Wild Hearts (17 page)

Tabrizia was surprised to see that the portrait was finished. It was lovely to look at. Anne had painted her without flaws. As a matter of fact, Tabrizia thought it flattered a little too much. The portrait was beautiful, with almost saintly overtones.

Tabrizia picked up the portrait to admire it. On impulse she turned it over, and there, to her horror, was a very different portrait. It was Tabrizia in death. Her neck had a knotted cord about it, choking until the eyes had popped out of their sockets. The mouth was open in a gaping scream. She swiftly laid the canvas on the bed and without a word, walked quietly from the room.

Harvest time was a great festive occasion, and it was almost upon them. It was an old tradition for the castle to feed everyone who lived on Cockburn land, including all the sheep crofters and the people from the villages. The younger Cockburns were busy the whole afternoon practicing country dances for the festival and never noticed that Tabby wasn't around.

When Paris sat down at the evening meal, his first question was, "Where is Tabrizia?"

When they couldn't tell him, he immediately left the table and went in search of her. He found her huddled on the staircase that led from his bedchamber up to her own. She gripped her middle tightly, her lips gone white with pain.

"What is it?" he asked, alarmed.

She shook her head in misery, unable to put her agony into words.

He lifted her gently and took her up to her bed. The moment he laid her down, she moaned and began to vomit. She hung over the edge of the bed, helplessly retching. In an instant he was holding her One arm held her gently, while the other held her stomach rigid, and miraculously it stopped trying to turn itself inside out. He soothingly massaged her knotted stomach muscles until they began to relax. Ordinarily, she would have been mortified to have him see her vomit, but she felt so ill, she was pitiably grateful for his care.

Paris was worried. She was only slightly better in spite of disgorging what had made her sick. He felt her head to see if she was fevered, but if anything, her skin had a cold, clammy feeling. Her ghostly pallor was alarming. "Are you feeling any better at all?" he queried.

She nodded mutely.

He brought water and towels and, with tender hands, washed the nastiness from her. Then he bent and efficiently cleaned up the mess she had made on the floor. He slipped off her shoes and urged her beneath the warm covers. He sat on the bed and waited a few moments until she seemed more settled, then he began to question her. "What did you eat today?"

"At breakfast I had only what your sisters had, and they took no harm," she said slowly.

"What about lunchtime?" he persisted.

She shook her head. "I took no lunch. I wasn't hungry after I visited Anne."

"Anne? You went up to Anne's chamber?" demanded Paris.

"Yes," faltered Tabrizia, "she had been painting my portrait."

"Did you eat any of Anne's chocolates?" he demanded.

"Yes." She raised wide eyes to his.

"My God Almighty. My wife is a morphia addict. I bring her the filthy stuff myself every time I go into Edinburgh." He was livid. He got up from the bed to pace the room. "I'll kill the bitch!" he swore. The room was so small, it caged him, imprisoning them both. His anger was so great, she could feel it, taste it almost. She knew fully his male recklessness, his strength, his cruelty, and she feared he would do murder. She could tell that what he held within him festered. If she could get him to talk, it would cleanse him, perhaps calm him to a degree. She dare not tell him of the grisly portrait Anne had done of her, or he would know Anne had deliberately tried to harm her, so she soothed, "It was an accident. Anne could not know the stuff would make me deathly sick."

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "You know nothing of her corruptness."

"No," she whispered, "tell me."

He moved to the small window and gazed with unseeing eyes into the black night. "A month after we were wed, she told me she was with child. At first I was elated. Then Anne took to her bed, said she was having a bad time; but I discovered she was ill because she had been taking an apothecary shop full of medicines to rid herself of the burden. I think that's when my loathing began. I hated her for what she had tried to do to my child. I got Margaret's Mother, Mrs. Sinclair, to nurse her and watch that she take no more filthy concoctions. I must have been extremely gullible where women were concerned. I had no idea she was carrying another man's child until she gave birth only six months after the wedding." He stopped talking: He was reliving the pain of it all.

