Lois Greiman (19 page)

“Ye truly believe I would trust ye alone with the staff.”

“Not me. The baroness.”

“I may actually trust her less.”

“Think of it…” She gestured at him with an open hand. “A ragged Scotsman selling a thing of such value in London. ’Twould never be believable. A constable would be on you before you got through their front doors.”

“While ye…”

“While the Lady Boughton…” She batted her eyes at him. “Will be more than welcome in La Bijou
.
”

“La Bijou?”

“A little shop on Bond Street. I stole a snuff-box from there once.” In fact, she had not. But she had sold one there, had taken the money to buy information, little pieces of history that trailed back a hundred-plus years.

“And tell me, lass, how do ye hope to transform yerself into this lady of such sterling quality?”

“Well, I will need a good night’s sleep first, certainly. Do you suppose you could choose an inn where Chetfield won’t break down the door and try to kill us?”

He gave her a grim smile. “Some folk be a mite chary aboot being cheated out of their fee, lass, and I have no coin. How do you plan to pay for the room?”

She scrunched her face, then brightened. “I could seduce the innkeeper.”

His expression darkened, but he turned away. “Then mayhap we will na have to pay extra,” he said.

And she laughed.

By midday they had reached a hustling little river. Lambkin grazed contentedly as they rested their backs against smooth-barked ash trees and watched the glistening waves hurry by.

“A boat would be helpful,” Charity said, thankful for the moment’s reprieve.

“If ye’re wishing,” Keelan countered, leaning his dark head against the silvery bark, “ye might hope for a fine meal and a feather bed.”

“My apologies,” she said, and opening the reticule that still slanted across her chest, she pulled out a cloth bundle. “No bed, but I do have these.” Untying the cloth, she revealed two biscuits and a pair of plums.

He stared at her. “Ye had food all along?”

She handed him half the meal. “I like to be prepared.”

“What else do ye have in there? A hot bath and a pint of ale?”

She shrugged and took a bite of fruit. “Of course. But I’m waiting until evening to enjoy them.”

“Merciful Mother,” he said, and ate the biscuit. It was stale and hard—ambrosia to taste buds that had all but given up.

By dusk they’d been walking for an eternity. Keelan’s ankle throbbed with a life of its own.

“How far do you think until we reach Felixstowe?” Charity asked. They had carefully avoided Falkenham and the other hamlets that dotted their path to the port.

Keelan shook his head. “I fear I’ve lost track—” he began, but just then they topped the crest of a hill. Below them, the river took a leisurely bend. A simple raft was moored in the quiet bay, and some furlongs away, a small hunting lodge was nestled, snug and happy, in a copse of horse chestnuts. Its lone window was broken and its mortar crumbling. Never was there a lovelier sight.

“Ain’t life a whistle,” Charity cooed. With one glance at each other, they hustled down the hill to the cottage. A song thrush sang in the treetops, but all else was quiet. Settling Lambkin in a patch of wild grasses, Keelan knocked on the slanted door. When no one answered, he called hello and stepped inside. Cobwebs stretched across the corners of the single room, and dust lay in a sheer sheet upon the tilted tabletop and rough-hewn floors.

“Feels like ’ome,” Charity said, adopting her old accent and brushing past him. A white cloth bag hung from a hook in the ceiling. She took it down and glanced inside, then looked up, eyes gleaming.

“Supper,” she said, and handed him a dusty pitcher. “You fetch water. I’ll start a fire.”

By the time Keelan reentered the little cottage, she was feeding scraps of kindling to a small flame that licked at the blackened stone.

He set the water beside her on the floor. “We will need to gain passage to London,” he said. “Thus I’ve been thinking—there be those what believe I’m a healer. I could—”

“Why make it more difficult than it has to be?” she asked. Dipping her hand into her reticule, she pulled out a small leather pouch and tossed it to him. It thudded quietly against his palm.

“What’s this then?” Loosing the strings, he opened the bag, dumped the contents into his hand, and stared dumbly. “Ye had coin all along?”

“My mother said never to leave home without a bit of jingle in your pocket.”

