My Highland Love: Highland Lords Series (35 page)

"Why tell you this after all this time?"

Steven gave a low grunt. "Two reasons, I
suspect. One, she likes Elise. The second, once I told her Price
was holding Elise captive she must have realized that there was a
great chance I would deal with him legally. That would free her
from Price's hold."

"Bloody hell," Marcus burst out. "You didn't
inform her of my presence?"

Steven glanced around the tavern and Marcus
cursed his temper.

The younger man leaned closer. "Of course
not. But the woman's no fool. She knew I was up to something.
Nothing goes on in any household the servants don't know, sometimes
even before other family members, and with good reason; they're
smarter than the devil himself. Our stew is coming." Steven slumped
back in his chair.

Marcus did the same as the barmaid set a bowl
of stew before him, then Steven. She turned and headed back to the
bar. Steven placed his elbows on the table and took another drink
of ale before stirring the stew.

"Mrs Hartley knew that Price told the board
Elise was here in America," he said, and took a bite of stew. "He's
in the habit of having late meetings in his home with board
members. Last night, a woman was brought in. She was dressed in
black. Heavily veiled and heavily sedated. Price carried her to one
of the guestrooms on the second floor. He wouldn't allow anyone
into the room when he took her up. Half an hour later, he called
for Mrs Hartley. Imagine her shock at seeing Elise in the bed,
looking as if she had all but stepped into the grave."

Marcus's heart missed a beat. "How did he get
her past us—we left Danvers too soon."

"Don't lose yourself just yet, MacGregor. I
thought the same, but there was something wrong with Mrs Hartley's
story."

"What do you mean?"

"She said a single candle burned on a table
in the corner of the room. The covers were tucked tightly around
the woman's shoulders. Despite the dim lighting, Mrs Hartley
observed the emaciated neck and hollow cheeks of the woman—and her
hair—you know how thick Elise's hair is."

"Aye." Marcus remembered well the silky feel
of the thick tresses between his fingers.

"Mrs Hartley said her hair was so thin that
her scalp was visible in places."

"'Tis but two months since Arsdley abducted
her. How is it possible—"

"It isn't," Steven cut in. "The resemblance
must have been strong for Mrs Hartley to believe the woman was
Elise, but Mrs Hartley said the woman was barely recognizable as
the Elise she had seen just a year ago. Elise lost weight due to
the stress of Amelia's illness, but she was, overall, very
healthy."

Marcus nodded. "The housekeeper thought Elise
had been wasting away an entire year."

"Right." Steven took another spoonful of
stew. "Consider," he said between chewing, "it's not yet two months
since Elise disappeared. Had Price starved her to the point of
shedding that much weight, her heart would probably have given
out."

"The woman is not Elise." Marcus leaned back
in his chair. "Why an impersonator? Why not simply incapacitate
Elise?"

"I can only guess," Steven said, "but—"

"But," Marcus interrupted, "he will not risk
her leaving the asylum."

Steven nodded. "Price is… canny." His
expression turned pained. "Had I been more aware—"

"Nay," Marcus cut him off. "The man is clever
and he can't have done this alone."

Suddenly, Langley's words came back to
Marcus.
"Ye have a spy, MacGregor."
Price Ardsley had help.
The truth hit like a landslide.
The Campbells.
Marcus
recalled the day they attacked the women at the loch and the look
on the Campbell warrior's face when Elise called out that Nell had
been taken. The man recognized the American accent. They had come
for Elise—for the second time. Marcus suddenly understood why they
hadn't accosted her when they kidnapped her: the ten thousand pound
bounty. But how had they known—more importantly, who at Brahan Seer
had aided them?

"MacGregor."

Marcus shook from his thoughts at hearing
Steven's voice.

"What is it?" Steven asked.

"Ardsley may not be as omnipotent as he
appears."

"What do you mean?"

"I believe some old enemies of mine were in
league with him," Marcus said. "Elise had a bad habit of leaving
Brahan Seer without an escort."

Steven paused in taking another drink of ale.
"Brahan Seer?"

"Our home in the Highlands. She used to go
alone outside the castle."