"She must have been in a great panic, knowing the child was not yours," said Tabrizia softly.

"Why do you make excuses for her?" he demanded, turning dark, accusing eyes upon her.

"To keep you from doing murder," she confessed.

"Aye, murder. I suspect that's what she did to the wee bairn."

"Many babies die, Lord Cockburn."

"This one did, after a week of Anne's tender loving care."

Tabrizia had to know, so she asked quietly, "Did you beat her for killing the child or for being unfaithful to you?"

"Beat her?" he repeated with incredulous fury.. "Believe what you will, everyone else does. She cannot walk because she was injured during delivery, or so she swears. She began to take morphia and became addicted. How it first began, I'll never know, but I think it has affected her brain. The woman is mad. I even suspect her in the death of my father."

"But Anne cannot walk."

"Can't she?" He brooded darkly, then he saw the fatigue in her face and came to the bed. "Will you be all right?" he asked softly.

She nodded, and he left the room quietly.

Before sleep claimed her, she puzzled once again at the complexity of the man. Tonight she had glimpsed a side of him that he kept hidden from others. Her feelings for him had undergone so many changes since the night he had kidnapped her, she was confused as to what her true feelings were. He could be mocking and arrogant, hot-tempered and cruel, then cold-blooded and icy. But when he chose, he could be tender and gentle, wooing a woman with a compelling magnetism that made her senses betray her own body. She fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming one wild dream after another, where Rogue Cockburn changed from hunter to jailor to lover.

At three in the morning, the man Paris had watching Abraham's house rode into the castle and Ian went upstairs to appraise him of it. Paris dressed quickly and went down to greet the messenger. As he poured him a large measure of whisky to combat the cold night ride, he asked, "Are things beginning to move at last?"

"Aye, milord. Near on midnight a shipment of gold was transferred from the bank to Abrahams's house."

"I'll go and see McCabe at once. If I leave now, I'll be in Edinburgh at first light."

"Do you want me to ride back with you, milord?" asked his man, downing the whisky.

"No, you've done well and earned your rest." He turned to Ian. "Walk with me to the stables. I should-be back by midday. We'll be taking the Sea Witch out tomorrow. I want you and Troy to make sure her sails are sound and her rigging intact."

Troy rode into the stables, and Ian said, "Speak of the devil."

Paris raised an eyebrow. "Are you just getting home? Where the hell have you been?"

Troy grinned. "Tantallon, if you must know."

"Tantallon? Again?" asked Paris impatiently.

Troy asked, "Where are you off to?"

"Edinburgh. Events are moving forward. Take charge while I'm gone. Stick close to the castle and keep an eye on Tabrizia for me." Suddenly, a chilling suspicion crossed Paris's mind. "Good God, you're not bedding Margaret, are you?"

The grin left Troy's face. "What the hell business is that of yours?" he demanded aggressively.

"I'll tell you what business it is of mine, you stupid young fool. She's trying to get with child to produce an heir to the earldom. Magnus would marry her in a minute, and I could wave good-bye to the title and Tantallon Castle. I wouldn't oblige her in bed, so she's trying another Cockburn."

As Paris exposed the little intrigue to the light of day, Troy saw clearly how he had been duped. He paled at the thought that it might already be too late. He'd lain with her half a dozen times in the past week. "I never thought," choked Troy lamely

"That's because your bloody brains are all in your cock!" Then he relented and added in a more brotherly tone, "Don't worry about it, our Margaret Merrylegs is likely barren, anyway."

Dawn was breaking over the city as he arrived. He went directly to the town house for a fresh horse and a meal, then presented himself at McCabe's law office. "You will be receiving a communique from Abrahams. Tell him his wife is being held in England. The exchange will take place tomorrow: Just inland from famous Brotherston's Hole, where the sea spouts up through blowholes, is an inn. it's a well-known place called
The Haven
. His young bride will be waiting there. Warn him to put a guard on the gold; I don't want the coffers arriving empty."

