* * *
The Duke was charm itself as he received us in the main drawing room.
“Nonsense, nonsense,” he said, dismissing Jamie’s apologies for the contretemps of the dinner party. “Damned excitable fellows, the French. Make an ungodly fuss over everything. Now, do let us look over all these fascinating propositions, shall we? And perhaps your good lady would like to…um, amuse herself with a perusal of…eh?” He waved an arm vaguely in the direction of the wall, leaving it open to question whether I might amuse myself by looking at the several large paintings, the well-furnished bookshelf, or the several glass cases in which the Duke’s collection of snuffboxes resided.
“Thank you,” I murmured, with a charming smile, and wandered over to the wall, pretending to be absorbed in a large Boucher, featuring the backview of an amply endowed nude woman seated on a rock in the wilderness. If this was a reflection of current tastes in female anatomy, it was no wonder that Jamie appeared to think so highly of my bottom.
“Ha,” I said. “What price foundation garments, eh?”
“Eh?” Jamie and the Duke, startled, looked up from the portfolio of investment papers that formed the ostensible reason for our visit.
“Never mind me,” I said, waving a gracious hand. “Just enjoying the art.”
“I’m deeply gratified, ma’am,” said the Duke politely, and at once reimmersed himself in the papers, as Jamie began the tedious and painstaking real business of the visit—the inconspicuous extraction of such information as the Duke might be willing to part with regarding his own sympathies—or otherwise—toward the Stuart cause.
I had my own agenda for this visit, as well. As the men became more immersed in their discussions, I edged my way toward the door, pretending to look through the well-furnished shelves. As soon as the coast looked clear, I meant to slip out into the hallway and try to find Alex Randall. I had done what I could to repair the damage done to Mary Hawkins; anything further would have to come from him. Under the rules of social etiquette, he couldn’t call upon her at her uncle’s house, nor could she contact him. But I could easily make an opportunity for them to meet at the Rue Tremoulins.
The conversation behind me had dropped to a confidential murmur. I stuck my head into the hall, but didn’t see a footman immediately. Still, one couldn’t be far away; a house of this size must have a staff numbering in the dozens. As large as it was, I would need directions in order to locate Alexander Randall. I chose a direction at random and walked along the hallway, looking for a servant of whom to inquire.
I saw a flicker of motion at the end of the hall, and called out. Whoever it was made no answer, but I heard a surreptitious scuttle of feet on polished boards.
That seemed curious behavior for a servant. I stopped at the end of the hall and looked around. Another hall extended at right angles to the one I stood in, lined on one side with doors, on the other with long windows that opened on the drive and the garden. Most of the doors were closed, but the one closest to me was slightly ajar.
Moving quietly, I stepped up to it and put my ear next to the paneling. Hearing nothing, I took hold of the handle and boldly pushed the door open.
“What in the name of God are you doing here?” I exclaimed in astonishment.
“Oh, you scared me! Gracious, I thought I was g-going to die.” Mary Hawkins pressed both hands against her bodice. Her face was blanched white, and her eyes dark and wide with terror.
“You’re not,” I said. “Unless your uncle finds out you’re here; then he’ll probably kill you. Or does he know?”
She shook her head. “No. I didn’t t-tell anyone. I took a public fiacre.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
She glanced around like a frightened rabbit looking for a bolthole, but failing to find one, instead drew herself up and tightened her jaw.
“I had to find Alex. I had to t-talk to him. To see if he—if he…” Her hands were wringing together, and I could see the effort it cost her to get the words out.
“Never mind,” I said, resigned. “I understand. Your uncle won’t, though, and neither will the Duke. His Grace doesn’t know you’re here, either?”
She shook her head, mute.
“All right,” I said, thinking. “Well, the first thing we must do is—”
“Madame? May I assist you?”
Mary started like a hare, and I felt my own heart leap uncomfortably into the back of my throat. Bloody footmen; never in the right place at the right time.
There was nothing to do now but brazen it out. I turned to the footman, who was standing stiff as a ramrod in the doorway, looking dignified and suspicious.
“Yes,” I said, with as much hauteur as I could summon on short notice. “Will you please tell Mr. Alexander Randall that he has visitors.”
“I regret that I cannot do so, Madame,” said the footman, with remote formality.
“And why not?” I demanded.
“Because, Madame,” he answered, “Mr. Alexander Randall is no longer in His Grace’s employ. He was dismissed.” The footman glanced at Mary, then lowered his nose an inch and unbent sufficiently to say, “I understand that Monsieur Randall has taken ship back to England.”
“No! He can’t be gone, he can’t!”
Mary darted toward the door, and nearly cannoned into Jamie as he entered. She drew up short with a startled gasp, and he stared at her in astonishment.
“What—” he began, then saw me behind her. “Oh, there ye are, Sassenach. I made an excuse to come and find ye—His Grace just told me that Alex Randall—”
“I know,” I interrupted. “He’s gone.”
“No!” Mary moaned. “No!” She darted toward the door, and was through it before either of us could stop her, her heels clattering on the polished parquet.
“Bloody fool!” I kicked off my own shoes, picked up my skirts, and whizzed after her. Stocking-footed, I was much faster than she in her high-heeled slippers. Maybe I could catch her before she ran into someone else and was caught, with the concomitant scandal that would involve.
I followed the whisk of her disappearing skirts round the bend of the hall. The floor here was carpeted; if I didn’t hurry, I might lose her at an intersection, unable to hear from the footsteps which way she had gone. I put my head down, charged round the last corner, and crashed head-on into a man coming the other way.
He let out a startled “Whoof!” as I struck him amidships, and clutched me by the arms to keep upright as we swayed and staggered together.
“I’m sorry,” I began, breathlessly. “I thought you were—oh, Jesus H. fucking Christ!”
