Lord Fool to the Rescue

By L. L. Muir

AMAZON KINDLE EDITION

PUBLISHED BY

Lesli Muir Lytle

www.llmuir.weebly.com

Lord Fool to the Rescue © 2011 Lesli Muir Lytle

All rights reserved

Amazon Kindle Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. The ebook contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, or stored in or introduced into an information storage and retrieval system in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art © 2011 Kelli Ann Morgan / Inspire Creative Services

Formatting by Bob Houston eBook FormattingFormatting

Contents

About the Book: Lord Fool to the Rescue

Dedication

Lord Fool to the Rescue

Sneak Peek of The Scarlet Plumiere Series, Book One, Blood for Ink

A Valentine Regency Romance

Excerpt of Somewhere Over the Freaking Rainbow,

A Young Adult Paranormal

Excerpt of Going Back for Romeo,

A Bestselling Time Travel Romance

Acknowledgements

About the Author

ABOUT THE BOOK

She has an excellent escape planned...

Lady Tempest MacIntyre has been offered, by her stepfather, as an item up for auction! But she has an excellent escape planned...if she can keep from tripping over the good intentions of the Duke of Stromburg, sometimes referred to as Lord Fool.

Lord Fool to the Rescue has at least one hero, a heroine, and an assortment of characters who may or may not be villains. The fun is in the discovery.

DEDICATION

To Mother

Wish you were here...

CHAPTER ONE

Dear Heavens, he’d abandoned his horse and was coming up behind her. Though she dared not turn to verify it, Tempest could almost feel each step he took. Why approach her, if not to point out her error in walking about the park unaccompanied?

She willed her face not to burst into flame.

“Miss? I beg your pardon, but I believe you dropped this.”

She couldn’t very well ignore him, could she? It was not as if anyone else might have spoken, her dastardly stepfather having left her--abandoned her--to walk about the fountain alone.

Determining to hide her mortification, she affixed a polite smile on her face and turned to find the handsome horseman she’d been discreetly admiring, holding out a decidedly masculine handkerchief. The gentleman’s smile was a mirror of her own, but he appeared intent upon holding his brows unnaturally high on his forehead.

Over his shoulder, she could see his missing mount tethered on the far side of the cobbled walkway.

She realized, in the wicked recesses of her soul, that she should savor such a handsome man’s attention since her unaccompanied state would preclude her from ever again showing her face in public, let alone the social circles of this gentleman. He was the tallest creature to whom she’d ever stood near, and his athletic form was in no way ambiguous beneath the cut of his clothes. However, she did not care to be made to look the fool.

She raised her brows to mimic his own and reached for the proffered cloth. Her hand paused, hovered.

“Of course, Mister….Hercules, is it? I often carry about a man’s handkerchief and drop it in hopes of some gallant begging my acquaintance.” Instead of taking the token, she folded her hands and tilted her head. The sound of her own voice made her bolder still. She was fully prepared to laugh aloud in his wake, but he took a quick step toward her.

Perhaps she’d chosen the wrong man with whom to meddle. But then again, they were in a public place. Surely he would not harm her.

“Lady…Aphrodite, is it? Take the kerchief. I assure you, the entire morning’s population watches you at this very moment.” He held her attention as if in an iron fist. “Good girl, don’t look away.” He’d dropped his voice along with his formality.

She laughed at his soothing tone. She couldn’t help it, and damned if she was able to take her gaze from his.

“I suspect you are surprisingly successful at training dogs, sir.”

And for the first time, his smile seemed true, but was quickly transformed back into the same polite smile he’d started with.

“I fear I am not here to flirt with you, my lady. I am simply compelled to warn you of your guardian’s intentions to dishonor you. Take the kerchief. And quickly.”

With the help of his fingers, the small white flag jumped closer. All she had to do was to reach out and take it. Again, she felt like she was being trained, rewarded for doing what she was told. More likely she was walking straight into a trap. And what a lovely blue-eyed trap.

She took the handkerchief and felt it slide through his fingers.

“I am sorry to inform you, sir, that the morning population has already witnessed my dishonor at my stepfather’s hands. He hurried away to speak with an important acquaintance, supposedly near the Wellington Arch, and sent me to walk about the fountain unescorted. I assure you, I do not need your warning. I am fully aware of my own embarrassment.”

Little did her guardian suspect this would be his last chance he’d ever have to humiliate her. She had been formulating plans to escape the man long before that morning unraveled.

The gentleman stepped even closer and she was forced to retreat a bit to avoid tipping her head back to see his face. Dear heavens!

“My lady, do you notice the unusually high traffic near the fountain today? Especially the number of men gravitating in this direction?”

She took a deep breath and refused to look about her. Of course she had noticed. She’d merely credited it to her imagination.

The stranger blushed and cleared his throat, both actions seemingly unnatural to him, and she suddenly felt her stomach plummet to her knees. What could her stepfather have done to her now?

Her stepfather, Baron Ledford, had been suspiciously kind to her all morning, but the memory of it had quickly vanished when he’d abandoned her, his lack of concern for her reputation as expected as the sunrise. Today’s insult had been the first she’d born in public, however. She should have known better than to accept a new dress and an invitation to stroll in the park from the man she knew to be the devil incarnate. But her freedom was so close that taking the new yellow gown to start a new happier life had been a temptation she could not resist. She should have refused when accepting the dress also meant accepting his invitation for an outing. Ledford never sought her out without a motive.

“My lady,” the horseman demanded her attention again but could not seem to clear his throat.

She took pity. “I assure you, sir, that whatever my stepfather has done, it will come as no surprise to me.”

He looked doubtful, so doubtful in fact she worried that this time, it might not be the case.

“What is it?” She couldn’t help but grab the horseman’s forearm for balance. He was so near to hand, and there was nothing else to support her if the news was as grave as this man’s behavior suggested.

“You are being auctioned off,” he growled. “Even as we speak.” He put one hand over hers and held tight. “Don’t look around, honey. Few of these men would do something as dishonorable as to bid for you, but are here out of curiosity. Don’t embarrass them by noting their foolish attendance.”

“Auctioned off?” She should pull her hand away, but couldn’t until she knew the whole of it. “I don’t suppose they are bidding for a wife, are they?” How she wished she could keep the hope out of her voice, but marrying anyone would get her away from her monstrous guardian. Finding a husband, however, would necessitate leaving one’s home on occasion and she hadn’t so much as soiled a slipper since being brought to London.

None but she was near enough to note the subtle shake of the horseman’s head.

“A mistress? He thinks I would agree to become some man’s mistress?” She kept her voice down as the pedestrian crowd began pushing into her awareness. Perhaps they believed this man was about to check her teeth and wished to hear his assessment. Perhaps glancing their way might push a well-dressed mob past restraint.

What a relief that she would not be around long enough to be used so by the man her mother had been unfortunate enough to marry two years before. Now Tempest was the unfortunate one to be left in his care after her mother’s luck had changed. The woman had died of a fever six months after the wedding. Would to God her stepfather would have caught the same illness, but he’d run to London to prevent just that.

The horseman’s hand tightened over her own, and he looked to her toes before giving his head a single imperceptible shake.

She laughed and pulled her hand away.

“Forgive me for embarrassing you, sir. You quite had my imagination running rough shod over us both. If I am not to be auctioned off as a wife or mistress, pray tell what might men bid for? My slippers? My mother’s ring?”

As soon as she’d finished, she wished the question back. Off to the side, his horse shook its head as if warning her she wouldn’t want to hear the answer.

The rider held his painful smile while brushing at the shoulder of his elegant coat. “Pray take a wider turn about the fountain with me, my lady. The water seems to be splashing a bit far a-field today,” he said boisterously. He held out an elbow then whispered, “Take it,” through clenched teeth.

She dared not disobey, but padded alongside him like the puppy she felt. She took note of the flowers planted no doubt to distract one from the ugliness of the fountain. The path exaggerated the shape of the pool--octagonal, but elongated. Not once could she remember carriages on that path, but they were there today. The horseman’s animal swung its hindquarters out of the way just in time to avoid the wheel of an antique barouche packed with women. Tempest wouldn’t have looked up had the horse not screamed.

