Every Time with a Highlander (19 page)

“Are you telling me the truth, lad?” Morebright said to Bridgewater, spearing another hunk of boiled eel from the proffered platter. Undine's mind reeled thinking of Bridgewater as a “lad.” The growth on the old man's arm was as large and misshapen as a summer squash.

“Aye,” Bridgewater said. “The bishop was as drunk as a French lord. Naked. And lying on the floor of a whorehouse in Coldstream, claiming to have no recollection of the previous night. Is it any wonder we question the worth of the salaries we pay our churchmen?”

Lord Morebright laughed a gasping laugh that rattled the ring of keys at his waist and went on so long that Undine wondered if his nurse might have to be called. He'd spent the last hour behind the closed doors of his reception room with Bridgewater while Undine had spent the time walking the grounds, trying unsuccessfully to hear something through the closed windows and thinking about Michael.

Her thoughts had returned to the same subject when Morebright interrupted her pleasant reverie.

“Tell me, my girl,” he said, “do you really read men's fortunes, or is that just something you say so that you might get them to tell you their secrets?” He bared his grimy teeth in an unpleasant smile.

Undine considered a number of replies, none of them acceptable in polite company, certainly not when one of the members of said company was the man to whom one was supposedly affianced and who was clearly sharing a secret with his host. Instead, she said, “You know what they say. If you want to keep a secret, you must first keep it from yourself.”

The smile left Morebright's face. “I'll have to defer to you on that. I know you're the expert on keeping secrets. Don't get too close to my toes,” he added sharply to the servant ladling boiled onions onto his plate. “They're as fragile as tinder.”

Undine declined the onions and turned her attention to her soup. The earlier she could adjourn to her bedchamber, the better.

His lordship reached past her for the salt cellar. “Speaking of secrets, does John know of your past?”

Undine stiffened. Many of her customers in the borderlands believed her to be a whore, the sort of whore whom you knew, without evidence, to have slept with others and whom you told others you had slept with yourself. Undine had learned to live with the innuendo and even use it to her advantage, but if Morebright dared touch upon it here, as they ate their supper, he would find out how close to tinder those toes were.

“Simon,” Bridgewater cautioned, “I don't think—”

“Shut up, Johnny. I didn't mean her moral comportment. I'm perfectly aware those stories are untrue. I mean the story of her birth.”

The blood in Undine's ears began to sing.

Bridgewater attempted to conceal his concern in a look of affection and opened his mouth to say something, then stopped and shook his head.

His chivalry knows no bounds.

“Have you not told him, Undine—or should I say, Miss Murray?”

Bridgewater wheeled toward her.

Undine's grasp on her goblet tightened. She wished the claret were rotting fish guts and that she might fling them in both their faces. “My father was a clansmen in Clan Murray.”

“You're a
Scot
?” Bridgewater put down his fork, appalled for an instant before remembering his duty. “It doesn't matter, of course. Your mother was an Englishwoman. I know that. What was his name? I'm acquainted with a number of the men in that clan.”

Undine's face grew hot. “I don't know his name. Nor does my mother.”

The hint of a grin spread over Lord Morebright's face. “Her mother was raped, John. 'Twas a terrible thing. She came to the chieftain and demanded justice. The trouble was she'd never seen the man's face. And, unfortunately, none of the clansmen stepped forward to claim the honor. Integrity does not run deep in Scotsmen.”

“My mother was also abandoned by her Englishman husband,” Undine said, cold fire in her voice, “and the two of us were driven from our home by marauding English soldiers who stole our whiskey and set the place afire when they were done. So if we're looking to measure worthiness, perhaps it is
men
who fall short, not Scotsmen or Englishmen.”

An electric silence followed, which was broken by a loud “Ha!” by Morebright.

“So you see, John, you are bestowing your name on a woman who will not only prosper by it but will be beholden to you for it. I call that a fine match. My own wife was the daughter of a butcher. She was always attentive to my needs, though she lived in a rather ridiculous fear that I would divorce her. And we always got the fattest geese at Christmas.”

“Undine will never have to worry about anything,” Bridgewater said, gaze darting, in a spineless attempt to both appease and contradict his host.

She leaned forward to meet Morebright's eyes and said in a voice loud enough to cause a maid passing in the hallway to turn. “Are you in your full faculties today, sir? Would you care to hear your fortune?”

Transfixed by the scene unfolding, the footman refilling Bridgewater's goblet forgot what he was doing and only kept himself from pouring claret onto the table by catching himself with a jerk.

