“Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires.”
MACBETH, MACBETH ACT I, SCENE IV
Persephone wrung her hands, her gaze unfocused. “‘I laid their daggers ready,’” she said in a low, musing tone. “‘He could not miss ’em. Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I had done’t.’”
“Christ, Persie,” Thomas Baywich said from a neighboring chair. “You just gave me the shivers.”
“That would be the point, wouldn’t it?” Charlie Huddle put in, slapping his folio against his knee. “People who get the shivers come to see the play a second time.”
“I’m thinking I should be more impatient,” Persie commented, looking over the lines again. “More of a ‘what’s taking him so long?’ than a waking nightmare.”
“Let’s try it that way,” Charlie agreed. “Gordon, from your line, if you please?”
“I don’t know how the lot of you can concentrate on a play about murder when any of us could be standing beside Persie the next time something falls from the rigging,” the actor playing Macbeth snapped. “And that person is likely to be me, since I share the most scenes with her.”
That sparked the third argument in twenty minutes. Persephone sat back in the hard, wooden chair. These people were her family; she’d known some of them since she’d first set foot on a London stage. She couldn’t fault them for wanting to keep their distance, but at the same time, a bit more supportive conversation would have been welcome.
A warm breeze seemed to whisper across her skin, lifting the hair on her arms. She glanced over her shoulder at Gavin, the Scottish groom who’d been standing against the nearest wall since Coll had appointed him to watch over her, but he wasn’t there.
In his place stood Coll himself, arms folded across his chest and his gaze on the dim rigging at the top of the theater.
She took him in all over again. Several inches over six feet tall, all lean, hard muscle, shoulders broad and strong enough to put Hercules to shame, and a countenance of chiseled, hard perfection … Only when he grinned did his face soften enough to give a hint of the good-hearted man who resided within, but even when he was serious, he still looked … delicious.
Even more intoxicating, he made her feel safe—and that was taking into account that he’d called her a closed book he couldn’t quite read. The way he’d charged into action, saving her from the bricks and bucket and then not even hesitating before going after Claremont—she couldn’t conjure an image of anyone else who would have done such a thing for her, or even have been capable of it if they’d wished to step in.
“Persie,” came Charlie’s voice, and she shook herself.
“Yes?”
“Your lines, dear.”
“She’s too occupied with ogling the Scotsman,” Jenny cooed, sighing. “And so am I.”
“Excuse me a minute,” Persephone said. “I need to see what he was able to discover.”
“By all means, go,” Gordon urged. “I need to know if the danger is over with before we continue. The Scottish play is a large enough menace without all of this going on.”
When Charlie waved a dismissing hand at her, Persephone stood and walked back into the shadows, where the Highlander stood. He watched her approaching now, and the goosebumps on her arms returned. It was tempting to just walk into his arms and let him enfold her, but that would never do. He was someone to help her pass the time, and to keep buckets of bricks from falling on her—and only for the next three-and-a-half weeks at the most, after which he would be married and she would be well into her nightly performances of Lady Macbeth.
“Lass,” he murmured as she stopped in front of him.
“I’m glad to see you unharmed.” Persephone curled her fingers to keep from touching him. “Claremont?”
“It wasnae him.”
“Damn.” From the abrupt tightness in her chest, she’d placed more faith than she’d realized in the idea that it had been the earl out to pay her back for his embarrassment. “Are you certain? Of course you are.” She leaned back against the wall beside him.
“Aye. He has nae reason to risk his reputation over ye. Nae offense.”
She sighed. “None taken. I know what you mean, and it makes sense. But did you speak to him? How did he react?”
“I did speak to him. Ye said he was nae yer first protector, and I dunnae think ye were his first actress. He said he tried giving ye pretty things but put it to making a bad investment. Between ye and me, I dunnae think he has enough spleen to be angry enough to kill.”
That matched her own assessment of Claremont’s character fairly well. And yet—she’d wanted it to be James Pierce. She wanted it to be something she and Coll could see finished. If it wasn’t Claremont, then she needed to be able to prove at least to herself that these two near-misses had both been accidents. That strained even her imagination.
“I wanted it to be him,” Coll said aloud, echoing her thoughts. “I wanted to be able to walk in here and tell ye I took care of things for ye.”
