Emma Jensen - Entwined (5 page)

"Why—well..."
Lie!
Isobel told herself fiercely. "He would have— It would have been..."

"You will make yourself ill trying to prevaricate, Miss MacLeod. I have already come to the conclusion that honesty is a great strength of yours—or a great weakness." Oriel rubbed his thigh again, as if to push away a weakness of his own. "Were his circumstances so ill, then? I was under the impression that I was paying him a sufficient salary."

Sufficient perhaps for a man with better habits and fewer children. "You are, my lord."

"As I thought. Thus far, I see no reason for clemency."

"I do not suppose you would. But I do have one more heart-deep belief,"

Isobel said wearily.

"And it is?"

She took a breath. "I believe everyone deserves a second chance, my lord."

She did not flinch this time as his eyes passed, cold and unseeing, over her face. "Redemption, is it, Miss MacLeod? What a shame. I was beginning to think you were genuinely clever. That is what your father has said, you know."

"He spoke of redemption?" How very like James MacLeod to pave his own wretched way.

"No. He spoke of you."

"He— For God's sake, why?"

"I asked." Before Isobel could ponder that, he continued. "You are the bright one with the granite head, your sister the beauty with the impossibly soft heart. Together, you keep the family together."

Stunned that her father was so clear on the matter, and mortified that he would have spoken so to his employer, Isobel said nothing.

"You do not contradict me?" Oriel demanded.

"Nay."

"And you do not envy your sister who got all the beauty?"

Perhaps, had the entire night not been so bizarre, she might have found the question odd, or even resented it. Instead, she merely sighed. "We cannot all be beautiful, my lord. 'Tis like sense: its lack noted more by those with it than without."

"How true. Perhaps you are wise after all. You did try to return the money." He paused. "That is what you were doing, was it not?"

Isobel stiffened. "Aye, I was trying to return the money."

This time, when the marquess's brow went up, it was followed by the corner of his mouth. "You reproach me, Miss MacLeod."

"I do not—"

"And lie again. Curious turn of events, is it not? All of it. Your father steals from me, you creep into my home in the middle of the night with foolish honor, and then your tone reproaches me for catching you at it. How did I become the villain of this piece?"

If there was an answer to that, Isobel certainly did not have it.

"Go home, Isobel MacLeod."

"I-I beg your pardon?"

"Use the door—or window. I don't care which. Go home."

She shook her head, not sure she had heard correctly. "You're letting me go?"

"More than that. I am commanding you. And you will see to it that your father attends me in the morning as planned."

"Attends you?"

"Do not make me question your hearing as well. We have an appointment for nine. Make certain he is here." When Isobel did not move, the marquess ran a hand wearily over his brow. "Ah, yes. You wait for the voice of doom. Perhaps it is cruel of me to choose this method, Miss MacLeod. The indiscretion, after all, was not yours. But I am not feeling particularly kind, and I suggest that you do not allow your father to take flight. It would serve him ill, and your family worse."

Lord Oriel might indeed be cruel, Isobel mused, but he was no fool. If she told her father about this encounter, there was little doubt that he would take it into his head to make a run for Scotland. And less doubt that the results would bode ill indeed for them all.

"He will attend you in the morning, my lord."

"Good. Now go away."

Even as Isobel rose, she couldn't take her eyes off his forehead. Where he had run his hand across his brow was dark streak. "My lord—you are—"

"Cease stammering at me, damn it, and leave!" Oriel turned away from her to face the mantel. "Before I decide that the sins of the father should be visited upon the daughter after all."

It was good advice, certainly, but Isobel did not heed it. Instead, wondering where her last vestige of sense had gone, she made her way toward him, drawing her handkerchief from her pocket as she went. "You are bleeding."

He did not respond when she reached his side, nor did he make any move to take the handkerchief from her hand. So she reached to place it in his.

The blood had seeped from his palm into a faint line around his thumb.

"How?..." Isobel took a step closer, then stopped as glass crunched under her foot.

"Are you fond of tempting providence, Miss MacLeod?"

