Emma Jensen - Entwined (31 page)

"Isobel, listen to me."

"Aye?"

He drew a shaky breath.
You return to Hertfordshire tomorrow. I'm
sending you away because I can't bear to think of what might happen to you
if you stay.
He found he could not force the words past his tongue. "Are you content here?"

"Well, that's an odd question, isn't it? Should I moan a wee bit louder for you next time?"

"I did not mean here in bed. I meant London."

She sighed and propped herself on an elbow. "Middle of the night," she complained to the wall, "and the man goes soft-headed.

Nathan,
cagairean,
you've no desire to hear my opinions of your city now."

"What does that word mean?"

"It means m'darlin', darling. What, did you think I was calling you something foul?" She nipped at his ear. "I've told you I never curse at you in bed." She feathered kisses downward then, over his throat to the hollow where his heart was beating—harder now than moments before. "Ah, 'tis the pelt of a selkie you have."

Thoroughly distracted from his less pleasant thoughts, he covered her hand as it caressed his chest. "And what is a selkie?"

"A selkie is a beast of enchantment, half man and half seal. We've a fair number on Skye."

"Oh? They must be an odd sight, flipper and foot."

She laughed. "Nay, you'd never know a selkie but for getting close enough to look into his eyes. Whether in form of man or seal, the eyes are the same. Longing."

"For?"

"For whatever they don't have; the land if they're in the sea and the sea if they're on land. 'Tis the fate of a selkie never to have what he yearns for most. The enchantment won't let him. So sad." Her voice had gone soft, serious.

"Why, Isobel, one would think you actually believed in such things."

This time he yelped as she tugged at his chest hair. "I'm an islander, Lord Oriel, and would be a poor one indeed if I were to deny the existence of selkies. As a child I always believed I might capture one. You see, they shed their sealskins when they come to walk among us and if you hide the skin, they must stay on land. 'Tis said a woman who takes a selkie for a husband will have a mate with a magic touch and faithful heart, but a wandering soul."

Even as he knew she was teasing, he fell into the lure of the tale. "And if they hide their skins, how do you know you have a selkie on your hands."

"I told you, 'tis the eyes. There's wanting there, for what they cannot be or have." She rubbed at his cheek then. "Of course, they've fierce whiskers, too."

Nathan reached up to finger his jaw and the scratchy growth there. Both the act and his expression were so wistful that Isobel nearly laughed. Next time she would tell him the myth of the kelpies, dark, wild-eyed horses who were guardians of the water. Any woman foolish enough to be lured onto a kelpie would soon find herself on a reckless ride.

"Now, what was it you were asking me? About London, was it?"

His hand stilled on his jaw. "It doesn't matter. I—" He fell silent, his muscles going taut against her.

"Nathan?"

"Shh."
He peered intently toward the door. Then, in a move so sudden and smooth she had no time to object, he slid from the bed.

The sudden crash in the hallway had her all but leaping to join him. On her knees, she groped about for her dressing gown, which had fallen to the floor, and found herself with a faceful of linen when Nathan shoved her down again.

"Stay there!" he snapped, and moved into the hall.

She was not about to obey. An ominous thump sounded as she quickly donned her dressing gown, an eerie moan as she scrambled for the tinderbox. By the time she got a candle lit, there had been more banging, several yelps, and finally a frightening silence.

Gripping the heavy silver candlestick to use as much for a weapon as a torch, she stepped into the hall. And almost tripped over an arm. "Nathan?"

she whispered, her heart thundering as she followed the line of an unfamiliar sleeve up past a padded shoulder, to bloodshot green eyes and wild auburn hair.
"Geordie?
What?—"

"Think it was your husband," he mumbled. "Can't be sure. Great, hulking, naked man with a fist like a mace?"

There was one final thump from somewhere down the hall. Isobel turned just in time to see her great, hulking, naked husband step over a fallen table. He limped toward her, gripping a strip of white cloth in one hand.

"I believe," he said as he groped for his door, "your brother has lost his cravat."

"Dia s'Muire."
Isobel hurried toward the stairs. Rob was sprawled there, his chin resting on the top step. "Rob?" There was no response. "Robbie?"

He slowly turned his head, squinted. "Ah, Izzy. Be a good lass and give me an arm. I seem to have been felled by something."