She turned her head, looking up at him as he gazed down at her. When she’d chased after him the other day, it had been with the idea that he might be helpful. Belatedly, it occurred to her that he knew precisely what she was about, and he’d agreed anyway. And it was more than that; he hadn’t just agreed. He’d wanted to help … her.
Evidently, she’d been luckier than she deserved. She’d hoped to find a capable man. What she’d found had been an honorable one. “If you’re not careful,” she said aloud, “I’m going to begin liking you.”
His brief smile left her wanting to kiss him all over again. “Ye’ve already turned my head, lass. But now I have to ask ye who else might nae want to have ye about. Do ye have any ideas?”
Persephone shrugged. Yes, she did have a broad idea or two, but nothing that made sense here and now. “I am rehearsing the Scottish play. Perhaps Gordon has the right of it, and it is cursed.”
“And mayhap Gordon doesnae like being teased, and he’s out to prove the play is cursed by killing Lady Macbeth,” Coll suggested.
“Gordon faints when he gets a nosebleed,” she retorted. “Just tell me it could have been an accident. Two accidents.”
He held onto his silence longer than she liked. “They could have been accidents,” he finally conceded. “But I dunnae think either of them were. So, if ye want my help, ye need to give me a direction to head. Who might wish to harm ye, Persephone?”
She shook her head, pushing upright in the same motion. This was beginning to stray too close to uncomfortable territory. No one trod there, including her. “I cannot think of a soul. I’m an actress. Unless it’s one of my critics or rivals or a lunatic admirer, I have no idea. If you press for an answer, I say that both incidents were only accidents. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a rehearsal to finish. And you have the Runescroft ball to attend.”
As soon as she said it, she regretted it, but he only straightened and reached down to take her hand. “If ye think of anything that might help, ye send me word. Gavin will stay here. He or I will see ye home.”
“Again, that’s not necess—”
“Ye wield yer words like a lass who’s accustomed to people doing as she says,” he murmured, still holding her hand, still keeping her there beside him. “I dunnae ken who ye are, Persephone Jones, but I dunnae think ye are who ye say ye are. If that’s what’s putting ye in danger, then I suggest ye decide if ye can trust me or nae.” With that, he released her and headed off toward the rear of the theater.
Ice splintered down her spine. “You don’t owe me anything, Coll. Go find yourself a wife.”
He paused mid-step. “Dunnae fling that at me just when I’ve decided I like spending time with ye. If ye’re scared, it’s because ye should be. But I’m nae the one out to harm ye.”
She watched until he disappeared behind the growing set of Birnham Woods, trying not to feel as if she’d just run off her only ally. With her friends here, she didn’t need allies. The bucket and the sandbags had only been accidents, perhaps brought about by the Scottish play, just as she’d suggested. Coll had been fun and arousing, but as she’d surmised, he was also trouble. And she didn’t need more trouble. Any trouble.
Wisps of thoughts she’d kept shoved far to the back of her mind continued pushing at her, trying to come forward, but she shoved back just as hard. She’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Accidents could happen in a large, busy theater, especially with the workers taking down and putting up sets. Thinking anything else was just silly and useless, and it stole away time she needed to spend learning her lines.
The rest of the afternoon, though, was a disaster. Every time she had to wait for someone else to speak their lines, Coll’s words rang through her skull, saying that he knew she wasn’t who she claimed to be. If he’d come to that conclusion after being acquainted with her for three days, had anyone else done so as well? After all, she had known at least half the cast and backstage workers for more than six years.
What had happened? What mistake had she made? And who wanted to harm her?
“—finished for today,” Charlie was saying as she dragged herself back to the present. “I expect everyone—especially you, Persie—to spend the evening going over your lines and then getting a good night’s sleep. We’ll begin again tomorrow.”
Frowning, she reached over to check George’s pocket watch. “It’s only half five.”
“And you’ve missed every cue this afternoon,” Charlie noted. “I don’t blame you; I’m feeling scattered myself, and I wasn’t almost crushed by bricks. Go home, have a glass of whisky, and tomorrow we’ll pretend today never happened. We need you for this play, Persie. You know you’re the reason the Saint Genesius fills every night.”
She forced a smile. “If you truly believe that, give me the lead in Hamlet.”
Charlie laughed. “I am your ardent admirer, but I am not a madman. Go home, Persie. Will the Highlander escort you?”
“That one will,” she said, gesturing at Gavin, who was presently ogling the three witches.
