Heather and Velvet (45 page)

It was inscribed in a delicate script:
Sebastian Kerr, Laird of Dunkirk, Always. Your Loving Prudence
.

Jamie squinted over his shoulder. “What’s it say? Ye know I don’t read so good.”

Sebastian rested his elbow on his knee, his eyes distant. “It says I’m a fool, Jamie. A complete and utter fool.”

S
ebastian tossed his new plaid over his shoulders as he led the horses from the stable. “Stop squalling, Jamie. I don’t have any choice. I have to go after her.”

A light mist drifted over the courtyard, chilling the air without obscuring the moon or stars. Jamie trotted behind Sebastian, peppering his entreaties with curses. Sebastian tossed a saddle on the horse’s back and Jamie pulled it off the other side.

“Ye can’t do it. D’Artan’s men are still in the village. How long do ye think it’ll be before they find out ye let her go? Ye’ll be dodgin’ lead balls all the way to England.”

Sebastian’s voice was deadly soft. “Jamie, give me the saddle.”

Jamie backed away, the saddle held like a shield in front of him. “Let me go for ye. I’ll catch up to her. I’ll tell her yer a bumblin’ fool who loves her. Hell, I’ll even kiss her if ye want. I can be as charmin’ as the next lad when I set me mind to it.”

Sebastian circled the horse, stalking Jamie with all the
grace, but none of the shyness, of a Highland wildcat. His gray eyes burned with determination.

Jamie’s legs came up against the water trough. “It’s not just D’Artan ye’ve got to worry about. That bonny puss of yers is plastered all over Scotland. Don’t ye remember what that stiff-necked sheriff promised? If ye go anywhere near the border, ye’ll be hanged fer sure.”

Sebastian stretched out his hand, speaking as if to a child. “The saddle, Jamie.”

Jamie briefly considered bursting into tears. His wailing had never failed to break his mum. He doubted it would work with Sebastian, though, and hurled the saddle at him with a particularly imaginative epithet.

“Thank you,” Sebastian said calmly, striding back to the patient horse.

Jamie drove a hand through his hair, snaring his fingers in the tangles. Sebastian mounted, securing his bedroll in front of him.

Jamie bounded across the courtyard and caught the reins. “Take me with ye then. Ye mustn’t go alone.”

Sebastian attempted to pry Jamie’s fingers off the reins, but his bony strength held. “I have to go alone. You said it yourself. It’s too dangerous.”

“Then ye’ll be goin’ with me danglin’ off yer reins all the way to England.”

Sebastian continued to tug at Jamie’s fingers as his other hand eased his pistol out of his waistband. “I can’t ask you to risk your neck because of my own foolishness.”

Jamie gazed up at him, his eyes wide and guileless. “Ye’ve asked me to risk it fer less.”

“So I have.” Sebastian smiled—a sweet, tender smile. Then the butt of his pistol came down against Jamie’s neck, dropping him like a sack of potatoes.

“You haven’t learned your lessons, Jamie Graham,” he murmured, shoving his pistol back into his breeches. “A fallen man is a noose for the next man. And I’ve fallen hard this time.”

Jamie looked even younger sprawled in the grass, his lashes spiked over his freckled cheeks.

Sighing, Sebastian undid his bedroll and tossed the blanket over Jamie. “Sweet dreams, my lad,” he whispered.

He guided the horse in a prancing circle and thundered through the gate of the courtyard. He dared one look over his shoulder only to discover that Jamie and Dunkirk had been swallowed by the mist.

A lone figure crept through the alley. Fog swirled around his ankles. Light spilled from the bloated moon, caressing his silk mask, shading the set planes of his face with silver. Excitement stirred his blood, quickened his breath. A hint of the old thrill touched him as he slipped into the shadows, moving as one with the darkness, once again lord of the night, prince of thieves. But at the end of this journey, he hoped to steal not watch fobs or pound notes easily crumbled to dust, but a woman’s heart, as true and precious as gold refined by fire.

He eased himself into the tavern without a sound. Hazy moonlight drifted through a flyspecked window, staining his hair to gold. At such a late hour in such a sleepy, little village, the tavern was nearly deserted.

