Emma Jensen - Entwined (3 page)

Behind him, Gerard sighed. "No, but he was with you willingly."

"And he lost his life for it." Nathan leaned his forehead against the cool glass. "Let me be, Matthew. For pity's sake, just let me be. I can be of no use to you. You know as well as anyone that I am not the man I once was."

"You are the
only
man who can be of any use, Oriel. Your wound... yes, I know. But I am not asking you to run anywhere. I am asking you to go to London to use your ears and eyes and brain, not your legs."

Nathan gave a harsh chuckle. "A comfort, that. Use sense, man. We are a country at war. Every unexplained shadow makes us wary. So Dennison had a tricky heart. That's all there is to it."

"I would be happy to think so. But I know better. Please, Oriel. It would simply be a matter of coming to London, going about your life as you always have there. I cannot move among the ton as you can."

"Rubbish."

"You are a marquess."

"That is merely a title."

"A title of great social importance. In London—"

"I am content here!"

Gerard ignored Nathan's snapped retort. "As I said before," he continued, "I have been in this line of work too long to believe in coincidence. There is
something
there, some connection to Almeida and the Busaco campaign. We simply need to find it."

"How can my returning to London possibly help? Rievaulx died in Lisbon, the others in France."

"Dennison—"

"Dennison is not connected!"

"I believe you know better. Think, man. There were ten of you in the company. You
were
the Ten. Now there are six, and it would have been five had you not survived the attack in Lisbon. Someone is coming after us, Oriel, one by one, and whoever it is had intimate knowledge of Dennison, of the circle in which he moved. Damn it, the man could have been at White's with Dennison and slipped something into his drink with no one the wiser."

"Supposition. No more."

"Oriel... Nathan." Gerard left his seat to stand beside him. "When you returned from the Continent and shut yourself up here, I did not press you.

It has been more than five months, and I need you now. You will find whatever there is to find. You always do."

The ache in Nathan's chest far surpassed that in his thigh. "Ah, Matthew.

Your confidence is misplaced. We're chasing shadows here."

"You have never let me down."

How very wrong he was, Nathan thought. He had failed everyone. "You are forgetting the most crucial issue. Beyond the fact that this is all conjecture, of course."

"And that is?"

Nathan's mouth twisted. "I am not whole, Matthew."

"I told you, I know—"

"You know
nothing!"
Nathan gripped the windowsill and fought for control. He took a steadying breath, then said, "You will stay the night, of course."

"I will. Thank you. But I must return to Town early in the morning."

"Well, you will have to leave without satisfaction then. I have a rather annoying domestic matter to attend to in the morning."

"We have very little time, Oriel. We cannot afford to waste any of it."

"There is never enough time, Matthew, and most is wasted." Nathan gave a humorless chuckle. "But now you have me indulging in maudlin and idiotic philosophy. Leave me to think on it. You return to London in the morning. I will contact you there."

Long after the other man had retired, Nathan remained in the library, gazing sightlessly into the guttering fire. Sleep was as evasive as it was unappealing. There was no English linen, no matter how fine, immune to the sweat of nightmares.

"Ah, Gabriel." He sighed, finding the one-sided conversations that had become so common since Rievaulx's death no more crazed than any of the few he carried on with the living. "Remind me again just what sort of future you envisioned for us."

Nathan made no move to collect the notes Gerard had left for him. What good would it do to hold the papers in his hand? He had become singularly incapable of managing his own affairs, although he was reasonably adept at living with that truth.

At moments such as this, Rievaulx's ghost, so real sometimes that he could see the man's flashing grin, was welcome. "Let's go back, shall we, Gabriel? Don't be silly—of course we can. You shall have Cecily, I the Lisbon barmaid, and together we will drown Dennison in the Ebro."

Cursing, he picked up his glass and hurled it against the hearth, where it shattered, sending the scent of brandy through the room. It really was a pity, he thought wearily, that he did not have the energy to crawl through the shards.

CHAPTER 2

Despite living in a fairly small house, Jamie Macleod was very good at being lost in it. In fact, Isobel decided as she reached the cellar door, he was rather good at being lost in general.

