Every Time with a Highlander (14 page)

She leaned back. “What is it?”

“Something is happening with the army. Nothing large scale, but officers have been in and out with notes for him. Also, the carriages are being prepared for travel.”

She flicked her gaze to the guttering candle beyond him. “Oh.”

He sat up. “You knew.”

“He told me. At the river. After you left. We're heading north to visit an old family friend of his who's ill—Lord Morebright. Though his intention was to send someone from his solicitor's office. You, I suppose, or the man whose place you took. You had best be gone by morning unless carting around lecherous old reprobates is something you'd enjoy.”

“Would you have gone with him—Bridgewater, I mean?”

“Aye.”

“You'd go alone in a carriage with a man whom you believe to be violent and untrustworthy?”

“Michael…” She took care to use his Christian name, as he'd asked. She wished fervently to lessen the pain in his eyes. “It was unlikely to be dangerous. He's under a spell.”

Michael frowned. “What sort of a spell?”

“A love spell. Like this one.”

“It's not like this one, I assure you. What does it mean? What are its effects?”

“He cares for me. He desires me. He's blinded enough by his feelings to allow me some freedom to move around unmonitored. Which I need in order to gather information,” she added quickly, seeing the argument rise in his eyes.

“You drugged him to gather information?”

“
I
didn't drug him. He stole a potion from me meant for someone else. And he took it. He thought it was an aid to fornication, and he intended to seduce the daughter of a friend.”

“Did he?”

“Partly.” She would not soon forget the sight of Bridgewater, breeks around his ankles, being fellated by the poor girl. “But it wasn't the result of my spell, only his own disgusting lechery.”

Kent was exceptionally quick, and she could see the questions forming as he worked out the scenario.

“Then why didn't he fall for the girl?”

“Love spells don't work that way,” she said. “One has to be inclined to fall in love with the person already. The spell simply pushes the taker over the edge.”

“So he
loves
you?”

“He was
inclined
to love me. Believe me, I was as surprised as you are. But he won't hurt me, don't you see? As long as the spell has made him fall truly in love with me, I needn't fear anything.”

“Right. Only his desire to take you to his bed. Tell me, has he, to your knowledge, ever used force on a woman?”

The question surprised her, and she tripped on the answer.

“No,” he said, standing.

“What do you mean?”

“You can't go.”

The anger must have shown on her face because he added, “I don't mean I won't let you. I mean no one in their senses should be willing to go. Think of your friends. Think of me.”

Think of him? As if
that
were likely to result in clear-headed decision making. Her independence was the reason she could be a spy. If she worried about worrying her friends or the men who chose to spend an hour in her bed, she'd be frozen in place, unable to make any decisions.

“It isn't a matter of caring about people. It's a matter of doing my job. I have an opportunity now, at Bridgewater's side, to help the people who long for peace.”

His face softened. “Undine, surely you know how the things that are happening in Scotland are going to turn out? You can see the future, can't you?”

The buzzing in her head returned. History as it would be written; the hard work and desire of the people trying to change it; the tension, palpable to her, of what was and what could be—she could feel it all. Yet she believed the future could be changed. She'd seen it on a personal level—a friend she'd helped return to the love of his life in the future, restoring their happiness, a man changing his luck via a trip to another century. If that could happen, why couldn't these small things stack up into something much larger, like rocks into a bridge or bricks into a home? Her theory—for she'd spent many long hours asking herself why she felt driven by a force beyond herself to work against the treaty of Union—was that such a change required a coordinated mass of determination working for it, the sort that could only come from brother aligning with brother, neighbor with neighbor, and even enemy with enemy. She didn't know the size of the mass needed. She only knew she couldn't stop trying to gather it.

“Of course I know what happens,” she said. “And it's because I know that I fight. But, please, I beg you. Don't talk about what you know. It clouds my vision and makes it harder for me to see the change that must be made.”

He looked at her sadly, and she knew he was thinking of the history he knew. He took her hand and passed it across his lips. “Some fights may not be worth the sacrifice. That's all I'll say.”

“Do you mean because the Scots lose?”

His eyes widened.

“Aye,” she said. “I know what happens, but not for the reason you think. Tell me, if you found yourself at dinner with John Wilkes Booth before the play that night, what would you do?”

His face softened. “You're saying that by carrying on as Bridgewater's fiancée, you have the chance to stop something akin to John Wilkes Booth?”

“Essentially, aye.”

He tugged her back to the mattress and into his arms. “But what I'm saying is you may be Abraham Lincoln.”

A knock sounded, and her heart lurched.

Kent reached for the pistol. “Hide,” he whispered.