“Where the bloody hell did ye get it?”

Pouring water into a smoke-blackened kettle, she hung it on the metal arm anchored in the fireplace and swung it back over the fire. “My mother?” she asked.

“The coin!”

“Oh.” She nodded, dumped a bit of the remaining water into a wooden basin, and washed her hands. “I stole it from the inn’s other guests while you were sleeping.” Drying her hands on her tunic, she found a wooden spoon on a nearby shelf and stirred the wheat meal. “You sleep like the dead. But you already know that, don’t you?” she said, and laughed.

“Ye were sneaking aboot in the middle of the night! Risking yer life?”

She shrugged. “I’m a thief, Highlander. ’Tis what I do.”

He watched her, mind churning. Mayhap she truly was Chetfield’s daughter as she claimed, but he could see none of him in her. No evil. No cruelty. Oh aye, she would fight if cornered, but if truth be told, she could have left him to drown long ago. Could have had the staff to herself. “Is it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, and taking the two steps between them, gave him an openmouthed kiss.

His legs threatened to buckle.

“Sit down and eat,” she said and glancing over her shoulder, looked him up and down. “Before you fall over.”

They ate in silence, Keelan’s head spinning. The meal was dry and dissatisfying, but it filled his belly.

“I’ll clean the pot,” she said. “You’d best see to your little one.”

He didn’t respond, but retrieved the pitcher and stepped outside. Lambkin trotted up, little hooves clicking on the irregular cobblestones that made a meandering course to the door. Twilight had settled in, night fast on its heels. Keelan made his way into the woods to find a private spot, then washed up and returned to the cottage with the lamb under his arm.

“So your baby is safe?” Charity asked. She was turning down the blankets on a saggy mattress perched on tight-stretched ropes beneath rough-cut planks.

“She is na me babe.”

She laughed as she smoothed out the sheets. “There is wheat meal left if you’d like to give her a bit.”

Fetching the bag, Keelan sat down on the room’s only chair. Lambkin hustled across the irregular floor, little ears bobbing. In a moment she was nibbling meal from his hand with velvety lips. He scratched her back as she ate. “Tell me, lass…” With the kiss behind him, his mind had churned slowly back into action. “How long have ye known yer father’s identity?”

“For some years,” she said. “So your beloved is doing well?”

Lambkin glanced up, adoring eyes soft in the flickering firelight. “She be na me beloved.” He scooped out another handful of grain. “Did yer mother tell ye his name?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Lass,” he began, and turned.

But she was naked. Just crawling into bed, her ass looked as tight and round as a cherry. The air left his lungs like the whoosh of a bellows.

She turned to glance over her shoulder, then slipped between the covers. “This isn’t going to be a problem for you, is it, Highlander?”

“Fook!” he said, and wished he were still dead.

L
ambkin licked the last of the grain from his hand, then turned and trotted toward the bed. Lying on her side, Charity lifted her onto the mattress. The blankets dipped nearly to her ruddy nipples.

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Nay.”

She settled Lambkin on the far side of her. “Truly?” she asked, and yawned. “We’ve been walking for hours. I would think you’d be—”

“What be ye aboot, lass?”

She smiled lazily and sat up. The blankets dropped lower. His gaze did the same. His breath caught in his chest.

“I promise I can resist your advances if that’s your concern,” she said.

“Resist…” He snorted and cleared his head,
but she was so naked. “’Twas
ye
who couldn’t resist
me
, if ye’ll remember.”

“I remember quite well,” she said, and glanced up through her lashes.

Her eyes were as innocent as a babe’s. But her breasts…

He was surprised to find himself pacing. “I’ve na wish to be killed in me sleep, ye ken.”

She blinked. “You think I’m going to try to kill you?” Her tone was astounded.

He stopped. “I dunna ken what the devil to think. Things are na what they seem. That much I know.”

“What things?”

He shook his head. “Why did ye come here?”

“For the staff, same as you,” she said. “’Tis priceless.”

He waited, breath held. “So ye plan to sell it.”

Her eyes were steady. “Don’t you?”

