Indiscretion (15 page)

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A
s it turned out, he wasn't standing there alone for long when the young servant who had come to his rescue during the fight reappeared. The man examined Patrick's bruised face in amusement. "I'm Iain Laing, Lord Murray's valet. You are Lady Whitehaven's man, I take it?"

"Aye," Patrick shook his hand. "Her butler."

"Lucky sod. Did she threaten to skelp you for creating a public disturbance?"

Patrick laughed. "Her mind is preoccupied with the annual party at Balgeldie House."

"There's to be another one?"

Patrick paused. "Why wouldn't there be?"

"I don't know. The peculiar death last year, and all that nonsense about a ghost."

"You mean Lord Kingaim?"

"Aye." Iain glanced around. "Some people called it murder, but my employer does not wish anyone to talk of it. I will tell you this—our gillie thought he saw some odd goings-on that night on the loch."

"Where is this gillie now?"

"Gone back home to Caithness," Iain said. "Lord Murray willna tolerate a gossip. The upper classes dinna want it known they get drunk like the rest of us, and old Kingaim had connections to the Queen."

"Indeed," Patrick said as another door was closed in his face. He could not question the gillie now.

Iain looked up suddenly as Anne reappeared on the green. "Here's her ladyship coming now. What a beauty. Meet me at the inn some evening for a drink, man—or does the woman keep you on a leash?"

Patrick grinned. "Aye, but a loose one."

24

W
hen she returned, he was sitting on the steps of the gypsy wagon, an inscrutable look on his face. The bruise on his cheekbone stood out like a brand. She felt a peculiar sensation in the pit of her stomach as their eyes met. It was partly primal sexual response and something even more threatening and complicated, a softening toward him.

He stood, taking her hand. "Your fortune has been paid for, madam. Destiny awaits."

"Destiny?"

"Aye, destiny, or some such drivel."

"I don't think so, Patrick."

"Come, Anne, I work hard for my money these days. Do not waste it."

She shook her head in resignation and followed h
im up the rickety steps of the v
ardo, which was cluttered with such a staggering assortment of herbal potions and remedies, it was a miracle the wagon moved at all.

She recognized the gypsy woman, those alert black eyes in a thin face the color and texture of a walnut shell. It was Black Mag, an herbwoman and charmer, who had been working the fairs since God was in knee breeches. "Sit," the woman said, motioning to a low stool on the other side of her table. She grasped Anne's hand and studied it in the light of a fat tallow candle that burned behind her.

Anne said, "I don't—"

"You are much beloved by a strong, handsome man, lady," the woman broke in. She looked at Anne's wedding ring.
"Two
men, lady," she murmured, glancing quizzically at Patrick, who dressed like a servant but certainly did not act like one.

He held up his index finger.

"One man," the gypsy amended. "One very strong, handsome man with black hair. And blue eyes."

Anne sent Patrick a droll glance over her shoulder. He shrugged, looking as guilty as they came.

"This man's heart is true toward you. He would die to defend you."

Anne sighed.

"He wants to give you many children," the gypsy added, looking to Patrick for confirmation.

He nodded.

"Seven children, at least," Black Mag said.

Anne pried her hand away. "Are you finished?"

The gypsy looked up at Patrick for guidance, but he appeared to be w
atching a wrestling contest out
side. Apparently sensing a dissatisfied customer in
Anne, she reached onto the shelf behind her for an earthenware jar inscribed with mystical symbols.

"Oh, I don't want any love potions," Anne said, holding up her hand in amused horror.

Black Mag leaned forward. "I give you a special reading, my lady."

Anne shook her head. "If you must—what
are
you doing?"

The fortuneteller had emptied the jar onto the black velvet tablecloth. An arrangement of small white bones gleamed weirdly in the semidarkness.

"Sacred bones." Her voice sent a shiver down Anne's neck. "Stolen from the grave of a sorceress who was burned at the stake."

"Charming," Anne said, recoiling, but then the gypsy reclaimed her hand, forcing her to touch the lurid skeletal remains.

"Move your hand over them three times," she said in a voice Anne couldn't seem to resist. "Not for everyone do I bring out my special bones."

