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Chapter Ten
Lady Montforth sailed into the room, her pink gown styled in the very latest fashion—according to her—billowed extra wide due to her panniers. She never quietly slipped into a chamber.
Each time, she made a grand entrance, clearly, a woman accustomed to receiving a great deal of attention. At this moment, however, acute displeasure etched her regal features. Achieving a modicum of poise, she clasped her hands before her.
“Forgive the interruption, my lord, but several Scottish persons have arrived at the front entrance. Morris was prepared to send them on their way straightaway, but they insist upon seeing you at once.” She elevated her perfect nose and sniffed disdainfully. “Rather loudly and forcefully, I might add.”
“Where are they now?” Broden rose, stacking his unopened letters into a pile before putting the letter opener in the desk drawer.
Who the devil would’ve traveled here in this unfriendly weather?
Camden?
Possibly.
But who else?
Had he located Oswald? That would assuredly explain the unexpected call.
Broden’s heartbeat quickened in anticipation.
Bryston slipped into the room, his features unreadable, but his posture suggesting he was battle-ready. One hand resting on his dirk, he took a position beside the door.
Broden spared him a hasty glance.
Precisely what was he guarding against?
The new arrivals?
“Ye dinna ken who they are, Narcissa?”
She shot him a look of sheer astonishment, very much as if he were a drooling imbecile. “As I didn’t answer the door, and am unacquainted with any Scots, save you and your four associates, how could I possibly know, my lord?”
She adamantly refused to address him by his given name. He assumed it wasn’t as much out of deference as her dislike of all things Scottish.
“I shan’t have my daughters upset by your ill-mannered acquaintances. I heard the shouting from my sitting room, and—”
The study door burst open with such force, the panel slammed into the bookshelf behind the door with a startling thud.
Liam, Kendra, Graeme and Camden Kennedy, Logan Rutherford, and Coburn Wallace surged into the somber chamber. Disheveled, covered in travel grime, and the men all sporting beard stubble, they appeared exhausted.
And apprehensive.
A startled yelp sounding rather like a giant rodent escaped Narcissa, and she stumbled backward, holding a hand to her throat. Cutting Broden a panicked side-eyed glance, she swallowed convulsively.
“Why are these heathen Scots here? What do they want with us? Oh, Lord, they’ll slay us all,” she fairly squeaked, her face blanching. “Broden, you’ve already been shot by some blackguard. Have you no care for your wards’ or my wellbeing?”
“They’ll no’ harm ye or the lasses,” he growled, his patience spent.
As one, the new arrivals’ gazes took in the countess. Equally of interest, as one, their countenances snapped closed, much like shutters secured before a pending storm.
What in God’s holy name was Camden doing with them? And why had so many arrived at once? Their very numbers bespoke ominous news, perhaps even a threat of danger.
To whom?
His wards?
Kendra?