My initial impression—that I had encountered Alexander Randall—had lasted no more than the split second necessary to see the eyes above that finely chiseled mouth. The mouth was much like Alex’s, bar the deep lines around it. But those cold eyes could belong to only one man.
The shock was so great that for a moment everything seemed paradoxically normal; I had an impulse to apologize, dust him off, and continue my pursuit, leaving him forgotten in the corridor, as just a chance encounter. My adrenal glands hastened to remedy this impression, dumping such a dose of adrenaline into my bloodstream that my heart contracted like a squeezed fist.
He was recovering his own breath by now, along with his momentarily shattered self-possession.
“I am inclined to concur with your sentiments, Madam, if not precisely with their manner of expression.” Still clutching me by the elbows, he held me slightly away from him, squinting to see my face in the shadowed hall. I saw the shock of recognition blanch his features as my face came into the light. “Bloody hell, it’s you!” he exclaimed.
“I thought you were dead!” I wrenched at my arms, trying to free them from the iron-tight grip of Jonathan Randall.
He let go of one arm, in order to rub his middle, surveying me coldly. The thin, fine-cut features were bronzed and healthy; he gave no outward sign of having been trampled five months before by thirty quarter-ton beasts. Not so much as a hoofprint on his forehead.
“Once more, Madam, I find myself sharing your sentiments. I was under a very similar misapprehension concerning your state of health. Possibly you are a witch, after all—what did you do, turn yourself into a wolf?” The wary dislike stamped on his face was mingled with a touch of superstitious awe. After all, when you turn someone out into the midst of a pack of wolves on a cold winter evening, you rather expect them to cooperate by being eaten forthwith. The sweatiness of my own palms and the drumlike beating of my heart were testimony to the unsettling effect of having someone you thought safely dead suddenly rise up in front of you. I supposed he must be feeling a trifle queasy as well.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” The urge to annoy him—to disturb that icy calm—was the first emotion to surface from the seething mass of feelings that had erupted within me at sight of his face. His fingers tightened on my arm, and his lips thinned. I could see his mind working, starting to tick off possibilities.
“If it wasn’t yours, whose body did Sir Fletcher’s men take out of the dungeon?” I demanded, trying to take advantage of any break in his composure. An eyewitness had described to me the removal of “a rag doll, rolled in blood”—presumably Randall—from the scene of the cattle stampede that had masked Jamie’s escape from that same dungeon.
Randall smiled, without much humor. If he was as rattled as I, he didn’t show it. His breathing was a trifle faster than usual, and the lines that edged mouth and eyes cut deeper than I remembered, but he wasn’t gasping like a landed fish. I was. I took in as much oxygen as my lungs would allow and tried to breathe through my nose.
“It was my orderly, Marley. Though if you aren’t answering my questions, why should I answer yours?” He looked me up and down, carefully evaluating my appearance: silk gown, hair ornaments, jewelry, and stockinged feet.
“Married a Frenchman, did you?” he asked. “I always did think you were a French spy. I trust your new husband keeps you in better order than…”
The words died in his throat as he looked up to see the source of the footsteps that had just turned into the hall behind me. If I had wanted to discompose him, that urge was now fully gratified. No Hamlet on the stage had ever reacted to the appearance of a ghost with more convincing terror than I saw stamped on that aristocratic face. The hand still holding my arm clawed deep into my flesh, and I felt the jolt of shock that surged through him like an electric charge.
I knew what he saw behind me, and was afraid to turn. There was a deep silence in the hall; even the wash of the cypress branches against the windows seemed part of the quiet, like the ear-roaring silence that waves make, at the bottom of the sea. Very slowly, I disengaged my arm from his grasp, and his hand fell nerveless to his side. There was no sound behind me, though I could hear voices start up from the room at the end of the hall. I prayed that the door would stay closed, and tried desperately to remember how Jamie was armed.
My mind went blank, then blazed with the reassuring vision of his small-sword, hung by its belt from a hook on the wardrobe, sun glowing on the enameled hilt. But he still had his dirk, of course, and the small knife he habitually carried in his stocking. Come to that, I was entirely sure that in a pinch, he would consider his bare hands perfectly adequate. And if you cared to describe my present situation, standing between the two of them, as a pinch…I swallowed once and slowly turned around.
He was standing quite still, no more than a yard behind me. One of the tall, paned casements opened near him, and the dark shadows of the cypress needles rippled over him like water over a sunken rock. He showed no more expression than a rock, either. Whatever lived behind those eyes was hidden; they were wide and blank as windowpanes, as though the soul they mirrored were long since flown.
He didn’t speak, but after a moment, reached out one hand to me. It floated open in the air, and I finally summoned the presence of mind to take it. It was cool and hard, and I clung to it like the wood of a raft.
He drew me in, close to his side, took my arm and turned me, all without speaking or changing expression. As we reached the turning of the hall, Randall spoke behind us.
“Jamie,” he said. The voice was hoarse with shock, and held a note halfway between disbelief and pleading.
Jamie stopped then, and turned to look at him. Randall’s face was a ghastly white, with a small red patch livid on each cheekbone. He had taken off his wig, clenched in his hands, and sweat pasted the fine dark hair to his temples.
“No.” The voice that spoke above me was soft, almost expressionless. Looking up, I could see that the face still matched it, but a quick, hot pulse beat in his neck, and the small, triangular scar above his collar flushed red with heat.
“I am called Lord Broch Tuarach for formality’s sake,” the soft Scottish voice above me said. “And beyond the requirements of formality, you will never speak to me again—until you beg for your life at the point of my sword. Then, you may use my name, for it will be the last word you ever speak.”
With sudden violence, he swept around, and his flaring plaid swung wide, blocking my view of Randall as we turned the corner of the hall.