She ignored the growl, and the fact that, standing as close as she was to him, he all but filled her vision. "You've cut yourself, my lord."

"I was careless with a glass earlier and encountered it while trying to give you some light. Now, take yourself—"

But she already had his hand in hers. The sight of the barely protruding shard was distressing, not in itself, but in the fact that he had not removed it. She did not want to begin speculating on what sort of man would ignore such a wound.

Shaken anew, she removed the glass and pressed her handkerchief where it had been. Then she fled.

His voice stopped her in the doorway. "You did not answer me."

"I did not—?"

He gave an impatient snort. "Do you believe in tempting providence?"

"Nay," she managed weakly, and tried again to leave.

"I am not sure whether that is another lie." He shrugged. "No matter.

Just remember, Miss MacLeod, no actions pass without consequence.

Yours of tonight are no exception."

In the dark, Isobel made two wrong turns and spent a full minute tugging at what turned out to be a wall medallion rather than a doorknob before she finally located the massive front portal. At last, as she made her shaky way across the fields, she was able to think on the marquess's final words. She decided they were far from comforting.

Nathan was facing the gardens through the library window again, this time in morning's light. He inhaled deeply, knowing better than to think Isobel's scent had lingered through the hours. It had filled his senses, a faint aura of honey and rosemary, from the moment she had climbed through the window. And it had taunted him even after she left through the door.

Again he smelled her, Isobel MacLeod, and knew she had returned.

It had crossed his mind that she might. He was not certain what she hoped to accomplish. Perhaps she would try to dissuade him from throttling her father, not that he had any intention of doing something so physical.

Jamie MacLeod was a weak man, and basically a stupid one. Nathan had been perfectly aware of that when he offered MacLeod the position. All Nathan had required was someone who could read, write, and manage basic sums. He had not wanted either a particularly clever secretary or a dedicated one.

The Scot had seemed a good choice. Overeducated to the point that he thought in poetic meter, MacLeod was a literate fool. And he was desperately in need of funds. Being a gentleman on his native Skye had not put food into his children's mouths. Neither, apparently, had his stints in Edinburgh, Dumfries, or Manchester. From what Nathan had been able to ascertain, MacLeod's charm had made it simple enough for him to find three positions as a schoolmaster; his passion for Burns and brandy had made it impossible for him to keep any of them.

Irresponsibility aside, the man had seemed genuinely devoted to his five children and willing to do whatever was necessary to see them set well in life. Yes, Nathan had expected MacLeod to blunder a bit in the job. And, in five months, there had been distinct blundering but nothing serious. What Nathan had not expected was larceny.

It was a shame, really. Nathan had enjoyed the man's inept presence—

the lilting brogue that deepened with drink, the unsolicited tales of his deceased fiery wife and lively daughters. The sons were not particularly interesting; Nathan detested hearing of yet another generation of young bucks growing into fools as great as the preceding. But the daughters...

Maggie with her angel's face and gentle ways, Tessa the frighteningly clever imp. And Isobel, unmarried at twenty-five, always battling her own romantic heart with her granite head as she tried to keep the family above water.

At first, Nathan had not wanted to hear these things about his secretary's family. Better, he had always believed, to keep such matters at a distance.

But MacLeod prattled on whether Nathan listened or not, and before long, he had found himself wishing he could meet these vibrant characters and waiting for the next installment. He followed the tales as Tessa was pulled from trees and was caught listening at keyholes, as Maggie enacted one miracle cure for chilblains after another, and smiled to himself as Isobel took to bartering like a charwoman with the village merchants.

Sadly, as with most of fife, it was now time to put practicality ahead of amusement. An inept secretary was one matter, a thieving one quite another.

Nathan recognized the smell of wine and some strong soap undoubtedly meant to remove the aroma of alcohol coming from Jamie MacLeod.

Neither he nor his daughter had spoken.

Odd, how one could identify scents with so little effort, Nathan thought.

It was not a skill he had ever thought to hone, but it aided him now, as he stood with his back to the room.

