Devil's Highlander

“Oh my dear, your husband will be the one to set it up for you.”

“Yes, I'm certain Malcolm will help Lord Brodie with all the arrangements,” Adele assured her.

So the bailie was involved. The realization rocked her. She brought her cup to her mouth, then thought better of it, realizing the smell of the rumbullion had gone from sweet to nauseatingly cloying.

And why wouldn't the bailie be involved? she decided. According to Parliament, procuring slaves wasn't simply legal, it was encouraged. More workers in the Indies was good for the economy. Less loitering poor was good for the streets.

Just how many people were taken? How many boys stolen from their mothers? Or, God forfend, how many mothers from their children?

Marjorie's hands began to tremble. She tried to put her cup on a side table, but it slipped through her fingers and tumbled to the floor, falling with a muted thump on a brightly woven carpet. She realized she'd consumed the entire tankard.

Despite the hush that fell over the room, the buzzing in Marjorie's head grew deafening.

“Are you all right?” someone asked.

The silence broken, a chorus of voices joined in at once. “Are you feeling ill?”

“It's the drink, I'm sure,” someone said, taking Marjorie's hand.

She flinched away, not wanting any of these horrid women to touch her. “I'm fine, truly.”

“Adele, lend us your fan.” A woman began fanning her, sending bursts of heavily scented perfume swirling.

The smell disgusted her. They disgusted her. Clutching her stomach, she scooted to the edge of the sofa. “That's unnecessary, really.”

“Did you see, the poor creature downed the entire thing.”

Marjorie's stomach roiled, and she swallowed convulsively, her smile feeling like a grimace. “I will be fine, I assure you.”

“Who gave her such a serving?”

“Should we fetch the physician?”

She couldn't bear the thought of meeting another person that night. “I… I'm fine,” Marjorie said, lurching to her feet. Cormac. Cormac was the only one she wanted to see. She needed to get out of there. She needed to find Cormac.

“Are you certain?” the bailie's wife asked tentatively. “Perhaps I should accompany you.” The last thing Marjorie wanted was to spend another moment in Adele's company. She forced a smile on her lips.

“By no means will I allow you to leave your guests. No, I'm afraid… the strain of our travels has finally overcome me. If you'll please excuse me. Your company has been most… illuminating.” She reeled from the room, leaning against the wall in the dim hallway. The marble was cool, the tiles and floor appearing as uniform shades of gray in the shadows. It was a relief after such a riot of color and sensation.

There was a moment's silence, and then the ladies' chatter resumed almost instantly.

Cormac. She had to find Cormac. She longed to see him, hoped the sight of him would reassure her. She couldn't have borne being in the same room as those women for a minute longer.

Holding the wall, Marjorie edged along, eager to get away from the roomful of wives, away from their decadent splendor, from their cruel excess.

The sound of men came to her from the end of the corridor, and she headed for it unthinking. Her footsteps slowed as she approached, realizing she didn't hear the clack of billiard balls or the benignly amicable babble she'd expected. She tiptoed closer. There were just two voices.

One struck her as oddly familiar.

She crept to the doorway, peeking in. The room looked like a small solar, empty now but for two men speaking in earnest.

Marjorie furrowed her brow, not believing her eyes.

A man was speaking furtively with the bailie's butler. The butler reached under his coat to a coin purse tied at his waist. There was the clink of coins as money exchanged hands. The second man took the money, tilting his head as he readjusted his jacket, and the candlelight caught his cheek, illuminating it. Illuminating his perfecdy combed hair to a fine sheen.

Marjorie's gorge rose.

Betrayal speared her. And then fear, quick on its heels. She and Cormac needed to get out of there before they were recognized.

Because there in the solar was the last man she ever imagined she'd see.

Chapter 20

“I say!” The bailie froze, hovering over the billiard table, his cue poised in midair. “Lord Brodie, you may want to tend to your wife,” he said with a nod toward the door.

Cormac looked, and his heart lurched to his throat. Marjorie stood trembling in the doorway. The hall's dark shadows clung to her, making her wide eyes appear ghostly in the candlelight.

Forbes took his shot, and the balls clacked together and then thunked against the rails. “Seems like she's taken a turn.”

“Aye.” Cormac handed his cue to one of the other men in the room and went to her at once. Her skin was clammy, and he chafed her arms, trembling and so delicate in his hands. “What's happened?”

