Chapter 37
When Mary rode up the drive of Stokesay Court, the ancestral home of the Earls of Wilfort, she had a feeling of unreality.
She’d left here a young lady of not much experience, in a velvet-lined carriage, cocooned against the world. She’d thought herself wise and practical, saving romance for her younger, prettier sister. Mary returned on horseback, wrapped in a man’s black cloak, escorted by a dragoon captain who, ten months ago, would have been considered far beneath her station.
She’d been abducted, rescued, married, drawn into a family of obsessive and passionate men, and had fallen in love as she’d never believed she could. Mary loved Malcolm with all her heart and now she grieved with that same intensity.
Stokesay Court, a square, tall, Palladian-style house was elegant, austere, and tidy, the exact opposite of Kilmorgan. Kilmorgan had been an ancient jumble, new piled on top of old, made cozy by its inhabitants. The Earl of Wilfort’s house was cold, regular, and constrained, and now Mary wondered that she had ever found it beautiful.
At the same time, her heart beat hard in relief. She was home. She’d grown up here, played here, learned here, loved her family. This house was her refuge from a world that had turned cruel, and now it was where she needed to keep herself safe.
But whether Mary would be welcome she did not know. She hadn’t been able to send a letter to her father since the missive she’d written him in December, and he’d never replied.
Captain Ellis rode ahead of her. He was a strong man, kind beneath his hard exterior. Mary knew he was in love with her. At any other time, she might learn to return that love, but at the moment, with every breath a reminder of Malcolm, Mary wasn’t certain she could ever love again.
The first person out the front door, which swung open as they approached, was Whitman, Mary’s maid. The thin, middle-aged lady, always so severe, burst into tears when she saw Mary, and ran at her.
Captain Ellis swung down from his horse and lifted Mary from her saddle. Whitman reached Mary and flung her arms around her, weeping unashamedly.
“My lady, my lady . . . Oh, my sweet, dear girl, it is you! You’ve come back to me.”
Mary hugged Whitman’s familiar form, closing her eyes. In all this time, in her entire journey from Kilmorgan, she hadn’t been able to cry. She didn’t cry now. She laughed shakily at Whitman, who drew out a large handkerchief and blew her nose with a trumpeting sound.
“Come inside,” Whitman said, tucking the handkerchief away. She seized Mary’s hand and pulled her across the threshold. “You’re father’s here, and your aunt.”
Captain Ellis remained behind, speaking quietly to the groom, who’d come rushing around the house to them. Every stable hand had joined him, it seemed. More of the staff filled the front hall, some openly weeping, most smiling, all of them turned out to see Lady Mary come home.
Aunt Danae, who never moved quicker than a stately walk, charged down the stairs, her shrieks ringing through the house. She ran straight to Mary, not stopping until she had Mary in her arms. “Mary, my lovely Mary.”
Sobbing, Aunt Danae clung to her niece, holding her in a breathless embrace. Mary laid her head on the shoulder where she’d sought comfort since childhood.
Aunt Danae finally lifted away and seized Mary’s hands, pressing through her gloves. “My dearest girl, we feared that you perished with the rest of them. Or been taken to some prison. Your father has been asking and asking about you . . . Oh, my dear, you are so changed.” Aunt Danae looked Mary up and down, taking in her stained plaid skirt, linen shirt, soft boots, and the cloak Captain Ellis had lent her.
Ellis came in behind her, and Mary turned. “Aunt Danae, this is Captain Ellis. He has been a good friend to me.”
“Yes.” Aunt Danae sniffled, wiped tears from her eyes, and approached the captain. “My brother told me about you—a fellow prisoner. I am so grateful to you for all you’ve done for him, and for Mary.”
Captain Ellis made a short, uncomfortable bow. “My lady.” He was a man who didn’t like formality, ostentation, or too much gratitude thrown his way. “I do my duty.”
What he’d done for Mary had gone far beyond duty, however, and the blasted man knew it. “Great heavens,” she said in a tired voice. “You are far too modest, Captain.”
Ellis didn’t like Mary’s gratitude either. He wanted more than that, she knew, and Mary also knew she could not give it to him.
Captain Ellis looked relieved when Aunt Danae took Mary’s hands again. “Your father is upstairs. Go to him. He’ll be waiting.”
The earl hadn’t appeared, not even to see what the noise was about. But he’d know. Wilfort always knew everything that happened in his house. He was not the sort of man, though, who’d come flying down the stairs in joy, as Aunt Danae had. Dignity always came first with Lord Wilfort.
And perhaps, Mary thought, he will not welcome me back at all.
That idea, which would have upset her at any other point in her life, barely penetrated the cloak of sorrow that now surrounded her.
Mary gave her aunt a thin smile. “Please do not tell me Lord Halsey is with him.”
Aunt Danae looked surprised. “Halsey? No indeed. Your father and he had a great falling-out, thank heavens. I never liked the man. Halsey has married, you know—or perhaps you didn’t. Olivia DeWitt. Poor creature.”
