CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 

The house looked oddly unchanged. Upon entering Charlotte Square, Sabella had expected it to be transformed.

She was different. Surely, her former home would be, too.

But no. It was the same house with the same blond stone, handsome pediment, and black painted door.

Gathering the skirts of her starling-egg-blue tartan traveling gown, she ascended the steps and knocked lightly on the door. As she waited, a light carriage rolled past followed by a heavy wagon making a delivery.

Her old neighbor had painted his door green. She glanced to the west, where another neighbor had hung new curtains on the ground floor.

No, nothing important had changed here. Only her.

A sharp breeze cut through her wool, sending gooseflesh across her nape. She brushed at the sensation. Frowning, she searched the square for signs that Alexander had followed her. He wasn’t here. She rubbed it away, but the feeling persisted. She only felt that peculiar, lifting zing when someone was staring at her, and her husband was the only one who might bother.

Alexander had been gone by the time the housekeeper, Mrs. Tibbets, had delivered a tea tray to her bedchamber. His note placed beside the teapot had read simply:

 

Duchess,

For your safety, do not leave this house. We’ll discuss the reasons why when I return this evening. Until then, know this: Wounding you will forever be my worst mistake. I’m bloody sorry.

Alexander

P.S. Would begging help?

 

This morning, she veered between fury and softening, heartbreak and longing. How she’d missed him. How dearly she wished she didn’t love him. But she did—missed him, loved him, wanted him. From his bearded face to his big, hairy feet, she loved every piece and part.

The manipulative, infuriating blackguard.

The door opened, and a liveried footman showed her into her former parlor. “Miss Lockhart!” exclaimed Lady Whitecross, whose husband had purchased the place to please his ambitious wife. Blonde and smiling, the woman swept forward to greet her. “Such an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to town?”

While they settled in for tea on a pair of gold velvet sofas, Sabella explained that she was visiting Edinburgh with her husband.

“Husband! You’ve wed?”

Sabella nodded, burying her expression in a careful sip. “This summer. I’m Mrs. MacPherson, now.” The strangeness of introducing herself as the wife of the man who’d been shot in this very room wasn’t lost on her. Thankfully, Lady Whitecross knew nothing about that dreadful incident, nor most of Kenneth’s worst crimes.

“MacPherson, MacPherson. Is he the Duke of Argyll’s cousin?”

Sabella set her cup in her saucer. Lady Whitecross was quite concerned with titles, the loftier the better. “No.”

“Oh. I must be thinking of the Duke of Gordon.”

Sabella shook her head.

“Oh. The Duke of Dingwall?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Oh.” Her smile turned brilliantly false. “Well, I’m certain he’s lovely.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Sabella explained the purpose of her visit—cuttings from her rose garden.

“I have rosebushes?” Lady Whitecross blinked.

“Indeed.” Sabella smiled blandly. “Several rare French varieties, in fact.”

“French! They must be grand. His Lordship and I have been away whilst the house was being refurnished. I haven’t had time to explore the grounds.”

The gardens were perhaps a tenth of an acre, hardly enough to turn around in. But Sabella didn’t bother quibbling.

Lady Whitecross fluttered her fingers. “I’ll summon the gardener to bring you cuttings.”

“That’s not necessary, my lady. If you have shears, I shall cut them myself.”

She looked positively appalled. “You?”

Sabella sipped her tea and smiled. “Me.”

In the end, she took cuttings from all five of her most prized varieties—three from France and two from England.

Lady Whitecross stood at her elbow waving a gloved hand in front of her bonnet-shaded face. “This won’t kill them, will it?”

Sabella snipped another cane, taking care to include a good number of nodes. “No. Pruning is one of the healthiest things you can do for a rose.”

“It seems damaging.” She swatted at a bee. “I wouldn’t enjoy having my limbs severed.”

Placing a fifth cutting in her basket, Sabella stifled a sigh. Why had she never noticed how vapid this woman was? “A good prune removes ill-formed branching, increases bloom production, and encourages the plant to form deeper roots. This wee, temporary sacrifice rewards you with a more beautiful, resilient plant.”

Sabella paused after her next snip. A wee, temporary sacrifice. Was that what she’d needed to strengthen her, to make her bloom?

Lady Whitecross squeaked as the bee she’d been battling dived for her decolletage. “Surely, this is what a groundskeeper is for,” she complained. “I shall fetch him.”

When Sabella was alone, she surveyed her old garden. Admittedly, it was crowded. She’d always loved the secretiveness of dense greenery and hidden pathways. Beyond the young trees and tall shrubbery, high walls bordered all sides, further lending privacy and a sense of safety.

