Emma Jensen - Entwined (6 page)

It galled him, even as it amazed him that one young woman had, in the space of two fleeting encounters, realized what no one else had in half a year.

She knew he was blind.

CHAPTER 4

The strain of waiting for her father to return from the Hall was turning Isobel into a jittery mess. Up to her elbows in flour, she tried hard to concentrate on the simple, calming task of kneading dough and to ignore her brothers' cheerful blathering.

"Again, Izzy. What sort of cravat was he sporting?"

She bit back a more caustic retort and answered, "A white one, Robbie.

I can tell you no more than that."

Visibly disappointed, her brother fingered his own messy Orientale and sighed. "Ain't fair, you know, being born into all that. If I had half his blunt, I would cut quite a dash in London. Wouldn't hole myself up in the country like some bloody recluse."

Geordie, busy with straightening the sleeve of his coat, chimed in,

"White's, Bond Street... Manton's!"

The last was spoken in a reverent whisper, and Isobel rolled her eyes.

Knowing her brothers, if they were allowed into Manton's, the elite London shooting gallery, they would most likely blow off their own toes. The only use Isobel could find for her brothers' shooting at gallery targets would be that they might be able, then, to take their meager skill outside to shoot something edible, like a grouse.

Of course, every bird within miles belonged to Lord Oriel. According to her father, the man had never forbidden hunting on his lands. No one in the area went hungry, nor had Isobel ever heard reports of anyone's being punished for poaching. The inevitable question was whether the marquess was truly charitable or just disinterested.

More than once during their months in residence, Isobel had caught herself speculating on how very much belonged to the man. He had land as far as the eye could see, herds of prime cattle, the monstrous house. He even owned the people insomuch as people could be owned.

And now, as surely as if they had been purchased on the block, he owned the MacLeods.

"What of his boots, Izzy? Were they Hessians? Do you suppose he polishes them with champagne froth like Brummell?"

Mired in her decidedly sour musings, Isobel did not have the energy to do more than gaze wearily in Rob's direction. Maggie came quickly to her aid, turning from the stove to flutter her apron at the boys, "Listen to yourself, Robbie MacLeod! Asking of the man's boots! Better that you take yours into the stable muck. The place won't become clean of its own effort."

Geordie and Rob all but upset their chairs in their haste to get out of them. Of course, Isobel knew, their rapid exit from the room would take them nowhere near the stable, but it did get them out from underfoot. She would be the one who would end up wielding the pitchfork. Rob and Geordie were heading toward the river as fast as their unglossed boots would carry them.

"There," Margaret announced with a sigh as the outer door slammed.

"We'll be free of them 'til their stomachs bring them home."

"A fine thing to be grateful for," was Isobel's dry retort. "If they'd half the passion for honorable employ as they do for sport—"

"Oh, Izzy, leave them be. They'll be no help at all in the matter, so better to have them away."

True enough. At least Maggie had not gone so far as to absolve them of guilt in the mess. Their father had taken the money, certainly, and Jamie had taught his sons their wasteful ways, but neither Rob nor Geordie showed any inclination to improve themselves—and they were responsible for much of the depletion of the stolen funds.

Isobel's fists clenched in anger. Maggie, calm as ever, gently slid the earthenware bowl out from under her hands and set it aside. The dough was most likely ruined anyway. She had taken some small comfort from kneading with unnecessary force.

In the hours that had passed since her return home, Isobel had been restless, heartsick, certain she had sealed their fate through her impetuous words to the marquess. She had performed her tasks, poor as her efforts had been, out of habit. It was baking day, so she was baking, when she would have liked nothing better than to rush off to the river herself, scattering shoes and stockings as she went, and plunging in to her knees.

As if the clear, cool water could wash away her troubles.

Heedless of the flour coating her hands, she sank into a chair. "I could not tell you what sort of boots he was wearing if my life depended upon it, Maggie, but we're well under his heel. He was so... cold."

Perhaps she should have kept silent on the entire matter, but the strain had been too much. She had arrived home, chilled in more than body, and poured the miserable tale into her sister's lap.