The horseman took a step in the poor beast’s direction, but it quickly settled. The conveyances ebbed away, though the southeast section of the park remained popular. Her puppy-training friend seemed equally loathe to give their audience any attention in return, so they walked on, looking from their shoes to the fountain, and back again.

“Can you…really…be so…naïve, my lady?” He asked it cheerfully, as if he were asking her opinion on the weather. They were clipping along quickly enough that even though some of the crowd could hear a word or two clearly, no one would have time to hear more. “Can you not think…of something…more valuable…to a gentleman…than your…pretty slippers?”

“I’m sorry, sir. But did you not indicate that I was not being auctioned off as a man’s mistress?” she murmured.

“Understand me, my lady. That would naturally be the next logical step in your life. After. After the deed was done.” His hand once again covered hers where it lay on his arm. “Your despicable guardian has offered only a part of you for a price. No doubt a man like that would also require fees from your future patrons as well.”

Tempest looked up to find the man’s jaw about to snap although he held her hand in all gentleness. Poor man. She would just have to let this stranger in on her little secret.

“My dear Mister Hercules. How brave you are to risk scandal by bringing me such a warning. However, I must tell you I will not be a party to my stepfather’s little arrangements.”

He closed his lovely blue eyes and took a deep breath. When he exhaled she thought she could nearly taste him. Soap and cinnamon.

“My dear Miss Aphrodite, I’m afraid your willingness has nothing to do with the blackhearts plans.”

“Oh, but Mister Hercules, I will not be around to find out. I had planned to leave my stepfather’s loving home in but two days. I will have to adjust my schedule a bit, but rest assured, sir, I will be gone by morning.”

He stopped and turned to her, his brow smoother than it had been since they met.

“Happy I am to hear it, my lady. Happy, indeed.”

They resumed walking albeit at a slower pace about the fountain. Her companion’s steps were lighter than before, the silence filled with a decidedly off-tune whistle from his lips which drew only laughter from her.

“I doubt she had strawberry-red hair, my lord.”

“Pardon?”

“Aphrodite. I doubt she had strawberry hair.”

“Oh, my dear. Of course she did.”

That earned him yet another laugh.

A black horse stepped into their path and Tempest looked up to find a man blocking the morning sunshine from her eyes. She smiled in appreciation until she realized why another man might have come to get a glimpse of her. She hoped the brim of her hat concealed her blush. Surely this man was only there out of curiosity. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, she raised her gaze to his.

“Wescott,” he said, greeting her companion but not taking his attention from her. “Pray introduce me, man.”

Hercules couldn’t be Leland Wescott, the Duke of Stromburg. He couldn’t! She released her hold on his arm, but he seemed not to notice, holding her hand just as firmly as before.

She was guided around the horse and rider and swept away by her possibly notorious companion before he tossed his response over his shoulder.

“You already know who you are, Redmond.”

This time they strode around the fountain in deafening silence. If she were not losing her wits, she had just been party to the Duke of Stromburg giving the cut direct to the Duke of Redmond. And as much as she wished they had changed their course, she was being guided full circle to face the snubbed man once again.

The dark horse remained in their path, the man now standing next to it, and the Duke of Redmond didn’t look as if the snub had done more than amuse him, thank heavens.

This time Hercules lead her in a wide circle out around the man and his horse and the crowd, no longer pretending ignorance, roared with laughter. She was grateful the Duke of Redmond was laughing along. The Duke of Stromburg smiled politely as they rounded the south end of the fountain and much to the delight of the crowd, he slowed their pace to that of a belligerent tortoise as they made their way back to the other duke for the third time.

Tempest was about to pull her arm free to avoid another turn around the water feature when her horseman gave her hand a squeeze and halted a few paces before the other man’s horse.

“Odiferous? Is that you, ol’ boy?” he addressed the animal.

“That’s Othello, as you well know,” said Redmond, removing his gloves and tucking them into the pocket of his rich green riding jacket. “Now will you introduce me to this lovely lady, or would you like to finish your conversation with my mount?”

“Impossible,” Hercules said flatly. “I have not yet been introduced to this fair lady, so I cannot pass on the favor.”

“And yet you walk with her? Pray tell what has he been telling you Miss…?”

“Miss MacIntyre, Your Grace.” At least she had the presence of mind to curtsy, though Stromburg pulled her up from it rather quickly.

“Of course. A Scottish lass. Perfect,” the man purred and chills originated in the center of her spine and exploded in warning as they often did when her stepfather asked to speak to her in his library.

She was no longer able to smile, sincerely or otherwise.

“Well, Miss MacIntyre, his grace has certainly been talking at great length to a lady with whom he is not yet acquainted. What topic of discussion could he possibly have used for entertainment? What excuse to bend your ear?”

She could feel her horseman stiffen beside her, but she answered before he could interrupt.

“We discussed the best methods for training dogs, Your Grace.”

The eyebrows on both men rose, but now it was the horseman who smiled broadly.

“Indeed?” Redmond looked over her companion.

“It should come as no surprise, Redmond, that I would choose such a topic. You know how much I like animals.” Stromburg patted Othello on the cheek.

“Too right. Well, Miss MacIntyre, it was good to make your acquaintance. I’m sure we’ll meet again. I’m absolutely sure of it.” With only a slight bow that could be attributed to the speed at which he backed away, The Duke of Redmond turned and mounted. Once the animal was in his control, he urged the beast far too close to Stromburg, but the latter held his ground. Redmond leaned toward Tempest. “Don’t believe half the things he tells you, Miss MacIntyre.” He straightened. “And Stromburg, I’m certain you cannot afford to...accost this lady again. And pray do not bore her with tales of your bravery. It’s likely even Miss MacIntyre is aware--well, never mind.”

The Duke of Redmond kicked his mount and was gone. In his wake, the on-lookers hung their heads in disappointment and wandered away. Finally, she looked at the man who still held her hand to his arm.

“Once again, allow me to tell you how happy I am that you will be escaping your stepfather’s clutches, Miss MacIntyre.” His artificial smile was back, but with even less feeling behind it. His eyes darted away from her.

“Oh please, Mister Hercules, call me Miss Aphrodite. I rather liked it.”

To her complete joy, his gaze and his smile returned, only this time with sincerity.

“Miss Aphrodite, then. I cannot wait to see the look on the bastard’s face when the auction has to be cancelled.”

“Are you referring to my stepfather or the Duke of Redmond, Your Grace?”

“Both.”

Pushing through the retreating crowd, from the direction of the Wellington Arch, was her stepfather’s lackey, Big John Cosgrove.

“Speak of the devil and he’ll appear,” she whispered. “Please go. Before Big John reaches us, Your Grace. Others will pay dearly if there are any unpleasant words between you.”

“Who is he?”

Dear heavens! Why wouldn’t he just go?

“He’s my stepfather’s man. Please go, Your Grace, before he can suspect anything.”

“Mister Hercules to you, miss.” He pulled the back of her hand to his lips and said against them, “Godspeed, Lady Aphrodite.”

And then he was gone.

***

Leaving that woman’s side was the second most difficult thing Leland had ever done. Every step he took away from that fountain echoed like a striking hammer in his ears.

He’d been as sickly curious as every other man in the park that morning. He’d wanted to see if the woman proved to be as much a temptation as the invitation had promised. Whoever had written the cursed thing hadn’t exaggerated at all. Too bad he couldn’t have just taken a look and walked away. He’d never been heroic, despite the medal he’d been awarded, but he’d gotten the silly notion that he should at least prove himself deserving of the thing now that it was in his possession.

And so he’d stepped in to warn the beauty of the fate awaiting her. That was all he’d intended. But that quip about his suspected talent for training dogs had caught him off guard, and the intelligence he’d found in her warm hazel eyes was like a fine confection. He’d been teased with just a taste and been sent on his way, destined never to taste it again.

How he’d love to pursue the woman. How he’d love to be her hero. But he knew what happened to real heroes, and it wouldn’t happen to him.

Any idiot fool enough to tour the park in the company of a woman that morning had still found it impossible to steer clear of the fountain. Those men would be hard pressed to come up with a plausible explanation, and before luncheon was served, every woman in town would know exactly what had been transpiring and why their menfolk had wanted to attend. Clubs all over town would be scrambling to accommodate all the members who would not be welcomed in their own beds this night.

