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Having near paced a hole through the worn floorboards, Henry Crawford paused at the second-floor solar window in Wingate Castle, gazing out at the leaden clouds spitting rain against the glass. Over the high stone wall, he could see some of the gray granite buildings of Aberdeen a mile away.
Mayhap he should be satisfied in owning this ancient castle and many others... but he wasn't. Wingate was in bad need of repairs, but he had little funds until he sold something substantial.
He'd inherited his title, the Earl of Dalacroy, only last year when his father had been daft enough to get himself killed. Since then, Henry had stayed busy regaining the properties and wealth his philandering father had given away to his many mistresses. Henry had seen the books and knew his father had inherited a massive fortune from Henry's grandfather. But his da had squandered nearly all of it, dispensing with it thither and yon to all his whores.
Now, 'twas time to regain ownership of his grandmother's dower property, Darby Hall, which his father had given as an extravagant gift to Lady Grey.
Henry's men had faced few problems getting into the manor house and taking whatever valuables they could carry. His father had expensive taste in jewelry and always bought his jezebels much gold, diamonds and colorful jewels. Not to mention the silverware.
Henry grinned, recalling how he'd also pinched Lady Grey's guards, promising them twice the pay. They had been only too happy to leave her employment and even help Henry's men gain entrance. Henry would pay his new guards as he'd promised for a few days or weeks... however long it took to send her to the workhouse.
He'd sent two of his guards with MacGuire, the young messenger from Darby, to slip into the stables and do what damage they could to her coach. He didn't want her to die... yet. But he did want her to realize she had few options except to sell him what he wanted... at an exceptional price. He grinned, imagining the crestfallen look on the harlot's face when she realized she had nothing left and no one to help her.
A few years ago, his father had also gained possession of some storefronts and tenements in Aberdeen, as well as a small estate and ancient castle about five miles outside of town. Baron Grey had been heavily in debt to Henry's father. Now, those were back in the hands of Lady Grey. He would soon have both, along with the tenements, then he would sell them to the highest bidder. Wingate was the only property he need retain in the area.
He'd managed to take what he wanted from a few of his father's former mistresses already, in other parts of the country, and the hussies were out on the streets. Early on, he'd learned clever ways to sidestep the laws. He could simply invest a small percentage of his money in hiring the local magistrates and other officials to assist him. Even some of the penniless nobles had proven useful at times. They were only too glad to ingratiate themselves to him.
A knock sounded at the solid oak door.
He turned. "Enter."
A male servant, Simon, strode in carrying one of his newly acquired, polished silver trays with a missive on it. He bowed. "M'laird, the messenger lad wanted to deliver this to you himself, but I told him that would be unacceptable."
"Very good." Henry snatched the missive off the tray and the servant left. After breaking the red wax seal, he unfolded the parchment. 'Twas from Magistrate Paul MacTarril. His gaze shifted back to the top and he began reading.
Lord Dalacroy:
Lady Grey has obtained the help of the Earl of Stornmor, a ruthless Highlander named Cyrus MacKenzie, Chief of the MacKenzies. They have just quit my office after inquiring about the jewels. I revealed naught and I'll assist you in any way I can. Your loyal servant.
"As well you should," Henry muttered, still resenting the goodly sum he'd paid the man.
So, she was already the mistress of another earl? She did fast work in seducing powerful, wealthy men. This would make his job more difficult. He had not anticipated locking horns with one of his peers.
"Damn her!" He wouldn't let anyone stop him in his quest, not even a Highland earl. Henry knew how to be just as ruthless as any of the barbarians from the north. All he had to do was eliminate the bastard.
***
AS THEY RODE THROUGH the gates of Darby Hall, Cyrus eyed Elspeth. Her head was completely covered in the hood of her dark green cloak, understandable in this misty rain. But he had a feeling she was also trying to hide. What had MacTarril meant when he'd said, "Lady Grey, you have found yourself another wealthy earl, have you?"
Elspeth's husband had been a baron.
Cyrus's gut tensed. He had a suspicion the earl in question had something to do with the secrets shadowing Elspeth's eyes.