But that safety had been an illusion. She’d had her ribs broken here. She’d watched from her bedchamber window, scarcely able to breathe, as Kenneth’s men had carried an unconscious Alexander through the gate and into the house.

She touched the lingering leaves of her thornless Blush Noisette, a gift from Kenneth after he’d injured her arms badly enough to summon the physician. This house had been her cage, and she’d been terrified to leave it. Now, she couldn’t imagine herself in a place like this.

She was different. Her roots were stronger, her blooms bolder. When the sun shined, she basked in the heat. When the rains came, she turned her face up for a drink rather than shrinking away.

Alexander had lied. He’d withheld belongings that were precious and used her vulnerability against her. But he’d also built her a garden where she could root deeply and grow to her full potential. He’d kept her planted where he wanted her, yes. But he’d also fed her in ways she didn’t know she needed.

She cut one last cane and placed it in her basket. Birds cawed nearby. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the nearest trees and dislodged a few. A sharper gust flattened her skirts against her thighs, but the light blue tartan she’d purchased from Mr. Cleghorn kept her warm without the fuss of silk.

Perhaps she could forgive Alexander. In time. With sufficient begging on his part. Indeed, the thought of having him on his knees sparked new shivers along her nape.

She brushed at the sensation. Then another breeze gusted, carrying a new scent. Her shivers turned chilling.

Gin.

Her stomach lurched as memories flooded in. Vomitous, suffocating agony and heavy, gin-soaked breath. Powerful fists driving into her midsection. The fight for air. The pain. Dear God, the pain.

Frantically, she scanned the thick foliage. She couldn’t see who approached. The scent was faint beneath the damp green of the garden. But it was there.

She lifted her basket and backed toward the house. A gigantic hand slid over her mouth. A hard, massive arm wrapped around her ribcage and hauled her high against a hard, massive frame.

Panic exploded inside her as her attacker dragged her backward. It couldn’t be happening again. The memories maddened her into a frenzy. No air. No air. No air. Thrashing blindly, she bucked and bit until she tasted blood.

“Bluidy hell, Duchess,” came a growly whisper near her ear. “Next time I abduct ye, I’m wearin’ gloves.”

 

 

Seven hours before he abducted his wife, Alexander stood outside her bedchamber door fighting the urge to go inside. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to beg her to forgive him. He wanted to warn her about Cromartie. Hell, he’d settle for watching her sleep.

Instead, he continued downstairs to the kitchen, penned her a brief note cautioning her to stay inside the house, then headed out to meet with Duncan MacAllister at the docks in Leith.

It didn’t go well.

“Aye, he has her,” said Duncan as he redirected a lad carrying a rope toward the shipyard. “The bairn, too.”

Alexander swiped a hand over his beard. “Christ. Do ye ken where?”

“Somewhere in the New Town. They made the crossing from Amsterdam in early August, according to the ship’s captain. Finnegan found their hack driver, but the man couldn’t recall which street the house was on. I’ve sent him to search again. Damned Irishman always was sloppy. Finn thinks Cromartie kens ye’re hunting him.”

Duncan MacAllister was one of the few men Alexander trusted outside of his family. He was built along MacPherson lines, big and powerful, albeit only six-foot-five. Nevertheless, his intimidating size and eerily frigid nature suited the “assignments” he and Alexander had shared during the war. Following Waterloo, the slashing scar along the right side of his face made MacAllister too distinctive to continue with clandestine work, so instead, he’d built a fortune running untaxed cargo between various ports.

He was a useful friend to have, particularly when a rat needed flushing out. Duncan knew every rodent in every port.

After Alexander had traveled to Holland and found Cecilia Hamilton missing, he’d discovered two important things: She’d recently birthed a son, and Bruce Cromartie had taken her and her child against her will, likely to control the fortune Lockhart had stashed away in her name.

Alexander hadn’t found records of Cromartie sailing to Scotland, but he’d found his own letter to Cecilia open and half-burnt inside her cottage fireplace. The place had stunk of gin.

Since his return to Edinburgh, he’d hunted down anyone who might have knowledge of Cromartie’s movements—old cellmates, a half-brother living in squalor, former employers. The bruiser didn’t have friends, which made him harder to track. No friends meant no favors or confidences to leave a trail. Certainly, no one had offered any useful information, apart from Duncan.

Alexander thanked his old friend, promising him a cask of the finest MacPherson whisky for his trouble. Then he spent several hours combing the expensive, elegant area of Edinburgh where Sabella had once resided. The New Town’s neat, orderly streets were lined with hundreds of townhouses, any of which could be where Cromartie was hiding. Cecilia had once lived in a house on Queen Street, so he started there, but he quickly discovered it had been sold to pay Kenneth Lockhart’s debts.