When she walked up and tapped him on the shoulder, the groom jumped. “Saint Andrew and all the angels,” he rasped. “I dunnae ken how ye can stay in a place this dark all day and nae see devils in every shadow.”
She’d been doing a bit of that herself, this afternoon. “I’m leaving. I have a driver I generally use, but I thought you should know.”
“I’m to go with ye, Miss Persie. Laird Glendarril will have my head on a pike if I dunnae.”
Smiling, she wrapped her hand around his arm. “I was actually hoping you would say that. Accidents or not, heavy things flying toward my head do make me a bit nervous.”
Holding his arm out rigidly, he puffed out his chest as they walked. “It’s my honor to see ye home safe.”
His presence, while welcome, would complicate her usual wardrobe change. Perhaps just the wig would do for today; she had dressed rather conservatively, and her blue muslin likely wouldn’t shock the neighbors. Once she retrieved her portmanteau and a black wig with a very matronly bun already pinned up at the back of the neck, she headed outside.
Amid the vendors and daringly dressed lightskirts, rather fewer young men than usual lurked. Perhaps word had gotten out that her current protector was a very large Highlander who liked using his fists. However much Coll’s prying annoyed her, the space he’d created around her made her grateful. People running at her had never been pleasant; today, she couldn’t think of many things that filled her with more dread.
One of the stagehands would have already signaled for Gus—who generally spent the late afternoons snoozing inside his coach around the corner—to come up. She saw him immediately, just beyond the stack of lumber that had been delivered earlier that day.
“That him?” Gavin asked, eyeing the coach and driver suspiciously.
“Yes. Will you be riding up top with him, or inside with me?”
The groom’s face turned beet red. “I couldnae ride inside with ye, Miss Persephone. It wouldnae be at all proper!”
Hmm. She’d completely forgotten about that. Pesky propriety—she’d evaded its grip for so long that it generally didn’t even occur to her. “Yes, of course. Thank you for looking out for my honor, Gavin.”
He clearly didn’t know how to take that, so he settled for an awkward nod as he handed her into the coach. She settled into the seat and opened the portmanteau.
“Just once around the Holme this time, Gus,” she called up. “And this is Gavin. He’s seeing me home.”
“For your sake, then, I’ll allow him up top, Miss Persie.”
The driver clucked to the team, and they rolled off into the street. Perhaps she should have requested they drive around the Holme thrice instead of once; if someone was after her, she certainly didn’t want them following her home. Persephone closed her eyes for a moment.
In six years, she’d seen dozens of accidents in the theater, two of them fatal. Odd things did happen. If the sandbag and bucket had been two weeks apart instead of two days, she wouldn’t be hesitating to call them accidents now. With Claremont eliminated as a suspect, she would have to settle herself and admit that it was just two odd events close together, and that was all that made them seem suspicious. They were accidents.
She pulled off the red wig and set the simple black one over her head, pinning the edges to keep it secure. There. Perhaps her wig-wearing was silly, but it made her feel like she was doing something to keep her privacy intact. And since no one had successfully followed her home from the theater yet, it seemed to be working.
The coach lurched sideways. With a gasp, she put a hand out to keep from slamming into the far wall. “Gus! What is—”
“Hold tight, Miss Persie!” the driver called, his voice clipped. “Damned wagon dri—”
They rocked again, harder. Persephone lost her grip and slid across the bench. The coach teetered, went back onto all four wheels, then lifted on the left side again. Abruptly everything rolled, and the portmanteau slammed into her hip as she landed first on the right-side door, and then on the roof.
Upside down. The coach was upside down. She flailed upright. It was disorienting, seeing the seats above her head and the broken windows below. Persephone put her hands down to steady herself, and they splashed into water. Good heavens, her whole backside was wet. Her feet tangled into her skirts as she tried to stand, and she went down hard on her knees.
The nearest door wrenched open, coming off one hinge. “Give me yer hand, lass,” Gavin said, reaching in for her.
He had blood on one side of his face, his hair wild, but she grabbed onto him and held tight as he pulled her free of the coach.
They’d gone over into a ditch, she realized as she scrambled to her feet outside. At the front of the coach, one of the horses lay in a tangle of reins and harnesses, whinnying, while the other stood a few feet away, its head down and blood dripping down one leg. “Where’s Gus?” she gasped, falling back against the side of the carriage.