Now, as Maggie tipped the too-stiff dough into a pan, she said exactly what she had then: "We'll panic when we must."

It seemed as good a time as any for a bit of well-deserved panic. No sense, Isobel thought, in waiting for better. Before she could say so, however, her sister continued, "Squire Patton would take the hunter. No doubt he'd cheat us out of half the fair price, but it would be something. We could repay Lord Oriel, and go—"

"Where?" Isobel's voice was sharper than she intended. "Papa has surely lost this position and has shredded any chance of finding another. Who would hire a man fool enough to steal from a marquess?"

"There must be a village or two where this particular marquess is unknown." Maggie replied, her smile strained.

"Aye, to be sure. And the boys will no doubt behave themselves perfectly in some distant corner of Wales or Cornwall."

It was a grim thought, that of Rob and Geordie truly rusticating. On Skye, the pair had been bored enough to create their own amusement, an admirable pursuit ordinarily, but taken to new lows by the male MacLeods.

It had been pure chance that a forgotten book of sermons had caused Reverend Biggs to return to the kirk on the night the boys had arranged for their mouse races. The good reverend, on finding his second-best altar cloth doubling as a track, had not murdered them on the spot. Not that his position as a man of God had stilled his gnarled hands. Nay, it was simply that he had taken such a fit that Lachlann MacDomhnall, whose mouse had been winning at the time, had been forced to toss the man over his massive shoulder and head for the MacLeod cottage at a dead run.

A dose of Maggie's Saint-John's-wort tea had turned Mr. Biggs from vivid red to a calmer pink; a stronger dose of her gentle coaxing had relaxed his grip on his walking stick. But the following week's sermon had included such a stinging and direct tirade against the boys that even Isobel's ears had rung with it. Less than a month later, the MacLeods had decamped for Edinburgh.

Everyone had been happy enough there, even Maggie, despite the fact that fresh herbs were near impossible to come by. Perhaps they would have been there still had not Jamie taken it upon himself to storm the Holyrood Castle gate after downing two bottles of brandy. And he might have gotten away with it had he not ended up wedged between wrought-iron bars too narrow for even his slight form. His employer at the time had been one of those required to get him unstuck.

In Dumfries, all three MacLeod men had decided Jamie's small school would look ever so much better if painted with green stripes. Their departure from Manchester had been precipitated by a foray to a distillery warehouse—on Christmas Sunday. That escapade, too, might have gone unnoticed had not Jamie been so overwhelmed with whiskey and bonhomie that he climbed to the roof, finding it the best possible location from which to regale the city with Burns's "Scotch Drink."

To date, he still insisted that he would not have been dismissed from his teaching position had he chosen an English poem.

Isobel could not fathom what had provoked the change from foolishness to larcenousness, but it was too late to speculate, and useless besides. The simple truth was that she was bone-weary and, now, at a complete loss as to what to do next. She had promised her mother that she would take care of her father and siblings. It had been a heavy burden for a girl of nineteen and was near crushing six years later.

How on earth could she, a harried young woman with too much brain and too little beauty to aid her, convince a ravaged and reclusive nobleman that he should not do precisely what was his right and boot them all out onto their posteriors? All things considered, few would censure him for demanding a great deal more retribution than that.

In trying to describe both meetings with the marquess to Maggie, Isobel had been unable to find words even close to expressing the man's cold resolve. All she had been capable of explaining was how thoroughly Jamie's folly had trapped them.

She had not mentioned the other matter at all. There had been no noble intent in refraining from exposing the lord's blindness, nor even a hope of later using it to bargain. No, she had simply decided to keep the knowledge to herself for the single reason that Lord Oriel would, she was sure, expect her to do just the opposite.

Isobel, after all, was a MacLeod. Doing the expected was more than her proud Scots blood would allow.

"Isobel?" Her sister's voice cut into her thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"We could go home."

Isobel's heart wrenched. Across the table, so adept at hiding her own sorrow that it appeared she might have forgotten it, Maggie sat with her serene Madonna's smile undimmed and clearly ached for Skye.

