Like the young boy’s, his clothes weren’t crisp and new. Unlike Connell’s, this man’s shirt and trousers were streaked with dirt. His nails were neatly trimmed, but one of them was bruised black, and all of them were dirty. What was he, a stable boy? A farmer? Certainly he wasn’t an aristocrat. Not with hands like that. And not with the way he’d called her “highness” a moment ago. Marjorie willed herself to begin thinking again, instead of simply staring. With all those muscles and the way he seemed to be actually using them, he likely didn’t have any spare space for thought. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage.
“Well,” she ventured, very aware of her hands bound in her lap, “I’ve seen you now. My offer still stands, however; return me to the Cracked Hearth, and I won’t speak a word about you. Or your brothers.”
Pushing upright, he strode up to her. “And I still dunnae believe ye,” he stated, and pulled a knife from one boot.
“No!” she shrieked, ramming her head into his chest. The impact made her blink stars.
He grunted. “I’m nae going to murder ye, yer highness. Nae today.” Grabbing her shoulder, he leaned over to slice through the ropes binding her arms and then the ones holding her hands together. “If ye try to run, ye’ll be back in this chair,” he said. “And because I’m nae as much of a fool as ye English like to think, I’ve two guards by the door and a shackle and chain locked to a bed upstairs. That’s fer the night.”
The idea that she wouldn’t be seeing her brother Gabriel and his betrothed at the end of the day, that she didn’t have her clothes or her hairbrush or any money with which to purchase replacements, that she truly wouldn’t be going anywhere unless someone else allowed it—Marjorie abruptly wanted to scream and cry and pound her fists like an infant. “And then what?” she made herself ask.
The big man shrugged, returning the knife to his boot and backing toward the door. “And then we’ll see. I reckon ye can untie yer own legs.” He tilted his head, the fall of that lanky hair making him look oddly vulnerable. “There’s a bowl of water there by the wall, a mug of milk, and a slice of mutton. I reckon it’s nae as fine as ye’re accustomed to, but I wasnae expecting guests.”
“I am not your guest,” she retorted, and those gray eyes assessed her all over again.
“Nae, ye arenae. Ye’re a pile of trouble that my brothers have dumped on my lap. And now I have to figure what use to make of ye.”
“And you’re blaming me? Don’t be absurd. Let me go before this gets any worse. I’ve been missing for an afternoon. I can explain that away. Overnight won’t be as simple, sir.” And it would likely ruin her—if that hadn’t happened already. She took another breath, trying to slow her pulse. One thing at a time. Escape first, then worry over her reputation, and about how much more difficult this would make her plans for acceptance in Mayfair.
“Naught aboot ye is simple, lass. But dunnae expect me to give in to yer doe eyes and long lashes when lives are at stake. So ye’d best calm yerself and get someaught to eat before ye faint dead away, and I’ll come fetch ye later. If ye care to curse anyone beneath yer breath, I’m Maxton. Graeme Maxton.”
***
“What do you mean, ‘she isn’t there’?” Hortensia Giswell demanded, keeping her expression one of matronly annoyance despite the tightening of her throat.Not again.
The coachman brushed at the water soaking into his coatsleeves. “I went around the back of the stable where Lady Marjorie was headed, not five minutes after I lost sight of her. She wasn’t th—”
“You let her out of your sight?”
“No need to be shrill, Mrs. Giswell,” Stevens countered with a frown that looked more put upon than concerned. “It’s raining; she won’t have gone far. Did you look inside the inn? She might have come back in through the kitchen. Maybe even took a room to warm up and dry off.”
Hortensia made herself take a slow breath. “I will go ask again. In the meantime, take Wolstanton and don’t simply ‘look.’ Find Lady Marjorie, or none of us will ever find employment in London again. You do recall who she’s on her way to visit.”
Finally the coachman blinked, nodding. “Yes. Of course. Wolstanton and I will search the stable and the area around the inn. Thoroughly.”
“Good.”
Gathering her appropriately matronly skirts, unmindful of the continuing drizzle despite the fact that it was likely turning her tightly bunned graying hair into a shiny helmet, Hortensia hurried back inside the Cracked Hearth. The luncheon crowd had thinned somewhat, which she didn’t like. Not only had she lost potential witnesses, but any one of them who’d vanished might have made off with Lady Marjorie. She was pretty, wealthy, unmarried, and English. Anyone with avarice in his heart might have taken her away.
Oh, she’d been right to suggest outriders, protection, someone to alert the Duke of Lattimer of their approach. The duke might even have sent men to meet them. Why had she stopped at mere suggestions, though? She knew the proper etiquette, for heaven’s sake. This had been such a bad idea—everyone knew the Highlands were dangerous, and Highlanders even more so.
The innkeeper, apparently also aware of the reputation of his countrymen and of the impact a kidnapping would have on the popularity of his establishment among English travelers, escorted her to every room in the inn, and opened every door himself. No Lady Marjorie. If she’d been a lesser woman, Hortensia was certain she would have begun hand-wringing and possibly fainting by now. A lesser woman might also believe she’d been cursed.
When Princess Sophia had disappeared, she’d known almost immediately that the willful girl had arranged it herself, with substantial aid from that dastardly and utterly unsuitable glorified groom of a beau. Yes, the queen had managed to find her wayward daughter fairly quickly, but the mere fact of the princess’s absence had been enough to see Hortensia sacked. And the babe that had resulted nine months later had cemented, or so she’d thought, her reputation as the worst companion in London.
She’d thought her career as a mentor and companion utterly and forever destroyed. For heaven’s sake, she’d taken work as an assistant in a series of dress shops for twelve horrific years—until Lady Marjorie Forrester had posted a request for someone of precisely her qualifications. Her second, and last, chance at redemption. And now this. It simply wasn’t fair.
An hour later Stevens the coachman sat down across the table from her in the low-ceilinged common room of the Cracked Hearth, the arrogant man. “We didn’t find a damned thing,” he panted, taking off his gloves and setting them on the worn tabletop. “No tracks, no bits or baubles off her clothes, not a soul who saw anything. Or at the least not anyone who would admit to seeing anything.”
Hortensia nodded, taking a last sip of her cold tea. “I found nothing, either.”
“Well, Wolstanton’s hitching up the team as we speak. I reckon if we push for it, we’ll reach Lattimer Castle just after dinner. His Grace’ll have men down here before daylight.”
“No!” she squeaked, then cleared her throat to try to cover the outburst.
“No?” the coachman repeated, furrowing his brow.
“The only way for the three of us to keep our positions is ifweretrieve her from wherever she is and deliver her safely—and gratefully—to her brother’s care. We’ll take rooms here. With enough questions asked and enough of Lady Marjorie’s money delivered to the right hands, someone will talk. She didn’t simply vanish into thin air.”