“Seeing to the horse,” the groom said. “Ye stay here. Dunnae move, lass. I’ll lend him a hand.”
When she nodded, Gavin hurried back to the fallen animal, pulling a knife from his boot and sawing at the harness. Gus did the same on the far side, and a moment later, the horse lurched to its feet.
Staggering, her dress ripped up one side and the hem tangling beneath her shoe, Persephone made her way up the short, steep bank of the ditch. “Are they all right?” she asked. “Are the two of you all right?”
“Aye,” Gavin answered, taking hold of the first horse’s harness and leading it up and down a few feet while he eyed its gait. “Just some scratches and a banged head. Ye’ll have to put a compress on the right rear hock here.”
“That damned wagon driver,” Gus muttered, climbing out of the ditch with the other horse. “Excuse my language, Persie. He saw us there, plain as day, and he still turned right into our path.”
Persephone’s heart lurched. “It was deliberate, then?”
“If I could think of a reason why a man would want to murder any of us, I’d say yes,” her driver returned. “It’s a warm afternoon, and him all kitted up in a hooded cloak and all. He wanted us off the road, and that’s for damned certain. Excuse my language again.”
She and Gavin exchanged a glance, and she could read his thoughts clearly in his expression. It hadn’t been an accident. And that meant nothing over the past few days had been an accident. Someone was trying to kill her. And not only had they very nearly been successful, they hadn’t cared about murdering two horses, a driver, and a groom, either.
“Gus, I’m so sorry,” she said, tears rising in her eyes.
“What for?” the driver retorted. “It’s that clod with the wagon who owes me a new coach, da—blast him.”
“This wouldn’t have happened to you if you hadn’t been my driver,” she said. “I will of course pay for any repairs, or for a new coach if it’s not fixable.”
“That’s kind of you, Persie,” Gus said, freeing one hand from his grip on the horse’s harness to pat her shoulder. “But I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Nonsense,” she retorted, swiping a hand across her eyes. “You do what you need to, and you have the bill sent to me. Is that clear?” Perhaps it was a small thing in the greater scheme of things, but helping Gus was something she wanted to do, and it was definitely something she could afford. And a large, nagging part of her knew the damage was her fault, anyway.
Somewhere, somehow, she’d made a mistake.
“Are ye up to seeing to yer team, lad?” Gavin asked, giving Gus’s gray mare another critical look.
“I’m more angry than anything else. Yes, Mary, Jane, and I are fine.”
The groom nodded. “Good. I’m going to see the lass home.”
When Gus agreed, Gavin skidded down the slope and reached into the coach, pulling out her portmanteau. Ignoring the gathering crowd of curious onlookers, he returned to her side and offered her an arm.
“Let’s get away from here a bit, and I’ll hail us a hack. Too many people for me to keep my peepers on right now.”
She’d been thinking much the same thing. Any one of these people could be the wagon driver, or whoever it was who’d hired the wagon driver to run Gus’s coach off the road. Wincing at a wrenched knee and bruised hip but doing her best not to limp, she headed toward Albany Street with Gavin.
Every vehicle that drove up from behind them made her flinch. What if the wagon had merely circled around and was now headed back to finish her off? What if someone on the street had a knife or a pistol and they were only waiting for her to turn her back?
“I wish Laird Glendarril had been here,” Gavin muttered as they walked. “He’d have jumped into the wagon and yanked that damned villain out of his seat. And there I was, doing naught but hanging on with my fingernails and trying nae to fall into the street.”
She could imagine Coll doing just that, leaping from one vehicle to another, kilt flying, and then wrestling the wagon’s horses to a halt with one hand while he held the driver aloft with the other. The image made her smile, despite the scratches and bruises.
“What’s got ye so amused, then?” the groom asked, frowning.
“My apologies. Does Coll—Lord Glendarril—often leap to the rescue and fling people about?”
“Oh, aye. Far more often than ye’d think a man would need to do such a thing. Once he waded into a bog to rescue a wee lamb and ended up finding the bairn’s twin and his dam already near-drowned in the mud, and he hauled ’em all out.”
“What about the rumor that he went running down Grosvenor Square naked but for a sword?”
Gavin squinted one eye. “Well, ye see, that’s part of a long tale that I’m nae to spread about. I will tell ye that he was after a villain who nearly shot his brother, Master Aden, and that that villain may have a claymore-shaped puncture now in his arse.”