Bridgewater heard the door shut just before he rounded the corner of the darkened hallway.

Why would Beaufort be up at this hour?
When he made the corner, the door was closed. If Beaufort had been awake, he'd just returned to his room. Or maybe he'd heard a noise in the hall.

Then Bridgewater heard Undine's voice—or thought he had. Just a note. Scarcely enough to identify her, but he hesitated nonetheless. He looked up and down the hall. He'd given one of his colonels permission to lodge his twin daughters in the house for the month. Perhaps it was one of them—or an errant servant.

He took a deep breath.

You're being absurd.

The French carpet and thick wood door blocked sound and light. There was no way to tell if Beaufort was awake, asleep, entertaining a guest, or performing with an acrobatic troupe, for that matter. Bridgewater could knock, of course, but how would he explain the interruption?

So sorry, Beaufort, I forgot it was this late.

My servant said you might desire a glass of sherry before sleeping.

Oh, is this your bedchamber? Forgive me. I thought it was the map room. One never knows where one is in a new house, ha-ha!

He waited a long moment and heard nothing more. Normally, that would have been enough, but the memory of the look on Undine's face when she was talking to the solicitor tickled uncomfortably at his memory.

He shook it off and walked to the top of the stairs, then stopped again.

Good Lord, you can just walk to her room if you're that concerned.

But he'd promised her he wouldn't press for an entrée into her bed until she was ready, and that meant keeping a respectful distance between them—he on the English side of the house, she on the Scottish.

It ground on him to play the obedient sweetheart. He longed for the day (and night) when Undine would be the one having to submit to demands. He'd never wanted a woman the way he wanted her, but want her he did, and until he had her, he'd never be happy.

In direct violation of his sense of dignity, he walked to the Scottish wing and crept down Undine's hall. The door was closed. He was about to put his ear to it when one of the little urchins who worked in the house came whistling down the hall.

“
Shh
,” he said. Abashed, the boy bowed and shifted the basket of candles he was carrying from one arm to the other, his uncombed hair falling across his eyes. The moment he was safely past Bridgewater, he ran.

When Bridgewater was alone, he put his ear to the door and heard nothing. She was probably sleeping.

Probably.

He retraced his steps to the top of the stairs, but he couldn't bring himself to go down.

What if she was in Beaufort's room right now, while he stood, a helpless cuckold, at the top of the stairs?

He growled, uncomfortably aware of being a hostage to this strange affliction.

He wavered.

I do need to talk to the man
, he reminded himself. A solicitor from a firm bought and paid for with Bridgewater money was the only man he could trust to deliver his note to Simon.

He took a step toward the door.

The boy reappeared, his circuit of the floor evidently complete, and went straight for Beaufort's door.

Bridgewater busied himself with the watch on his chain—a man too preoccupied to be attending too closely to anything but his thoughts.

The boy knocked loudly. “I have your candles, sir.”

A Scot too. Bridgewater reminded himself to speak to his housekeeper. She needed to be more fastidious when it came to hiring from local families.

* * *

Kent opened the door prepared for almost anything except the brown-haired, basket-toting lad who stood before him.

“Bridgewater's watching,” the boy said under his breath. “Don't say anything, let me in, and, whatever you do, don't close the door.”

Michael returned the pistol he'd had behind his back to the waistband of his breeks, cast a bored look down the hall, and caught sight of Bridgewater staring at his watch at the top of the stairs. Michael smoothed down the edges of his beard and waved.

Bridgewater slipped the watch into his pocket and began to descend. Michael watched him until he reached the bottom of the stairs, then he followed the boy in, leaving the door ajar.

“What's going on?” Michael had sheathed the pistol, but he had no scruples about removing it again. The open door was making him exceedingly nervous.

The young man began collecting candle stubs, and his eyes went briefly to the unmade bed. He was twelve or thirteen, though a glimpse of the man emerging was visible in his bobbing Adam's apple and gangly arms. He carried himself with more sangfroid than Michael's business manager.

“Where is she?” the boy said, continuing his housekeeping.

“Who?” Michael had no intention of admitting anything to anyone.

“Undine, it's Nab,” he whispered. “Abby sent me.”

Undine drew back the drapes just enough to peer at him. She was back in her gown, Michael noted with no small relief.

“Good evening,” she said. “Please tell Abby when you see her I shall have something to say about this.”

Nab smiled. “She said you'd say something like that.”

She gave an “it's okay” look to Michael, though she didn't appear to be very happy about it.

“His lordship was in the hallway,” Nab said, “watching.”

“
Jesus
.” Michael's stomach dropped to his knees.