“'Tis the rumbullion, I'll wager,” the man said with a knowing smile.

Forbes leaned against the table, taking a contemplative sip of whiskey. “She's a delicate constitution that one.”

Cormac glanced back at the billiard table. He'd estimated he had only one more round of the deuced game before he could broach where one might acquire a smuggled boy from the Aberdeen docks.

“Cormac?” Marjorie's voice cracked, and all thoughts of smugglers and slaves flew from his mind.

“If you'll forgive us,” he said, even though he was halfway out the door already, his back to the bailie and company.

As they left, somebody mused, “She's off to Jamaica?” and was answered by a round of skeptical clucking.

“What is it, Ree? Are you ill? Did the women say something?” Cormac whisked her down the hall, practically carrying her as he went. He wished he could simply sweep her into his arms, but they'd drawn enough attention to themselves already.

He saw the set to her jaw and realized it might be anger, not fear, that had her trembling so. “What's happened?”

“We must go,” she said, coming to herself. She looked around frantically, tugging his arm to spur him on. “It's Archie — he's here. We must go, Cormac. Now, before he sees us.”

“Archie?” Cormac asked, confused.

“Yes,” she hissed, her face in a snarl. “He was taking” — she glanced around — “taking money. From the bailie's manservant.”

“Archie,” he repeated, understanding dawning. What business would the hallowed physician surgeon of Saint Machar have with Malcolm and Adele Forbes? Marjorie had said Archie's father was friendly with the bailie, but just how friendly did one have to be to mingle among this eccentric crowd, or worse, to have some reason for the bailie to pay him off?

He resumed his stride, supporting Marjorie with an arm at her back and one at her elbow. “Money? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am certain—”

They reached the foyer, and their conversation ground to a halt at the sight of said buder. They requested their return carriage and finally were able to bid a stiff and hasty farewell.

“I saw it,” Marjorie said the instant the carriage door closed. “The buder dug something from his coin purse and gave it to Archie.” She paused for emphasis.

“Popinjays with their bloody purses,” he mumbled. “A real man would carry a sporran. I knew I didn't trust the look of him.”

She glared. “Be serious, Cormac.”

“Och, calm yourself, Ree. We mustn't make assumptions,” he said steadily, even as he was coming to the same conclusion. “There might well be another reason Archie was there.”

“What?” She scooted as far from him on the carriage bench as she could. “Another reason? I thought you despised Archie, and now all of a sudden you're standing up for him?”

“I'm not standing up for him.” Cormac fought not to crack a smile at her vehemence. “I'm simply saying, perhaps we should find out all the facts before

“And to think he comes each week to work with the boys. He knows everything, about every one of them. Their health, their history.” She stared out the window, worrying her hands in her skirts. “If Archie is involved in nefarious goings-on… “

“Nefarious, is it? How are you so certain it's as depraved as all that?” Sighing, Cormac sidled closer. Taking Marjorie's chin in his hand, he turned her to face him. “Don't forget. The slave trade is entirely legal.

Sanctioned by Parliament, forbye.”

“So it is. But last I checked, parleying with smugglers and pirates is decidedly illegal.” The last thought seemed to break her, and her chin began to quiver. “I think we have to tell my uncle.” Tears pooled in those vivid blue eyes, her face a sweet ruin. Dear, innocent Ree.

He had to get this Davie back for her. He couldn't abide her tears. He knew, if pain shattered her heart for good, he'd not survive the sight. He needed to calm her, to remind her of their goal.

“Panic won't help us. Think on it.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, Cormac swiveled Marjorie to face him.

“Aye, Archie could be involved. But there's naught we can do about it tonight. Our priority is to find Davie.

Spoiling our disguise to confide in your uncle Humphrey won't help matters.” The carriage rolled to a stop outside their inn.

“Promise you won't jump to conclusions. We're close to finding the boy. If he's alive, and if he's in Scodand, I'll find him for you.” He tenderly smudged the tears from her cheeks. “I will always help you; I swear it. But you must promise you'll trust me.”

She was quiet for a moment, searching his eyes. He forced himself not to look away. Though it was Ree who was in need of solace, never had he felt so vulnerable.

“I trust you, Cormac,” she told him in the barest whisper.

And with those few words, a foreign sensation found purchase in his desolate heart. She needed him. Over all other men, Marjorie had chosen him. The feeling was heady. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">