"Fortunate me," Anne murmured, and gave a faint shudder as her fingers made contact with a wrist bone. She looked up helplessly at Patrick, who had just turned his attention back to the reading, his cravat loose, his expression slightly bored.

The fortuneteller studied the bones in frowning absorption. Anne made a rude face at Patrick.

"You bribed her," she whispered.

He shook his head and started to deny it when the gypsy's voice broke the silence.

"I see blood on your reflection, my lady."

"Blood?" Patrick stared in alarm. "Is my lady hurt?" he asked anxiously.

The gypsy shrugged. "I do not know, sir." She looked up at Anne. "Beware the stag, my lady."

"She must mean you," Anne whispered to Patrick.

"His horns are sharp," the gypsy added.

Anne smiled faintly. "That's you, all right."

"The stag is dangerous, my lady."

"But I don't hunt," she protested, unable to imagine where this balderdash was leading, or why she was sitting here listening when she had so much to
do. "I always stay at home when the men go shoot
in
g.
"

Black Mag didn't blink an eye, and Anne had to give her credit for her acting ability. "The stag will find you at home, lady. Unless you follow your heart, he will hurt you." She glanced up, giving Anne a start. "He could even kill you."

Patrick turned white at that. This wasn't what he'd had in mind. He cleared his throat to catch the woman's attention, to remind her he was paying for an uplifting prediction, not this impending-danger nonsense about homicidal deer.

"Is the reading over?" he said.

Both women ignored him, and even Anne was hunched over the bones
now, straining to read her des
tiny.

"The reading
is
over," he said. "Lady Whitehaven, let us leave."

The Romany woman shook her head. "There is a
body
…
and water."

"A body of water?" Anne said hopefully. "Such as a loch or a river?"

"No." The gypsy paused. "A body
in
the water. Or on the water." She glanced up, blinking at Patrick as if she realized that she had strayed from his request.

"And a baby on the way."

"A baby?" Anne sat bolt upright on the stool. "Now I know he paid you."

"The bones have never told a falsehood, my lady," the gypsy said, looking insulted.

Anne rose from the stool. "I can't believe I even sat still for this." She shook her head at Patrick as he helped her down the wagon steps. "Bodies and blood, a baby and stag's horns. It is too much."

"Hell, Anne," he said easily, catching up with her as she marched ahead. "You know it's all nonsense. Except for one part, that is."

She paused, staring at the piper on the hill. She knew she was going to be sorry, it was asking for trouble, but she looked up directly into his eyes. "And that part would be?"

"The baby, of course." He gave her the wickedest grin in the world. "I am destined to get you pregnant by December."

"Destined or determined?" she asked coolly.

He shrugged. "I believe it amounts to the same
thing."

E
vening had fallen over the hills when the carriage rolled up the d
rive to the hunting lodge. A horn
ed owl hooted from a yew tree, and a fine
mist shrouded the firs that surrounded the stone
tower.

The servants lagged a few miles behind; the estate sat in slumbering d
arkness; the lead-paned lozenge-
shaped windows looked like unblinking eyes reflecting the moonlight.

Patrick had remained inside the carriage for the ride, and Anne hadn't complained, partly because they'd shared a bottle of brandy on the way, and she was a tiny bit tipsy, and partly because there was something comforting about being buffeted by a big male body in the dark, even if the man who owned that body had broken your heart.

Besides, he smelled so wonderful, like shaving soap and brandy and man. Anne smiled at the thought of her nose twitching against his jacket as if she were a bunny scenting a mate.

He raised his brow as he helped her out of the carriage. "And what, dare I ask, do you find so a
mus
ing?"

"Rabbits," she said, laughing aloud.

Nellwyn wove up behind them. "In my day, a lady could hold her
liquor." She walked into a rho
dodendron bush, looking startled. "Who put that here?"

"I guess times change," Anne said, laughing again. "Don't they, Sutherland?"

He took both women by the arm, wondering if it was the drink tha
t made him feel so absurdly pro
tective of them. "Times change, and so do people."

"He's turning philosophical on us," Anne said in dismay.

"Let's stuff a pair of socks in his mouth to shut him up," Nellwyn said.