He had to find out which wealthy earl and what her connection to him was. That could be the key to the theft. As well, it could be the key to destroying Cyrus's fascination with her.
At the moment, avoiding her gaze was easy, for she kept hers downcast while he helped her dismount. "Could I speak to you in your study?" He kept his voice low.
"Of course." Her posture erect and regal, she sidestepped him, proceeded up the stone steps and disappeared into the manor house.
'Slud, he hated making her cross, but clearly she was withholding important information from him. He couldn't keep her safe and find the culprit if he didn't know her whole story.
Once inside, he noticed she busied herself with discussing something with the housekeeper on the opposite side of the hall. Obviously, she didn't want to talk to him about what Paul MacTarril had said.
Sipping from a tankard of ale, Fraser approached him. "What did you find out?"
"Naught except that Paul MacTarril is the magistrate and he is witless." Annoyance drove through Cyrus anew.
His brother frowned. "The Paul MacTarril you fostered with at the Comyns?"
"Aye. The very same. His clan was from north of Aberdeen, and he was one of the chief's younger sons. Also, he was the best friend and accomplice of that murderer Ben Comyn."
"MacTarril is naught but a criminal himself."
"True."
"What did he say?"
"That one of Lady Grey's staff stole the jewels."
"One of the guards who vanished?"
"'Tis possible." He would not tell Fraser of MacTarril's offensive words to Elspeth. Clearly, the whoreson wanted to besmirch her name in any way possible. At the time, Cyrus had been tempted to break the man's jaw, but 'twould likely have only made matters worse.
Elspeth came toward them, giving him a fleeting, discomfited glance. "The midday meal will be served shortly. In the meantime, have some ale, if you please." She motioned toward the full tankards, along with a pitcher for refills, sitting on a wooden tray at the end of the nearby table.
Cyrus thanked her and helped himself. The ale was dark and bitter, just the way he liked it.
"We appreciate your generous hospitality, Lady Grey." Fraser bowed over her hand and kissed it.
Her face coloring in a fetching blush, she smiled. "Please, as I said before, call me Elspeth. And 'tis my honor to have such esteemed guests."
It was the correct and formal thing to say, but did she mean it? She'd been trying to usher him out the door since last evening. Was it because she was trying to hide something about a wealthy earl? Who was the whoreson and what was their connection? Were they lovers? A feeling akin to jealousy gored his vitals. Saints, he'd lost every last shred of sanity. He had no reason to feel jealousy. She meant naught to him.
"We're the ones who are honored to have such a stunning hostess." Fraser grinned.
Her face flushed even brighter. "You're too kind."
Cyrus rolled his eyes at Fraser. What the devil was he doing? Trying once again to seduce her? It wouldn't work... he would make sure of it.
To add to the madness, Cyrus found himself illogically yearning for her to shift her whisky-colored eyes to him. Why the devil would he crave such a thing? He generally didn't care, one way or another, whether a woman looked at him or not. Plenty did when he wished they would watch some other man. Most women were complicated creatures he would rather not become ensnared with.
As for Elspeth, he found he wanted to look deeply into her eyes and discover the secrets of her mind. Like it or not—and he didn't—she was the most intriguing woman he had met in years.
"The meal will be served in a few moments, if you would like to be seated." Still avoiding looking at him directly, Elspeth motioned toward the long table.
He would wait until later to have a private conversation with her. He didn't want to snag Fraser's curiosity.
When she walked away, Cyrus observed his brother, who continued to watch her. He knew exactly what Fraser was thinking.
"What are you doing?" To Cyrus's chagrin, the words emerged as a growl rather than the bland inquiry he'd intended.
Fraser dragged his gaze away from her and focused on him. "What do you mean?"
Cyrus narrowed his eyes and kept his voice low. "Are you trying to seduce her?"
Fraser snorted. "If I was, dirk me now."
What the devil did he mean by that? That he wasn't interested in her? "You made her uncomfortable with the excessive compliments."