Ignoring the servant's silent bows of apology, Morebright snorted. “'Tis no more than a Fair Day trick.”

Undine waited.

“Nonetheless,” he added, “you're my guest. I shouldn't wish to miss your performance. I've heard it's quite fine.”

“Are you certain?”

“
Undine
,” Bridgewater said.

He's finally found his gallantry
, she thought. Too bad he was using to it protect Morebright.

Morebright waved off any concern. “I want to hear what she says, John. This sort of thing has taken the place of the castle fool for dinner entertainment. Let us be amused.”

She took the man's unafflicted hand and turned it over to view his palm.

“You must close your eyes,” she said, and he did.

She traced a finger lightly along the base of his fingers and then at the fleshy part of his thumb. He shivered at the touch. After a thorough perusal, she brought his hand to the edge of the table and leaned as close as she could to shelter it from John's view. Swaying a bit, she closed her eyes. “Men admire you for your foresight and business acumen. You're a man who does not shy away from risk and who reaps the rewards of such courage. You will soon find yourself at a crossroads, and the choice you make will serve you well. Do you see the line here?” She drew her finger across the base of his thumb, eyes still closed.

“Aye,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“This represents a journey—and, of course, you're about to travel to York. There, you will meet a stranger who will offer you a great opportunity. Consider your options and trust your instincts. Things are not always as they seem, but you will see the answer clearly, even when those around you don't. On the whole, this is very strong fortune and betides both wealth and happiness.” She released him and leaned back in her chair.

The man stared at the hand as if it were still tingling with the aftereffects of her magic. After a long pause, he shook his head. “Drivel.”

“Your skepticism doesn't surprise me,” she said, adjusting her chain of silver and coral. “'Tis the lens through which the most intelligent men view the world.”

“John, this must be a delightful diversion for you. Does she predict plump, blond nobleman's daughters for all of your unmarried friends as well?”

Bridgewater, who was eyeing Undine closely, didn't immediately respond. “One can always count on Undine for the most masterful sleight of hand,” he said at last.

“Thank you, John,” she said, standing. “Now, I must beg you to excuse me. I have to take care of a few matters before I go to bed.”

A young servant appeared in the doorway. “I beg your pardon, sir. You have a visitor.”

Undine's heart fluttered, and her gaze went immediately to the window, though it was far too dark to see anything.

“A visitor at this hour?” Morebright said. “Who is it?”

“A Mr. Peter Swift. He says you do not know him. Shall I ask him to return tomorrow?”

Undine hurried out of the dining room doors, hoping to see if the visitor resembled a theater director she knew, but the towering entry hall was empty.

“He's been moved to the reception room, milady,” said the same servant who'd nearly spilled the wine.

She made her way into the library without comment, hoping her silence passed for haughtiness rather than a confirmation that she had indeed been curious about the man. It was only then that she allowed herself the pleasure of fingering the keys she'd lifted from Morebright's side during her performance. One of them, she hoped, would open a room in which she would discover the truth of what he and Bridgewater were planning.

She paged through an illustrated history of exotic flora, lingering on the eye-catching majesty of the
Java anthurium
with its proud and somewhat vulgar spike, while she waited with more nervousness than she cared to admit to hear a snippet of Mr. Swift's voice.

But her wait went unrewarded. Morebright entered the reception room, closed the door, and not another word was heard.

She reshelved the volume and exited into the hall. A hand on her arm brought her to a full stop.

“What was that in there?” Bridgewater inclined his head toward the dining room.

“I'm not sure what you mean.”

“You know what I mean. You don't read palms. And you certainly don't give men fortunes like that ridiculous load of bilge.”

“That's what he wanted to hear.”

“But it wasn't the truth, was it? You saw his future, didn't you?”

She didn't care for Bridgewater's tone or the grip on her arm. Where was the inconvenient servant now, when she actually needed him? “I did.”

“What was it? Why didn't you share it with him?”

“He had no interest in the truth. He only wanted to be proven right. So I gave him what he wanted.”

“You should have given him his true fortune,” Bridgewater said flatly. “He allowed you to read it. 'Tis not yours to withhold.”