“Truly? You’re not bamming me?”
“Me? Nae. Aden stared the man down and then let him go, but Glendarril reckoned he needed more of a lesson to remember the MacTaggerts by. The bastard regrets going against us every time he sits down, I’d wager.”
She hadn’t met any of the other MacTaggerts, though if they were half as impressive as Coll, they were likely formidable, indeed. Tales of their handsome appearances and barbaric ways had certainly reached backstage at the Saint Genesius. “This tale you’re not to tell, is it in order to protect the MacTaggert reputation?”
“Nae. It’s to protect a lass who’s to become a MacTaggert by the end of the week. And that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”
Aden MacTaggert would be marrying Miss Miranda Harris on Saturday, she knew, because the Society page had been filled with opinions on whether such a prominent marriage should be allowed to proceed so swiftly, which she interpreted to mean that some members of the ton were upset not to be invited to the ensuing party. The youngest brother, Niall, had arranged an elopement with his bride-to-be, Amelia-Rose Baxter, all the way up in Gretna Green. Well, the official word was that it had been planned. Rumor said otherwise.
Why any of that mattered, she had no idea. As she’d told Coll, titled men did not marry actresses. And she didn’t intend to wed anyone, regardless. In a sense, though, hearing all of this felt … comforting. Clearly the women who’d trusted the MacTaggerts had found themselves cared-for and protected. And at this moment, that sounded very tempting.
When Gavin whistled for a passing hack to stop, the sound made her jump. How was she supposed to continue like this? For heaven’s sake, she would be onstage in a week, in front of hundreds of people—any of whom could secretly wish her dead. For years, she’d preferred to let her parts define her, allowed herself to be seen as Juliet or Cleopatra or Katherine or Rosalind, rather than as … herself. For goodness’ sake, she lived a quiet life on a quiet street with neighbors who thought she owned a wig shop.
That actually made her potential list of enemies fairly small. And the answer she kept coming up with made her insides cold and shaky with a dread she couldn’t even put into words. If her suspicions were correct, she needed help. But that would mean trusting someone—trusting Coll, because she couldn’t conjure anyone else on whom she might call. And since she’d told him earlier to mind his own business, she didn’t know if help would be forthcoming, even if she screwed up the courage to ask for it.
Gavin walked her to her front door and didn’t move until Gregory pulled it open. “Ye’re the man here, aye?” the groom asked.
Gregory lifted a thin eyebrow. “I suppose I am. You’re one of the Highlanders.”
“That I am. Ye see Miss Persie inside, ye lock the door behind her, and ye make certain all the other doors and windows in the house are secured. And ye dunnae open them until Laird Glendarril arrives. Do ye ken?”
The footman frowned. “I ken, sir, but we do not, in this household, make a habit of following other people’s orders. Do you ken that?”
Persephone stepped past him into the foyer. “Do as he says, Gregory. Please.”
“Th—of course.”
Only when Gavin was gone and she heard the front door lock did Persephone let out her breath. And then she collapsed onto the foyer floor.
Coll looked over at the wee woman holding his fingers. A stiff breeze would likely send her flying, but her father was a duke’s nephew, and that made her acceptable as a wife to a viscount. They reached the end of the line of dancers and he bowed to her, letting her fingers go as she curtsied. Then, one on either side, they pranced up the double lines of dancers and met again at the far end.
“I’ve heard that every clan has a motto,” she said airily. “What would yours be?”
“Spem Successus Alit. Success nourishes hope.”
“Latin, yes? It’s quite lovely. Clan MacTaggert seems very civilized.”
“There’s nae clan MacTaggert. We’re part of Clan Ross. That’s Ross’s motto.”
“Oh. You don’t have one, then? A motto?”
“We’ve a family crest. A dragon standing atop a lion. And the words ‘Dèan sabaid airson fuireach.’ That’s nae Latin. It’s Scots Gaelic.”
She blinked. “And what does it … mean?” she asked, her voice noticeably subdued.
Grand. He was frightening her. “Fight to Live,” he translated. “Some in the family say it’s more properly ‘Fight to Stay,’ but ye cannae stay if ye arenae alive, so I prefer the first version.”
The lass, Elizabeth Munroe, finished off the fancy set of dance steps alongside him before they began hopping forward again. For Christ’s sake, he hated country dances. They lasted forever and a day, and he wasn’t a man who enjoyed hopping and preening like a rabbit.
