Logan had noted Fairgate’s arrival. Whether it irritated him because of Allison, or whether it worried him because of himself, he didn’t exactly know. But he did know that the heir’s appearance at Stonewycke was not a welcome sight.
Allison was growing to mean something to him.
He could scarcely admit it to himself, but he had hardly stopped thinking of her since yesterday. Her abandoned laughter in the rain and mud beside the broken-down Austin still lingered in his ears. To find himself stymied with his work because his mind was filled with the pretty face of a young lady was an altogether new sensation to Logan Macintyre. Even her petulence reminded him of a jewel that, with the rough edges smoothed out, would be precious beyond price. He had enough of his own rough edges to worry about, so he could hardly be too critical. What was it old Skittles used to say? “Molly and me are like two rocks in a tumbler sometimes. But if we stick together we’ll soon end up smooth and shiny.”
Like rocks in a tumbler . . . yes, that could describe his relationship with Allison—if he wanted to presume so far as to call it a relationship at all. Up and down, now arguing, now laughing, now self-protective, now opening up. The process was as new to Logan as it was to Allison.
Logan was still valiantly trying to maintain his single-mindedness toward his goal. But it was becoming more difficult with each passing moment.
Fairgate had added a whole new dimension to the scenario—jealousy, although Logan would have disdained giving it that name. He tried to look at it more pragmatically, like a card game. Did he want to fold or raise? The stakes were clear. It was a simple decision, not some emotional ordeal, he desperately tried to convince himself. Could his three jacks beat whatever Fairgate held? It would cost him to find out. It could well cost him Allison. But even so, he could retreat and nothing would be changed. Logan could still get his treasure, and leave Fairgate with Allison.
Thus he tried to reason with himself. But the fact of the matter was that it was an emotional response. He could not be entirely pragmatic about it. The price of losing Allison to a contemptible fellow like Fairgate was enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck. Therefore, when he saw the two approach, looking every inch the ideal aristocratic couple, foolhardy though it would be and little chance as he had, he knew he would call Fairgate’s bluff. He pretended not to see them coming and went on with what he was doing.
Logan glanced up from his work on Jesse Cameron’s power winch as they pushed open the stable doors. He didn’t like the fact that they had apparently sought him out. Fairgate did not strike him as the type to make friendly calls, and the look on Allison’s face displayed not a hint of any previous familiarity with him; the glassed-over look of her former shell was firmly back in place. Regardless, Logan attempted the gesture of a friendly welcome, not unlike he supposed his uncle might have welcomed visitors to his stables.
“Hello,” he said, wiping his hands on a cloth. “What brings you all the way out here?” He extended his hand to Charles, who took it in a gentlemanly fashion. The handshake was firm and sincere, if one judged merely by the feel of its grasp. But over the years Logan had developed the habit of assessing a man more by the look in his eye, and Fairgate’s glance was cold and hard, with a hint of cunning, which Logan did not like.
“Charles dropped by on his way to Inverness,” said Allison lightly, “and he wouldn’t have forgiven himself if he had not at least given you his greetings.” Her voice was too pleasant, too easygoing. She and Fairgate did indeed seem most suitably matched.
“Very considerate of you, Fairgate,” Logan replied, on his guard.
“Well, I’ve always thought a night of gambling instills a certain bond between men,” said Charles. “Don’t you agree?”
“I suppose so,” replied Logan warily.
“Charles sailed here from Aberdeen,” put in Allison. “Isn’t that daring?” She was playing her own little game, pitting the sensitivities of the two against one another, unaware of the more perilous war of nerves going on between the men.
“It must have been—for you, Fairgate,” said Logan, “especially in this weather.”
“It heightens the challenge, but then you’d know all about that sort of thing, wouldn’t you, Macintyre?”
“I’m afraid I know nothing about sailing.”
“I was talking about challenges.”