Her
vision was not hers to withhold? She shook her arm free. “If you feel so strongly that he should know what his future holds, you may deliver the news yourself. Tell him to make his will. The operation will be harrowing, and while he'll live to tell of it, a vessel in his neck will burst not long after, and he'll die in a pool of his own blood. His wife, by the way, loved him till the end and forgave him for the child he had by his factor's daughter. His factor, however, was not so forgiving, and if he ever wonders why his lumber concern never made back its investment, he need look no further.”

She could tell by the surprise in Bridgewater's eyes that he knew some of this to be fact.

“Is there anything else?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said, not chagrined by the edge in her voice. “Are you perhaps an acquaintance of Peter Swift?”

Her heart beat faster. Had he unmasked the man—or worse, hurt him? “No. Why?”

“The way you looked up when he was announced made me think you might know him. And when you left the dining room to ‘take care of a few matters,' you came here rather than going to your room. Unless your matters include perusing Simon's collection of books, I'm not sure what this location offers other than a chance to run into Simon's guest.”

Bridgewater was more sharp-eyed than she'd given him credit for. She would need to be more careful.

“Oh, look,” he said. “Shall we introduce ourselves?”

She swung around, half-eager, half-afraid, to find Morebright exiting the reception room. The man who followed was half a foot shorter than Michael and twenty years older. Even then, she searched his face for a hint of those warm eyes and smile but found nothing.

“Good evening, sir. I'm Lord Bridgewater. May I introduce my fiancée, Undine… Well, I suppose we might as well say Lady Bridgewater.”

Undine cringed at his use of that surname for her. And she'd never heard Bridgewater take the lead in introductions before. As a nobleman, others were introduced to him.

Peter Swift bowed deeply and Undine curtsied.

“A very good evening to you, sir,” she said, feeling sorry for the man who, unbeknownst to him, was the object of such intense dislike.

“And how is it you know Lord Morebright?” Bridgewater asked.

“I don't—well, not verra well. I'm the new curate at Saint Kinian's. Lord Morebright sent for an officiant. Are you the lucky groom?”

Undine locked the door of her bedchamber and collapsed against it, stunned. She felt as if all the air had been removed from the room.

But this is no more than what you'd assumed would happen.

Aye, but having an assumption and being confronted with the cold, awful reality were very different things.

She touched her hair, her dress. It was as if the world had lost its hold on what could and couldn't happen, and she needed to be reminded of the truth of things. Satisfied the strands hadn't turned to snakes or the silk to flames, she took a few rubber-kneed steps.

“I wondered if you'd be joining me at some point.”

She jumped.

Michael stood in the shadows, wearing the dark blue coat of Morebright's footmen. His hair had been slicked back, and the false beard had been rolled into a queue, extending a few inches down his back and tied with a red ribbon. It looked just like the queues worn by all of Morebright's footmen wore.
He
was the inconvenient servant! She gasped, astounded.

“How did you…?”

He shrugged. “It's so hard to find good help these days.” He'd rendered his wounds nearly invisible with some sort of face paint.

She threw her arms around him. The weight of him, solid and reassuring, steadied her, and it wasn't until she'd found her voice again a long, long moment later that she realized the arms that held her held her with palpable restraint.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I've seen Abby. I have news of the clans.” He released her gently, but the air felt cooler than it had a moment earlier. And she knew without asking the clans weren't the cause of the chill.

“What?”

“When I was tossed out, I went to Gerard and Serafina, who in turn took me to Abby.”

“In Black Blade?” He'd gotten himself into a meeting of the chieftains? For an instant, she had a vision of him as William Wallace.

“Aye. Very Scottish gothic. I expected a herd of vampire oxen to come charging around the corner at any instant.”

“I don't know ‘vampire.'”

“Like poisonous snakes, only with wings.”

“I see.”

It seemed to her the conversation they were having was taking the place of the one they needed to have. Nonetheless, neither of them seemed to ready to abandon it.

“What did Abby say?”

Michael hung his head and sighed. “Perhaps I shouldn't have told her, but I can't change that now—”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her Bridgewater was taking you to see Lord Morebright.”

“Oh my skies.” He opened his mouth to offer an apology and she waved it away. “Abby and I have a peculiar relationship, you see. We occupy different sides of the conflict here often enough to make a policy of silence on certain matters a requirement.”

“I'm sorry. I see that now.”

Undine imagined the scene. Two dozen clan chiefs, whose men in the borderlands were harassed on a daily basis, finding out the man who oversees the harassing is trying to travel through Scotland without notice. Abby, herself the victim of a highly embarrassing blackmailing at Bridgewater's hands earlier in the year, forced by honor to reveal what Michael had told her and then arguing for a measured response.