Steven grimaced. "I can believe she would be
so foolish. Even as a girl, she drove Father to distraction, coming
and going without permission."

"You are saying this is a fault of hers?"

The younger man barked a rough laugh.
"MacGregor, if you're only now coming to this conclusion, I have no
sympathy for you."

Marcus smiled faintly. "The woman can be a
pain in the arse. She is mine, nonetheless."

"These enemies," Steven prodded.

"Aye. They kidnapped Elise once, tried a
second time."

Steven regarded him for a long moment, then
shook his head and took another bite of stew.

Marcus liked the lad. "The board meeting," he
said. "The vote is to be held at Ardsley's home tonight?"

"No, tomorrow. But the board members are to
meet at Price's home tonight. I wager Price is going to let them
see Elise in her sick bed then, when he presents the paper
tomorrow—a paper signed by my sister—it will be a fait
accompli."

"What time this evening?"

"Eight o'clock."

Marcus glanced at the clock hanging on the
wall behind the bar. Four fifty-five. "We have three hours."

Steven raised a brow. "If we show up and
claim the impostor…"

"Aye," Marcus said. "If he wants my wife's
fifty-one percent of Landen Shipping, he will have no choice but to
return Elise to me."

"We should have stormed the damned hospital,"
Steven muttered darkly.

Marcus tensed, remembering all too well the
strength of will it had taken to keep from hiring fifty men and
raiding Danvers. Strength of will. Nay. Justin had been the voice
of reason. They weren't in Scotland, Justin had reminded him. Here,
Marcus was naught but a British subject on foreign soil. He had
always thought of himself as a man of logic and not given to rash
action. But, until now, he hadn't realized how much he relied upon
his position as the Marquess of Ashlund—even more—the son of the
Duke of Ashlund.

Ah, Ryan, my ancestor, how far our paths have
diverged.

For the first time in his life, Marcus
understood the true nature of Ryan MacGregor. All these years,
Marcus thought he understood him—thought it was Ryan who demanded
recompense for the wrongs done to the MacGregors over the
centuries. But, in truth, how could Marcus, a man of wealth and
position, understand a man who possessed nothing? A man who fought
with the only weapon he had: his mind. Marcus laughed inwardly. How
many years had he fought his enemies with the sword—the very thing
Ryan had fought against?

Marcus turned his attention to his
brother-in-law. "We are far from finished with Price Ardsley. We
shall deal with him in a way that brings about his demise because
of his own actions."

Steven's gaze intensified. "All I ask is that
I be allowed to witness his end."

"Aye, lad," Marcus replied in a quiet voice.
"You will be one among many."

* * * *

Marcus watched, concealed by the evening
shadows among the trees, as the seventh carriage that night passed
through the iron gates of Price Ardsley's mansion. The crunch of
gravel beneath the carriage wheels grew fainter until the high and
low seesaw pitch of cricket music again filled the quiet. Marcus's
horse shifted beneath him and he gave the animal a soothing stroke.
Steven's horse nickered softly, nuzzling his companion's nose, and
Steven patted his shoulder.

Marcus looked at him. "What time is it?"

Steven pulled a pocket watch from the breast
pocket of his suit. "Nearly eight," he whispered, and slipped the
watch back into its place.

Marcus returned his attention to the mansion.
"Is that the last of them?"

"Unless Brentley rode with one of the other
board members, no."

"You are sure your vice-chairman will
attend?"

Steven grunted. "Price would be glad not to
have Brentley attend. Brentley is a thorn in his side. But Brentley
has been chairman since the inception of the company and the other
members would not attend a meeting of such importance without
him."

Steven peered down the road and they lapsed
into silence. The cricket symphony abruptly halted and, an instant
later, the faint clop of hooves and turning of carriage wheels
sounded on the public road up ahead. Marcus squinted until the
outline of a coach took shape in the darkness.

"Brentley," Steven said.

The carriage passed through the gates and the
darkness, once again, closed in around it. The nightlife sprang
back to life. Still, Marcus waited several long moments, acutely
aware of his companion's impatience before saying, "Now, Brother,"
and urged his horse from the cover of trees.