"Uncomfortable?" His brother looked flummoxed. "Did you not see her smile and blush?"
"Aye. You embarrassed her."
Fraser barked a laugh. "You have been too long on the battlefield, brother. 'Twas a blush of pure pleasure and happiness."
"You're daft," Cyrus muttered, realizing he couldn't differentiate between a blush of pleasure and one of embarrassment. Mayhap his brother was right in that he had been away from women and their subtle sensitivities too long.
"I find I must give her twice as many compliments because you give her none. You're about as charming as a blacksmith's anvil." Fraser's eyes retained their mischievous glint.
"I'm not here to charm a lady. I'm here to protect her and find who wishes to do her harm."
"Because you're smitten with her." Fraser grinned. "Admit it."
Cyrus snorted to cover the unexpected thud of his heart. "Hardly." He casually sipped his ale. Everyone knew he didn't get smitten anymore... not for a decade or longer. He was incapable of such ridiculous sentiment.
"Well, in that case, you won't mind if I... get to know her better then, will you?" Fraser raised a brow.
Was that a challenge?
Cyrus ground his teeth, but before he could say anything, Elspeth came into his range of vision, effectively cutting off his retort through her mere presence. 'Twas bedeviling how she could seize his attention so effortlessly.
Fraser had lost his wits if he truly thought Cyrus would allow him to pursue Elspeth. None of them were pursuing her, regardless of her great beauty and appeal.
Fraser's grin widened, and Cyrus wanted to throttle him.
Finally, the food was served, and they all took their seats—Elspeth between him and Fraser.
Throughout the meal, she nibbled at the fowl on her trencher, ate wee green peas two or three at a time, and broke small bites from her piece of bread. She shifted with discomfort, only meeting his gaze briefly and murmuring one-word replies when he spoke to her. She seemed far more interested in talking to Fraser about unimportant things.
Cyrus found himself annoyed that she engaged in such easy and relaxed repartee with Fraser. She should recall how he had knocked on her bedchamber door back at Castle Rebbinglen in a bid to seduce her. At the time, she had said she would never invite him in. Had she changed her mind?
When she glanced at Cyrus, she instantly tensed. He saw it in her mouth and her posture. His own shoulders tightened in response.
Her intoxicating perfume had been teasing at him throughout the meal. He was thankful she didn't wear an excessive amount, for 'twould likely drive him mad. He could not name the scent nor was he about to ask her. 'Twas obviously a complex yet compatible blend of many fragrances and likely cost a king's ransom. The spellbinding floral made him think of midnight in a warm summer garden. He also detected a creamy sweetness and—enigmatically—the scent of wood. 'Twas earthy and spicy at once... mayhap a hint of cinnamon and cloves on bare female skin. Damnation! He had a desperate urge to press his nose to her neck and inhale her. Or had she allowed a drop to run down between her breasts?
Hell. He would not be able to leave the table for a long while, for a certain unruly part of his anatomy was raring to go. Hopefully, his sporran would cover his arousal if he was careful. That damnable scent! He wished she wouldn't wear it.
At the end of the meal, when Fraser strode outside to check on the guards, Cyrus approached Elspeth. "Lady Grey, would you have time for a brief word now?"
Her sharp glance was just short of a glare. "Of course, Laird Stornmor."
They had both reverted to a formal address, and he didn't like it one bit. Annoyance coiled in his chest. He wished he could feel completely indifferent around her. Unaffected in every way.
When she didn't move, he added, "In private?"
"We'll go into the study again."
"Perfect." He followed her down the short corridor and into the smaller room, then closed the door behind himself.
"Have a seat, if you please." Her cool tone was completely in opposition to his heated body.
He dropped to a settle some distance from the hearth, where a small fire burned.
"I would like to discuss something with you first." She laced her fingers together.
"Aye?" He observed her, surprised. Mayhap she would reveal all and he wouldn't have to ask.
"'Tis about Fraser. I see how he watches Gracie."
Confused, Cyrus frowned. "Who?"