A hundred secrets flashed through his mind. “’Tis why I first came here.”

“We are in agreement then,” she said, and smiling, patted the mattress. “For twenty percent more I’ll let you share my bed.”

“Yer
bed.”

“What’s a whore without a bed?”

He narrowed his eyes, remembering with lurid accuracy their one night together. “I’ve
been wanting to talk to ye aboot that, lass.”

“Talk?” Reaching up, she pulled the blankets aside, slowly revealing the swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips. “Is that truly what you wish to do?”

He held himself perfectly still. “I dunna think ye are…what ye say ye are, lass.”

She gave him an amused glance. “And that after I offered to give myself to you for a price.”

Pacing to the saggy mattress, he sat upon the edge. “Ye are bonny, lass, whatever else ye may be.”

She smiled. “Not to mention skilled,” she said, and leaning forward, kissed him gently.

He tried to resist, to keep his head, but…“Ten percent,” he said, knowing it was all a twisted lie. But where did the bends fall exactly?

She cupped his cheek in a gentle hand. Her lips were magic against the corner of his mouth. “Eighteen,” she whispered.

“Twelve.”

“You are quite well built,” she said, and slipped her fingers, soft as a dream, over the crest of his chest. “For a Scot.”

He tensed against her velvet touch. Firelight flickered on her impish face. “And ye are quite bonny,” he said, trying to remember to breathe, “for a…woman.”

“I see you’ve inherited the famous silver tongue of your ancestors,” she said, and rippled the flats of her nails down his abdomen.

“Good Lord, woman,” he hissed, “I’m blessed to remain conscious where you’re concerned.”

“Flattery, Scotsman?”

He winced. “I fear it might be honesty.”

Her expression softened. Her sunrise lips quirked. “Seventeen percent then.”

Reaching out, he slipped his hand behind her neck, feeling the silky luxury of her hair against his fingers. He tilted his head, holding her gaze.

“Fifteen,” he whispered.

“Done,” she murmured.

He leaned in breathlessly.

“But stay on your side of the bed.”

He stopped. “What?”

“I said you could share my bed, Scotsman. Not my body.”

“Ye jest.” The words were a croak.

She stared at him, brows raised haughtily, then: “In fact I do,” she said, and kissed him.

Time stood still then. She was soft and smooth, her skin like magic beneath his fingers, her voice downy soft against his ear. Every word was a caress, every move a symphony.

He stretched out beside her, skimming his hand down every blessed hollow, every stun
ning crest. Her fingers were a solemn blessing against his skin, touching, healing.

Entering her was ecstasy. They moved slowly, catching the rhythm, riding the wave. She tilted her head into the pillow beneath her and wrapped her legs around his bunched buttocks.

He quivered at the utopia. Breathing quickened, muscles quivered. Sweat slicked her body, shining like dew on her polished skin. Her fingers were claws against his back now as she pulled him closer, closed around him. Each breath was a gasp, each moment a dream until she arched sharply against him. With a shudder of ecstasy, he collapsed, rolling beside her, taking her in his arms.

Skin against skin, they lay together, hair entwined, hearts surrendered until sleep took them on feathery wings.

Keelan opened his eyes. Dawn was just gracing the world. He turned his head, blurrily searching his dreams for reality. Charity. He remembered every minute of the night just past, every inch of her skin against his, and turned, but the pillow beside him was empty.

She was gone. Far gone, and Chetfield was coming. He knew it, felt it in the core of his being, perhaps had felt it for hours. She had lied
to him, lain with him, and fled. Yet he could feel naught but relief, for she was safe. Something in him cried for the joy of it.

From outside the simple cottage came the faint rustle of footsteps. Keelan sat up just before the door burst open.

Roland leapt inside, scanned the single room, and grinned. Chetfield entered next, his movements graceful, his expression unruffled. “Mr. McLeod,” he said, “I’ve missed you.”

Keelan exhaled carefully, let his muscles relax. Beside him, little Lambkin shivered. He placed a quieting hand on her back.

Behind Roland, a half-dozen men blocked the doorway.

