My Highland Love: Highland Lords Series (33 page)

Justin lifted the wine bottle sitting on the
table and poured the remainder of the wine into his glass. He
handed the bottle to the waiter. "Another bottle, if you please,
and…" He paused, then focused on Marcus. "No dinner yet?"

Marcus gave a slight shake of his head.

Justin turned to the waiter. "Have you any
pigeon pie?"

The waiter looked horrified. "This is not a
port tavern, sir."

Justin raised a brow. "Can you name a port
tavern that serves pigeon pie? Never mind. You do have filet
mignon?"

The waiter straightened. "Of course."

"Be kind enough to bring two then, along with
whatever you Americans consider appropriate accompaniments." Justin
reached for his wine, clearly dismissing him.

The waiter looked as though he would like to
bludgeon Justin with the wine bottle but turned stiffly and left
the room.

Marcus leaned back in his chair. "You have a
knack for condescension."

"Never say you think the fellow was
right?"

"Not right," Marcus replied. "Simply not
worth the time."

Justin snorted. "Had I not done it, you would
have." Marcus started to reply, but stopped short at the gleam that
appeared in Justin's eye. "Marcus, prepare yourself… she is
alive."

Marcus's hand jerked, upsetting his glass.
Wine spread across the linen tablecloth. Justin started, nearly
tipping over his own glass.

"Bloody hell," Marcus cursed, and set the
glass upright. He ignored the stain. "What are you talking
about?"

"Three months ago, Ardsley announced that
Elise had returned to America."

"Three months ago? But that was before we
wed."

"Listen," Justin cut in, "there's a very
interesting stipulation in her father's will. If Elise dies, a body
must be presented as evidence, or five years must pass before
Ardsley can take possession of her stock."

"How does that prove she's alive?"

"Ardsley claims to have her in a convalescent
home."

Shock ricocheted through Marcus. "An insane
asylum?"

"Yes."

His mind reeled. Elise, alive? And in an
asylum. "'Tis not possible," he said in a hoarse voice.

"No?" Justin held his gaze. "For the past six
months, Ardsley has been attempting to get Landen Shipping's board
of directors to agree to a large loan he wants in order to expand
the shipping company to include west coast trade. Many of the board
members plan on retiring in the next few years and don't relish the
idea of putting their life savings at risk. They have a date set
three weeks from tomorrow to settle the matter."

"Ardsley needs Elise's twenty-five percent
interest to control the vote," Marcus said in a near whisper.

"Fifty-one percent," Justin rejoined.

"What?"

"A year after Elise married, Steven Landen
signed his interest in the company over to her."

"My God."

Justin's brows lifted. "It's rather late in
the game for Ardsley to present Elise's
body
, don't you
think?"

"An insane asylum," Marcus murmured. "If it
is true…"

"No Campbells, or anyone else, can harm
you,"
he had told her.
"I can protect you."
Wed only two
days and he had utterly failed her.

"Marcus." Justin's sharp voice cut into the
picture of Elise huddled in a tiny filthy cell, hands clamped over
her ears to drown out the screams of the other inmates.

"I saw her body," Marcus said. "If that
wasn't Elise, then who—"

Justin's mouth thinned. "That is a mystery to
be solved—but not one we cannot solve from here. Agreed?"

Marcus stared. "Aye."

"What have you learned of Steven?" Justin
asked.

Marcus's mind registered the letter lying on
the table. He picked it up and handed it toward Justin.

The earl unfolded the paper and began
reading. A moment later, he murmured, "Shay. Wait.
Shay.
This cannot be the fellow whose son you saved while on campaign in
America?"

Marcus nodded.

Justin frowned. "What prompted you to contact
him?"

"Landen Shipping informed me Steven Landen
was serving in the Army."

Justin laughed. "Good of them to be so
obliging."

"Colonel Shay located the boy."

"Boy?"

"He is twenty-five."

"I expected someone older than Elise."

"I thought the same," Marcus said.

"Something more you need to know," Justin
said. "If Elise doesn't return from the dead, her shares go to the
next living
blood
relative."

"Steven Landen would control Landen
Shipping," Marcus said.