After hours of searching, frustration drove him back to his house in Buccleuch Street. He needed to see Sabella. Needed to hold her and feel her breathe against his neck. He needed to know she was safe.

But she wasn’t safe. She was gone.

“Where did she go?” he demanded in a growl.

A wide-eyed Mrs. Tibbets stammered for a moment before answering, “Her auld residence in Charlotte Square. She said somethin’ about roses.”

Bloody, everlasting hell. He started for the door.

“She left ye a note, Mr. MacPherson! Ye have two, in fact.”

He turned. “Two?”

The housekeeper nodded. “One from Mrs. MacPherson, and one from her sister-in-law.”

“Which sister-in-law?”

“M-Mrs. Lockhart, sir.”

Skin writhing like a snake’s nest, he barked, “What did she look like?”

“Young and bonnie. Hair the color of lamb’s fleece. I—I suspect she has a wee bairn. I heard one wailin’ in the coach.”

“Fetch the notes,” he ordered. “Be quick.”

He tore open Cecilia’s letter first. It was chillingly brief: He’s been following you, Mr. MacPherson. He means to steal your wife. Kill him, won’t you? – C.H.L.

The peculiarly polite phrasing matched what he knew of Cecilia Hamilton Lockhart. Damaged by horrid abuse in her youth, the beauty had clawed her way free of her impoverished past only to land herself in Kenneth Lockhart’s grasp. The lass was understandably mad.

While he waited for the stable lad to saddle a fresh horse, he scanned Sabella’s note grimly.

 

Husband,

I take your cautions under advisement. However, I must visit the house in Charlotte Square to take cuttings from my roses. The breeds are rare, and I desire them for my collection. Further, I see no reason to waste the long journey to Edinburgh idling inside this house whilst you attend to your mysterious “business.” We shall speak at dinner if you can bring yourself to arrive on time.

Your wife,

Sabella

P.S. Begging is a fine start.

 

Folding the slip of paper in half, he tucked it inside his pocket then pressed the heel of his hand against the ache beneath his breastbone. The rune dug into his skin, a reminder of what the old woman had told him.

Blood on yer hands. Blood on yer bride.

He raced to the New Town in record time. Slowing to a stealthier pace as he entered Charlotte Square, he dismounted and tied his horse to the fence surrounding the central green. The poor beast was heaving and deserved a rest. Swiftly, he made his way into the mews lane behind the southerly row of houses. Taking his dirk from the sheath beneath his coat, he slid along the garden wall, looking for signs of the bruiser.

He froze when he heard her voice, prim and soft as she explained the point of pruning to her daft companion.

“… wee, temporary sacrifice rewards you with a more beautiful, resilient plant.”

His heart stuttered with relief. She was safe. For the first time in his life, his hands shook during a mission—his most important mission. He slumped against the wall. She was safe. His Duchess was safe.

Her companion mentioned fetching a groundskeeper and returned to the house. He could hear the faint snip-snip of Sabella taking her cuttings. He didn’t know how to approach her. She was so furious with him that he feared she’d snip-snip vital parts of his anatomy. Better to wait until her departure, perhaps.

A pair of crows landed on top of the wall above his head. The wind picked up, abruptly changing direction. Then he smelled something strange. Gin fumes?

The world shrank into crystalline focus. He quickly calculated the wind direction, the proximity to the gate, their relative positions, and hers inside the garden. The bruiser was on the other side of the carriage house, mere feet from the gate. He would reach her first.

His throat knotted. Frantically, he glanced up at the crows, who stared back with bottomless black eyes—intelligent eyes.

He must climb. It was the only way.

He sheathed his dirk, eyed the ten-foot stone wall, and took a coiled leap. Grasping the top of the wall wrenched his bad shoulder with tearing force. The stones offered scant purchase for his feet, leaving his arms to bear his entire weight. His old wound blasted him with burning agony.

He didn’t give a damn. All that mattered was getting to her.

Using the strength he’d built over the past two months, he pulled himself up, grateful that the birds’ flapping fuss masked the noise of his ascent. He snagged the top of the wall with his boot, rolled his body over the top of the wall, and dropped silently into the garden.

The thick, dense garden. He could barely see her past all the shrubbery. She was backing toward the house, frowning in the direction of the gate. From his vantage point, he could see a meaty hand thrusting the gate open, but her view was blocked.

Which meant the bruiser’s view of her was obscured, too, but not for long.

No choice, he thought. No choice. Silently, he positioned himself to intercept her retreat, covering her mouth to prevent her from drawing the bruiser’s attention. Then he lifted her and glided deep into the shadows of the house.