The real intent of Fairgate’s words was becoming clear, assisted by the sly glow of anticipated victory in his eye. So, he had at last remembered their former acquaintance and was now going to make his adversary pay! That had to be the purpose of this contrived little meeting. Well, there was no way out of it. There was nothing for Logan to do except remain cool. “Whatever ’appens,” Skittles always said, “don’t bolt. Always play the dodge to the end—unless the Bobbies are breathin’ down your neck.”
“Ah yes . . . the challenge of the sea,” said Logan. “I was on a fishing vessel recently and almost lost my neck from the challenge.” He laughed, trying to divert the attention from Fairgate’s probing remarks.
“A fascinating life—the sea,” replied Fairgate. “But then it runs in my family. It has since the days we built frigates for Queen Elizabeth. Drake sailed one of our vessels.”
“How positively intriguing.”
“In fact, I’m off now for Glasgow to oversee the launching of our new liner.”
“You didn’t say anything about Glasgow,” intruded Allison, a bit confused at the direction and stilted quality of the conversation. Around her eyes could be seen a slight cracking of the shell. She wasn’t sure she liked what Fairgate was doing to Logan.
“I don’t look forward to it, though,” continued Charles, heedless of Allison’s remark. “It’s a rum city, that. Have you ever been there, Macintyre?”
“Once or twice.”
“Then you know. A worse city there never was—for civilized folks, that is.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Gentlemen have to watch what they’re about in that city.”
Logan said nothing, only returned Fairgate’s gaze. The cards had been laid face down on the table, and now only the eyes betrayed the steely determination of the bluff.
“No telling when you’re going to be fleeced,” went on Fairgate, probing Logan’s eyes.
Still Logan did not reply, but his blood was starting to run hot.
“Why, I remember one time—”
“I don’t mean to sound rude,” Logan broke in, glancing over at Allison with an easy laugh intended to convey warmth and hopefully enlist her support in halting Fairgate’s runaway reminiscing about the past. “But I promised Jesse I’d get this winch to her this afternoon.”
“Don’t let us keep you from your work, by all means,” said Fairgate. But he had no intention of releasing this grip he had by now so forcibly seized. “You know, Macintyre,” he went on, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “since the other evening at Bramfords’, I’ve had the strangest sensation that I’ve met you before.”
“I’ve never been in this area before in my life.”
“Could it have been in Glasgow?”
“I suppose anything’s possible,” returned Logan bravely, deciding to face it squarely.
“Something about your face reminds me of that city.”
“I have a terrible memory for such things myself.”
“There was one fellow,” Charles pressed relentlessly, clearly enjoying every moment. “You resemble him somewhat.” Here he paused and laughed. “But of course, it couldn’t have been you.” He laughed again. “He was a grubby little street waif . . . and it was some years ago. Fancied himself a card sharp.” As the words flowed from Fairgate’s mouth, his good humor gradually turned into an icy stare of hatred, even while his mouth kept up its smile for Allison’s benefit. “And he proved it by cheating me out of a tidy sum. Spent a few days in jail for it as I remember.”
He turned to Allison, who was now more bewildered as she found herself torn between the two men. The old Allison stood beside her companion while he grilled a low employee; the new, squirmed with compassion and genuine sympathy for Logan. “Quite something, wouldn’t you say, my dear?” laughed Fairgate merrily. “Can you imagine, a runny-nosed little kid trying to slick me and get away with it?”
He threw his head back and roared with laughter.
“Of course getting thrown in the clink wasn’t anything new to him, for it came out in court that his father was a dirty jailbird too—”
“That’s enough, Fairgate!” Logan exploded. Had Fairgate chosen any subject other than his father, Logan might have been able to let it pass. But he had spent too much time trying to dissociate himself from that man, too much time trying to forget his past, to hear Fairgate’s accusation calmly.
Even then, Logan might have been able to restrain further outbursts had it not been for the silky, smug grin of satisfaction that spread across Fairgate’s patrician face. That look caused Logan to lose his cherished control.