Mary’s mouth popped open. “Married? Gracious, he certainly didn’t waste any time.”
“He did not. He transferred his affections so quickly your father believes he was holding her in contingency all this while. But then, Olivia’s dowry is some twenty thousand pounds, even if her father is only a viscount.”
The relief to never have to worry about Lord Halsey again stretched one finger of warmth through Mary’s coldness.
She left Captain Ellis in Aunt Danae’s care and walked sedately up the stairs, making for her father’s study.
Mary had entered through the doors at the top of the stairs many times—eagerly as a child when privileged to come here and visit with her father, in trepidation as a youth when he called her in to scold her, and with pride when she was finally accepted into the room as an adult. Now Mary wondered what reception she’d find behind the white-paneled, gilt-trimmed double doors.
She opened one and slipped inside.
Wilfort turned from the window. Mary had not seen him since the night Malcolm had taken her from the tiny Scottish village that Colonel Wheeler had commandeered. Her father looked older, his shoulders stooped, his hair holding more gray than had been there before.
Wilfort studied Mary for a long moment, as though making himself believe that she was truly standing before him. Then, everything stern and distant in Mary’s father fell away. He moved swiftly to her, took her by the shoulders, and then, his eyes filling, pulled Mary into his arms.
“My daughter,” he whispered into her hair. “My own Mary. Oh, my love, I thought I’d lost you forever.”
Mary held him close, amazed to find her father shaking. “I’m here,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” her father said. “So, so sorry.”
Mary wasn’t certain what he apologized for, but she stroked his shoulders, her love for this man no longer confused. “I’m home now,” Mary said. “I love you, Papa.”
Even then, Mary could not cry. She’d become a rigid statue, going through the motions, numb inside.
Not until she was alone in her chamber, Whitman finally convincing everyone she needed to rest, did Mary’s grief break through.
She lay in bed, bathed for the first time in weeks, a hot brick to warm her. In the darkness, Mal came to her thoughts. She was transported back to their bedchamber in the distillery at Kilmorgan the day Malcolm had said good-bye. The memory of Mal lying against her on the rug was so vivid that Mary felt his weight, his bare body on hers, his warmth. Malcolm touched her face.
Ye know I’ll always come for ye, Mary . . . I love you so very much . . .
The wall around Mary’s heart splintered, and the tears came.
Malcolm’s journey to Lincolnshire took nearly three weeks. Scotland was boiling with soldiers and Highlanders fleeing, Lowlanders either taking in their neighbors or working with the English to capture them. Malcolm made his way south and east, avoiding military outposts and forts as he could.
He witnessed soldiers putting innocent people to the sword, simply because they wouldn’t reveal whether a clan leader had passed their way. Men were arrested merely because they wore a tartan. Malcolm helped the best he could, warning villagers that soldiers were coming, diverting those soldiers’ attentions with his tricks, melting away before he could be caught.
He traveled at night, slept during the day, kept his hair muddy so the red of it wouldn’t be a beacon to those searching for anyone looking remotely Scottish. He spoke slowly and carefully, when he spoke at all, trying to keep the betraying lilt from his voice. He’d abandoned the clothes he’d stolen from the soldier, burying them at Kilmorgan, and now wore the dark breeches and linen shirt of a farmer. No plaid anywhere about him.
Mal was exhausted and grief-stricken, but his spirit wasn’t broken. Not yet. At the end of his long road was Mary—his lady, the other half of his heart, his life.
That was not to say the way was easy. He had to fight many times to stay alive, the victim of soldiers who were rounding up anyone they happened to see.
Malcolm had rolled away through boggy ground after one encounter, thrashing around in the marshes until he found a solid path again. Will-o’-the-wisps danced about him, enticing him to follow. Mal resolutely ignored them, trying also to ignore his gnawing hunger and burning thirst.
He made his way from the marsh to find himself in a wood of thick trees. He heard men approaching, damn them.
Nothing for it. Mal scrambled up the nearest tree. He lay on a thick branch, like a cat reposing, watching two English soldiers, red coats cutting the gloom, wander about below, looking for signs of the man they’d chased.
Mal lay still, willing his body to blend with the tree. The soldiers decided to pause under his tree and have a chat, mostly complaining about the cold and their annoyance that one of the Scottish bastards had gotten away.
“’E’s in here somewhere,” one soldier said, his accent putting him from the gutters of London. His coat was wrinkled, its back stained. “Not many places ’e can go.”
“I say we go back and claim we shot ’im and dumped his body,” the second said. “’E’ll be rounded up sooner or later.”
The first sniffled. “Bloody damp out ’ere. I’ll be dead of the ague soon.”
A light flashed deeper into the woods. Mal just stopped himself from snapping around to see what it was. The soldiers came alert.
“Wha’ was that?”
“Swamp gas,” the second said, but nervously.