As they reached the head of the line again, he stifled a sigh. He’d managed to find a partner for every damned dance tonight, because according to Persephone, that was how a man could judge whether a woman thought him marriageable or not. The present country dance supposedly meant that he wouldn’t ever be walking into a church with Miss Munroe, but Lady Runescroft seemed to adore the things and had far too many of them scheduled for anyone to avoid them all. And at least this lass was talking to him, which was more than he could say of the previous two.
After what felt like an hour, the dance ended. Winded, he escorted Miss Munroe back to her mother, made a bow, and went to find an open window. Most of the side rooms around the ballroom were packed with guests, but he found some open space and an unlatched window in the library, and with a deep breath, Coll leaned both hands on the sill and looked out over the torchlit garden.
Behind him, a young couple seated on a couch murmured quietly to each other, the lady’s maid hovering nearby, but he paid them no further attention than to note their presence. This fete nonsense was the main reason he detested London, he was discovering. Unless a man was a member of the House of Lords—which, as the holder of an honorary title, he was not—days were to be spent in clubs or driving about the parks, hoping to be seen. Evenings were for endless parties or more clubs, and for drinking or gaming or whoring.
He didn’t drink; with the exception of his first night here in London, he hadn’t consumed any spirits since his twenty-third birthday. As Niall had put it, Coll joined up with liquor didn’t make for anything pleasant. That left whoring or gaming or dancing, and while he had no objection to spending his evenings in a lass’s bed, he preferred to leave the gaming to Aden and the dancing to Niall.
Of course, now that he was thinking about sex, the image of Persephone Jones floated into his thoughts again—not that she’d been far from them since the first moment he’d set eyes on her. He’d thought it had been Claremont after her, that the viscount had been angry she’d moved on to someone else. But that had been based on the assumption that Claremont had cared for her in the first place. Clearly, she’d been a prize to the earl, someone to be flaunted as evidence of his own virility or some such thing.
Claremont didn’t care enough about her to go to the effort and expense of seeing her hurt or killed. And since she had nothing else to offer him in the way of suspects, he had to conclude that those two mishaps had been accidents. That didn’t feel right, and neither could he shake the feeling that she wasn’t quite who she said she was, but he had neither the time nor the information he needed to figure it all out.
As for the woman herself, she intrigued him and aggravated him in equal parts. Subterfuge, lies, complications—those were all things he avoided. He preferred straight answers, honesty, and troubles he could solve with his fists. She was none of those things. At the same time, he enjoyed the time he spent in her company, and he damned well enjoyed her enthusiasm during sex. He liked chatting with her, and he liked never knowing what she might say next. An exceedingly intelligent and opinionated woman was quite possibly the last person he ever expected to find so … compelling, but there it was. There she was.
And damn it all, he liked her. A great deal. A lass with whom he could converse and be his generally good-humored self without worrying that his hard reputation would be damaged or that he’d made a fool of himself. When it came down to it, he could imagine himself married to her, and that hadn’t been anything he could conjure in his wildest dreams with any other lass he’d met so far—in London or in Scotland.
“For a betrothed man, you’re doing a great deal of dancing tonight,” came the cultured voice of his mother from somewhere behind him.
Coll didn’t budge. The muttering couple on the couch was gone; Francesca had probably pointed a finger at them and they’d fled. “I’m at a grand ball. I reckon dancing is what I’m supposed to do.”
“So it is. I happen to know, however, that you dislike country dances, and yet there you were with Miss Elizabeth Munroe. A very eligible young lady of marked beauty.”
“What do ye want, màthair? Ye ordered me to wed a lass. I found a lass to wed. The only problem I see is yer pride.”
Her soft, measured footsteps moved closer. “Not just my pride, Coll. Do not let your pride and your stubbornness lead you into a mistake. Do not let your anger with me lead you into a life you won’t be able to tolerate.”
At that, he turned to face her. “Are ye speaking from experience, then? Ye and da used to have some spectacular arguments, as I recall. I suppose if Persephone and I dunnae match well, I could always do what ye did and walk away. Pretend I dunnae have three other bairns aside from the one I take with me. I could even write up an agreement with her when I go that says nae matter how long I ignore them, the bairns will have to do what I say when they’re grown.”