Leland prayed the woman’s plan included an extended stay out of the country where her life could not be entirely ruined by the scandal she would leave behind. He wished happiness for her, then realized the woman would make any place a happy one with her sharp wit and charming smile. Surprisingly, beauty was not the most memorable thing about her.

Mr. Hercules, she’d called him. He felt anything but. He’d not been able to keep Redmond away from her without calling the man out, and the prince had made it clear that he’d throw them both in The Tower if they could not keep their quarrels in check.

In addition, he was ashamed at the relief he’d felt when she told him she could handle her own escape. He’d been hard pressed to think of what he might be able to do for her, other than put her on her guard. Now, he needn’t worry about it. His conscience should be clear.

Why wasn’t it?

Of course, he was leaving her with the enemy, but by morning she would be away. She had a plan. No matter he’d not taken the time to ask her just what the plan entailed.

Dear God, let it be a damned good plan.

CHAPTER TWO

White’s, the famous gentleman’s club, was absolutely the center of the universe. Not only was the front door flapping in the constant wake of entering gentlemen, the rear of the building resembled an army camp readying for battle. Instead of firearms, liveried footmen clutched white squares of parchment while they queued up for news and then fled to waiting hackneys. Some were waylaid by mysterious persons who demanded the latest numbers before allowing the harried servants to scurry off to their masters. Many of those hands beckoning from inside dark carriages belonged to women.

Leland Wescott, The Duke of Stromburg witnessed it all in disgust even as he rushed toward that flapping door, anxious to be in attendance when the auction was called off for lack of a prize.

“Good Evening, your Grace,” said the surprised-looking doorman while taking his coat and gloves. “Didn’t think to see you here tonight. No one kicking you out of the house, I mean to say. No offense, sir.”

“None taken, Gibson. I mean to stay all the same, but don’t worry about a room. I want a front row seat to the outrage.”

“Yes, sir. Outrageous it is, sir.”

Gibson didn’t know the half of it.

He lingered a bit, lighting a cheroot, waiting for the doorman to arm him with everything he might need before entering the arena, as it were. Gibson took great pains rolling up his gloves, fully aware of what was expected of him.

“Are you here to make a bid, sir? I’ve men waiting to hear if you do, and I’ll pocket a bit of coin if I can give them the heads up before the rest. You’re already on the books, sir. You were reported to be checking out the goods this morning a bit closer than the rest.”

Leland hid his expression, but could only hope to hide the blush he felt creeping up his face.

He waited.

“The Duke of Redmond is listed in the books as well. He arrived only a moment ago, Your Grace. He is expected to make a bid, though he gave no hints as to what it might be. He’ll make those footmen run ragged, he will.”

“Just between the two of us, Gibson, I won’t be making a bid. Go ahead and bet what you like on it.”

The man’s brows lifted faintly.

“Very good, Your Grace. Very good, indeed. I wouldn’t have expected you to dabble in such a thing, sir, but when they said what you did at the park, sir--”

“That’s alright, Gibson. I’m glad you were disappointed in me.”

“It pained me to be, sir.”

Leland laughed silently. If anyone had overheard them, Gibson would have been fired for his presumption, then he’d be forced to find the man a position in one of his own households.

Once upstairs, the crowd of black tailcoats parted to allow him a view of “the books,” where bets were being placed on every wager-worthy activity in Londontown. He bent over them, flicked a page or two back, then forward again. Noting clearly the way the crowd hushed, he opted to put these poor betting fools out of their misery.

“Gentlemen, I won’t be making a bid in Ledford’s auction tonight.”

Civilized but deafening conversation erupted and he stepped away from the books so that the tallying could commence.

“I’ll wager you’ll change your mind, Stromburg.” Redmond’s voice cut through the others with no effort at all and losses were forgotten on the heels of a new bet.

“Don’t wager too much, Redmond. I wouldn’t want your tailor to suffer.”

And with the new bet entered, parchment began to fly about the room in a much less organized manner than something Leland had witnessed below stairs. Footmen could teach this mob a thing or two.

Smoke and liquor poured through the elegantly appointed rooms with the steady stream of servants and trays, snaking in the path of least resistance. Redmond reigned supreme in the circle of the most notorious of rakes, none of whom were nearly as contemptible as himself, but a few looked upon such a title with hunger. None of them, however, would have been able to match whatever the duke wagered.

Leland sat across the room in relative silence. Once he was lured away for a game of cards, but he found he had no concentration for it, and ended up back in his chair before the seat could cool.

When the clock struck half past eleven, Gibson escorted in a common-looking man. It was the doorman’s nervous look that had Leland sitting up and taking note.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the man said, easing himself through Redmond’s crowd to the red ledger, the one recording all the bids for Ledford’s auction.

Leland hadn’t bothered to even look at the book. Whatever amount was listed would only be added upon by Redmond. At midnight, the book would be closed. The ledger would be taken to Baron Ledford whose lack of membership kept him from being welcomed in person, but his tasteless auction had not been turned away, sponsored by one of the men who today called Redmond “friend”. Surely there were only a few of Redmond’s cronies making bids for Miss MacIntyre, no doubt to make the auction more interesting to their pack leader.

Redmond shot Gibson a glare.

“What’s this? Non-members are not allowed, Gibson.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but this man’s making a bid on his master’s instructions. He’s to stay until midnight. And the rules of the auction stated that anyone may bid, member or not. Would you rather I took the book to the kitchens, Your Grace?”

Bravo, Gibson. Although his tone was subservient, his query proved worthy of a fine chess player. There was no way Redmond would enter the kitchens to make his bet and so the common man would stay.

Redmond responded by turning his back to them both.

The stranger wore no identifiable livery. In fact, he looked the part of a gentleman farmer trussed up in his Sunday best. Seemingly for just this occasion, his dark boots were polished and shined, at least on the smooth, less worn portions. Leland watched them closely as the man made his way to the ledger, expecting a clod of dirt, or perhaps a field mouse, to escape and defile the rug. The latter would prove most entertaining, but poor Gibson would be personally offended.

The stranger took up the quill and carefully penned his proxy bid. Even though Redmond struggled not to pay heed, it took less than a minute for the duke’s curiosity to win out. He marched to the book and all but inserted his nose.

“What’s this? Apparently a Lord X has entered a bid.” Redmond straightened. “You, there! What is your master’s name?” He pointed a finger at the man who at least had wits enough not to sit down.

Unabashedly he grinned while bowing to the duke’s demand. “Lord Anonymous, Your Grace.”

Laughter and betting precluded any and all civilized conversation for the moment and drown out the remainder of the duke’s protests. Leland took the opportunity to sidle over to the regular betting books to make a wager of his own.

The Duke of Stromburg wagers 10 pounds that the Duke of Redmond will not win Ledford’s auction.

As soon as he stepped away, Redmond sent a man to read the wager aloud. The lecher grinned, then stepped to the red ledger and took up the pen. When he finished, he threw Lord Anonymous’s man a scathing look and found a seat.

As the minutes ticked away, promising midnight would indeed come, if on patient feet, Redmond smoked and brooded while his friends sobered in direct proportion to their brandy consumption. No doubt they worried their entertainment was in jeopardy if their golden boy lost the day’s main event.

Lord Anonymous’s man bounced a bit on his toes and scratched his head enough to make others take a step back from him. More than once, he caught himself whistling and stopped--the tune of a church hymn no less! He looked at the clock and every eye followed. Twenty minutes of.

And what a twenty minutes they were. As if on stage before a grand audience, the man, seemingly unaware of the crowd he manipulated, tortured the occupants of Whites until Leland feared the man may not live until midnight.

He looked to the clock, took out his watch fob, and adjusted the time.

Seven times.

At one point, when it became clear the man’s timepiece was pitifully inept, Leland nearly handed over his own. The way others in the room were toying with their fobs, he was not the only one to have such an inclination.