They slowed their horses through the gates
and onto the gravel of the private lane. The cool air of fall
brushed across Marcus's face, then snaked its way between his
collar and neck in chilled fingers. The road wound through the
grounds until, at last, a faint glow lit a beacon through the thick
trees to the left. The road made a sudden left turn and the mansion
came into view, two gas lights blazing on each side of the doors.
No servant waited to greet them. All expected guests had arrived.
Both men dismounted at the base of the stairs and hurried to the
door. Steven entered with Marcus close behind. A butler appeared
from a door at the end of the hallway carrying a tray laden with
decanter and glasses.

"Sir!" he cried, rattling the tray.

"Simons," Steven replied, and started up the
grand black walnut stairway to his right.

"Sir," Simons called again as Marcus followed
Steven up the staircase.

"I'll see myself to the second floor," Steven
called over his shoulder.

The tray was set down with a clatter and was
followed by the light tread of feet on the stairs behind them.

"Simons is persistent," Steven said in a low
voice, taking the stairs two at a time.

The staircase followed the wall straight up
to the second floor. The landing turned sharply left at the top.
Marcus strode down the corridor alongside Steven, who stopped at
the fifth door on the left.

"Sir," Simons called from the landing.

Steven reached for the doorknob and Marcus
saw his hand shake.

"Lad," he said, gently.

"Sir!" Simons cried, his voice nearly
hysterical. "You know how Mr Ardsley does not like strangers
upstairs." Simons had nearly reached them.

Steven looked at Marcus, gave a single nod,
then said as he pushed open the door, "He's no stranger, Simons; he
is my brother-in-law."

The words "brother-in-law" rang in the
silence of the bedchambers.

Simons hit the doorframe with an audible
slap. "Mr Ardsley, sir," he said between heavy breaths, "I tried
stopping them."

Marcus locked gazes with the powerfully-built
golden-haired man who stood nearest the bed. He looked to be about
ten years older than himself. He outweighed Marcus by twenty
pounds, but his fit frame testified that he wasn't a man given to
excessive drinking or any such habits that would quicken the
infirmities of age. Cold blue eyes stared back at Marcus. Here, at
last, he understood what Elise so feared.

"I am—" Simons began, but Price Ardsley said
in a quiet voice, "Go along, Simons. We're fine." Price shifted his
gaze to Steven. "Steven, I wasn't expecting you."

"I am sure," Steven remarked.

Ardsley focused on Marcus, and said,
"Sir?"

His tone was quizzical, but Marcus understood
the flicker of expression that had said,
Lord Ashlund, you are a
surprise.

"Pardon me, Gentlemen," Marcus said, and
brushed past the men who stood in stunned silence. He felt Price's
eyes settle on him as he sat on the bed beside the woman Price
claimed was Elise. Marcus took her cold, limp hand in his and
lifted it to his lips. "Elise," he said in a choked whisper, then
gently lay her hand upon her breast. Sliding his arms beneath her,
he lifted her, bed covers and all, from the bed.

A chorus of protests sounded as Marcus turned
toward the men gathered in the room.

Chapter Twenty

Elise felt herself lifted into a sitting
position. Next came the familiar cold rim of the metal cup against
her lips.
Do not drink,
she warned herself silently.
The
thirst doesn't matter.
Her mouth felt like sandpaper, parched
from lack of water, but the laudanum-laced water held a greater
fear than death. She allowed her head to loll to one side. A meaty
hand cupped her cheek and forced her into a more upright position.
Liquid dribbled past her lips and into her mouth. She kept mouth
and throat muscles lax and, despite the cold of the liquid as it
trickled down her neck, none made its way down her throat.

"She can barely sit up," a coarse female
voice said. "Why does she need more?"

"'Tis the doctor's orders," came the
all-too-familiar Irish brogue of Ramsey.

"Bah!" the woman said. "If you want to waste
your time forcing it down her throat, do so. I have better things
to do."

The cup left Elise's mouth and the hand
released her face. Again, she allowed her head to loll to one
side.

"You're right," Ramsey said.

Her head was laid back on the pallet.

"They will dose her this evening. She's not
likely to come out of this stupor before then."