleep when Emma's bedroll was only a few feet from his own? He was too busy glowering at the back of her tousled head to sleep. Too busy remembering what it had felt like to pa.s.s that first night on the road with her nestled trustingly in his arms. Too busy reliving those magical moments in the cottage when she had twined her fingers through his hair and kissed him as if she was on the verge of letting him do all of the tender, wicked things he had been aching to do since the first moment he had laid eyes on her.

He hadn't even wasted his time trying to sleep last night. He had simply climbed to the top of a crumbling stone arch and spent the endless hours until dawn listening for the distant echo of hoofbeats.

Just like the ones that were now drowning out the steady hiss of the fuse in his head.

He surged to his feet, wondering if he'd dozed off into a dream. But the faint vibration of the rubble beneath his feet left little doubt that someone was coming. Emma glanced over at him, her smile fading.

He'd been waiting for this moment ever since his grandfather had taken him to that glen when he was nine years auld and shown him where his parents had been shot down in cold blood. So how was he to explain the sudden dread blunting the edges of his antic.i.p.ation; the sinking sensation that finally getting what he had been waiting for just might cost him everything he had ever wanted?

A lone rider topped the edge of the bluff. Jamie's dread and antic.i.p.ation had both been for naught. It wasn't Graeme returning with word from the Hepburn but simply the lookout Jamie had dispatched the previous night to scout the floor of the vale below.

Carson slid off his mount, his downcast eyes and the brief shake of his head telling Jamie everything he needed to know.

For a moment that seemed to hang suspended out of time, there was nothing but a white hot silence as the smoldering fuse finally reached the powder keg in Jamie's brain.

He exploded off the steps, pacing the length of the clearing in long, furious strides.

"Take cover, lads," he heard Bon murmur through the roaring in his ears. "Here we go."

"What in the bluidy h.e.l.l does that miserable wh.o.r.eson of a Hepburn think he's doing?" Raking a hand through his hair, Jamie wheeled around only a step before he would have crashed into a tree at full tilt. "Has the mon gone completely daft? Why would he be fool enough to leave his helpless bride in the hands of a band of desperate men, knowing full well that every second he delays they could be doing any number of Raking a hand through his hair, Jamie wheeled around only a step before he would have crashed into a tree at full tilt. "Has the mon gone completely daft? Why would he be fool enough to leave his helpless bride in the hands of a band of desperate men, knowing full well that every second he delays they could be doing any number of turrible turrible things to her?" things to her?"

He went charging back across the clearing. His men had heeded Bon's warning and all retreated a step or two. Only Emma was bold enough to remain in his path, forcing him to either stop or trample right over her.

He jerked himself to a halt and stabbed a finger toward her chest, thankful to have found a target for his ire. "Why, look at you! You don't belong here! You're just a wee Sa.s.senach la.s.s without the good sense G.o.d gave a mushroom."

She blinked up at him, her dusky blue eyes strangely serene, the loose tendrils that had escaped her untidy knot of hair blowing gently in the breeze.

"You should never have been let out of your bedchamber without a nursemaid and a fully armed guard, much less out of England! Isn't your doting bridegroom the least bit worried about what might be happening to you right now? Why, if you were my my woman..." woman..."

His words echoed through the ruins like a crack of spring thunder, followed by a silence so complete you could have heard a caterpillar inching its way across a leaf. A ridiculous wave of heat began to creep up Jamie's throat as he realized that not only Emma but everyone on that hillside was holding their collective breath, waiting for him to finish.

"What, Jamie?" Emma finally asked softly, her use of his Christian name stinging more than a slap. "If I were your your woman, just what would you do?" woman, just what would you do?"