That something, she decided as she leaned down to help him, had been as much liquor as Nathan. In the faint candlelight, Rob's skin was the palest green, and he smelled like a still. Hoping he would not be ill all over her, she alternately pushed and tugged until she had him upright and weaving his way down the hall. Geordie was still flat on his back, contemplating the shadowed ceiling.

Nathan reappeared as they passed his door. He was somewhat better covered, having donned breeches and a shirt, which he hadn't bothered to button. Rob's cravat still dangled from his fingers. "I am going to kill them," he growled.

"Seems to me you've got the job half-done already." Isobel staggered a bit under Rob's weight. "What were you thinking, going after them like that?"

"I was thinking to save— Oh, never mind that." He moved down the hallway, and his foot connected with the arm of the prostrate Geordie. "Can you walk, MacLeod?"

" 'Course," was the fuzzy reply. "Soon as I can get up." Nathan gave a lurid curse, then hauled the younger man up by the collar. "Thank you,"

Geordie said solemnly. "Much obliged." Then his knees buckled and he was down again.

"What should we do with them?" Nathan demanded as he got a good grip on Geordie's coat.

"Put them to bed. I assume 'tis where they were heading when you thundered out and flattened them."

"Isobel," he said wearily, "if you could possibly hold the sisterly indignation for a few minutes..." He tried to find the most productive manner of holding onto his burden without getting too close. "I don't trust your brother not to bock whatever he was drinking all over me."

"Let him go, then. I'll tend to him in a minute."

It took a bit of effort, but Isobel eventually got Rob settled across a guest-chamber bed. Nathan, handling Geordie very carefully, managed to get him as far as the bedroom, where he left him on the floor. As he was turning to leave the room Geordie got a weak grip on his ankle. "What is it?" Nathan growled.

"Forgot Will," Geordie mumbled, then hiccuped. Nathan sighed, then leaned closer to hear the rest.

Moments later, he was on his way down the stairs in search of his own brother. Heeding MacLeod's garbled instructions, he slowed near the bottom and saved himself a tumble. He encountered a shoulder first. He bent and, running his hand downward, located the rest of his brother. Will was facedown at the base of the stairs, one arm threaded through the spokes of the bannister.

Nathan prodded him with a toe. "William!" His brother mumbled something unintelligible. Resigned, Nathan crouched down, wondering how he was going to get the bounder untangled and up the stairs without causing injury to either of them. In the end, he settled for looping Will's arms over his own shoulders and essentially crawling upward.

In typical fashion, William awakened when they reached the top. "Ah, Nathan. Didn't mean to wake you, old trout." Nathan merely grunted.

"MacLeods are somewhere behind me. Do let them in."

"They're in."

"Ah, good. Good. S'pose they'll have to leave Town in the morning.

Damned shame. Splendid fellows."

Nathan paused in the process of disengaging himself. "What do you mean?"

"In deep, you know. Haven't the foggiest how they'll pay up." Will's head lolled against Nathan's shoulder. "Ah, 'course. You'll lend 'em the blunt, won't you, Nat? Always good for a few pounds... few hundred. Good man." Apparently reassured, he was out again.

Nathan left him there, snoring. Having a very good idea what had happened, and at the tail end of his patience, he made his way back to where he had left the three MacLeods. Isobel had managed to get the second onto the bed beside the first and was struggling with what appeared to be a boot, muttering a string of Gaelic invectives all the while.

"Wake them," Nathan commanded.

"Why? 'Twould take a cannon blast."

"Isobel. Since you are no doubt vastly experienced in such matters, I am giving you the opportunity to rouse them. Otherwise, I will do it, and I daresay you would not approve of my methods."

Some ten minutes later, courtesy of a good deal of coaxing and a few splashes of water, the brothers were propped up and reasonably alert.

Nathan had sat silently through the operations. Now he demanded, "Where have you been tonight?"

"Why, they were out with your brother, Nathan—"

"Isobel, please. Your brothers will answer for themselves.
Where,
MacLeod?" He had no idea which brother he was addressing. It didn't matter. "And how much did you lose?"

This got a response.

"How much of what?" one mumbled.

"Haven't the foggiest what you mean," said the other.