"Steven Landen
does
control Landen
Shipping. Elise's stock isn't his—not until the allotted five years
passes—but he controls her vote until then."

Marcus frowned. "Then why hasn't Ardsley
simply killed him?"

"Because Steven's will bequeaths his shares
and controlling interest to a distant cousin who lives in New
York."

"My God," Marcus murmured. "Steven Landen is
of no consequence—"

"If Price Ardsley has Elise," Justin finished
for him.

"Why the bloody hell is her brother not
here?" Marcus burst out. "Where did you get this information?"

Justin grinned. "There is always a
disgruntled employee to be found." The earl returned his attention
to the letter. A moment later, he looked up, shock written on his
face. "My God, she shot her husband? Surely, it can't be true?"

"I believe every word," Marcus said.

Justin glanced at the letter. "You knew
nothing of this? Of course not," he added.

Marcus gave a hollow laugh. "I knew I wanted
her. Nothing else mattered."

The earl nodded. "Love blinds a man."

As does passion
, Marcus added
silently, then said, "I meant to leave immediately to find Steven,
but if it is possible Elise is here—" he broke off, still unable to
grasp the possibility.

"You must find the boy. He's the key to
getting to Ardsley. I never met his sister. If our story is to hold
any weight, it must come from you."

"But Elise…"

A glint appeared in Justin's eye. "I will
find her."

Marcus grasped his cousin's shoulder and
squeezed, then released him. "I'll depart tomorrow. We—"

The door opened and the waiter appeared, a
plate of food in each hand. He approached the table and began to
set Marcus's plate before him but halted, his gaze falling on the
wine-stained tablecloth.

He straightened. "I shall replace the linen."
He turned to leave, plates still in hand.

"Nay," Marcus said. "Leave the plates. We
will live with the spilt wine."

The waiter looked as if he'd been asked to
strip naked and run through the streets of Boston.

Marcus rested his gaze on him. "Leave the
plates, lad."

The man did as instructed. "If you need
anything—"

"We will call for you," Marcus cut in. "Until
then, see that we aren't disturbed."

The waiter blinked, but gave a stiff bow and
left.

Justin picked up his knife and fork. "I said
you'd cut him to the quick."

"I'll be back well before Landen Shipping's
next meeting," Marcus said. "Then I will cut Ardsley to the
quick."

* * * *

Marcus slowed his horse in the dense forest
and scanned the ground. The tracks in the soft South Carolina
ground were less than an hour old. He glanced up through the trees.
At most, the afternoon sun would be in the sky another two hours.
At a sudden commotion in the trees ahead, Marcus jerked his hand to
the musket in his saddle holster, but relaxed when a flock of
bobwhite quail took flight. The leather fringes on the sleeves of
the buckskin he wore swayed violently, then came to a rest as he
focused again on the tracks and urged his horse forward.

Only a moment later he caught sight of two
horses picking their way through the trees about seventy-five feet
ahead. He looked closer. One of the horses was riderless. He'd been
following the tracks of two men, where—the distinct sound of a
rifle being cocked answered the incomplete thought.

"Take the musket from its holster and toss
it," a male voice said from above him. Marcus hesitated and a
strong "Mister" settled the matter.

He slid the Brown Bess musket from its
holster and tossed it to the ground. "I'm not here to cause
trouble."

The sound of the rifle's hammer being
uncocked from above was followed by the light drop of the man from
the trees onto the ground behind Marcus.

"You tracked me some distance before I
realized you were on my trail," the voice said. "Not bad for an
Englishman."

Marcus slowly turned his horse and found
himself facing a young man dressed like himself, except the other's
clothes bore testament of the wearer's time in the saddle. This was
Steven Landen. Those deep brown eyes—and the challenge they
held—were all too familiar.

"Scottish Highlands," Marcus said.

"Well, Highlander, what are you doing in
South Carolina tracking me?"

Marcus glanced at the Baker rifle the boy
held loosely at his side—not so loose he couldn't yank it into
position before Marcus was upon him. Arrogant pup. But perhaps it
was an arrogance born out of experience. The British-made Baker
rifle was known for its precision aim, a very good reason for a US
Army tracker to carry the weapon.

