Heather and Velvet (27 page)

Tricia sniffled. A pair of handkerchiefs appeared. She took the lace-trimmed one the Scot wielded and dabbed at a sparkling tear. “I simply cannot accept that. My fiancé
adored me. He must have been abducted. He would have never left me willingly.”

Prudence slipped into their midst and gently touched Tricia’s elbow. “We’ve received no ransom demands, Auntie. You promised to go on with your life if we did not find him here.”

Tricia swatted her hand away. “That’s easy enough for you to say. You didn’t lose the man you loved.”

Prudence inclined her head as heat rose to her cheeks. She remembered too vividly the night she had gone to Sebastian’s room, the tender things he had said to her, the ways he had touched her. Shame and regret mingled, but always with it came the image of their bodies entwined on the satin counterpane.

Tricia’s trembling lips curved in a brave smile. “Forgive me, won’t you?” she said to the kilted stranger. “I had only hoped that, hailing from the Highlands, you would have some knowledge of the Laird of Dunkirk.”

The man drained his glass of whisky in a single swig. “Aye, that I do, Lady Tricia. I
am
the Laird of Dunkirk and have been for nigh on fifteen years.”

Prudence’s dark musings were shattered as she lifted her gaze to meet the twinkling eyes of Killian MacKay.

A man slipped through the shadows of the garden wall, his gaze riveted to the glowing squares of light set deep in the mellow brick. Rain poured off the brim of his hat. He gave the signal, and five dark shapes vaulted over the wall. Somewhere in the back of the mansion, a door opened and the rich, brilliant notes of a viola poured into the garden.

“Ain’t these fancy folk ever heard of bagpipes?” a voice muttered in his ear. “We’re in Scotland for God’s sake, not Paris.”

“Quiet,” Sebastian snapped. “We’re going to be in the jail if you don’t hold your tongue.”

“It weren’t my idea to come to Edinburgh.”

“Would you rather we starve to death in the Highlands?” Sebastian adjusted the sack over Jamie’s head with
a jerk. “We’ve robbed every kirk there but your own father’s.”

Jamie sniffed, his annoyance muffled by a layer of burlap. “I was all fer it. Ye were the one who backed out.”

“I’d rather rob my grandfather than your father. He’s the one who’s frozen all of my accounts at the Royal Bank. If I can get to my money, we can hole up in the Highlands until the spring.”

“But if he spots ye first, ye won’t be needin’ the Highlands, will ye? Ye’ll be in jail or hell, wherever he chooses to send ye.”

Slush spattered as Tiny landed behind them. “If the two of ye are goin’ to argue all night, we may as well trot around and tap on the front door. Maybe the butler’ll let us in.”

Jamie plucked a flask from Tiny’s belt, shoved up his mask, and took a long swig. “Aaah! Nothing like stout Scotch whisky to thaw a man. All me best parts are frozen.”

Tiny snorted. “No great loss fer the Edinburgh whores.”

“That’s yer opinion, not theirs,” Jamie retorted.

At a snort of laughter from one of their cohorts, Sebastian swung around and hissed him into silence. With pistol drawn, he led them around the side of the house, pausing only to untangle his breeches from a dormant rosebush. The lit squares of the casement-windows gave him a shimmering glimpse of a world of satins and silks. It was a world that would never willingly give anything to the impoverished son of a Highland laird.

Sebastian had learned that lesson anew in the last few months. Bathing in icy streams. Shivering all night in ratty blankets. Eating dried meat so tough he had to chew it for hours just to taste it.

The dashing highwayman was gone, leaving only a silk mask and a tartan rag crumpled in his pocket as an epitaph. In his place was a common thief and a hungry man. What Sebastian Kerr wanted, Sebastian Kerr would have to take. Prudence Walker had taught him that much. He could afford to yield to his crueler impulses now, all because a woman had left him with nothing to lose but his freedom … and his life.

His numb fingers curled around the butt of his pistol. Beneath the burlap mask, he smiled coldly.

As Prudence stared up at Killian MacKay, the color drained from her cheeks as rapidly as it had come. Tricia’s surprised protests faded to a sonorous buzz.