Every few minutes the man looked over at the red ledger and stared at it as if he could read it from five paces away. Once, he even wandered nonchalantly about the room, around a large table and back toward the book, with every eye watching him. When he finally neared the book, Leland thought Redmond might bark like a guard dog, but he remained seated, the flexing of his jaw not the only sign of his emotion. Every now and then, something especially malevolent flashed behind his eyes. A pity the Prince never seemed to witness it, or he might be more inclined to allow Leland’s complaints to be heard.

Lord Anonymous’s man looked, presumably, at whatever bid Redmond had entered and harrumphed before wandering back to the section of wall that he’d guarded for close to twenty minutes.

Seven minutes of.

Leland couldn’t take it. He leapt to his feet and strode to the ledger. No one else would have the audacity to look at the names and amounts recorded there. No one stopped him because so many believed he might be making a wager himself.

Each and every man in Redmond’s group had written an amount or a humorous offer next to his name. They would not have dared offer “my best riding horse” to a member of the haute ton without being expected to be called out for it.

Redmond had scribbled his name as he always did and written 50 pounds next to it. An insult. A walk around the fountain with the woman had been worth more.

Next to the X, directly below Redmond’s scrawl, was written 500 pounds.

Beneath that Redmond had written 510.

“No gawking at the bids, Wescott. Either bid or move away.”

Since the large gathering had hushed in order to hear the exchange, numerous voices were heard from the entry and all eyes turned as Gibson escorted four footmen into the room. He bowed and pardoned a path to the ledger. Leland moved just a bit to the side to give the men access.

The first of the footmen stepped forward and took quick stock of the bids and added his own. Leland leaned forward.

600 to a Lord M…something. Probably Montgomery. The old lecher was slowing in his doddering and could no longer catch his maids even if he could see them clearly enough.

Thankfully, the next footman wrote a higher bid, 650 from an equally lecherous, but much younger Lord Stephenson. If he didn’t know the woman was safe from these men, Leland would definitely be bidding now to keep her from being exposed to Stephenson’s twisted ways. He’d kill her spirit within ten minutes and leave nothing but a shell for some low piece of nobility to scoop up and put in his pocket.

The next man stepped forward with quaking hands, splattering ink all over the page before pausing beneath the last number. Apparently the lad had not been given leave to bid that high and he set the pen down--eventually--and stepped away. He stayed on, however, to report the winner if he could, no doubt, and tried to disappear into the dark corner.

“May I?” Lord Montgomery’s footman asked of no one but stepped forward and entered a new bid of 700.

Lord Stephenson’s man bid again, 750.

The duke growled himself to his feet and pushed them all out of the way.

“Ready to bid yet, Wescott? Perhaps the two of us could join sums and take her on together.”

That was it. That was the jibe Redmond had been saving all night to get him to bid and thus win at least the smaller wager. Redmond would be out 100 pounds if Leland didn’t bid. When he’d thumbed through the books, there’d been no lack of takers.

Leland wouldn’t bite, though, however tempting it was. After meeting Miss MacIntyre, there was no way he could allow her to be fed to such wolves. But she wouldn’t be, he reminded himself. She would be safely away, and come morning, Redmond would be 100 pounds poorer and remain among the most lecherous of London as he had before. Nothing would have changed. 100 pounds exchanged from one pocket to the next. Something that happened daily, if not hourly, there at White’s. Money never saw its way to the hands that truly needed it.

In a week’s time, he’d be headed North to work once again among those hands that truly would appreciate every pence of such a sum. The residents of Stromburg would have a harsh winter if he did not get enough food and supplies shipped to them to replace the stores Redmond’s ruffians had stolen. Every day he lamented that it was Redmond’s lands that bordered his own near the Scottish border, that it was Redmond to whom the prince tied him hand and foot and bid them play nice. The prince would hear none of his accusations and until someone put the duke in his grave, Leland would have no rest and his tenants would have no justice.

That was the reason for Redmond’s earlier taunt, that Leland hadn’t the means to bid for Miss MacIntyre. All his available funds were consumed in refurbishing stores that may well end up in Redmond’s pockets if he didn’t plant himself in the north and stay there. With Redmond in Town, and he on the borders, he remained the highest authority there and could gain some justice if he moved quickly. Redmond was never far behind him, however, and undid all possible progress as soon as he arrived. None of which would ever reach the prince’s ears.

He felt like he’d been cursed with a mean spirited sibling and a parent who refused to listen to their quarrels. One day, he hoped the prince would be interested enough. One day he would hand the prince proof he could not ignore.

After all the energy he’d expended today, Leland felt suddenly deflated with the small victory he would win over Redmond. A wager at Whites. He was no better than the rest.

“Thirty seconds, gentlemen,” said Werner, the keeper of the books, as the man made his way closer to the ledger.

“She’s hardly worth such a sum,” Redmond sneered as he set the pen down. He’d wagered 800 pounds.

Lord Montgomery’s man took up the pen and wrote 810. Lord Stephenson’s man wrote 820. Redmond screeched and took the pen from him and scribbled 821 and added his initials.

“Ten seconds, gentlemen.”

Finally, and calmly, Lord Anonymous’ man stepped to the book and held out his hand for the pen. When the duke pulled it back, the gasp from the onlookers made him reconsider and he handed it over.

A hasty X was followed by a one and three zeros just before the book slammed shut on the still-wet ink. The man doing the slamming was a tall nervous rat of a man in spectacles. His pitiful moustache hairs grew horizontally, giving him a decidedly rodent quality. It was a quandary why such a man wouldn’t choose to shave twice daily.

The rat ceremoniously picked up the ledger as if his life savings might be contained therein.

“Wait a moment,” said Redmond. “I would like this delivered with the book.” He tucked a hastily written note inside the cover.

“A note that reads, ‘a hundred pounds more than the last bid, plus my best riding horse?’” Leland couldn’t help but guess. “That’s hardly fair I think.”

Redmond laughed in a manner that dropped Leland’s stomach to his feet. Would the man take issue with being called a cheat in public? If the prince got wind of it and sent them to The Tower, even for a week or two, Stromberg’s tenants would suffer.

“No, Wescott. Perhaps Lord Anonymous will have her first, but second is surely up for grabs.” He moved close to Leland and whispered, “Or perhaps I was warning her guardian that the little minx knows what he’s up to and should be closely guarded. You were warning her this morning, were you not? That is why you didn’t bid. You didn’t believe she’d be around to enjoy the festivities.”

The only reason Redmond was left standing was because even now Lady Aphrodite was busy putting her plan into action.

At least she’d better be. The way Redmond’s men surrounded him, he knew he’d not be allowed to leave White’s for quite some time, just in case.

Run, Aphrodite! Run!

CHAPTER THREE

Tempest took one last look in the mirror, searching for a hint of the confidence she needed to go forward. A fool looked back. She should have begged the Duke of Stromburg to help her escape the park that morning, before Big John could collect her, but she hadn’t been thinking clearly. Although the duke seemed quite relieved she had a plan and would have no need of his aid, she was certain he would have helped if she’d but asked.

Lord Fool some called him, though never to his face of course. Some nonsense about the war. But one look in the man’s eyes proved he was no coward. Were people blind?

Lady Fool blinked like an idiot in the mirror. She had no business lurking about, drumming up courage, when the women of the staff were risking all below stairs, likely quaking in their boots, as anxious to get her away as she was to be gone.

She shook her head and reached for the door. The evening was slipping away. It was past time.

Back in her old clothes, she appeared little more than a servant as she made her way down the staircase. She wore a drab lavender gown she’d purchased while in mourning for her mother. A paisley pattern of slightly darker lavender made the fabric appear more like wallpaper than cloth, especially in comparison to the lovely lemon ensemble now stuffed into a carpet bag and hidden in the carriage house.

Tempest paused at the bottom step to cough, signaling her crew of accomplices to man their stations.

She would wander through the kitchens to check on supper preparations, then walk out the servant’s door. Penny would toss pig’s fat on the fire for the first distraction while Tempest retrieved her sack. Hilde would run to the end of the block to flag down a hack. Maude was prepared to scream rat the second Ledford began looking for her. If Hilde failed to have a hack waiting, Tempest was quite prepared to walk out of her stepfather’s life if need be. She had money, forged letters of recommendations, and a country destination where she might lay low for a month or so before looking for some sort of employment...as anything but some man’s Mistress.