"This concludes our business, Lord Cockburn. Join me in a drink before you depart. I offer a toast for a profitable conclusion before I bid you goodbye."

"Not good-bye, merely au revoir, as I shall need your services again soon."

He didn't stop at his favorite tavern on this trip but headed straight back to the castle. He had an important decision to make, and he didn't need a brain fogged with brandy fumes. In order for his plan to go smoothly in securing the gold, he needed another man he could trust implicitly to lead the men. A great fear filled his heart as he thought of Troy and how close he'd come to death two years ago when the Gordons had raided and set their villages afire. The wound Troy had taken was well healed, of course, but it had been a close call. He felt responsible for Troy's close call and would rather cut off his own arm than deliberately expose him to danger again. He knew Ian was more than capable of leading the men, but he also knew if he passed over Troy and chose Ian for the dangerous job, his brother would never forgive him; not in this life. What it boiled down to was the grim fact that he had no choice.

At the stables, he gave his horse a good rubdown, then went in search of Troy. He smiled and said, "Tomorrow's the day, but I can't pull it off without you."

"I can't wait," Troy responded immediately.

"Come, let's go down to the men's quarters. You'll need to pick at least ten good men. Here's the plan. The gold leaves in a wagon tomorrow morning. They think they are to deliver it to an inn close to the English border. It's a trap, of course. The law will be all over the place, ready to arrest us. The gold will have to head south along High Street, past the tollbooth. Just past the Salt Tron on the outskirts of Edinburgh is Balantine's Distillery."

"Don't we own half that distillery with Magnus?" asked Troy.

"Clever lad. I believe we do!" Paris grinned. "You and your men will await the wagon at the distillery. It will have armed guards with it, maybe only two, but possibly as many as six. Dispose of the guards, load the wagon with kegs of whisky atop the gold, turn it about so it's heading north. Go back through Edinburgh straight through to the port of Leith. I've got the easy part. I'll be waiting at Leith with the ship."

Troy's grin widened as he realized most of the danger would be his. "Consider it done!"

"I want you well armed, Troy. All your men will need pistols as well as their dirks."

"You are worrying already. I won't bungle it, you know."

After the men had been briefed to Paris's satisfaction, he went up to the solarium. It was a lovely room with large windows that allowed the afternoon sun to illuminate the brilliant oranges and yellows of the wall tapestries. Because it was harvest time, the mantel of the fireplace was decorated with a sheaf of wheat and branches cut from an oak tree, displaying its autumn-colored leaves and hard little acorns.

Tabrizia and Alexandria sat on stools making little corncob dolls for the children who would come to the harvest festival at the end of the week.

Paris swept Tabrizia with a look that examined her from head to foot. "Are you well today?" he asked with some concern.

She lifted her eyes to his and blushed with shame as she remembered how he had cleansed her the night before. "I'm fine today. I want to... thank you, milord." Her eyes lowered, and her lashes touched her cheeks. She was also remembering how gentle and tender he had been to her, and the pity the tale of his faithless wife had evoked. She knew her feelings for Paris were deepening. If she let her heart have its way, she would love him. If she was honest with herself, it was only duty she felt toward her husband in Edinburgh. Maxwell Abrahams was only a kind stranger, while this man was a familiar presence, though a most disturbing one. Yet she had exchanged vows before God with the other man and knew she had no choice but to return to him and be the obedient wife he wanted. A sigh escaped her lips.

Paris heard and looked at her hungrily. How could such a mere wisp of a girl affect him the way she did? The longing he felt for her grew stronger each time he laid eyes upon her, but what he wanted more than anything was for her to feel the same. He wanted her to respond to him from her heart. He wanted to see her eyes light with pleasure when he approached her. "I'm taking the
Sea Witch
out tomorrow. Would you like to sail with me?"