Susan Johnson (11 page)

“But no match, Lady Graham,” he quietly whispered, his dark brows rising in gentle emphasis, “for yours.…”

“Is that a compliment?” she flirtatiously replied, wanting to dispel the melancholy of their leave-taking, taking her cue from Johnnie’s easy smile. “Do well-bred ladies respond to such personal comments?”

“It’s definitely a compliment, my dear Bitsy.” His eyes, the color of summer skies that morning, leisurely perused her. “As for well-bred ladies …” he went on, his gaze returned to her face. And as he debated what to tell her, a cheer erupted behind them. The English troopers had ridden over the horizon. And issues of good breeding were instantly displaced by more pertinent issues of politics.

“Pardon me,” he said, his voice suddenly changed, chill, businesslike, and he gathered her reins into one of his large gloved hands. “A precaution only …” he added,
no smile on his face this time, his glance dismissive as he raised his free hand briefly to bring his men up.

She watched him become Laird of Ravensby before her eyes, a sudden transformation from the warmhearted, teasing man she’d spent the night with, whom she had only seconds before regarded with pleasure. Grim-faced now, commanding, he directed his lieutenants with brisk orders, his gaze sweeping the ranks of English troopers, searching for his brother. And moments later, when he caught sight of Robbie in the midst of a strong English guard, he murmured, “Thank God,” in a gruff, relieved utterance. His eyes intent on the advancing English, he twisted Elizabeth’s reins another turn tighter around his hand and pulled her mount closer. Swiveling away from her in his saddle, he turned enough so his voice reached all of his men. “Now watch the bastard Godfrey,” he said. “Watch his eyes and his hands and his deceitful face. Pay attention to the men in the farthest ranks, take note of any unusual hand signals. You can’t trust a Sassenach,” he softly finished, “to keep his word.”

It was as though she no longer existed, Elizabeth thought, the past week forgotten, last night not even a memory. The animosity between English and Scots ran too deep, centuries of hatred a powerful deterrent to personal feelings. She could as well have been a herd of cattle being traded back or a prized mare stolen in a midnight raid.

“Robbie looks well,” someone remarked.

“He’d better,” Johnnie replied, curt, decisive.

“The lad’s carrying a lady’s scarf tied round his arm,” another clansman noted, surprise in his voice.

“And a smile on his bonny face,” a voice from the back jovially declared.

A ripple of laughter ran through the ranks of armed men.

“Sassenach hospitality’s improved,” Adam Carre said.

“Or Hamilton’s letter eased his stay,” Johnnie quietly added. The Duke of Hamilton, suspected by many of closer relations with the English than he admitted, had been persuaded to write to Godfrey on Robbie’s behalf.

“Like you eased Hamilton’s debts.”

“We were fortunate he always has need of money.”

Then Robbie waved, an ebullient, unrestrained gesture, the lady’s favor tied round his arm fluttering in the breeze, and a wide smile instantly altered the gravity of Johnnie’s expression.

There was no resemblance at all, Elizabeth swiftly observed, as Robbie Carre came more closely into view, between the brothers. No younger version of the huge, dark man at her side rode at her father’s flank. Instead, Robbie Carre had brilliant rust-red hair favoring curls, the whipcord-lean body of youth, a restless, unrestrained energy even visible from a distance, and the face of a troubadour. Refined rather than starkly modeled like his older brother, with enormous dark eyes, his features reminded her of a Renaissance prince. All subtlety and elegance.

Then he smiled.

And Johnnie’s smile shone on his face … exactly.

“Are you ready?” Johnnie said, not to her but to his lieutenants.

“The muskets are behind the tree line. We’re at your back.” Kinmont’s voice was no more than a murmur.

And with a minute nod of acknowledgment Johnnie urged his black forward, drawing Elizabeth’s mount along with a sudden jerk of her reins, their legs suddenly brushing as he pulled her closely to his side.