But first she needed to get out of the house.

“Tempest, my dear, is that you?” Ledford called from the large sitting room to her right. Chills snaked up the back of her neck and fanned out into her hair. He would never have spoken to her so cordially unless they had company. He usually called her Temper Temper.

But she had no time for company.

The kitchen lay down the hallway to the right. Indecision froze her until she took a deep breath. She would not let another opportunity get away from her. She turned right.

“Tempest? Join me won’t you? I’m afraid I must...insist.”

It was the sing-song manner in which he’d said ‘insist’ that stopped her. She’d been caught. She knew it. But surely none of the household would have given her away!

As long as her sack was well hidden, her plan could still work. Later, after Ledford had gone to sleep, she’d try again. She’d crawl out a window and shimmy down a pipe if necessary, but she would leave tonight, help or no help.

She pulled back her slumped shoulders and turned toward the drawing room, stopping in the doorway and curtsying to the man who deserved no such respect. Blank faced, she waited for him to speak.

He sat in her mother’s overstuffed chair smoking a cigar and allowing the ash to drop onto the beloved floral arms. She believed he’d stop smiling if she pretended not to notice. She was wrong. He merely nodded toward the mantle.

Her yellow gown hung there--the gown that had been in her precious sack!

If there’d been a fire on the grate, it would have been nothing but a larger pile of ashes than that on her mother’s chair.

She didn’t dare look at the man until she had her wits back. If he had her gown, he had her money, her forged references, her destination. He’d know Hilde’s family was prepared to hide her. Hilde would be made to pay. But she wouldn’t allow that to happen, no matter what it took!

Finally, she looked back at Ledford. And waited.

“You hurt my feelings, Temper, stuffing this perfectly good dress into that filthy sack. It really should be...allowed to hang.” He laughed. “Allowed to hang. Don’t you see? Allowed to hang...like a forger.” Again, he laughed.

Tempest allowed the words to blow past her like a harmless wind. Ranting and railing at her luck would hardly serve her at the moment. When she still offered no reaction, he went on.

“In any case, you’ll need to the gown tomorrow night, when you meet your...intended. You should look your best, don’t you think?”

“My intended?” She allowed only the barest hint of curiosity to affect her expression.

“Yes, my dear. You’re going to be wed. It’s all arranged. You must have suspected something. Wedding jitters had you attempting to run away, is that it?” He rose and walked around his chair. He bent, and when he stood once more, he was holding the sack, presumably with the rest of her precious belongings. Her mother’s jewels, bequeathed on her deathbed. A small portrait of the woman, though poorly rendered. Sensible clothes. Precious letters her mother had penned on special occasions, to remind a young girl of a dead father she was certain to forget. A small china angel safeguarded in one of her mother’s old shawls. The wrap still smelled of the woman’s favorite perfume.

“John. Take her.”

Before Tempest realized they weren’t alone in the room, the sure grip of Big John’s hands wrapped around her upper arms. She knew better than to struggle; she’d only end up bruised for it.

“To the kitchens, I think.” Ledford walked out of the room, gaily swinging the large sack, leaving John to bring along his prisoner.

When they entered the kitchens, there were no signs of her would-be accomplices, but the fire was well-stoked.

“No supper tonight, I fear.” Ledford nodded to John to bring her closer. “But at least one of your plans should be successful, don’t you think?” With his free hand, he took up a bowl of liquid from the mantle. “Pig’s fat, I assume.”

He looked to her for a reaction. She rolled her eyes and looked away. When he tossed the bag onto the fire and it made a small clink, she couldn’t help but wince.

The angel.

She turned her head, refusing to watch, refusing to feel. The angel had a chip on her wing. Tempest should have tossed it out long ago. The portrait hadn’t been a good likeness. The letters were all but memorized. The shawl had needed a good wash. It might have been her imagination, but she thought she’d caught just a whiff of perfume through the smoke.

Imagined or not, she choked on it.

Under the wave of emotion that could not be restrained by her bit of reasoning, her knees began to give way, but John held her upright. She was almost grateful. A heartbeat later, her ragged breathing was interrupted by a loud whoosh, and though her eyes were closed, she felt the heat of flashing flames, smelled the burning fat. Still, she refused to watch.

But Ledford’s scream got her attention. The man was on fire!

John pushed her aside to get to his master. He removed his coat and swung it toward the flames licking up Ledford’s pant leg, but the older man kept dancing about in a circle. John stood back, giant coat at the ready, waiting for Ledford to complete his turn.

Go!

Tempest didn’t know if it was her own thought or a prompt from a guardian angel, but she moved as if she, too, were on fire. She skirted around the room, keeping the large tables between herself and her enemies. When she reached the door, Ledford was still dancing about, shouting at John.

“Put it out! Put it out!”

Big John noticed her then. He shook his head as if in warning. But why would he be warning her? He turned his attention back to his master, finally pushed the man to the ground, and began beating him with his coat.

Tempest pushed the door and ran outside and through the small garden, spurred on by her stepfather’s screams. If the flames were out, Big John would be right behind her.

She shouldered her way through the rear gate and turned left. Each choice, each turn, would be the opposite of what she had planned, just in case her stepfather knew all. It was dark, but the evening was young. There’d be far too many witnesses of her every move once she made it to the street. She’d have to hide for a few hours. With the busy road in site, she stopped and pushed at a pain in her side, then prayed for inspiration.

To her right, a small gardener’s shack stood just inside the gate to the Osbournes’ garden. A perfect place for hiding! She only hoped she could get inside, and that John wouldn’t notice the small roof when he came by.

She glanced behind her and reached for the gate, but it opened of its own accord and a grubby dark-skinned man emerged.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, mum.” He looked up and down the alley, then back at her. “How may I be of service?”

Tempest had no time to compose a story and hoped the truth might suffice. She was brief. Less than a minute later, she was tucked up nicely inside the shack, a sturdy stool beneath her, a dim lantern at her elbow, and a relatively clean blanket around her shoulders, which she hardly needed on such a moderate evening, but she appreciated it all the same. The hero gardener vowed to keep watch all night if need be and would not be dissuaded.

Once the door was closed, Tempest counted her blessings and waited for Big John to come looking for her.

Only he didn’t come.

It wasn’t as if she’d run for miles. He couldn’t have tired and given up. And he was hardly a quiet man in spite of being mute. No one that size could have come searching down the alleyway without her hearing at least his large footsteps.

Tempest considered that her stepfather might have been more badly injured that she’d suspected. But she refused to fret over the monstrous man’s health. Besides, the fire couldn’t have done too much damage with all the dancing he’d done. Like as not, John’s great coat did the most harm, since the more sincere screaming began after the big man had knocked Ledford down.

She tried to think Christian thoughts about the man’s current state, but failed. She hoped it hurt like hell. If only his face would have been affected instead of his leg, he’d not be so easily able to woo future widows into his lair.

Growling echoed through the walls of her sanctuary and she deduced her hero had fallen asleep with his back to the shack. Surely an hour had passed. The noises from the roadway had diminished considerably. A bit longer perhaps, then she’d go.

Why hadn’t John come looking for her? Was he lazy? Had he shaken his head to discourage a footrace?

No. She remembered it clearly; it had definitely been a warning.

A warning of what? Retribution? What retribution could match the horror of her stepfather’s plans for her? The auction was likely taking place at that very moment. If Ledford had to cancel due to her escape, would he be so humiliated he would hunt her down and kill her? Nonsense. Her stepfather never suffered from humiliation. Anger? Yes. Humiliation? Never. And his anger would fade once his next scheme commenced brewing in his greedy little mind.

She’d seen the man at his worst, when he’d learned he wouldn’t inherit all her mother had. He’d murdered no one then, though perhaps he’d begun to invent the scenario that now led Tempest to a gardener’s shack in the middle of the night.

But why hadn’t John come?

If Penny had sent for a doctor, John would be free to search her out--

Penny! Hilde and Maude! She’d seen none of them since lunchtime!

John hadn’t come because he knew she’d come back...to help the others.