Chetfield’s eerie gaze roamed the narrow space. “It warms my heart to see you again, boy, but our little Charity seems to be conspicuously lacking.”

“Aye.” He breathed the word like a prayer. “She does that.” With any luck she had reached Felixstowe by now. If he were truly blessed, she had already secured a ship, but regardless, he would delay the old man as long as possible, lead him astray, buy her every moment possible. For he loved her. The simple truth struck him softly. He loved her. ’Twas as uncomplicated as that. In the end, it mattered naught whether she
was whore or virgin, thief or saint. She was his beloved, would be so until his last breath was drawn.

“And the staff with her,” Chetfield said.

“’Tis sorry I was to see it go,” Keelan replied, rising slowly to his feet and pulling on his borrowed breeches. The world felt strangely disconnected, as if he were not quite a part of it. As if he too had reached the port and was even now sailing toward a new life. A life of peace.

“You shall tell me where to find her, Mr. MacLeod,” Chetfield said, and Keelan turned toward him. Reality sifted in like dust motes in the sunlight. And in his mind’s eye he saw her, standing at the prow of a ship, bonny hair blowing, eyes shining like heaven’s stars as she raised the staff above the curling waters. The waves reached for it, calling it down. She opened her hands, and then it fell, tumbling through sky and sea until it sliced into the living ocean, sinking, turning, claimed by the dark depths that had spewed it forth.

She had come to steal the staff, aye. But not for herself. He smiled, for he knew the truth, knew what he must do. Delay. Fight. Die. ’Twas as simple as that.

“I would tell ye gladly,” Keelan said, and faced the old man, eye to eye, unbeaten, un
afraid. This once he would not fail. “But I fear I canna.”

“Oh?” Chetfield’s eyes gleamed gold and predatory. “And why is that, Mr. MacLeod?”

“Because ye are evil itself,” Keelan said, and charged forward. The old man went down hard. Keelan scrambled for the door. Behind him, Chetfield shrieked. Roland cursed. Keelan flew toward the window, dived through the opening, rolled to his feet.

A fist caught him square in the face.

He stumbled. His back struck the wall. He tried to recover, to escape, but a score of hands were on him, dragging him to his feet.

And suddenly Chetfield was there, wavering in front of his eyes.

“Mr. MacLeod.”

He fought his way through the smoky mists.

“Where’s the girl?”

Keelan smiled. The blood tasted warm and metallic in his mouth. “She’s gone,” he said. Safe. Too smart for them. Too smart for them all.

“Oh? And the staff, where might that be?”

“I sold it. To a fellow in Falkenham. A merchant, he was.”

“So you stole it from the girl.” The old man tsked and stepped forward. “And disposed of it. Not very gentlemanly of you.”

His head was reeling. He braced his legs against the motion, holding on. A score of men were spread across the moor, watching. “I’m na much of a gentleman.”

“You didn’t kill her, I hope.”

His head bobbled on his neck. “She was verra still when she struck the water. ’Twas a shame, for she was a bonny lass, and a scrapper.” His voice sounded wispy.

The old man chuckled. “She was that. Our little Charity. Who would have thought we had a thief in our midst, aye?”

“Life’s a whistle.”

“Isn’t it? Where did you leave her?” Chetfield asked, and stepped forward.

“In the river where—”

The fist felt like a hammer against Keelan’s ear. His head wobbled back.

“You see, Mr. MacLeod, I don’t think you harmed our little Charity at all. I believe, in fact, that she played you for a fool, took the staff, and left you to my men’s tender mercies. So I shall ask you again. Where—”

“Holy Christ!” Keelan rasped and jerked, for suddenly the truth flashed in his mind’s eye and he saw it all, the horror, the honor, the courage of the girl he would cherish for all time. “I see it now. Ye killed her mother.”

The giant hands holding him shook.

Chetfield scowled. “Mr. Roland, restrain our Scottish friend if you please. You others may rest for a time.” The brutes backed off, eyes wary.

“So I killed someone?” Chetfield asked. “’Tis entirely possible. Might you know her name?”