“Enough?” sneered Fairgate. “Enough! After what you did to me, infinitely your superior in every way, and you say enough!”
“Yes!” snapped Logan, “and I say it again—enough, or you’ll be sorry you ever opened your mouth.”
Fairgate roared with laughter again. “I’ll be sorry! This is really too much, Macintyre! And what are you going to do if I persist?”
“To find that out,” replied Logan, “you’ll have to call my hand. But in the meantime, you leave my father out of it.”
“Oh, so that’s it! Your father! Sensitive whelp you are, I must say. But I hardly see what’s to defend. The man was nothing but a lowdown—”
Logan lunged forward, his hand knotted into a fist and his eyes full of rage. The blow nearly felled the fine lord, but as it reached its mark and he staggered back, he caught himself against the work table and remained on his feet. Fairgate made no counterattack, only stood his ground and grinned back toward his assailant. Then he turned, almost casually toward Allison, who was looking on with horror. “So, Allison,” he said, bringing his hand to his chin to stop a small trickle of blood, “at last we see the true colors of your houseguest. Or should I say your trusted family employee?”
White with mingled rage and chagrin for what he had done, Logan shot a glance at Allison. He had nearly forgotten her presence. And suddenly he knew why Fairgate still wore his proud grin. Logan had played right into his hand. He had proved with his angry outburst that every word Fairgate had said about him was true. Fairgate had raised the bet to the limit, had called Logan’s hand, and had won it all. In that single act of violence, Logan had undone everything. And Fairgate’s unmistakable victory was only punctuated by his refusal to reciprocate in kind. He was the gentleman, Logan the cad.
Allison had been so shocked by the turn of the confrontation that she merely stood gaping, hardly noticing Fairgate’s words. When she did speak, all pretense and command was gone. The sensitive side of her nature was struggling desperately to absorb what had happened. She tried to answer, but her voice had not yet caught up with events.
“People of our station must take care for such riffraff,” Charles advised, pressing his advantage to the full.
“He’s . . . he’s not a houseguest . . .” said Allison at length, still lagging behind Fairgate’s half of the exchange. But her sentence ended unfinished as Logan swung around and strode from the stable.
Seeing her gaze following him, yet more sure of himself than ever, Fairgate chuckled cockily. “Let him go, Allison,” he said. “He can mean nothing to us now.”
But the words were unwisely spoken. He had pressed Allison too soon to make a choice between the victor and the vanquished, and like most sensitive women, Allison allowed her heart to follow Logan in the pain of his defeat.
Coming awake suddenly, without realizing what she did or why, Allison turned and ran after him. “Logan!” she called. “Logan!”
Whether her voice was not loud enough or whether he chose to ignore it, Logan kept walking, and was soon out of sight behind the stable.
She stopped and watched him silently, while Fairgate walked slowly up behind her from the open stable door.
“Let him go,” he repeated in the same self-important tone. “He has deceived you, Allison. If I were you, I’d go and check the family silver.”
She spun around, her face flushed with anger.
“What could you possibly know about him? He has behaved nothing but honorably since he came to us!” she lashed out.
“So, you’re going to take up the cause for a common street swindler! Come now, Allison, it doesn’t become you.”
“You think I am somehow obligated to take your side against him?” she snapped. “Because you are more of a man . . . of better blood. Is that it?”
“Allison, Allison,” he tried to soothe. “Men from his, shall we say, ‘origins,’ never do amount to anything. He’s a deceiver . . . a swindler. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s a thief. I ask you again, just what do you really know about him? And why is he here? That’s another question one might reasonably ask.” He gently placed a calming hand on Allison’s shoulder.
She stood a moment longer, staring at the last place she had seen Logan, then, her anger at Fairgate subsiding, she shrugged off his touch, turned, and sat down on the bench next to the stable wall. What he said did make sense after all.