"My youngest maid, the blond lass who often serves at meals. She's but sixteen summers and has had a hard life thus far. I gave her employment when no one else would. She's trying to get her feet under her and does not need involvement with a man." Elspeth's amber eyes flashed with ire. "You ken how persistent Fraser can be when he's bent on seduction."
Cyrus remembered how Fraser had eyed the bonny lass from the first moment she had set foot in the hall. "I'll order him to stay away from her."
Elspeth nodded, looking relieved. "I appreciate it."
He liked that she had a protective mothering instinct where the lass was concerned. Now, he hated to launch directly into his questions about what MacTarril had said. Cyrus thought of her guard, a less volatile subject. "Has Stillman remembered anything further about the assault?"
"I haven't talked to him since this morn, but, nay, at that time, he hadn't." Still very stiff, she perched on the edge of the wooden chair across from him.
Her discontent grated at him, but it couldn't be helped.
Unsure how to broach the subject except in his usual way, he inhaled a deep breath. "Elspeth, I ken you don't wish to discuss it, but I need to know what MacTarril meant when he mentioned a wealthy earl. Which earl was he referring to?"
Her face reddened and a spark of irritation lit her eyes. "You like to get right to the point, do you not?"
"Aye, saves time. No sense beating about the bush."
Biting her lip, she twisted her fingers together and stared down at them. His own stomach tensed, for he knew he would not like what she was about to reveal.
"I was hoping you wouldn't ask," she admitted.
"I must. He could be the one who paid your guards to leave."
She shook her head and finally lifted her hesitant gaze to him. "He was killed last year in a sword duel."
Perplexed with this bit of information, Cyrus frowned and scrutinized her. She seemed unemotional when she spoke of the man's death. If he'd been her lover, wouldn't she be upset now? "What was his name?"
She stared into the fire. "Alexander Crawford, the Earl of Dalacroy."
Having never heard of the earl, Cyrus waited a long moment for her to elaborate but grew impatient. "Was he a relative of yours?"
"Nay." She shot him a sharp glance, then looked away. "He was... my protector."
In other words, her lover. Cyrus felt as if he'd been slammed in the gut with a battering ram. Although he shouldn't have been surprised. His first instinct had been correct. Why on earth would she have agreed to be an earl's mistress?
"'Twas not an arrangement I wanted." Her normally determined eyes now appeared haunted. "But the alternative was poverty and starvation, not just for me, but for my wee son and my younger sister and brother, who were fifteen and thirteen at the time."
Imagining her being forced into the bed of a nobleman she probably didn't even like, he felt strangely sick. "What happened?"
"When my much older husband died, we were destitute. Grey had borrowed funds from Dalacroy, whom he owed fealty to. If I hadn't gone along with the earl's bargain, we would've been turned out on the muddy streets of Aberdeen."
"I see." Cyrus frowned.
Elspeth wondered what he thought of her now. Did he find her repulsive, or could he understand her predicament? As a powerful man, he'd probably never considered how difficult life could be for a woman as she was tossed about on the whims, fortunes, and misfortunes of men.
"I was able to negotiate with Alexander and gain this home for myself and have my son's inheritance returned to him. He also agreed to grant me the businesses and property that had been my father's, which Grey had used to pay debts."
Cyrus quirked a brow, his dark eyes too observant. "Dalacroy was very generous."
Elspeth was uncertain how to interpret those words or his expression. Did he see her as a shrewd businesswoman or a shameless whore? She would not tell him she'd endured hardships and sacrificed for every square foot of property she'd earned. Would he be like most other men who knew the circumstances of her life? Would he be irked by her independence and wealth? Or disgusted by how she'd regained it? His opinion should not concern her, either way. But because men had control of most things in the world, a woman alone was still vulnerable in many ways without a husband or protector.
He arose and paced to the fireplace. With the fire poker, he stabbed roughly at the hearth coals, then pitched in a stick of wood. After placing the poker aside, he dusted off his hands. "So, Dalacroy was killed in a duel?"
"Aye, by a jealous, angry husband. He had several mistresses in various parts of the kingdom, some of them married."