No villainous hunchback was this man, but a tall gentleman with a thick mane of white hair. Deep crannies scarred his leathery brow, but his shoulders were unbent and surprisingly broad for a man his age. She lowered her eyes before he could glimpse her shock. Her gaze was drawn to the white hairs scattered across his heavy plaid—not his own, but long, fluffy cat hairs. Could this truly be the heartless ogre who had cast Sebastian from his home?

“So you’ve never heard of a man who calls himself Sebastian Kerr?” D’Artan’s voice brought Prudence abruptly back to the conversation. A faint sneer twisted the viscount’s lips.

A silvery tension arced between the two men as MacKay hesitated for the briefest moment. “Never,” he said.

Prudence pushed her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose. As Killian MacKay met her cool, challenging stare, they both knew he was lying. But they also knew that unless Prudence cared to explain why she colored each time her aunt’s fiancé was mentioned, she would hold her silence.

Tricia gaped as Prudence slipped her hand in the crook of MacKay’s arm and smiled up at him. “Perhaps we should give my aunt time to recover from such a shock. Have you visited the Campbells’ library? It’s quite extensive. Would you care for a tour?”

“I would love to.” MacKay brought Tricia’s limp hand to his lips, then bowed to D’Artan, his smile mocking. “Viscount, always a pleasure.”

D’Artan’s eyes narrowed to silvery slits as the warm crush of the drawing room parted before the striking pair.

•  •  •

The lamps in the library were unlit, though a crackling fire wafted the warm aroma of cedar into the air. Windows shiny with rain ringed dark walls of polished walnut.

Prudence’s satin petticoat bustled about her as she sat on a narrow settee and arranged the skirts of her cranberry gown with meticulous care. MacKay sank into a wing-backed leather chair opposite her. For a long moment they studied each other in silence.

As a young man, MacKay had prided himself on a knowledge of feminine fashion. The girl did justice to the softer, more natural styles sweeping London and Edinburgh. It would have been as much of a crime to bury her flawless skin beneath a layer of ceruse as to hide her hair under a wig. The dark mass had been swept upward and arranged in heavy coils at her throat. A wide sash matched the pink satin of her petticoat and emphasized her slender waist. Her prim demeanor might have been comical on another woman, but her dignity rendered it oddly touching. MacKay wished he was past the age where being alone in such warm, dark intimacy with a lovely woman would stir him.

Prudence pushed up her spectacles in a gesture that she knew betrayed her tension, wondering what had possessed her to indulge this mad fancy. “Forgive me for being so blunt, Laird MacKay, but I have been seeking a small bit of property in the north of Scotland. This castle you call Dunkirk—might it be for sale?”

MacKay sat up in his chair. The lass was betraying more than simple nervousness. No one in the drawing room had called him by name. “Dunkirk is little more than a crumbling ruin. ’Tis virtually worthless.”

“Then it would not burden you to be rid of it.”

He rose and walked over to the fireplace, as if seeking a warmth far removed from her cool stare. In his squared jaw, Prudence caught a glimpse of the stubborn patience that had let him wait sixteen years before taking revenge against the man who had stolen his bride. Her heart gave an
odd thump at the sight of his broad shoulders silhouetted against the firelight.

“Dunkirk is not for sale,” he said.

She couldn’t help the note of pleading that touched her voice. “You are a wealthy man. I know you own most of Strathnaver. What value could an old ruin have for a man such as you?”

He gazed into the flames. “A sentimental value. A woman I cared for once lived there.”

And died there?
The words resounded clearly through Prudence’s mind. For one terrible moment, she thought she had said them aloud.

When MacKay turned to face her, though, there was no fury or bitter rebuke in his eyes, only a gentle sadness. “I’m sorry I cannot oblige your wishes, my dear. But, you see, Dunkirk is not truly mine to sell. I am keeping it in trust for someone else.”

The plaintive strains of an oboe drifted into the room. The music was both dark and unbearably sweet, an alien counterpart to the steady patter of the rain against the windows.