The images rolled out in Keelan’s mind, leaving him breathless, horrified, aching. “She was an actress. A great beauty.” She smiled coquettishly from his thoughts. “Ye learned she’d had yer child. And ye wanted it.”

“Victoria,” Chetfield rasped. “Of course. The girl has her mother’s smile. I first saw her on the stage at Covent Garden. Glorious. Mesmerizing.” He refocused, narrowed his eyes. “But in the end, she was spiteful. Hid the brat. Hid her from her lawful father. My only blood kin.”

And he’d bludgeoned her to death for her kindness. Keelan winced at the images. “She knew.” A small girl sobbed in his mind, rocking inconsolably over her mother’s flaccid hand. A young woman vowed vengeance, searched for answers, planned with careful precision. “Learned the truth.” He turned his gaze to Chetfield. “Figured out the truth. The mystery of the staff. You were never meant to have it, old man. ’Twas a piece of the sea. The depths have called it home.”

“So you know its history, do you, boy?” he asked.

Memories flared in Keelan’s mind. A thousand misty, sleepless nights. All come to this end despite his larcenous plans. “I know you’re the devil.”

“The devil!” He laughed. “So dramatic.”

“Ye took his voice,” Keelan said. The memories were a burning ache in his mind. “But ye could na take his courage.”

“Who are you?” Chetfield hissed.

He could not straighten, but he lifted his head, caught the old man’s eye. “I be Keelan of the ancient Forbes. Iona’s Angel. Hallaway’s heir.”

“You lie!” The words were a rasp of anger.

“You killed me da.”

The old man was quiet, stunned to silence, but then he laughed. “Did I? ’Twas so long ago I barely remember. But yes, I do recall now. He was crippled after I left him at sea. Crippled and broken. And your mother…” He tsked. “She was burned to death if I remember correctly. A witch, they said. And I see now that it was true, for here you are after all these years. I assume it was she who preserved you? Who kept you alive?”

Keelan said nothing, only watched, listened, prayed.

“And now here we are, having come full circle. I hold the father’s son in the palm of my hand. The son, trying vainly to protect the woman he loves.”

“Ye think I love her?”

“In fact, I do.”

“She tried to kill me,” he said, and smiled at the thought.

“Where is she?”

“I dunna ken. I left—”

The pain struck him like a slice of death. He gritted his teeth, holding back the scream.

“You know where she is.”

“I swear, she be gone from this—”

Pain again, so sharp it crushed his lungs.

“Very noble of you, Keelan of the ancient Forbes. Very chivalrous. But you are not the man your father was. And the girl is nothing like your lovely mother.”

Blood dripped from his mouth, hot as lava on his chest.

“Your mother,” Chetfield said, “the witch.”

“She hurt na one.” The words were no more than a whisper sifted through pain.

“You jest. She kept me from my treasure. Just as you are doing now. We took it from the sea, your father and I together, took it from a sunken ship. The
Red Dragon
.” He smiled, remembering.
“There were rumors of mutiny, of blood running like water. A bad omen, ’twas said. But your father was determined. I was his loyal first mate, you know. Always faithful. Asked for naught, until I saw that one thing…that solitary prize, the staff. Humble really. Simple. Just an object of metal and wood. But he was greedy.” His eyes gleamed with remembered avarice. “Said we must give it to the Crown. But I knew his true intent.” His lips parted. He glanced up, imagining something that was not there. “Have you seen a ship ablaze, boy? ’Tis a glorious thing. A beautiful sight. Firelight dancing like molten gold on the open sea.” His gaze shifted to Keelan’s face again. He smiled. “I took the staff, all the coin I could manage, and left the others to die. Returned to London to tell them all of the
Intrepid
’s brave crew. How valiantly they had succumbed to the unquenchable blaze. How narrowly I had escaped at the last moment. But your father…” He shook his head. “He was a stubborn man. All but dead when he reached his wife’s tender arms. But perhaps even then she could have healed him with her witchy ways. I told him how thrilled I was that he had survived, of course. I told him of my own harried escape, but he saw the staff and I knew. Knew there was nothing else I could do.”