He shook his head despairingly. "And this is what the cream of the Scottish aristocracy has come to."

They mounted the mossy stone steps and stepped into the entrance hallway of the lodge.

Silence greeted them, and if they hadn't been drinking they would have sensed the undercurrent of menace that lingered in the air.

A single candle burned low on the hallstand, the flame reflected in the mirror.

Anne frowned. '"Who left a candle burning—oh, look, it's not even in a holder. It's going to leave a mark."

Patrick took off his jacket. "It must be the new girl, Janet."

"Perhaps she left it there when she was dusting," Nellwyn said. "I didn't care for her looks myself. Slovenly, that's what I thought to myself."

Anne walked slowly toward the hallstand.

"She might have set the place on fire," Patrick said, following Anne. "I'll have a word with the wee idiot in the morning."

She gestured to the mirror. "Perhaps not."

Nellwyn kicked off her shoes. "Don't be such a tender-hearted ninny, Anne. The girl deserves to be scolded for such carelessness."

"What is it, Anne?" Patrick had just noticed the unnatural way she stood frozen before
the mirror. "Did she leave a burn
stain on the wood?" he asked, domestic disasters suddenly a part of his world.

"There's writing on the mirror." Her voice sounded distant. She raised her hand to touch the blurry words that were scrawled across the glass. Then she stopped, her hand arrested halfway to the mirror.

He came up behind her, his voice soft with anger.

" 'Go home, Anne
,'
" he read aloud,
" 'or you will be sorry.'
"

He touched his forefinger to the smeared message. "It appears to be written in—"

"—blood." Nellwyn pushed his hand away, and ran her own gloved fingertip over the mirror. "Blood or some sort of animal entrail by the smell of it. How disgusting."

"Entrails?" Anne said in restrained horror. "I do not even want to speculate what that could mean."

There was a faint commotion from the back of the house as the servants' cart arrived. Lamps were suddenly lit throughout the house. The clamor of cheerful voices m
omentarily counteracted the ten
sion in the hall.

"I'll ring for Helen," Nellwyn said. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

" 'Blood on my reflection
,'
" Anne mused. "Isn't that what your gypsy predicted, Patrick?"

He steered her toward the staircase. He was probably more upset than she was, and trying not to show it. Everything he had done to relax Anne, to put her in a trusting mood, was threatened by something he could not control; the thought of anyone wanting to hurt her brought out vicious impulses in him.

"Black Mag was putting on a show, sweetheart. You know that. Sit here for a minute. Take a breath."

"Someone killed an animal to frighten me?" She shook her head, uncomprehending. "Oh, Patrick. What if we were wrong? What if Uncle Edgar was murdered? What if the murderer is still in the vicinity? What if I find a dead animal in my bed?"

"No one is going to put anything in your bed," he said grimly. "And the message doesn't mean we're dealing with a murderer."

"Not of people perhaps, but isn't an animal bad enough? Who would do such a ghastly thing?"

He wasn't sure, but he could take a guess. He had hired three new servants yesterday morning, two local boys to help Sandy in the garden, and a sullen girl named Janet whose references he had not had time to check. The girl had stayed home from the fair, pleading illness, and Patrick had ignored Mrs. Forbes's warning that this was not a good sign in an under parlormaid.

Mrs. Forbes came hurrying into the hall, her cap askew. "You rang for me, madam?"

He took her by the arm. "Someone has scrawled a nasty message on the mirror, Helen. Do you happen to know if our new parlormaid Janet has gone to bed?"

"She might have gone to hell for all I care," Mrs. Forbes declared with uncharacteristic vehemence. "The wee thief has absconded with the silver and breakfast blood sausage."

"Sausage?" Nellwyn walked out of the library. "Is that what you said, Helen?"

"I did, ma'am," Mrs. Forbes said. "A horrible mistake in judgment to hire that girl, it was."

"For which I take full responsibility," Patrick said in a terse voice.

Nellwyn put her nose to the mirror. "I thought it smelled rather familiar. The message is written in sausage."

"I never even said two words to that girl," Anne said, gazing at the mirror as Helen frantically wiped it clean with her own apron. "Why would she want to threaten me?"