She thrashed and kicked against him, stunning him enough that he halted to regain his hold on her. Then she bit him hard enough to draw blood.

“Bluidy hell, Duchess. Next time I abduct ye, I’m wearin’ gloves.”

She went utterly still, apart from labored breaths. “A-Alexander?”

“Shh, lass. We must leave.”

With a jerky nod, she relaxed against him as he guided her past the inner gate leading to the fenced area around the service entrance and another leading to the square. After untying his horse, he turned to his wife. His pale, shaken wife.

She still clutched her basket in both hands.

He couldn’t help himself. He kissed her. Hard and fiery, it only lasted a second. She didn’t even have time to respond. But it was enough to set his heart thundering in his ears.

Lifting her onto the horse, he mounted behind her and set off at a fast walk. No need to draw more than the necessary attention. He must get her safely home. Then he’d kill the bruiser.

Simple enough.

“Something bad happened.” Her voice wavered like a brittle reed. “I—I think I’m in danger.”

He cradled her close, consciously releasing tension from the muscles that touched her. No need to frighten his wee wife further. “Shh. I have ye, love. Dinnae fash.”

“I’m fashing, Alexander. I’m fashing hard.”

He wanted to laugh, but there was no room inside him for anything but the mission: Get her to safety, kill the bruiser.

“I have ye,” he repeated, kissing her temple. “Ye’re safe.”

She shook so badly that the horse shied. He calmly redirected the animal, routing in an indirect fashion back to Buccleuch Street. As soon as they arrived, he charged one of the lads with delivering a message to Duncan. Then he carried his wife past a concerned Mrs. Tibbets, who scurried off to prepare a tray.

He didn’t set Sabella down until they’d reached his bedchamber. Even then, he had to force himself to relinquish her. She sat on the bed, her face linen-white, her gloved hands clutching the basket full of thorny stems.

Gently, he pried her fingers loose and set the basket on a desk near the window. Then he sat beside her on the bed and helped her remove her bonnet. Finally, he offered his hand.

She stared at it for a long while before sliding her fingers along his palm. She gripped. Clung. Curving into his side, she rested her forehead against his biceps. “I’m sorry I bit you.”

He held up his opposite hand to the light, admiring the gouges from her teeth. “My bonnie, vicious woman. Yer fight makes me proud.”

“I wasn’t fighting. I was afraid.”

“Of me?”

She shook her head. “Him,” she whispered soundlessly.

Alexander’s world shrank and darkened. “Who, love?”

“My brother’s man. He struck me here.” She pressed a hand over her belly. “I—I vomited on him. It made him angry, so he crushed me until my ribs broke.”

Violence slithered and writhed. Every muscle twitched with it. Every fiber wanted to mete out death and pain in equal measure.

“Kenneth stopped him before he killed me.” She shook her head. “But he wanted more. He smelled like g-gin.”

“Cromartie broke yer ribs,” he rasped, tightening the muscles in his thighs, abdomen, chest, and arms in rhythmic succession. He’d learned the trick from Duncan. It kept the violence from erupting.

“How did you know his name?”

From inside his pocket, he withdrew Cecilia’s first letter. “I found it in yer trunks. This is why I’ve been in Edinburgh. And before that, Amsterdam.”

She took the crinkled paper with trembling fingers. After reading it, she covered her lips. “A child? Kenneth’s?”

“Aye.”

“I should have opened it,” she said.

“Why didnae ye?”

“I’d done so much mopping up after Kenneth’s mess, I couldn’t bear to look at any more. I simply wanted to be done with it. Done with him.”

The fact that she hadn’t yet castigated him for yet another secret he’d kept from her was worrisome. Either she’d forgiven him, or she was beyond feeling anything but fear. He suspected the latter. But she hadn’t relinquished his hand.

A hopeful sign.

“Cromartie willnae touch ye,” he promised. Moving slowly to avoid startling her, he helped her remove her gloves. “I would never let that happen.”

A tiny sigh. A tiny stroke of his forearm. “I missed you.”

His heart squeezed hard enough to crack stone. “I missed ye too, Duchess.”

“I wish you’d told me about the trunks.”

“So do I.” He raised her hand to his lips. “I’m bluidy sorry.”

She ran her thumb over his knuckles. “I wouldn’t have left the house if I’d known about Cromartie.”

“I ken.”

Leaf-green eyes lifted. “No more secrets. Ye must give me a choice from now on. Even if ye think I’ll make the wrong one.”

He rested his forehead against hers, breathed her breath, and held her eyes to deliver his promise. “Done.”

The faintest, sweetest, tenderest smile curved her lips. “Thank you, husband. Now, about that begging.”