“What did he see?” Undine said.

Nab shook his head. “Nothing, I think. He circled, and I thought he wanted to talk to him.” He jabbed a thumb in Michael's direction. “But then he went to your room and listened at the door. And then he came back here. He was just about to knock when I ran in front of him and beat him to it.”

“Thank you for that,” Michael said.

“
Och
, 'twas nothing.” He gave Michael a sidelong look and said to Undine, “He's one of us, aye?”

“Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but aye, you can trust him.”

Michael wouldn't have been more flattered if Queen Anne herself had called to offer him a knighthood.

There were more sounds in the hall, and Undine dove again behind the drapes. It was a footman on his rounds. He hesitated when he saw Michael.

“I would've preferred the candles when I called for them,” Michael said sternly to Nab, “not an hour after I went to sleep.”

“I'm verra sorry, sir. I was helping the cook.”

“You were not. You were outside. I can see the mud on your trousers.”

The footman cleared his throat and continued, and Michael understood why Nab wanted the door to be open.

“Well done, sir,” the boy said, awe on his face.

“I just hope I didn't just get you in trouble.”

“Nae,” the boy said, waving away his concern. “That's Harry. He's the reason I'm muddy. We were playing dice in the kitchen garden. He reports all he sees directly to his lordship, though, and his lordship will certainly ask him about you.”

Michael moved a few steps from the door and lowered his voice. “What makes you think Bridgewater didn't see Undine come in here? Or Harry for that matter?”

“Er…” Splotches of red appeared on Nab's cheeks.

“You can tell us,” Michael said. “Don't worry.”

“I ain't worrit,” Nab said. “It's just that…” He sighed and looked at his feet. “I'm not entirely certain how these things work with grown-ups, but I figured if his lordship was
sure
Undine had come in here, wouldn't he have just knocked down the door and slit your throat?”

Michael rubbed his neck. “Well, there's that.”

“But I know he's suspicious,” Nab said. “Of Undine, I mean. And possibly you now too. He was searching her room this afternoon—while she was away. Are you really from his solicitor's office?”

The drapes made a loud snort.

“You may take that as a no,” Michael said. “I work in the theater.”

“An
acto
r
!”

Michael shook his head. “No such luck. A director.”

“I saw the one about King Macbeth.” Nab held the basket in the air. “I liked seeing the head on the spike!”

“‘Behold where stands the usurper's cursed head,'” Michael said, the lines as familiar to him as a song. “Yes, I believe that's a natural reaction to spending time with any group of actors. Is there anything else we should know about Bridgewater?”

“He spent the afternoon seeing one officer after another,” Nab said, and Undine drew back the curtain again. “Something's being planned, though I don't know what. I know he's eager to speak to you. He mentioned it to his secretary twice today.”

“Do you know why?” Undine said.

“No. I cleaned the baseboards near his office for as long as I could, but I was afraid someone was going to notice. But there was one thing I did see. I was only catching peeks when the door was open, but after he sent some corporal to the Orkneys—”

“Ye gods,” Michael said.

“—he opened a drawer and looked at something for a long time. But 'twas odd because he looked at it in the drawer, without putting it on his desk. And he jumped like a scared cat when the servant came in with his coffee.”

Undine looked at Michael. “I need to see what it is. We heard that someone is planning an attack in Scotland and that the messages travel through this area. None of my sources in the English army can confirm an attack is being planned. In fact, they say the officers have been told to maintain peace at all costs.”

“But you don't believe it.”

“In this case, I do. They want nothing to disrupt the vote on the treaty. But the rumors haven't stopped.”

“You think Bridgewater is involved.”

“No question. Every fiber of my being believes it. But I need proof. It could be the letter I'm looking for.”

“The drawer's locked,” Nab said. “He used a key. I heard the scratch of the metal.”

Undine made a dismissive noise. “I don't need a key to get into a drawer.”

“You might need something to get into the office, though. There's a guard posted outside.”

“We've got to let the boy go. If he spends much more time here, Harry's going to get suspicious,” Michael said.

Nab pulled a handful of candles from the basket and dropped them on the table. “The footman makes regular circuits. The next time he walks past the stairs, I'll offer him a leg of chicken I lifted from the kitchen. That'd be the time to go,” he said to Undine, “if you're planning to leave.”

Michael cleared his throat. “Thank you, Nab. A pleasure to meet you.”

The lad grinned. With a wink, he said in a voice that carried to the hall, “I canna apologize enough for my tardiness, sir. I do hope the rest of your evening is pleasant.”

Michael doubted the second half would be anywhere near as good as the first.