She found one of his tasseled slippers outside the door and picked it up.

She opened the door and saw the second slipper. It was still attached to James MacLeod's foot, if only by an inch. He was sprawled contentedly on the landing, snoring with gusto, an empty claret bottle nestled against his cheek and a nearly empty one clutched in his hand. Isobel was amused, but not at all surprised, to see that her father was holding it securely against any possibility of spilling what drops remained. Even unconscious, he would see to that.

"Oh, Papa," she said, sighing as she sank down beside him, "could you not have made it even to the kitchen?"

Jamie MacLeod did not respond. Instead, he smacked his lips together and proceeded to snore in a different key. Isobel reached out and prodded his shoulder. She was not especially gentle, but she knew a soft touch would be of as much use as trying to move a mountain with a feather. She prodded again, to no avail.

"Aye, of course. 'Twas a two-bottle night, after all." On two-bottle nights, more than a bit of poking was required.

She got a grip on the bottle he held and tugged. No response. Then she tugged harder. Still, James did not relinquish his hold, but he did open one eye. "Eh? Whass tha'?"

There was a bit of a struggle, but when it was over, Isobel had the bottle, and her father had lost the other slipper. "Come along now, time for bed,"

she coaxed. It was clear there would be no coherent conversation with him till morning.

"Isobel?" He had both eyes open now, the famous MacLeod green made all the more vivid by the red surrounding it. "Did ye want me for somethin'?"

She sighed. Then, unable to help herself, she patted his gray-whiskered cheek. "Not at all, Papa. I simply thought you might be more comfortable sleeping in your bed rather than on the stairs."

"Ye're a good lass, Izzy," he mumbled. "Ye're all good lasses. I dinna deserve you, miserable wretch that I am." A single tear slipped down the side of his reddened nose.

Isobel glanced down the stairs, scanning the shadows for another empty bottle. She knew that her father's Highland brogue thickened with the first bottle, but he only lapsed into damp lamentations of his unworthiness on three-bottle nights. Not that it mattered, she decided. He had had enough wine to effectively prevent him from being of any use when it came to answering questions.

"You really must try to move, darling," she said. " 'Tis cold here."

"Och,
aye, I'll see tae it..." He made a halfhearted attempt to rise, then sank down again. "Just like the waves," he announced thoughtfully. "Oop an' doon, oop an' doon."

Isobel knew she could get him into his bed quickly enough. She was no weakling and had had a good deal of practice. But she had just heard the first shout from the yard and knew she had best rescue her brothers before they drowned themselves in the stable trough.

"I'll send Margaret," she promised, then dropped a kiss onto the top of her father's wild gray head.

"You're a good lass," he said again.

"Papa..."

"Nay, nay. I'll get meself to bed." He pushed himself up again. "Just like the waves..." As Isobel hurried away, she heard his fuzzy baritone beginning, "O row ye boat, ye mariners..."

She left him to getting Annie o' Loch Royale over the sea to Lord Gregory and himself up the stairs.

Maggie was by the rear door, pulling a cloak over her night rail, when Isobel reached her. "They've arrived."

"So I heard." Isobel commandeered the cloak. "I won't have you catching a chill because of them. You see to the drunken fool inside."

As if on cue, Jamie's voice drifted from the stair landing. "Izzy? That ye?"

"Aye, Papa."

"Izzy, lass, 'tis a lowly toad I am, an undeserving wretch—"

"Not
now,
Papa." Isobel sighed and reached for the door. "I'll be back soon enough."

Uncustomary anger sparked in Maggie's eyes. "One of these days, you'll not be there, and they'll find themselves left to face the devil."

"Aye, well, the devil would have to face them, too. Fair trade, I would say. Oh, don't fret, darling. All will be well."

It occurred to Isobel as she entered the yard that those last words had become something of a chant since their mother's death. The problem, of course, was that with each new challenge, it became harder and harder to believe them.

After a good dozen such moonlight rides, as Tessa called them, Isobel knew the routine well. This time, however, there had been neither moon nor light. As the dense night fog turned to an icy drizzle, she set her jaw and vowed this would be the last time she attempted to rescue her brothers. The next time those thoughtless, witless young men took it into their heads to court disaster, she would let them go right ahead and do it.