He’d warned her not to go. Did he worry what might happen to the other women if she escaped? Was there something warm and alive in that large soundless chest after all?

She should find out...since she was going back anyway.

***

At half past midnight, there was a knock at the door. Tempest gave up trying to guess what might happen next.

The doctor was already with Ledford. John acted as butler. Tempest sat on a chair in the hallway, waiting for her stepfather to grant her an audience. She had to discover what he'd done with the servants and what she must do to ensure their safe return and continued employ.

It was all pretense of course. She knew precisely what he would demand.

John led two men up the stairs, held up a hand to indicate they should wait in the hallway, and entered Ledford's bedroom.

The first wore spectacles and carried a red book as if it were the pillow for the Crown Jewels. When he noticed Tempest, he bowed his head politely, then choked, then blushed profusely. By the low light of the lamps, he appeared purple as he shook and sputtered and stepped away from her--as if she'd brought on his personal plague. The reverence he'd shown the ledger was gone. The book disappeared behind the man's back.

Then she knew.

The auction. The results of it were no doubt contained within the pages.

She considered retiring to her room, but thought better of it. Who was she to be embarrassed by the lurid actions of men? Let them be mortified.

She lifted her chin and looked the man in the eye. Or, rather, she would have if he were again capable of looking in her direction. Instead, he cowered behind the second man, who was confused by the actions of the first until he noticed Tempest's presence. Instead of blushing and looking away, he strode over to her, took her hand, and bowed as if just presented to the Prince Regent.

"Miss MacIntyre, I presume?" He gave a warm smile, as if truly pleased to have stumbled across her in the hallway.

"Yes. I am."

"I am...hmm." He frowned at the floor.

Had he forgotten who he was?

"I am...Mister Gordon, miss. Keep a stiff upper, that's a good lass. Nearly finished with all this nonsense--"

The first gentleman cleared his throat rather pointedly.

Mister Gordon dropped his chin to his chest and gave the other man what could only be called an evil eye from beneath his white brows.

The first man shook his head and turned expectantly to the door.

Gordon gave her fingers a little squeeze before stepping away.

What an odd man. And if his business with her stepfather had anything to do with the auction, why would he not be embarrassed to face her?

Had the Duke of Stromburg been wrong? Was there really to be a wedding after all? Did she indeed have an appointment to meet her intended the following evening?

If she dared hope, if she dared believe such a thing, wouldn't it be wonderful if this warm man was in her intended's employ? Surely this kind gentleman wouldn’t work for a monster.

The door opened. John stood back to allow the doctor to exit the room.

"How is he, Doctor?" Tempest's concern was real, but it wasn't for her uncle.

"He'll be fine, fine. In a bit of pain, though. Let him drink himself numb, says I. Burns cause tremendous pain, you know. But it's just the one leg, and a bit of his hand. I've left some balm. Apply more in the morning and wrap him in clean dressing once a day." The doctor took a few steps and turned back. "He said it was pig's fat."

"Yes, sir. He tossed it on a fire."

"Well, I'm sure he learned a lesson there."

I'm sure he didn't, she was tempted to say, but she smiled and nodded.

“Murray, are you there?” Ledford called from inside the room. “Come in, man! Come in!"

John gestured the men inside. While he waited to shut the door after them, he shook his head at Tempest, just as he'd done earlier.

She jumped to her feet, to ask him where the women were, but he firmly closed the door in her face.

Alone in the hallway, she pressed her ear to the door.

“Who's this, then?" Ledford bellowed.

"This is...the man with the highest bid, sir. Or rather, he represents the man with the highest bid."

"The book! Hand me the book!"

Dear Heavens! It had only been an action after all. As her stomach plummeted, it nearly pulled her to the floor, but she hadn't the leisure for self-pity. She must discover what they had planned for her!

Ledford laughed in surprise, then laughed himself silly. The others made no sound while they waited for the baron to compose himself.

"Not bad for one night's work," he finally said. "Now, who is this Lord X?"

"Lord Anonymous."

She assumed it was Gordon who spoke. He’d used no title on her uncle--a slight the man typically would not have tolerated. Perhaps he'd been drinking long before the doctor arrived.

"I suppose I don't give a fig who it is if he's got the goods."

"Payment in full I believe."

"You don't mind if I take a moment and count it, I'm sure. Servants and all that."

"I understand you perfectly, sir."

Silence stretched. A creak near the door led Tempest to believe Big John guarded the door. He knew she was just on the other side. He'd assume she'd be listening. Why did he not warn her stepfather to lower his voice?

"Fine. Fine. It's all here. You can come for her at noon tomorrow if you'd like. I'll make bloody sure she's prepared. I've told her she's to meet her intended. Maybe your master would like to make a pretense of a ceremony of some sort, gain her cooperation you know--

Just a moment."

She knew that tone. Something had displeased her stepfather. Someone was in terrible trouble, and she feared it would be her. Even if someone were coming to take her to her doom on the morrow, she still had to deal with Ledford for hours to come. She needed him in a good humor if she was to get her friends back safe and sound. And she might have less than 11 hours in which to do so!

"What's this?"

"I...I..."

"The Duke of Redmond sent that note along." Gordon sounded none too happy either.

"Well, it appears the jig is up.”

"What do you mean?"

"It seems my stepdaughter has been told about our little arrangement. There will be no use pretending now."

"I don't believe my master would have wanted it any other way, but you decide, Ledford. Do you want the money or not?"

Tempest's disappointment would know no bounds, it would seem. Gordon had been so warm and friendly, like he'd been truly concerned for her. What he’d truly been was a good actor.

Three things kept her from running down the stairs and out the door.

Penny. Hilde. And Maude.

Again, she pressed her ear to the door. Knowledge might be the only weapon she could secure.

"The deal is final. The money is mine!" Ledford’s voice had gone up an octave.

More likely, the money would soon belong to Ledford's creditors. That was, unless the man lost it gambling before they arrived at the door. Even with a burned body and liquor replacing the blood in his veins, the man would prefer gambling to breathing. No doubt the next knock would be a mob of card players come for a pre-arranged night of gaming. Her stepfather couldn’t keep a tuppence for more than a day without the thing driving him mad with possibilities.

Unfortunately, the man was clever but lacked luck, never mind intelligence. He might still be waiting to win his first wager...ever.

"Well, then,” said Gordon through the door. “Excellent. I'll take the lady with me now, if you don't mind. I don't trust you not to lose her between now and noon, with the miss being forewarned and you laid up as you are."

"But...but that would constitute two nights. I'd need twice the money!"

"Nonsense. We won't...ah...arrive for hours. There was no stipulation as to location, I assume."

"No, there was not," the third man interjected.

"Well, then. There you are."

Tempest waited for her stepfather to protest on some other grounds, but he did not. Thanks to the note from the Duke of Redmond, she wouldn’t have time to rescue her friends!

Her first instinct was to find somewhere in the house to hide until this Gordon fellow gave up looking for her. But her body had decided something else entirely. Her hand attached itself to the door handle and turned. She pushed her way into her mother’s former room. Big John was moved a bit more easily than she expected. Again, she had the niggling feeling the man might have been on her side for the past two years and she'd not known it. She'd been wrong to assume the servant was as evil as his master, but she’d consider that later.

"I'm not going anywhere until you agree not to punish the women!"

All heads turned to her.

Ledford smiled. "What women?"

"Mister Gordon, my stepfather is hiding the female servants of this household in order to gain my cooperation. He'll have to produce them and insure their good health and employment or I'll be cooperating with no one."

To her great relief, Gordon turned a frightening face to the man in the bed.

"Well, Ledford? What are you going to do about it?"

Her stepfather rolled his eyes. "Who are you, to speak to me about my own matters? Take the chit and go. And you'd best have her back here by noon on Sunday, or else your master will be paying for more than just--"

Gordon covered the distance to the bed in two steps. He grabbed Ledford’s bandaged hand. The latter bellowed loudly enough to vibrate the bell on the parish church. The man called Murray, whoever he was, ran to the door and disappeared, as if he’d squeezed around the wood without having opened it first. A moment later, the front door slammed.

Tempest knew not whether to laugh or cry. Who was this Gordon fellow to not fear the wrath of a peer of the realm, minor peer though her stepfather might be?