He seemed not to notice; Elizabeth felt the hard strength of his booted leg and thought instantly of the muscled feel of his body. He was warm, her errant mind reminisced, so hot-blooded and heated, her hands felt cool on his skin. And he moved with infinite grace, she recalled, his muscles rippling and coiling beneath her palms with tensile strength. The night she’d spent in his arms would stay forever in her memory—his passion,
his power, his teasing smile and eyes, the pleasure he gave so generously. She glanced at him as if to preserve a final image in her mind.

And was struck by his splendid, stark beauty: the gleam of his long black hair, his perfect profile etched against the ashen sky, his potent power evident in the width of his broad shoulders, the bulging muscles of his thigh, his strapping arm beneath the fine burgundy wool of his shirt, the sheer brawn of his wrist visible between his cuff and the rolled edge of his glove—an overwhelming display of brute force.

But she was struck as well by his utter remoteness. He had displaced her already from his life.

As previously arranged in the weeklong negotiations, Godfrey and Johnnie rode forward alone with the hostages.

The English Warden of Harbottle Castle, a large, fair-complexioned, handsome man, now past fifty, was remarkably fit for his age. Thanks in part to London’s best armorer, the corpulence of thirty years’ dissipation was partially concealed beneath the well-cut leather and elegant bossing of his silver-studded jack. Although a man of commanding presence, he had a mean and selfish soul, completely without honesty or resolution. False and cruel, covetous and imperious, altogether destitute of the sacred ties of honor, loyalty, justice, and gratitude, for three decades he had functioned perfectly as an agent of the Court.

Unarmed, as they all were, without jack or helmet, Robbie sat his mount with a casual indolence, easily keeping pace with Godfrey’s Yorkshire-bred chestnut, his youthful good spirits in marked contrast to the Earl of Brusisson’s lowering scowl.

Rarely bested in a long life of ruthless acquisition and cunning maneuvering for advantage, Harold Godfrey had been forced to acknowledge the rash success of the Carre chieftain at thwarting him. Not only had he lost the opportunity for an enormous ransom, but his daughter
had been snatched from under the very shadow of Harbottle Castle, a galling embarrassment for which he intended future redress.

“Don’t think you’ll get away with this, Ravensby,” he curtly said as they pulled their horses to a halt on the windswept field, his hand reaching for his missing sword in an automatic gesture of animosity.

“But I already have, Godfrey,” Johnnie said, his voice bland. “Consider your current position.”

“A temporary necessity, no more,” Elizabeth’s father bluntly retorted. “Short-lived as your Parliament’s naive rush of patriotism.”

“At least we still have the capacity for naïveté, my Lord,” Johnnie said with an impudent civility. “England is bereft of all but deceit. And now, sir,” he went on, not interested in trading insults with an old enemy, “your daughter is returned to you.” He wished only to have Robbie back and be done with Harold Godfrey.

Taking note finally of his daughter, Godfrey scrutinized Elizabeth’s pale face and, goaded by Johnnie’s insolence, demanded sharp as a whiplash, “Did he mistreat you?”

His tone struck Elizabeth harshly like a blow. And for the briefest moment she was vulnerable to her past. But she had vowed at Hotchane’s death to sustain her independence, and in a fleeting moment more, her composure returned. “No,” she quietly answered, thinking the words so wrong for what Johnnie had given her. “I was dealt with honorably.”

Something in her voice caught her father’s attention, for he paused a moment, his gaze insolently traveling down her caped form. “Will you be bringing a Carre bastard into the world sometime soon, then?”

“Mind your manners,” Johnnie brusquely challenged.

“I’ll speak to my daughter as I please,” the Earl of Brusisson snapped. “Did you fuck her, Ravensby, like you fuck all the women?”

“You insult her,” Johnnie said, his voice utterly without expression, the possible consequences of a Carre bastard entirely his responsibility, not hers. Elizabeth’s
innocence had been no match for him. “Retract your words, Godfrey,” he went on with a forced politesse, “and apologize or pay for your rudeness.”

“And you’ll make me pay, you arrogant pup?” Harold Godfrey’s reputation as a swordsman hadn’t diminished with age.