Even as she had this thought, she knew she didn't mean it. The two might have the consideration of gnats, but they were her brothers. No matter what, Isobel was determined to see them healthy and safe.

After she ascertained that her brothers had not gone headfirst into the trough, she went in search of them. She found Geordie easily enough as he was retching again behind the stable. She left him to it and went in search of Rob. It took a bit more effort to locate him as he, for some reason, had climbed into the loft. He was sprawled in the hay, snoring contentedly, and did not so much as twitch when Isobel tossed a horse blanket over him.

She would have another talk with Mr. Harris as soon as she could. Not that it was likely to do any good. She could threaten, cajole, and beg him not to serve the boys, but the simple truth was that they had, upon their arrival five months earlier, quite charmed the village. No one would refuse them anything.

Of course, matters had become a bit strained when the MacLeod men had taken to leaving bills unpaid. But Margaret's sweet nature and talent with healing herbs had soothed as many ruffled feathers as ailing stomachs, and it was utterly impossible to stay angry with either the young lads or the aged one. With their angels' faces and devils' tongues, they could soften even the hardest heart.

Isobel returned to the house, satisfied that the latest situation was under control. What she needed was another cup or two of scalding hot tea and her sister's gentle presence.

Maggie was not alone. Their father was huddled at the kitchen table, looking rather like some pale, wizened woodland creature. His wild hair seemed but an extension of the graying herbs hanging above him, his skin a distressingly similar shade.

Annoyance forgotten, Isobel hurried to his side. "Papa?"

Margaret calmly took Isobel's cloak, then carried a steaming cup to the table. However, her lovely face was tight with strain. "Oh, he's well enough, Isobel, in body anyway. 'Tis a different sort of ailing. I've no faith in his wits at the moment."

"Maggie?" Startled by the sharp tone, Isobel's gaze moved from her father to her sister. "What is it?"

"You'd best hear it from him."

"But—"

"Ask him!" Maggie snapped. Then she folded into her own seat. " 'Tis bad, Izzy."

Frightened now, Isobel murmured, "Papa?"

"I'm a wretch of a man, Izzy. A snake, a lowly worm." Slowly he opened his hand, which had been clenched on the table. Several gold coins slid between his fingers to clink against the polished wood.

Her voice shaky now, Maggie said, "There's more, too. I found a pouch beneath him when I helped him from the stairs. It bears the crest of the Hall."

Isobel felt as if her heart had landed somewhere in the vicinity of her feet. "I don't suppose there's any chance his lordship was feeling generous."

Drunk or no, Jamie MacLeod knew better than to play dense with his eldest daughter. He dropped his head into his hands and, saying nothing, answered her with perfect clarity.

Isobel gritted her teeth as she stood and stretched cramped muscles. The marquess, assuming the light in the window had indeed been his, deserved every hushed word the villagers spoke of him. The man
was
inhuman if he kept such hours every night.

She had never met Lord Oriel, nor had she even gotten much of a look at him. As far as she knew, he had not left the estate since taking her father into his employ five months earlier, but neither had he appeared much inside its bounds. Her only view thus far had been of him careening wildly across the fields behind the cottage on an enormous gray stallion, the animal dodging boulders and leaping walls as if ridden by the devil himself.

Now, to the minimal knowledge that the marquess had night black hair, no apparent regard for the safety of his limbs, and appallingly poor luck in his choice of a secretary, Isobel could add that he did not sleep.

As far as she was concerned, the man could drink blood and howl at the moon. What mattered was that he had finally taken himself out of the library and she could take herself in. All she wanted was to return the marquess's money, then creep home and into bed.

First things first, however, and the library window beckoned. Oriel Hall was a monstrous place. It was not unattractive, really, with its rosy stone and legion of mullioned windows, but it was behemoth nonetheless. Isobel had managed to get the information out of her father that he had taken the money from the marquess's desk in the library, and he had given her reasonably clear directions on where to find the library among the countless windows. Now, after a miserable hour of lurking low among the spiny bushes that grew under the library window, she was frozen, aching, and weary.