"Where are they?" Gordon let loose of Ledford's hand and reached instead for the white dressings on the man's leg.

"Fine! Fine! They're locked in the wine cellar."

"Who are you?" Gordon turned his attention to Big John.

"He's John," Tempest offered. "He doesn't speak."

"John, I want you to go let the women out. Bring them here. Do you understand?"

John nodded, biting his lip. Tempest thought perhaps the man might actually smile if he hadn't controlled himself thusly.

"Does he need a key?" Gordon looked at Ledford.

Ledford crossed his arms.

Gordon grabbed the man's knee, his face showing no emotion at all when the man bellowed and begged. Only when a key was thrown in John's direction did Mister Gordon release his hold.

"We'll just wait here, shall we?" He grinned at Tempest.

Ledford gasped and reached for the decanter on the small table near his bed. Gordon slid it just out of reach.

Funny how long a minute lasts in the dead of night when one is denied sleep. After five of those minutes, her stepfather stretched again for the liquor.

Gordon slapped his hand. "Surely this won't take long, Ledford."

"I'll have your head for this!"

"Oh? And whose head would that be?" Gordon winked. Was his name really Gordon?

Tempest couldn't hold back a smile.

"What are you smiling at, Temper Temper? You haven't a pleasant day--or night--ahead of you. And you'll be back under my roof soon enough, begging my protection. You might want to take that into consideration before you enjoy yourself at my expense."

"Why Stepfather, your expense is exactly what I was considering." Tempest stepped toward the bed, her hands itching for the feel of muslin bandages, when Hilde's voice bellowed down the hall.

"Where is she? If he's done anything to that poor child--"

Hilde arrived at the door and stopped. She looked from the bed, to Tempest, and back again.

"Oh, you poor sir," she said sweetly. Too sweetly. "Don't you fret now. We'll have you well taken care of, don't you worry none." She turned to Tempest. "You get out of here, the lot of you. Let Hilde take care of his lordship."

There was no time to explain to Hilde what was going on. Mister Gordon took her gently by the arm and led her out. She thought about resisting, but after the man had put her stepfather in his place she felt as if resisting would show terrible manners. After all, there was hope this Lord Anonymous would be reasonable.

And until he proved otherwise, Tempest decided not to despair completely.

At the door, John stood waiting with a large bag that looked as though it had been stored beneath the garden roses. He held it out like an offering.

Gordon stopped so she could accept it.

She knew she would never step foot in that house again--for she did intend to escape, even if it meant flinging herself from a moving carriage at some point. So she wanted to open it, to communicate with this possibly gentle giant one last time, in apology for never trusting him before.

The inside was thankfully cleaner that the outside. The yellow gown was folded carefully, on top of it lay the little angel made of china. The small precious chip on the left wing proved it was her own. Her mother's letters, everything she'd meant to take away with her, lay with it.

She handed the bag to Gordon, then reached up and pulled the big man's face toward her. A kiss on the cheek was insufficient payment for what he'd given her, but it was all she had to give.

He seemed to appreciate that fact and winked.

The door was open. Gordon gestured to the black carriage awaiting them.

It was time. The women were safe for the time being. She was getting away. Part of her plan had worked at least. In addition, the carriage would be much more comfortable than the hack she'd planned to hire.

Who was she to complain?

CHAPTER FOUR

The Duke of Stromburg was decidedly drunk.

He'd been at Whites, listening for the past two hours to the night's events at Ledford’s home. The rat-man’s rendition had been twisted and embellished so egregiously, the latest version could not possibly have transpired.

There was nothing for it; he'd have to take matters into his own hands. He'd go to Ledford's townhouse on the fringes of the respectable neighborhoods--no surprise there--and make certain Miss Aphrodite's plans had not gone awry, as they reportedly had. If he'd never gotten involved, he could have lounged about with the rest of the male members of the ton who were not allowed to sleep in their own beds. But no. He’d tried to earn a corner of that damned hero’s medal perched in the top drawer of his bureau like a hen waiting for some miracle to hatch beneath it.

The entire fiasco might have been a bit amusing if there had never been a young woman involved. Had he never met that young woman.

Damn damsels and their distress.

Damn heroes. Heroes ended up dead.

He wasn’t dead, so who was the Lord Fool now?

Those and other nonsensical thoughts ended with his skull throbbing by the time he arrived at the home of Miss MacIntyre. Half the windows were illuminated. At first, he wondered if the place might be afire, but it was just the bobbling of his own head that made the yellow squares dance. He should have downed one more coffee before mounting his mighty steed...uh, mounting the steps of his carriage, that was.

The street was clogged with carriages, their curtains drawn with a nose peeking out here and there. A three a.m. version of the fountain incident. Jolly.

He knocked on the roof and shouted, "take me ‘round the rear!" He may as well have shot a pistol next to his head, his ears rang so.

By the time he made it through the baron's small gardens, the ringing had nearly stopped.

The servant’s door stood ajar--hopefully left that way by a fleeing Miss MacIntyre--so he walked inside. The only weapon he had on his person was his walking stick with a concealed blade, and that mostly to help him keep his balance. If he imbibed as often as his peers, he'd likely not be foxed at all. But there it was. And there he was, swaying his way toward the activity of the house, which at present seemed to originate at the head of the stairs.

He climbed those stairs quietly, and since his knees never actually touched the steps, no one could claim he crawled up them, though it probably appeared so.

Once at the top, he realized the voices were coming from further down the hall, inside the open doorway at the end.

"'At's right now, govna. 'And it over easy-like."

A man whimpered.

"Let go, ye blimey bastard!"

The man whimpered louder.

Leland couldn't think of anything more clever at the moment, so he walked into the middle of the room before he stopped to look about him. It wasn't as if the room would be filled with guns pointing at him.

Only it was. And there were.

The surprise of the situation hit him as humorous--so humorous in fact, he started laughing.

Sitting in the bed, exactly as the rat had described him, sat Baron Ledford in all his bandaged glory. No less than three empty flagons sat on the table beside him and it appeared as though the man might actually be deeper in his cups than Leland himself!

The baron clasped a leather satchel as if his very life depended upon it--the last reachable bit of rope dangling from a ship, and he drowning and being followed closely by sharks. He looked to Leland and whimpered. Then he looked to the masked man pulling on the opposite side of the satchel and whimpered. It became readily apparent that the man was whimpering each and every time he exhaled.

Leland laughed anew.

As did the gang of black-cloaked and masked thieves surrounding him.

The thought of Miss MacIntyre at the mercy of those thieves sobered him instantly. Well...partially. But looking about, he saw only three women, all on their knees with their hands behind their backs. Next to them knelt that John Cosgrove fellow. A small thief stood nervously by with a pistol aimed at the man's head.

Clever, thought Leland. Shooting a bugger that size in the chest might not slow the man a'tall.

Finally the tug of war ended with the baron flying back against his pillows and crying like a spoiled child. The winner quickly tucked the satchel inside his vest, which was temporarily visible beneath his long black cloak.

Leland had seen that vest before.

"You, sir." The man had suddenly lost his cockney accent. He pointed no gun but commanded just the same. "Down on your knees if you please. Right where you are will do nicely."

"My knees?" That sounded like trouble. What if he couldn't get to his knees? "What if I can't manage it?" Leland looked down and was surprised to find he was already slipping to the floor. He couldn't maneuver his knees beneath him, so his derriere would have to do. He crossed his ankles and folded his arms. No need to be a hero if the damsel was not around the save, eh?

He nodded at his own reasoning.

In his current position, he had a clear view of that bossy thief's boots. He'd seen them before as well. He studied them, committed them to memory, and by God when morning came, he'd remember, so help him.

Boots. Vest. Good.

A taller, thinner thief whispered in the leader's ear. He nodded and addressed Leland.

"Your Grace, we have need of your carriage. Is it at the front of the house?"

"No, sir,” he said firmly.

"I'm afraid I must insist, Your Grace. I swear upon my honor we'll return it."

"You may borrow my carriage," he clarified. "But it is out behind the garden. But you must do me a favor sir, as I am currently inebriated and unavailable for heroism."