Steven's gaze shifted past him and Marcus
glanced over his shoulder to see the rider he'd spotted a moment
ago standing a few feet away. He saw now what he hadn't discerned
before. The buckskin-dressed man was Indian.

Marcus faced Steven. "How did you discover I
was on your trail?"

"I'm the best tracker this side of the
Mississippi," Steven said with unabashed candor. "White tracker,
that is."

"You are Steven Landen, then?"

The boy gave no indication Marcus had hit the
mark, only continued to study him.

"We need to talk. Privately," Marcus
added.

"Anything you have to say can be said in
front of Joseph."

"'Tis about your sister."

Steven's nonchalant demeanor vanished. "My
sister is dead."

"Nay. She was lost off the coast of Solway
Firth, Scotland."

Steven's jaw tightened. He looked at the
Indian. "Joseph."

Marcus didn't hear the man leave but knew he
had when Steven swung his gaze back to him.

"You have any idea how many people have
information
concerning my sister?" Steven's expression
turned speculative. "None of them ever tracked me through the
wilderness. You must feel damn confident about your information.
You have five minutes. I should warn you, however, if I don't find
your story amusing, I'll kill you."

A melancholy warmth rippled through Marcus.
"That sounds like something your sister would say."

Steven's gaze turned icy. "If you want to
delay dying, don't bother with the amusing anecdotes."

"I will begin with this." Marcus reached into
the front pocket of his buckskin jacket.

Steven pointed his rifle at Marcus.
"Easy."

Marcus paused, then slowly produced his and
Elise's wedding certificate from the pocket. He dismounted, then
strode to Steven and extended the certificate to him.

Steven rested his rifle against the tree he'd
been hiding in. "Don't think we're alone," he said as he unfolded
the document, "I saved Joseph's life once. He can't return to his
Chickasaw tribe until he returns the favor, so he's hoping like
hell someone will try to kill me."

Steven scanned the document. A moment later,
he looked at Marcus and gave a short laugh. "You got the name
wrong. Elise is not a Merriwether."

"Nay," Marcus said, "she's a MacGregor."

Half an hour later, Marcus laid Elise's death
certificate on the ground between him and Steven. The boy stared at
the document. The fire they had built flickered off his pale face
in the waning daylight. He lifted his gaze to Marcus.

"No death certificate was issued for Elise."
He stared at Marcus for a long moment before saying, "I have no way
of knowing if a word of what you say is true."

"Perhaps you do." Marcus retrieved the gold
band from his front pocket. He laid the ring on the death
certificate.

Steven looked at the ring, his brow furrowing
in thought, then he picked it up and held it up to the firelight.
Marcus watched him read the words etched inside the band—For all
eternity—words he'd read a thousand times over the last month.

Steven set the ring back on the document and
looked at him. "Why tell me any of this?" He nodded toward the
death certificate. "She's dead."

Marcus took a deep breath. "Mayhap not." He
produced the next piece of evidence: the notice of reward for
Elise's body that had appeared in the Sunday Times.

By the time Marcus finished with the more
bizarre half of his tale, Steven's expression had hardened. "I knew
Price was a fortune hunter, but this goes beyond anything I
suspected. Twenty-six percent of Landen Shipping remained held in
trust for me until I reached twenty-one. When the shares became
mine, Price wasn't pleased, but he still held controlling interest.
Elise married Robert when she was twenty-one, four years before she
would come into possession of her inheritance. Not that it
mattered; Robert controlled the purse."

"The woman you describe is different than the
one I knew. Elise—" Marcus laughed, "She has done things many men
would grow fainthearted over."

Steven picked up the stick he'd laid beside
him earlier and poked the fire. "She never wanted for courage. That
night on the
Amelia
, she surprised even me." Steven looked
at him with sudden surprise. "Damn! Her journal."

Marcus tensed. "What?"

Steven plunged the stick into the ground.
"Amelia's doctor instructed Elise to keep a journal in order to
chronicle her illness. After she died, Elise began doing research.
Actually, she began the research before Amelia died but, by then,
it was too late."