"Sit down," he commanded harshly. There was a faint scraping of chair legs. He waited several moments, then added, "You, too, Miss MacLeod."

Her indrawn breath was half surprise, half pique as she obeyed. So she did not want to be seated. He did not blame her. He imagined he made quite an imposing figure, deliberately turned away from them, towering dark against the sunlit window. She would know the advantage he held, not just by who he was, but by standing with the massive desk between them. It was a tactic he had learned as a boy from his father, and one he had used countless times through the succeeding decades.

He had added another touch. The coin pouch sat on the cleared desk, a blatant reminder of just why they were gathered. Idly he wondered if MacLeod's fingers itched with greed at the sight or trembled with apprehension.

"I find myself in a unique position here. To my knowledge, I have never had an employee steal from me before."

He heard Isobel's barely audible sniff and felt his mouth twitching. Yes, she was probably right. It was more than likely that he had been fleeced before, perhaps frequently, and simply remained ignorant. Smart girl. It really was a wonder that she had sprung from the loins of such a fool.

And fool MacLeod was. Instead of being silent as circumstance dictated, the man opened his mouth and promptly inserted his foot. "I haven't the foggiest idea what you mean, my lord. Have you been robbed?"

So it appeared Isobel had not informed him of the events of the night before. Curious, even as it made sense. MacLeod would no doubt have tried something foolish. Nathan wondered how the girl had explained her desire to attend this meeting. One thing he had learned after mere minutes in her company, something her father probably did not even know, was that she choked on dishonest words.

"Do not make matters worse for yourself, MacLeod. The evidence speaks for itself."

Still without looking at the seated pair, Nathan turned and reached for the pouch. His leg, stiff from the hours he had sat awake in a wing chair, nearly buckled as he made the turn. With one hand in his pocket, he had to drop the coins and steady himself against the desk. It was a minor stumble, but he was forced into the awkward and embarrassing task of retrieving the pouch from the floor.

He groped for the pouch, his damaged thigh protesting each motion. By the time he was upright again, he could feel the dull flush in his cheeks and knew some of his control over the situation had been lost.

The MacLeods would know better than to laugh, or even smirk; they were still very much at his mercy. But the weakness had shown. Jaw stiff, Nathan dropped the coins back onto the desk and spun again to face the window.

"Your father and I have matters to discuss, Miss MacLeod. I think it would be best if you were to leave us."

There was a long silence. Too long. Then he heard the rustle of her skirts as she rose. He waited for her to speak to her father, to leave. She did neither.

"Is there something you wish to say? In your father's defense, perhaps?"

Nathan asked.

It seemed ages before she replied, "I do have something to say, aye."

"Speak, then. I don't have time to waste."

"No? Well, 'tis but a few words." He heard her draw a soft breath. "I've learned to trust what I feel over what I see. 'Tisn't as simple as one might think, my lord, is it?"

She did not wait for a response. There was another waft of rosemary and honey as she left the room.

It took Nathan a moment to comprehend her meaning, but when he did, the significance slid like ice down his spine. By the time he turned, Isobel was gone, closing the library door behind her without another word.

Silence would have been advisable on her father's part. No, more than that, it was necessary. Nathan needed to think, needed to catch his breath and get his suddenly tumbled thoughts in order. But MacLeod, never more stupid, it seemed, than when insight was most important, took no heed of his employer's agitation.

"I would apologize, my lord, for my daughter's behavior. She's a sensible creature ordinarily, is Izzy, but at times I cannot fathom what she could possibly—"

A fierce glare from Nathan immediately silenced the man. Nathan's mind was spinning. Suddenly, his planned satisfaction against MacLeod no longer seemed important. He flexed the hand that Isobel had clumsily bandaged the night before.

"I have changed my mind as to your fate. Your daughter's sense, MacLeod, has done you a great service." Inwardly, he added,
Perhaps at
her own great expense.

Yes, Isobel MacLeod had changed everything by the simplest of revelations. He had to work quickly now to silence her. It would be unfortunate indeed if she was to spread what she knew.