A toothless old man polished mugs behind the bar. Two men were engaged in a heated game of piquet at one table. A buxom whore straddled the lap of the younger one. The man’s hand crept past her dimpled knee and under her skirt, emerging with a new card. He tossed it on the table, winning the trick. As he gleefully swept the shillings into the woman’s lap, the other man swore in rapid French.

Sebastian smiled.

The barkeep glanced up, and his gaze was instantly transfixed by the mask, the swirl of the plaid around Sebastian’s shoulders, the wry smile on his mouth. Sebastian touched a finger to his lips and winked. The barkeep gummed a smile and went back to polishing his mugs.

The whore deftly shuffled the cards as the young Frenchman nuzzled her neck.

Before any of them could react, Sebastian swung one
leg over the back of a chair and straddled it. “Deal me in, lass.”

The Frenchman dumped the woman out of his lap. She sprawled on the floor, scattering the coins. The other man fumbled for his pistol. Sebastian caught both of their heads and slammed them together. They slumped across the table like marionettes with cut strings.

Sebastian smiled at the whore and offered her his hand. “And deal them out.”

She could not help smiling back, even as her own hands scurried to gather the shillings.

Jamie blinked up at a sky washed with pearly light. A bird twittered nearby. Where the hell was he? He’d met more dawns than one with that question on his lips, but this morn there was no warm female wedged against his side, no fuzziness of his tongue to warn of a lost battle with demon ale. He lifted his head experimentally. His neck was stiff, his shirt and breeches damp with dew, but the rest of him seemed intact, even rested.

He laid his head on laced hands, content to watch pink wisps of clouds drift across the fading stars. His sharp chin nuzzled into the blanket on his chest.

An image abruptly filled his mind.
Sebastian
. The smile of an angel, the glint of moonlight on a raised pistol butt.

Ignoring his reeling head, Jamie leaped to his feet and sprinted toward the stable. He emerged with one leg thrown over a sleek dun mare, the other leg still dragging on the ground. He righted himself by gripping the mane with both hands. As he plunged down the slope, barefoot and bareback, his mad Highland cry would have chilled the blood of any Englishman.

The burn tinkled a merry welcome as Sebastian walked his horse into the clearing. The crofter’s hut crouched in the moonlight as he remembered it. He uncurled his stiff fingers from the reins and slumped in the saddle, too exhausted to
move. For two days and two nights, he had ridden with little sleep and less food. He had even followed MacKay’s party for an hour yesterday, close enough to call out Prudence’s name. But he hadn’t. MacKay’s guards looked to be the type to shoot first and ask questions later. He didn’t intend to risk Prudence getting caught in the crossfire. When they stopped to spend the night in Edinburgh, he had changed horses and ridden on ahead.

If he could catch her before she crossed the border, he would. If not, he would march straight up to the door of Lindentree, MacKay and Tricia be damned, and demand to see his wife. Then all that would remain was convincing Prudence that she still wanted a stubborn, jealous, greedy Highland rogue for a husband. He sighed and dragged himself off the horse. Perhaps things would look better in the light of morning.

He tended to the mare with weary hands, rubbing down her heaving sides. She had been built for speed, not stamina, and he had pushed her hard.

He left her tethered to a tree and pushed open the hut door, hugging the plaid around him at a rush of chill air.

“Your predictability was always your downfall, my boy.”

Sebastian held up his hands in a silent plea as the pistol in his grandfather’s hand exploded into a searing ball of pain.

Prudence sat stiff in the sidesaddle, looking neither right nor left, her navy skirt draped in military precision over her legs. Sebastian-cat rode at her side, strapped into the wicker basket. Not even the teasing touch of the spring breeze could stir the severe wings of hair framing her pale cheeks. Her eyes were dry, so dry they burned at the prick of the wind. She hadn’t shed a single tear since two mornings ago when she’d pounded on Laird MacKay’s door. She’d fallen into the haven of his arms and sobbed against his plaid until there were no tears left and her body lay broken and exhausted, seeking only the solace of sleep.