Then it dawned on her that allowing Michael to come here might be part of a trap. “How did you get away?”

Michael told her the story, and when she heard his escape was Abby's doing, her eyes grew moist. Abby would not have used Michael to deliver false information. Responsibility to her people might require her to work at cross-purposes to Undine, but Abby would fight every clan chief in Scotland before she'd allow Undine or a man Undine cared about to be used unknowingly to foil the rebels' dreams of peace.

“And she led you all the way to MacDougal's Fist?”

“I must say the Scots have a peculiar way with names, but yes, she led me to a rocky hill almost in sight of the river that led me here.”

Undine basked in the unique comfort that comes from a sister's care, even when that sister is not truly yours. It was a feeling as powerful as magic—perhaps more powerful.

“She's very protective of me,” Undine said.

“Indeed, she is. More than you know.” His eyes were like glass in the moon's light, but it was the blue of regret, not pleasure.

“What is it? Tell me.”

“There's more.”

“The letter. What did it say?”

“Bridgewater has been tasked with creating a diversion of his choosing before the vote. He was told to have it done by Midsummer's Day.”

“That's soon.” A shiver went down her back. She knew the sorts of diversions the English army created. The vision in her head was a cataract of orange and red, like the core of a blistering volcano. “Who tasked him?”

“We don't know. The letter wasn't signed—nor was it addressed to Bridgewater by name—and Lord Hay took it from me. I don't know who has it now.” He sighed. “I'm sorry. I really blew it.”

Despite her worry, she had to smile. “‘Blew it'? I'm not entirely sure, but I think I can guess the meaning.”

But her quip did not smooth the concern on Michael's face.

“If we're parceling out blame, there are a number of tasks I've ‘blown' too,” she said. “I shouldn't have let Bridgewater talk me into coming here. I shouldn't have risked the success of the mission by exploring his office with him so near. And I certainly shouldn't have brought you to here, into this mess. This is my battle, not yours.”

“If I believed that, I wouldn't be here. But there's a different battle I'm fighting now—far more selfish, I'm afraid. I know you have…things you wish to accomplish here. And nothing would bring me more relief than to take you as far away from here as I could, but I know I can't ask that. I know that your mission requires you to…endure…be willing to…” He shoved a hand through his hair, nearly destroying the neat queue. “Screw it. I want you to leave here. Now. With me.”

“Michael—”

“It's not safe. It wasn't safe before we found out the clansmen might be mounting an attack and now it's not safe at all.”

“The things I do can't be influenced by safety. If they were, none of them would ever get done.”

“Undine…” He shook his head. “Nothing changes. The Scots parliament agrees to the treaty. The Act of Union is signed into law. Scotland becomes a part of what we call—”

“I know what it's called,” she said sharply. “And while it's a ‘Kingdom,' it's never really ‘United,' is it?”

“I think you underestimate the ties that can grow when two groups face hard times and fight a common enemy.”

“Germany, do you mean?”

He blinked. He hadn't realized the extent of her knowledge. Good. Better that he knew.

“Yes,” he said. “And France in the nineteenth century. And America later in this century. And Russia and Spain and the Ottoman Empire. Scotland and England have their problems, but they are truly united after the Union.”

“Through the fighting of wars?”

His shoulders fell. “Yes.”

She groaned. “Why is it men can only find common purpose in fighting others? Michael, I don't care if Scotland and England join or not. I want to defeat the men who can't rest until they control more, the men who trample the homes and lives of people who only want peace and a chance to keep their children fed and safe—and Bridgewater is at the top of my list.”

“I told you this once,” Michael said softly, his gaze fixed in the distance. “Exacting revenge won't bring you the satisfaction you think, and endlessly praying for it will destroy you.”

“I don't want revenge, Michael. I want peace.”

She regretted the words the instant they'd left her mouth, not because they weren't the truth, but because that same sadness had appeared in his eyes when he'd spoken, and she'd missed her chance to find a way to ask him about it by responding in anger.

“Bridgewater is the conduit through which the bribe money is coming,” she said. “We know that. If I can find proof of it, the trust the people of Scotland have placed in their parliament will be broken and the noblemen there will be forced to vote the will of the people or face their ire. Scots do not forgive easily—and they never forget.”

A wan smile appeared on his face. “No they don't.”

“I can't stop, Michael. I can't.”