“I will,” Johnnie quietly said, “and I’ll kill you this time.” He’d trained on the Continent and at his father’s side, and his skill was celebrated.

“Ah …” the English Warden drawled, unintimidated, confident experience would always prevail over youth. “A gallant knight to defend your honor, my virtuous daughter. Remind me to keep you locked up for a few months, and we’ll see if there are more personal reasons for his chivalrous defense.”

Johnnie had had no intention of challenging the Earl of Brusisson; he had in fact intended to politely exchange Elizabeth Graham for his brother with a minimum of conversation, no display of emotion, and expeditious speed. But Godfrey was more of a Sassenach pig today than he’d expected. “I’m surprised you recognize gallantry, Godfrey,” he said in a lazy drawl. “But since you apparently do”—and his voice changed suddenly to an icy chill—“kindly name your weapons.”

“That’s absolutely enough!” Elizabeth furiously exploded. “If you two would
kindly
,” she sarcastically emphasized, “forget your utterly useless, masculine sense of outrage for a moment, we could expedite this exchange. And, Father,” she went on, glaring at the man who had sold her unwillingself into eight years of conjugal servitude, “if you so much as put a finger on me, I’ll see that you never come within a mile of my money. In addition,” she said, her voice as unyielding as her rigid spine, “I’ll have you skinned alive—literally. My bodyguard, Redmond, has long-standing orders from Hotchane to do just that should you harm me.”

“I’d definitely listen to the lady, Johnnie,” Robbie cheerfully interposed, amiable and good-humored, detached from the dramatic emotion. “She appears to have the situation under control without your accomplished sword arm.”

“This Redmond is competent?” Johnnie inquired, his voice silky.

“Don’t toy with me, Ravensby.”

He’d not heard that uncompromising tone of voice before in the week of her detention, and he knew at that moment how she’d survived eight years of marriage to Hotchane Graham—a man not known for his benevolence.

“As you wish, Lady Graham,” he replied, all fine breeding and deference. “Your servant, ma’am.” He bowed gracefully from his saddle. “And with your assent,” he mockingly said to Godfrey, whose violent disposition had been summarily tempered by the graphic threat of Hotchane’s posthumous orders, “my brother and I will take our leave.”

With cheeky boldness Robbie unwound his reins from Godfrey’s saddle pommel, looked at his brother for sanction, and at an infinitesimal nod from Johnnie swung his mount away from his Harbottle warder.

A fraction of a second later, waiting only long enough to see his brother free, without a word to Godfrey or Elizabeth, Johnnie nudged his black into a turn, kicked his horse into a canter, and the brothers Carre began their journey home.

The exchange was over.

The brief acquaintance of Elizabeth Graham and the Laird of Ravensby was over.

In that moment the sun broke through the threatening clouds in shafts of glorious golden light, like glittering fingers from heaven, bestowing blessing on the consummated trade.

The celebration of Robbie’s return lasted three festive, sleepless, roisterous days, and would have continued longer had it not been interrupted by a messenger from Berwick with news of their long-overdue ship from Macao. The
Raven
was currently anchored off Berwick, waiting to be offloaded with luxuries from the East.

“Your homecoming brought us luck,” Johnnie cheerfully declared, raising himself into a more upright position from his indolent sprawl in a heavily carved armchair at the head of the long dining table, the polished cherry wood littered with glasses and half-emptied bottles. He lifted his tumbler in theatrical salute to his brother and, waving a footman forward with a fresh bottle, said to their messenger of good cheer, “Sit down, Jervis, have a drink and fill us in. Robbie is back in the fold, which is why we’re all celebrating,” he went on in a lazy drawl, sweeping his arms expansively around the table to include all the Carre clansmen. “That ass Godfrey is licking his tarnished reputation in Harbottle Castle. England is currently being royally fucked over
the funds for the army, and now that the
Raven
has returned after we thought you lost these three months past, all is infinitely right with the world.”

“I’ll drink to that,” a rather drunken voice from the far end of the table remarked.

“Hear, hear, and to the Carre sword arm,” another celebrant vigorously added.