Cyrus's glance was just short of a glare. "I see."
Clearly, he was holding back questions. No doubt he wondered why on earth she remained mistress to a man who was unfaithful to all. It had naught to do with intimacy or love.
She had not shared a bed with Dalacroy for more than three years. She was glad he'd moved on to other women. By that time, all her properties were securely in her possession. Dalacroy had visited her about once per year, but by then, 'twas only a business arrangement.
Cyrus stood before the mantel, staring into the fire, burning brighter than before. He was so much taller and broader of shoulder than either Dalacroy or Grey. In fact, Grey had been a small, slim man not much taller than her own height of five and a half feet. Cyrus possessed the imposing presence of a stealthy warrior and commander. She knew very few Highlanders, but she'd always heard they were taller than average.
He turned to her. "Who is Dalacroy's heir?"
"His son, Henry, whom I've never met."
Cyrus's intelligent gaze sharpened upon her. "How old is he and where does he live?"
"He's in his mid-twenties. The family owns an estate here, near Aberdeen, but their main seat is in Angus. I know very little about him."
Cyrus reclaimed his seat. "Did he know of his father's association with you?"
His direct stare made her want to squirm, but she remained still. "He must have."
"Henry, the young earl of Dalacroy, could be the one who paid your guards to leave."
She frowned, considering it. "Anything's possible."
"'Haps he covets all your properties, especially if he's having financial problems."
She nodded. It made perfect sense. "I do recall a few years ago, Alexander said Henry loved gambling and expensive horses."
"Both of those would quickly drain the coffers."
"'Tis true."
A determined look entered Cyrus's eyes. "We will have to investigate this Henry. Damnation, I wish I hadn't sent Sean and James back to Rebbinglen this morn. If I'd known then what I know now, I would've told them to bring back every man able to fight. If 'tis an earl we're going up against, we don't ken how large an army he has."
***
THE NEXT EVENING, CYRUS stood in the shadows of the portico at the front of Darby Hall. He stared out into the descending darkness, listening to the silence. After what Elspeth had revealed the day before about Henry, the young Earl of Dalacroy, Cyrus, Fraser and the remaining four guards had kept watch.
Cyrus had kept an eye on the road leading northwest, waiting for Sean and James MacKenzie, his distant cousins who served as guards. He hoped they would return soon with the additional guards he'd told them to bring as they escorted Elspeth's servants and coach back here. Surely the coach's wheels were repaired by now.
He had no idea how large a force Dalacroy possessed, if indeed he was the culprit. Most any earl could put together a large army if necessary. Cyrus didn't want to underestimate him, for he had to protect Elspeth at any cost.
For most of the day, she'd stayed busy, seeing to Stillman and the household staff, making it easy for Cyrus to avoid her. While he'd spent the majority of his time with the guards and Fraser, working on securing the place as best they could.
Of a certainty, he wanted answers, more information from her, but most of it had naught to do with the enemy. She'd told him why she'd been the former earl's mistress... a matter of survival. He realized many single women and widows ended up living a marginal existence, in poverty and near starvation. In truth, Elspeth was one of the fortunate ones and very canny to have secured a good future for herself and her son, as well as her siblings. He admired her that, although imagining her with a lecherous earl twice her age did annoy the hell out of him.
She was strong to have endured all of it, not to mention selfless to have provided for her family in such a way.
The night air was doing naught to help him clear his head, but he was not yet ready to return inside and see Elspeth again. He needed to focus on the issue at hand.
He descended the steps and crossed the courtyard, wanting to check on Norval in the front gatehouse. Irving was stationed in the shadows, not too far from the side postern gate. His other two guards, MacNeil and Reid, were sleeping now in preparation for taking their turns at watch in the wee hours of the morn.
A black blur whizzed by Cyrus and a sharp pain burned across his shoulder. Cursing, he dove behind the stone steps of the gatehouse, then glanced at his shoulder. Blood darkened his torn doublet sleeve, but no arrow protruded. He yanked his sword from the scabbard.
Who the hell was shooting at him?