Prudence stood. “Forgive me, Laird MacKay. You’re absolutely right. I cannot ask you to sell what never belonged to you.”

With a mocking curtsy, she left him standing before the hearth. MacKay’s hands trembled as he reached for the back of the chair. In the barren years since Michelline’s death, Killian MacKay had prayed often for forgiveness. But it seemed that God had seen fit to send not a spirit of compassion, but an avenging angel with violet eyes and a whisky voice. His gnarled fingers bit into the sleek leather as he bent his head in silent prayer, asking not for mercy, but for courage.

Sebastian drew back his pistol and rammed the butt through the fragile glass.

With a practiced twist of his wrist, he unlocked the tall double windows. He was inside before the musicians could falter to a discordant halt.

A shrill scream threw the gathering into dead silence as six faceless, hulking blobs spilled into the room.

“Weapons on the floor, gentlemen,” Sebastian called out, his voice disguised with a rasp made all the more convincing by his raw throat.

His command yielded only one pistol, a handful of canes, and an umbrella. A blue-haired lady crumpled in her husband’s arms.

“We’d like a more substantial donation now,” he said. “All jewelry, gold, and money into the sacks, please.… Very nicely done. Aye, that’ll do very well, thank you,” he added as the jingle of fob watches and gold chains filled the tense silence.

His men operated as he had taught them, moving with sacks open from one group to the next, never making eye contact and never breaking silence. It took Sebastian only a quick perusal to determine D’Artan was not there. Bitter disappointment welled in his throat.

The tantalizing aroma of warm pastries drifted to his nose. He carefully kept his gaze averted from a silver tea cart heaped with cakes. His belly felt as if it were touching his spine. His mouth watered. His stomach rumbled. If he ate one cake, he’d end up on his knees before them all, stuffing cakes into his mouth like the ravenous beast all these fine people undoubtedly thought him to be.

A young man with untidy hair hesitated to remove his heirloom ring. Sebastian jerked his pistol in an unmistakable gesture of threat. The freckled young man beside him nudged him into compliance, tossing into the sack himself an ivory snuffbox and a fat purse, which landed on the pile with a musical clink. Sebastian felt an unwelcome flash of empathy at the impotent fury reflected in the freckled man’s brown eyes. He sincerely hoped he wouldn’t be forced to shoot either of them before the night was done.

His gaze strayed again to the cakes. Six months ago he would have been a guest at such a gathering, sipping champagne and nibbling a sweet crumbling cake. A fist of memory buried itself in his gut—tracing Prudence’s lips with the tip of his finger, the sweetness of her icing melting on his tongue. But that had been another world and another
man. A man who had been foolish enough to let a pair of treacherous amethyst eyes besot him.

A shadow stirred on the landing above. Sebastian’s gaze flicked upward. D’Artan stood at the curve of the stairs, smiling, his hand resting lightly on the balustrade.

Sebastian had taken three long strides toward the stairs when the bronze door at the end of the drawing room swung open and Prudence Walker walked unwittingly into the middle of his robbery.

“S
weet Almighty Jesus,” Tiny breathed reverently, breaking his silence.

Jamie started to cross himself, then remembered he wasn’t Catholic. His awe dampened to dread as he saw Sebastian swing away from the staircase to face the vision in the doorway.

Time stopped. Sebastian’s finger convulsively squeezed the trigger of his pistol. Had it been cocked, he would have shot himself in the foot.

The gilded wood of the doorway framed Prudence perfectly, like a painting by one of his grandfather’s favorite artists. Was it Gainsborough or Reynolds? A halo of candlelight stoked to life the shimmering highlights in hair swept softly from her face, then curled to frame the slender column of her throat. Light winked from the diamond brooch pinning her lace fichu at the lily-white cleft between her breasts.

Sebastian knew the softness of that skin, knew its frailty and its grace. But this was not the prim, proud woman he had last seen in a dirty jail in Northumberland. This was the
elusive creature of his fantasies, utterly lovely and alight with yearning promise. His hothouse flower had not faded, but bloomed in his absence. The realization made him feel mean and hard in more ways than one.