"Are you looking for something, milord? 'Fraid we can't be of much help. Had a drink or two, you know."

Nathan had a strong urge to stalk over and bang the two auburn heads together.

"Enough!" He aimed what he hoped was a suitably intimidating glare in their direction, flexing his fists at the same time. "I am in no mood for games."

No doubt their vision was as blurred as his, but they apparently saw the gesture, for Nathan heard a distinct scuffling.

Isobel reached over and gently touched his arm. "Nathan, perhaps I—"

"Perhaps you will trust me with this."

She withdrew. "More of that, is it? Oh, very well."

"Thank you. Now, gentlemen, how much did you lose?"

There was a long silence before one replied, "How did you know?"

"Which one are you?"

"Rob."

"Rob. I will ask the questions from now on. Is that clear?"

He received a sullen "Aye."

"Again, how much? Why don't you be the one to tell me, Geordie?" He could not quite hear the response. "Don't toy with me, damn it!
How
much?"

This time, the amount came loud and only slightly slurred. "Four...

hundred."

Isobel was on her feet like a shot. "Four hundred pounds?
Mac
Muire,
have you no sense at all?" She let loose with a harangue in Gaelic.

Nathan had no idea what she was saying, but he knew her brothers certainly did. He could imagine them shrinking against the headboard.

He waited patiently for her to finish. "I quite agree, my dear."

"Och,
Nathan. I have no idea what to say."

"I am certain you said it all quite well." He addressed whichever brother still remained upright after her tirade. "Where were you playing?"

"Watier's."

"Watier's?" Isobel repeated. "How did you get in there, Robbie? You've no—" She let her breath out in a slow hiss. "William."

"You'll not blame him!" Geordie came quickly if clumsily to his new crony's defense. "He instruc— insect—taught us quite thoroughly on the matter of club play. And he lost but a hundred."

Nathan cursed. He really was going to have to do something about his own brother. But first he had to see to Isobel's. "I sincerely hope it took you more than one hand to lose four hundred pounds."

"A good deal more than one," came the glum answer. "Damn me if the fellow didn't string us like trout. Showed up late at our table, bottle in hand and looking as if he'd already put a goodly amount away. He'd lose a few hands, we'd be up a tenner then, well..."

There seemed to be no end to the male MacLeod's stupidity, Nathan thought. They had fallen for the age-old ploy of a man arriving at the gaming table ostensibly drunk. No doubt they themselves had been well sotted and had had no excuse for continuing to play.

"Thought we had him plenty of times, my lord," the other offered.

"Then he'd draw a flush, and we'd be out the ten. Devil's own luck."

"Devil's own skill," the other corrected.

Nathan leaned forward. "Are you saying the man cheated?"

"Wouldn't say it to his face! Damned scary brute. We might be unlucky, Oriel, but we ain't stupid!"

Difficult as it was, Nathan held his tongue. There were more important matters to be considered than helping idiots see their own idiocy. He could think of any number of damned scary brutes who might be found at Watier's tables. Quite a few of them would be more than capable of fleecing a pair of green cubs out of four hundred pounds.

He had the distressing feeling he would soon be parting with that very amount. And cursed inwardly. He could have bought the pair a cottage in the northernmost reaches of Scotland for that, with enough money left to employ a keeper to watch them for a decade.

On the bright side, he now had an irrefutable reason for sending them home with their sister.

"Very well. You will give me the fellow's name. Then you will obediently, quietly, sleep until morning. And if you so much as stick a toe outside this house before I've spoken with you again, you will find yourselves making your way back to Hertfordshire tied
behind
the coach.

Have I made myself clear?"

"Damn it, Oriel, you cannot order us—"

A sharp Gaelic phrase from Isobel put an abrupt stop to that sentiment.

"Who was it, Rob?" Nathan demanded.

He should not have been surprised, really. But he still felt his jaw clenching when he heard the reply. "A viscount. Lord St. Wulfstan."

Well, there it was. And how simple it must have been. All St. Wulfstan had to do was find the connection between the brothers and Nathan, cast out a lure, and draw the line taut. Mutely, Nathan rose to his feet and limped from the room. He needed to be away from the MacLeods, needed to clear his own mind and still the new churning of his gut.
St. Wulfstan.