Chapter 3

“What rank did you hold in Her Majesty’s army?” MacFarlane asked.

“Lieutenant,” Jeb answered. “I wasn’t that important to the outcome of the war.”

MacFarlane took a long sip from his glass. “Somehow I have my doubts on that score.”

Jeb sat in a plush chair in a cluster of chairs and sofas. His evening attire, which had suffered mightily packed in his valise, had been returned to his room immaculately refreshed and just in time for dinner.

MacFarlane sat on the sofa across from Jeb, even more intimidating in his dinner attire. Although Jeb supposed it wasn’t MacFarlane’s intent, there were times when the man’s inquiries were so pointed, Jeb felt as though he were being interrogated.

“You mentioned that your father still holds his seat in the House. Winston was just the sort who itched to run the government. I’m glad to hear it’s kept that allure for him.”

“He does have quite a keen interest in several bills that are before the House at the moment.”

“I would imagine at least one of those bills has to do with the funding of the army. After participating in the war in the Crimea, you must have little doubt that much needs to be legislated in order to rebuild ammunition supplies for the military.”

The first warning signal went off in Jeb’s head. Was the Laird of Langholm looking to sell munitions to England? Where would he have obtained quantities that would be of interest to the Crown?

He took another sip of his liquor, then lowered his glass to his knee. “The war, of course, was costly in both munitions and lives. But, as is usual for the people of England, they have already stepped up to replenish the arsenal.”

“But surely—”

The Laird of Langholm paused midsentence when the door opened and his daughter stepped into the room.

Her hair was brushed back from her face and tied with a narrow ribbon that matched her emerald gown. A mass of golden curls hung down her back, and several wispy tendrils framed her face. It was a vision that roused an unexpected awareness in Jeb.

There was nothing remarkable in the design of her gown, but there didn’t have to be. Jeb was certain MacFarlane’s daughter would look as stunning in sackcloth.

“Come in, Mariah,” her father said. “Mr. Danvers and I were just rehashing the war. Would you care for a glass of wine?”

“Yes, please,” she said, stepping to the cluster of chairs where Jeb and her father sat. She didn’t sit on the sofa next to her father but instead took the chair nearest Jeb.

“I would warn you, Mr. Danvers, that my father will tolerate nothing but complete adulation of his Ninety-Third Highlanders.”

“Mr. Danvers was a lieutenant in Her Majesty’s army,” MacFarlane informed his daughter rather frostily as he handed her a glass of wine. “He has a vested interest in the military. Something I doubt you would understand.”

Jeb saw Mariah bristle at her father’s diminishing remark. But a moment later he had to stifle a smile at her equally pointed reply delivered with prettily veiled feminine reproach.

“I’m sure you’re plumbing the depths of his military knowledge with your usual tenacity, Father.” Mariah’s reply was more an accusation than a statement, and from the reaction she received from her father, it was clear her sentiment wasn’t appreciated.

Jeb studied the interplay between father and daughter. He would have to find an opportunity to speak with Miss MacFarlane where they couldn’t be overheard. Her behavior tonight reaffirmed his earlier suspicion that the lady might be more than a mere family member. She might actually be the person who had sent Her Majesty the jewel. If something was going on at Langholm Castle that was so important that she risked her safety to send for help, he needed to discover if her role in it was putting her life in further danger.

MacFarlane nattered on, criticizing life in postwar London and disparaging how slowly England in general was recovering.

Jeb answered his rather oblique questions in vague terms, then breathed a sigh of relief when the butler rapped on the door and announced that dinner was served. Jeb offered Miss MacFarlane his arm and escorted her in to dinner.

If he hoped talk might turn to more lighthearted topics, he was disappointed. By the time the meal was over, Jeb was of the opinion that he didn’t much care for MacFarlane. In fact, for some reason he couldn’t explain, it was becoming clear that the Laird of Langholm considered him a threat.

. . .

Mariah twisted her dinner ring roughly. Her fidgeting hands gave away her agitation, but she would not let it show in her face. How could their guest abide answering one more of her father’s probing questions?

Mariah grew more and more embarrassed as the dinner dragged on. Every reasonable answer Mr. Danvers gave was met with mounting scorn until her father’s face wore a supercilious sneer. But somehow the handsome, poised, generous young man remained patient.

At last her father placed his napkin beside his plate.

“Would you care to adjourn to the study? I had the staff bring up a special bottle of wine I’m eager to have you taste.”

An easy smile broke across their guest’s face. “I look forward to it.”

Mariah pressed her lips tightly together to quell the irritable retort that nearly tumbled out. But their guest’s smile seemed to have banished all the contentious air from the room. The close tension fell away, and the sudden change in mood surprised her heart into skipping a beat.

It was unthinkable that he should affect her so. Performing the minor miracle of keeping her father from exploding in a rant was certainly remarkable. But the way her breath stuttered when the man merely looked her way was unsettling, to say the least.

She had to remain focused. But when he smiled, two matching creases deepened on either side of his mouth, and she was lost. Something inside her shifted as she fought to keep her heart from racing.

She struggled not to notice his high cheekbones or the deep set of his vibrant blue eyes. Or the manner in which they sparkled in the candlelight. But try as she might, she couldn’t help focusing on every captivating feature.

As if he knew she was mesmerized by him, he turned his head. Their gazes locked, and Mariah found it impossible to break contact for several intense seconds until her father shattered the moment.

“Come with me, then,” her father said, rising.

Mr. Danvers helped her slide back her chair and then extended his arm. Mariah had no choice but to place her hand on his sleeve, and the instant connection she had known would course through her veins did just that. But she had failed to anticipate the strength of her reaction. She had not expected such an explosion of shivers to race up her arm.

When they passed the foot of the stair, she paused.

“Please excuse me, gentlemen. I fear I have a headache coming on.” She stepped away from Mr. Danvers and made a small curtsy in her father’s direction. “Do enjoy your evening.”

With each step she forced herself to go slowly, to retain her feminine grace. But the moment she heard the men disappear into her father’s study, she fled.

It was him! She was sure of it. He was the person sent by the royal family in response to the single gem she’d sent. But so soon. She’d not expected someone to appear quite so quickly. She would find a way to speak to Danvers. And when she did, she must be certain to find the words to convey the great danger they were in.