Another flash and then a bang! “Not gas,” the first soldier said. “Gunfire. Go!”
The two forms rushed deeper into the woods. Another flash and explosion sounded in the opposite direction. Mal watched, mystified, as the men charged toward it.
There was a low, growling moan, another explosion, gunshots, a wailing scream. Brush bent, and the sound of running and the soldiers’ voices came to Mal.
“Wha’ was that?”
“Banshee—no, don’t look at it. Go!”
The soldiers fled, making much noise as they did, then silence descended. Mal waited a long time before he moved—the soldiers could calm and decide to return. If they did, they’d be angry. Or they’d bring more men with them.
An hour passed. The moon rose, bathing the woods in a pale glow. No one came, and no more odd lights and noises occurred.
Mal slid from the branches and landed on his feet . . . and knew instantly he wasn’t alone.
He wasn’t sure how he sensed this, but something in him told him that a man hid in the brush on the other side of the tree. And that man was aware of him.
Malcolm quietly drew the dirk out of its sheath under his arm. Bracing himself on a fallen log, he abruptly launched himself into the brush.
A blade flashed at him in deadly silence. Malcolm ducked it and came up again, his dirk ready . . .
. . . To find himself facing a knife point, a bulk of a man in the darkness. The eyes glittering over the knife were ones Mal knew.
“Will!”
At the same time, the apparition shouted, “Runt!”
Then they were laughing, slamming together, pounding fists on backs. Will Mackenzie, alive, solid, real. Joy and relief flowed over Mal, warming him for the first time since he’d crawled from the battlefield.
“Ye damn, devious, cunning bastard,” Mal cried, lifting his taller brother off his feet. “I knew they couldn’t kill ye.”
Will traveled with Malcolm from that point forward, the pair moving swiftly and stealthily through the English countryside. It had been Will playing the tricks on the soldiers in the mist, he told Mal, smug about his cleverness. Swamp gasses could be made to explode, lanterns hung on trees to flash in the gloom. A bulk of a fallen tree haloed by sudden light could look like a huge beast rising from the marsh. The moaning had been a bit of theatre. That was Will, the man who’d taught Malcolm all his dirty tricks.
Mal watched the big man striding next to him, chuckling over his pranks. Will had darkened his hair with mud as Mal had, and he wore nondescript breeches and a linen shirt, heavy shoes, and a bulky wool coat. He could easily be mistaken for a farm laborer from England’s north, one with a spring in his step and a deep laugh.
But Will grieved, Mal knew. Will had watched Duncan die, he said, had fled for his life and gone to ground, certain he’d never see his family again. Lines had deepened about Will’s eyes, etched there permanently. He’d not been able to discover what had happened to Alec and their father, and it haunted him as it haunted Mal.
Will, of course, knew exactly where lay Stokesay Court, the ancestral home of the Earls of Wilfort, in Lincolnshire. Or nearly exactly. He did get them lost once.
At last, the two men skirted the village of Stokesay in the dark, a neat collection of cottages set around a perfect square. Of course it was neat—Mary lived here.
Stokesay Court was a typical English estate house—lofty, expensive, haughty. The gardens were just as haughty, but well laid out, Mal had to admit. He’d have to take note of them.
Will’s knowledge failed when it came to exactly which room in that house was Mary’s, or whether Mary was even there.
They both agreed that walking up to the front door and knocking was a foolish idea. Mal had no idea where Wilfort’s loyalties lay—would he embrace Malcolm as an old friend, his daughter’s husband? Or call the local militia to arrest him and Will to try them with the rest of the Scottish traitors?
Mal and Will crouched near a hedgerow like thieves, peering up at the windows in the rear of the house, several of which were lighted. Lacy curtains hung against the glass, obscuring the rooms beyond.
Will touched Mal’s shoulder, pointed.
One curtain had drawn back. A lady stood in the window, two floors above the flat flagstone path that skirted the garden. Her silhouette showed her in a dressing gown, her hair tumbling down. She peered out into the night, but did not seem to be looking at anything in particular.
Mal’s breath left him. She was so beautiful, his Mary, one arm holding the lace curtain in a graceful arc. A picture Alec could paint.
Mal knew he should dash across the yard, wave his arms, catch her attention, bring her running down to him. He couldn’t move. He remained fixed in place, barely feeling Will’s exasperated nudging, until a single thing happened.
Mary absently drew her hand down her body to her abdomen. She rested her palm there, as though cradling whatever lay beneath.
Malcolm had sprinted halfway across the open ground before he realized he’d moved. He reached the house and swarmed up the almost sheer wall, finding hand- and footholds all the way. He grasped the window when he reached it, and flung it opened.
Mary gave a strangled scream. Her blue eyes widened in her colorless face, her hand falling from the curtain.
Malcolm swung his knee to the sill, then his muddy hands slipped as the curtain slapped them. Empty air behind embraced his back, enticing him to fall.
“Damn it all, woman,” he snarled. “Help me.”