“Oh, that is enough of that,” she muttered, her hands clenched together in front of her hips, her gaze down at the floor. With a visible sigh, she looked up again. “Your father is an impossible man. I asked for six months in the Highlands and six months here. He refused. I asked for three months here and nine months in the Highlands. He refused. I asked for an English tutor for the three of you, so you would be able to live in both worlds. He refused.”
She stopped beside him, standing straight and stiff, her voice more animated than he’d heard since their arrival on her doorstep.
“So ye left,” he finished for her. “I dunnae doubt ye had yer reasons. I just dunnae understand why they were more important to ye than we were. Ye didnae even write.”
“I did write,” she snapped. “Letter after letter after letter. None of you ever answered me, but I kept writing. For years. It was only after Eloise was old enough to compose a letter that we had any response at all. Nothing from me was ever replied to. So yes, I left. But I did not abandon you. You abandoned me.”
Coll frowned. “Ye say whatever ye wish, Lady Aldriss. I nae received a single letter from ye. I wrote a handful of them to ye, and nae heard back. I reckoned ye’d washed yer hands of us. And I was but twelve years old, if ye’ll recall.”
“I recall everything—every birthday I missed. You are my children. My sons. I would never … Damn that man. I thought he was keeping my letters from you, but I never thought he would be keeping your letters to me.” A tear ran down her ivory cheek. “You wrote to me,” she whispered.
“Aye, when I was a bairn. When I might have wanted ye about. But I’ll be thirty years old next month. And there ye stand after seventeen years away, demanding that I wed some English lass so ye’ll be able to tell yer proper friends that ye have three civilized sons, and so ye have a better chance of seeing us down here in England again. Dunnae expect me to smile and cooperate, woman.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Coll. I’m trying to make am—”
“Excuse us,” came Niall’s voice from the doorway.
Coll looked up to see not just Niall, but Gavin, standing there and looking exceedingly uncomfortable. Worry stabbed through him. “What the devil are ye doing here? Ye were to stay at the Saint Genesius and watch over Persephone.”
“Aye, m’laird.” The groom shot an uneasy glance at Francesca. “Excuse me, yer majesty.”
“Gavin!” Coll demanded.
“The lass left early and took her usual hack. I hopped up with the driver, a pleasant lad named Gus. Then a wagon ran us off the road and overturned the coach into a ditch. Th—”
“What?” Coll rasped, striding toward the groom and the door beyond him. “Is she hurt?”
“Nae. A few bumps and bruises.” Gavin took a half step backward. “It wasnae an accident, ye ken. The driver wore a hood so we couldnae see his face. And he rammed into us thrice, then drove off without stopping.”
“And you left her?” Coll could barely spit out the words. His heart pounded; he’d guessed wrong and she might have been … she might have been killed.
“I saw her home and had that skinny lad secure the house. I told him to nae open the front door until ye arrived. I had to come fetch ye, m’laird, or I wouldnae have le—”
“How did ye get here?” Coll broke in, striding for the door and dragging the groom with him.
“I stopped by Oswell House for a horse. And I brought Nuckelavee with me. The pretty-dressed lads out front are holding him for ye, hopefully.”
“Good.” Brushing passed a surprised-looking footman, Coll shoved open the front door and trotted down the trio of steps. Nuckelavee whinnied when the stallion saw him, pulling free of the clearly terrified groom and charging to the foot of the steps. “Come with me, Gavin. I may need more help.”
“Aye.”
Swinging into the saddle, Coll reined in the black long enough for Gavin to mount the gelding he’d brought along. “Ye did well, Gavin. I’m grateful.”
The groom gave a solemn nod. “The lass’s first question when I pulled her out of the coach was whether the driver and I were injured. She offered to purchase the lad a new coach or pay for the repair of the mangled one. She’s a bean-ghaisgeil.”
Aye, she was a brave woman. And he’d been a damned fool to leave her safety to someone else, even a man he trusted as much as he did Gavin Corbat. As soon as they cleared the crush of waiting coaches, he kicked Nuckelavee in the ribs. The big war horse snorted, accelerating into a smooth, effortless gallop.
Someone had tried to kill the lass. And this time, they’d nearly succeeded.
If he’d needed an additional sign to tell him how he truly felt about her, the black fury and fear that boiled his blood made it plain enough. Persephone Jones was the lass he wanted. Damn all propriety and tradition that said he couldn’t have her. And damn anyone who tried to stop him.