His hands moved as if he were arguing with himself and knew he wouldn't win. “But you know what happens,” he said at last. “To Scotland.”

“I haven't given up hope. I've borne witness to things that have changed—here and in the future. Nothing as big as this. Nothing,” she admitted with a pang, “even a tenth as big, or a hundredth. But that doesn't mean it can't.”

He took a long, deep breath. “And you're willing to stay here to…do what needs to be done…and face whatever comes?”

“I am.”

His eyes, open and uncertain, met hers. She could feel his struggle, though she didn't know its origin, and even thinking about it made her afraid. Dammit, she could face a hundred Bridgewaters and a thousand clansman but not this perilous divide that seemed to have sprung up between her and Michael.

“If you're willing to fight,” he said, “then I am too.”

“Oh, Michael.” She caught his lapels like they were ropes for saving a drowning woman. His arms came to an awkward rest on her back. She lifted her mouth to him.

“We can't,” he said.

“Do you not wish to?”

“Oh, God, how can you ask?” he said, groaning. “I want you so much.”

“Kiss me, then. The magic will take care of the rest.”

“The magic's gone.” He tried to push her away, but halfway through he pulled her into a scorching kiss instead. “I can't do this,” he said, voice choked, when he released her. “I'll do whatever you wish me to do, but don't make me do this. I can't watch you take him to your bed and feel this way about you. I can't. I'll die.”

“Take him to
my be
d
?” she said, shocked. “My God, I'd put a knife in his belly first—or my own.”

“You kissed him. I saw it. I don't deny you your right to use whatever means you choose to help the cause, but I can't feel what I'm feeling, Undine. My heart's like a mortar about to go off in my chest. If I don't get it away as far and as fast as I can, I'll be destroyed.”

“
He
kissed
me
—and it was disgusting. I'd rather kiss one of your vampire oxen. I stopped him instantly. I'm so sorry you saw it. I-I…should have known you wouldn't leave. I felt you there, but I couldn't bring myself to believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have so little experience of a man's kindness. Because your wounds were—Oh, Michael, they were so awful. And because, I think, I'd hoped for you to stay so much.”

He folded his arms around her, this time with no restraint, and held her close. “I want to teach you to expect kindness—to depend on it.”

Her heart swelled into her throat, and she dared not speak. Here, in his arms, she felt safe.

“And I dinna want you to sleep with him,” he said huskily, sounding very much like a Scotsman. “I don't care if Roman centurions march into the streets of Edinburgh and threaten to clap every Scot in chains.”

“Roman centurions?” She gave him a look of mock concern. “You know we'd have to do something.”

“Aye, and I'd start with offering Bridgewater to them for their lions.”

The scent of his skin and promise of his protection made her dizzy. The kisses he was applying to her neck and ears were only adding to the effect.

With a firm clasp on her buttocks, he lifted her to her toes. “Let me show you what else you can depend on.”

She had a general idea what it was, being held rather closely against it.

He backed her onto the bed and rucked up her skirts.

She wondered what Bridgewater would think if he found her fornicating with a footman, but the wondering was brief, as certain movements of Michael's made it impossible to think of anything else.

The emotions that had carried her this far were more than happy to let desire take over, and their bodies scrabbled roughly to mine the pleasure. She wanted every thought banished from the tiny palace of happiness they were making for themselves within the four bedposts.

“I want ye naked, lass,” he whispered. “But first I want ye surprised.”

Surprise was hardly the word for this quaking, clawing hunger, but the great force of it, she knew, was not in this heated tangle of limbs but in the vows he'd spoken before they'd begun.

The embers had been licked into flames, and then, with an urgency that starved her of breath and thought, time stopped.

But he was true to his word, and when she caught her breath, he undressed her and then himself, and this time they made a slow dance of it. He held her as she moved, watching her with an unembroidered affection that made her forget everything but the warmth in his eyes and the rumble of joy in his chest. The moon was high in the sky when she arched against him and realized she'd found something she hadn't even known she was missing.

“No more, lass,” he said. “I'm too old for this.”

“How old are you?” she asked eagerly, rolling onto her stomach to look at him.

“Old enough to know better than to try
that
a third time.”

“I'd believe you,” she said, “if it weren't for that.” She ducked her head in the direction of what appeared to be incontrovertible evidence of his will to continue.

“Have you heard of a piñata?”

“‘Piñata'? Like ‘
pigna
,' pinecone?” She frowned, looking at the
pigna
in question.