Home.
Away from this impossible, cursed England. What a terrible shame, Isobel thought, that no matter how appealing the possibility, they could not return to Skye, at least for the present. It was just as great a shame that it was only the MacLeod women who seemed to comprehend that.

"Och,
Mairghread Líl." Their hands met, linked.
"Nam b'urrainn
dhomh, bheirrin mi dhut..."

"I know, Izzy." Maggie's fingers tightened around Isobel's. "If you could, you would give me earth, sea, and Skye. And you must believe I am content wherever my family is."

"Aye, well, how do you feel about Australia, then?" Isobel knew it was a weak attempt at humor, but it was all she had to offer at the moment.

Maggie even managed a faint laugh. "I've heard there are animals there who resemble monstrous mice and actually box..."

"Kangaroos."

"Aye? Well, I daresay the boys could have a go at sparring with them."

With that, she slid her hand from Isobel's and went to remove a pan of shortbread from the oven. Calm, as always, Maggie would not indulge her sister with bitter and maudlin contemplations of their fate. Nor did she so much as flinch when Tessa leapt into the room, bearing a goodly amount of dirt and no footwear whatsoever.

"Shoes." Maggie sighed and deftly lifted the shortbread from the girl's grubby reach.

Tessa shrugged. " 'Tis spring. Shoes are for winter." She made a grab for a ginger biscuit on the table, but Isobel was quicker. "I should like to spar with a kangaroo, I think," she announced, doing her best to appear unconcerned about failing to snatch a single biscuit. "I daresay I could plant it a smashing facer!"

"Tessa, your language!" Maggie scolded.

Isobel scowled. "Listening at doorways again, were you? 'Tis a bad end you're aiming for, my lass."

"Pish. I'll simply trot off when word of danger comes through the keyhole."

Isobel tried her best to look severe, but it was difficult when all she could think about was how very special and how very lovely her young sister was—both of her sisters. Ill-fitting, outmoded gowns did nothing to diminish their startling beauty, nor had life dimmed their spirits. What a pair they were, different in character, perhaps, but near mirror images of each other and deserving of so much more than they had ever received.

Tessa squeaked as Maggie tried to twist her tangled auburn curls into some semblance of order. The girl was forever after her older sisters to let her crop her wild hair like the boys. But such beauty, Isobel could not help thinking, was best left untamed. As Tessa's eyes strayed in familiar longing toward Maggie's herb shears, Isobel sighed.

What sort of future did the child have? Their father was loving enough, and genuinely wanted the best for his offspring. But good intentions did not produce the necessary funds to give them a better life.

"How much did you overhear,
pigidh bheag?"

"I am not a little pitcher, Izzy. And I heard enough."

Enough was a frightening concept when it came to Tessa. The girl missed nothing. "How much?"

"We are in some sort of trouble with the marquess. You went with Papa this morning, and it did not go well. Australia seems to be our next port of call." This time, neither sister was swift enough to protect the biscuits.

Tessa shoved one into her mouth whole, liberally spraying Isobel with crumbs moments later when she demanded, "Shall we have to leave directly? There is a nest of robin's eggs in the apple tree, and I should very much like to see them hatch."

Perhaps Isobel could have ignored Tessa's very adult recitation of the recent chain of events had it not been accompanied by such a poignantly childlike desire. Tessa wanted to see the robins hatch. She was resigned to yet another upheaval, but she wanted to see the baby birds first.

Isobel's muttered curse caused Maggie to raise her eyebrows and Tessa to giggle. Silently vowing that she would pack up robin and nest and carry them along if necessary, Isobel pushed herself to her feet.

"Enough of this waiting!" She pulled her bonnet from its hook.

Maggie immediately blocked the door. "You are not thinking to go—"

"I'm half gone, so you may take your hand off the door."

"You cannot! Izzy, after all that's happened, what would Lord Oriel think if you were to barrel into his house again, and in such a temper!"

"Well, we'll find out, won't we? He was civil enough about the fact that I climbed through his window last night. After nearly suffocating me and crushing my bones, that is." When Maggie refused to move away from the door, Isobel let out her breath in an exasperated huff. "What would you have me do? Sit and wait patiently for our fate to be handed down from Above?"