She stole a glance at the man riding beside her. MacKay seemed to have aged since that night. The crags in his face cut deeper; his shoulders slumped. It was as if the flame in his eyes had been extinguished by her bitter tears.

As they rode past a sun-dappled forest, MacKay’s armed guards drew in around them. Their faces were set. The burly hands resting on their pistol butts warned they’d be no easy target for any highwayman.

The road flattened into a meadow. Prudence knew they must be nearing the Northumberland border. The tender trilling of a lark jarred her into opening her eyes to the aching beauty of the morning. Tender sprouts of new heather crept over the hills. The rich smell of the loamy earth tickled her nose. A dazzling orb of sunlight hung in a sky too blue to be anything less than a figment of some artist’s fevered imagination.

The breeze whispered through the swaying grasses and she imagined she heard her name, carried by the wind on a rich, plaintive note of longing. Her gloved fingers tightened on the reins. Never again would she be ensorcelled by a soft burr as bewitching and treacherous as this heartbreaking land. Soon she would cross the border into sane, predictable England where she would once again become sane, predictable Prudence. A pang of grief drove a searing wedge through her heart.

She heard it then, a wild keening like the distant skirl of bagpipes that set the hair at the nape of her neck standing on end. Two men thundered over the ridge, the first bent so low to his mount’s neck that he might have been a sinewy limb of the horse itself

The guards drew their pistols. MacKay’s gelding pawed the air as he reeled it around, forcing it between Prudence and the approaching riders. Sebastian-cat gave a dismal yowl from the confines of his basket.

Prudence heard her name again, carried not by wind, but bawled in the unmistakable cadences of Jamie’s voice.

“Wait!” she cried. “Don’t fire. They mean us no harm.”

MacKay gave her a doubtful glance, but trusted her
enough to call off his guards. His men lowered their weapons with obvious reluctance, no doubt unnerved by the towering stature of the man on the second horse. The sun tinted his blond hair to white. He looked as if he could snap their necks with one hand, armed or unarmed.

Prudence’s chin jutted out, a first wild beat of hope smothered by an overwhelming anger. Was she never to be left in peace?

Jamie drew his horse to a halt, his fists crunched in the mare’s tangled mane. MacKay’s men gaped. They had never seen a man ride a horse like that, with no bridle, no saddle, no reins. And barefoot to boot.

For once, Jamie’s eyes were devoid of any humor. “Sebastian needs ye.”

Prudence met his gaze evenly, and her words were tinged with ice. “I fear you’re mistaken. He made it very clear to me that he doesn’t need me. Those were his exact words.”

Tiny spoke up. “Ye don’t understand, lass. He left Dunkirk over a day ago. He was goin’ to meet ye at the border. So we traveled all our old roads between here and there and saw not a hair of him.”

“Perhaps you should check the Blake estate,” she said. “He might have stopped at Devony’s for tea or other amusements.”

With a disgusted snort, Jamie jerked his head at Tiny.

Tiny dragged open the letter flap of his saddlebag. “We found this in the old hollow tree where he used to leave messages fer us.”

Prudence unrolled the tiny scroll. Squinting at the elaborate script, she read it aloud, her voice dispassionate. “ ‘Duchess, your husband is my guest. Meet me at the old crofter’s hut. Alone.’ ” It was signed with nothing but a flourished
D
.

Prudence heard MacKay draw an agonized breath. She handed the note back to Jamie. “I have no husband. I have only a paper in my redingote signed by Sebastian Kerr, denying the validity of our marriage.”

Jamie went white. His freckles blazed. He pawed
through Tiny’s saddlebag, then thrust his hand at her. “D’Artan left this for us as well.”

The green and black plaid dangled from his fingers. A muddy hoofprint scarred the soft wool. MacKay paled.

Prudence’s mouth compressed to a thin line. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you. Sebastian made it more than clear to me that I was no longer to interfere in his life.”

Jamie’s lip curled in a snarl of contempt.

Tiny laid a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “I tried to tell ye she wouldn’t help. She doesn’t give a damn about him. Never has.”