“He didn’t exactly lie to us, Charles,” she said finally. “That is, no one really asked about his background. And some uncle of his, or great uncle, used to work here.”
“How convenient,” said Fairgate sarcastically.
Allison shot him a questioning glance as another defense of Logan rose to her lips. She apparently thought better of it, however, sighed, and finally threw up her hands and said, “Oh, I don’t know what to think.”
“Any man who withholds information about a prison record—” Charles knew very well that Logan’s few days in the custody of the court could not even broadly be termed a prison record, but he saw no reason to take particular pains to clarify this point—“well . . . such a man is practicing deception. There’s just nothing else you can call it. You ought to inform your parents immediately.”
“You don’t know my parents,” said Allison. And even as she spoke a picture leaped into her mind of how her family would receive such information. She especially saw her grandmother in her mind. Lady Margaret had always taken such pains with the poor and downtrodden, the “grubby street waifs” of the world. When they heard that he was an ex-convict, what would that matter to her elders? Hadn’t Lord Duncan, the most revered man in all of Strathy, spent months in prison? No one here would turn Logan out, no matter what he had done.
For the last seven or eight years of her life, Allison had taken great pains to do just the opposite of what the rest of her family might. She had resented their compassion and had tried to rise above what she considered their family weakness. Yet doing so had never brought Allison peace. It had, in fact, produced just the opposite reaction. With a dual personality, she looked with disdain on her mother and great-grandmother and their charitable attitudes, but at the same time, the deepest part of her nature felt guilty for not being more like them.
Suddenly she had a chance to reach out to someone just like they would. And if she didn’t, she had no doubt that Logan would walk right out of Port Strathy. But she was not ready to lose him. She could admit that now. She didn’t want to lose the happiness she had felt with him for those brief moments on the road back from Culden. She had tried to hide from it, pretend it hadn’t happened. She had been horrible to him afterward. But with Charles standing here now, suddenly everything was coming clear. She had never felt that way around him—all the titles and numbers after his name meant nothing. Maybe Logan was just the nephew of a groom. But she had felt something! And she couldn’t just let it go. She had to find out what the feelings he had stirred in her meant.
She jumped up and started back toward the stable door.
“Where are you going?” asked Charles.
“I’m going after him.”
“To make him face the music?”
“No. To apologize. You . . . you were very unkind to him, Charles.” The words had been difficult to say to someone so imposing as Charles Fairgate. She knew her change of heart would “get around.” But oddly, it felt rather liberating to stand up for something important.
“You’ll never find him now,” said Charles, coming up next to her.
“Just you watch me!”
“Don’t be a fool, Allison.”
They were inside the stable now and Allison was hurrying toward the stalls in back. The heavy clouds had returned overhead, and all at once a crack of thunder echoed outside.
“You’ll not catch him,” said Fairgate, hastening after her. “He’s made a run for it. He probably has other warrants out for him.”
“Where are you going, Allison?” he asked as she rushed through the rear door of the workshop. Something had gone wrong with his plan and he was not liking it.
“I’m going to saddle a horse and ride after him. He can’t have gone far.”
“It’s starting to rain!”
Allison had already grabbed a saddle and thrown it atop her favorite—the bay mare. Rain was certainly the least deterrent for her at this moment; she had, in fact, very pleasant memories of rain. She only hoped it was not too late to recapture some of them.
She quickly tightened the saddle, opened the stall door, and led the horse out. She paused to throw a macintosh over her shoulders and jam a hat on her head. When she finally mounted, small droplets had begun to fall in earnest. But she welcomed the rain. The look in her face showed it clearly as she turned in the saddle toward Charles, who still stood inside, utterly baffled at the inexplicable change that had come over her.
“Have a nice sail, Charles,” she called out, “and give my regrets to everyone in London!”
Without awaiting an answer, she dug her heels into the horse’s flanks, galloped off, and was soon out of sight.