“Good heavens, everyone’s becoming a heathen,” Hortensia noted faintly, but she patted Graeme’s sleeve as he swiftly passed her. “Come along, Lady Marjorie. Let’s get you upstairs.”
Hefting the heavy pistol awkwardly, because no boarding school instructor anywhere had ever including shooting lessons as part of the curriculum, Marjorie left the modest ballroom and headed for the stairs, Hortensia on her heels. They met the boys in the hallway, Brendan and Dùghlas both carrying rifles and looking as grim as she’d ever seen them. The older boys nodded at her, and Brendan nudged Connell at her as they continued toward the front door.
She would much rather have kept all three of them locked away with her, but she also knew by now that the older two boys had been hunting for years and were far better with a weapon than she was. She also knew they would be hurt and insulted if she even suggested they remain inside.
“Come along, Connell,” she said instead, taking his hand and ascending the staircase beside him.
“I’d go with the lads,” the eight-year-old said tightly, “but Graeme ordered me to look after ye. And he said ye dunnae ken how to reload a pistol, and I do.”
“Excellent. You shall be my strong right hand.”
“I cannae always remember my right and my left, but I’ll do what I can,” he returned.
She could swear Mrs. Giswell muttered something about heathens behind them, but she ignored it as they reached Connell’s room at the front of the house. From here they would have the best view of the road and the drive, from where she assumed any trouble would be coming. “Close your curtains but for two inches,” she instructed, shutting the door and locking it. “We’ll be able to peek out without having to move them.”
“That’s brilliant,” Connell said, doing as she suggested. “I dunnae see anything yet, but I’ll keep watch.”
“Let me know the moment you spy anything.” Marjorie sat on the edge of a chair, while Mrs. Giswell made clucking sounds and began straightening the boy’s unkempt bed.
“Aye. I see Graeme and the lads rolling the wagon in front of the door and pushing it on its side so they can stand behind it, and the Fox lads on the stable roof and moving into the trees, but naught else.”
She nodded, even though he wouldn’t be able to see the gesture. Cowen, Ross, and Taog the underfootman, along with sturdy Mrs. Woring the cook, would be lurking behind the front-facing windows downstairs, all of them armed, while Johnny waited in the stable with a very large blunderbuss.
Despite his earlier concerns Connell now seemed to regard this all as a great adventure. For his sake she kept a calm face, as well. Inside, though, she couldn’t stop the tumbling of her mind—the thoughts that said because she’d found someone she now had someone to lose, the worry that she’d somehow caused all this despite Graeme’s assurances that the trouble had been simmering for years.
“I see horses,” Connell said into the silence, making her jump.
“Whose horses? Can you tell?” Was it Paulk, or the Duke of Dunncraigh himself? Her heart caught in her throat, threatening to suffocate her.
“Nae… Wait. Maxwell plaid, coats… I cannae tell. But the horse in front is a big bay charger… Och, he’s grand! And the rider… It’s nae Sir Hamish, because he cannae ride like that.”
“The Duke of Dunncraigh?” she suggested, setting the pistol on the side table and then picking it up again. She hated a man she’d never met. Judging by the actions of his men, he wasn’t anyone she ever wanted to meet. And at the same time, she very much wanted to punch him in the face.
“Nae,” Connell answered after a too long moment. “The Maxwell has gray hair. This one’s got black hair. And he’s nae wearing a tartan.”
At the same time Marjorie heard a piercing whistle. A whistle she recognized.Good heavens.
“They’ve stopped,” the duckling reported, even as Marjorie shot to her feet.
Rushing forward, hardly daring to breathe, she pulled aside the curtains. What looked like better than thirty men on horseback stood at the foot of the wide drive. At their head a bay warhorse stood still as a statue. And on his back, a tall man with orderly black hair, sharp gray eyes, and a long scar running down his left cheek. For a long moment she simply stared, not believing her own eyes.
“Hey,” Connell protested, “ye arenae supposed to move the curtains!”
“My lady?” came Mrs. Giswell’s anxious voice. “Do you know him?”
“I do,” Marjorie said, scrambling to unlock the door. Graeme had no idea he was facing quite possibly the most dangerous man in Britain—Gabriel Forrester. The Duke of Lattimer. Her brother.
***
“Ye’re close enough, I reckon,” Graeme called, resting the barrel of his rifle across the top plank of the wagon. It wasn’t a direct threat, but he’d made it clear he was armed and ready to defend the house and the lass inside it. “Whose dog are ye?”
The sharp-eyed man in front cocked his head, clearly taking in the Lion’s Den’s fairly meager defenses. Meager until the shooting started, anyway. “I’m here for Marjorie Forrester,” he said, his accent unmistakably English. “Give her to me, and then we can discuss who the dogs here are.”
Had Dunncraigh hired mercenaries, then? It was possible; even likely. Some former English soldier, from the looks of him, paid to burn out cotters and kill disobliging Highlanders. “I dunnae think I’ll be giving ye anything but a lead ball between the eyes, if ye dunnae turn around now and ride back where ye came from.”
The Sassenach didn’t blink. “The only reason you’re not dead already is because I am under the impression that you’re not friends with Hamish Paulk. Give me my sister, Maxton, or I will revise my opinion.”
Sister.Before Graeme had time to grasp anything beyond the fact that the Duke of Lattimer sat on horseback just beyond the point of his rifle, the door behind him slammed open. With Cowen trying to grab hold of her, Marjorie picked up her skirts and ran forward.