"What might I do for you, Your Grace?"

"If you see Lady Aphrodite, would you make certain she is safe?"

"Lady Aphrodite?"

"Yes, sir. If you would, sir."

"Of course, Your Grace. I'll see she is safe."

"Thank you, sir. You are a thief and a gentleman."

"I'll remind you of that one day, Your Grace."

"I look forward to it." And with that, Leland Wescott, Lord Fool, fell to his side and found the wood floor not as hard as he'd imagined.

***

Leland woke with a broken neck and a ringing in his ears unlike anything he'd previously experienced. A moment later he realized the ringing was actually the sound of a man screaming nearby.

He pushed himself off a wood floor and made his way over to the man, to explain why he should stop screaming.

There before him was Baron Ledford wreathing in agony. Bandages on both his leg and his hand had come loose and the burns beneath looked horribly painful.

Leland did the only humane thing he could think of to put them both out their misery.

He coldcocked the man. The ensuing silence was Heaven on Earth.

To escape the smells of alcohol and burned flesh, he descended the stairs and searched out a dark room and some servants. He found only the first and was happy for it. After he lowered himself into the overstuffed chair and prayed some blood out of his overstuffed head, the events of the previous evening began a parade behind his closed eyelids.

Backward.

Good Lord, he was a poor drunk.

He'd done nothing whatsoever to help Miss MacIntyre escape the wicked man upstairs, although if a certain thief ran into a woman named Aphrodite, he'd be sure to check on the woman's safety.

What a stupid arse.

But not quite as stupid as one Baron Ledford.

If the stories were true, the man had caught himself on fire. If one could discount the evil scheme of his auction, he was more the fool for demanding that payment be made in the middle of the night. In cash. At his home. The fact that a half-dozen thieves showed up soon after the hour of payment should have been no surprise.

But they'd all been dressed alike. They'd come together.

There was something tickling Leland's brain. Something he needed to remember from the night before. Something about the way they were dressed.

And where were the servants?

Why had they needed his carriage?

Someone pounded on the front door. Since there was no sign of a butler, it was up to Leland to stop the offender. He hoped he wouldn’t have to hit this one.

He pulled the door open and Robbie, his own driver stood before him, fist raised, slack-jawed.

"Praise be, you're all right, Your Grace!"

"Where have you been?"

"The old gentleman, he said you'd agreed he could take your carriage, sir. After we got clean out of London, they stopped and told me to go home. Took your carriage. Shall I call for the authorities, Your Grace?"

"No, Robby. I told him he could borrow the carriage. I need you to find me a hack then find Doctor Morris and get him back here as soon as possible. Then get yourself home.” His conscience prodded him. “There's a patient upstairs who has been abandoned. And he's in pain."

It was damned Christian of him to add the last.

Hangover or no, he would find Miss MacIntyre and Lord Anonymous. And to accomplish it, he needed only to find a certain vest and an odd pair of boots.

CHAPTER FIVE

Leland had listened closely to his driver, to the route he'd taken the night before. Unfortunately, the location where the Lord X's man had abandoned the younger man had been very near a crossroads. There were three directions they could have gone. For all he knew they could have wound their way back into London as well. There was just no way of knowing.

If he could just remember where he'd seen that man before...

As night approached, he couldn't get Miss MacIntyre out of his mind, or what might be happening to her. It was driving him mad enough to wish someone would coldcock him. At least he would wake in the morning and the nightmare would be over. For a while.

But none took such pity on him, and into the wee hours, he finally slept.

Lord Anonymous was due to return Miss MacIntyre by noon. Leland and half a dozen people with morbid curiosities sat in parked carriages outside Ledford's house before by quarter of ten.

One carriage belonged to the Duke of Redmond, of course. The rest were unmarked. At least the man had the decency to come in a closed carriage and not make a picnic of it with his friends. How mortifying for any woman to descend from a carriage into a leering crowd.

Leland was different. He was there to keep her from going inside her stepfather's house.

The bastard was back on his feet already. Leland had seen him peering out half a dozen windows, on two different levels of the house, in the short time since he'd arrived.

As time wore on, Leland swung like a pendulum, thrilling one minute at the chance she’d gotten away, and despairing the next when he considered the possible reasons why Lord X would not return her.

He tried to imagine a fairytale ending for her, but found he had a tendency to murder each Prince Charming that came to mind.

Quarter of twelve.

The street was silent as if the ticking of a watch were the most precious of all sounds.

Finally, a black carriage made its way down the street, slowly. Necks of the growing crowd craned through open windows. When the conveyance slowed near the baron's home, Leland's stomach plummeted. No matter what had happened, her reputation was destroyed. Only the bleakest future awaited her if he allowed her to enter that house. And as against heroism as he was, he couldn't let that happen.

He descended from his carriage to find Redmond a step ahead of him. Neither ran, but it was a less-than-dignified foot race. Only as they were nearing the carriage did they both slow.

How had he not noticed? The crest on the carriage was his own!

Redmond had murder in his eyes.

Shouting erupted all along the street as the wagering from the previous day came into question. Not many would know what had transpired when Leland had arrived at the townhouse early the previous morning. That would include the detail of his carriage having been 'borrowed' from him.

Leland wanted to laugh.

Redmond marched to the closest side of the carriage and wrenched open the door.

She wasn't inside.

She wasn't inside!

Redmond turned to him, obviously preparing to call him out.

Leland explained as briefly as possible, leaving out the more embarrassing details.

Redmond took it rather well, only nodding, then turning to go. But he paused. "Any idea who he was?"

"None."

Redmond dusted his gloved hands and looked down the street.

"Pity. I would have liked a taste of that."

Leland smiled. Then he laughed. And when Redmond's guard was down, Leland threw his fist at the other duke’s jaw as if he were trying to put an end to another man’s pain. And it worked. Leland felt nothing at all.

He’d even had the satisfaction of seeing the Duke's twisted lips hit the filthy road before his liveried drivers could break his fall.

"Taste that, old boy."

***

A week had passed since Aphrodite disappeared. It was the only way Leland thought of her now. Something of a myth. If he didn't hear a whisper, here and there, as he entered a drawing room, he'd have thought he'd imagined her...that she was a memory for no one but him.

At Lady Chestwick's gala, he indulged his melancholia and made his way to the pianoforte where a plain girl with a beautiful voice was singing something less than cheerful. If she wasn't careful, Lady Chestwick would see that she was punished for the rest of the season. He determined to compliment the hostess on her choice of entertainments, just in case. It would likely be the most heroic deed he'd manage all year.

Lord Fool was now something he called himself.

Glorious peach roses had been arranged in a white marble urn that sat atop the large instrument. Lord Fool leaned forward to appreciate their fragrance and their reflection in the polished surface.

He'd only seen the like of those roses once before...

It was the same place he'd seen a certain pair of boots and a man whose hair had not yet turned white.

***

The Duke of Stromburg arrived at Farrington’s country estate at four o'clock that afternoon. He'd ridden, but a carriage was not far behind, carrying more than a few friends and their favorite weapons. He wanted to face The Duke of Farrington alone. The man had been a dear friend of his father's after all. Leland would spare the man an audience if he could.

Every memory along the road warred with his new disillusion. How could such a man turn so deviant? How could he look upon his favorite memories of his father and extricate Farrington from those scenes?

He could not.

Surely men of Leland’s age could let go of childhood memories without pain. But perhaps he'd held on to his for too long, a splinter left unattended and allowed to swell, now too painful to remove.

He'd take Aphrodite away and wed her, spend the rest of his days trying to make up to her the fact he'd left her by that fountain. But how painful would be those memories of their first meeting, tied as it they were to this splinter in his heart?

Leaving her that morning had been just like the episode in France, only without the fire. Their barracks were in flames, the timbers collapsing, and he'd not allowed his men to go in after their comrades. It had been too late. The men inside were past screaming. One man disobeyed and died for it, running inside just as the roof collapsed. Leland had resorted to holding a pistol on the rest, to keep them from joining the body count. They'd wanted to be heroes, even if it meant dying for it.

He'd been awarded a medal for saving lives. He'd accepted it. He'd had no choice. But the lives everyone thought he should have saved had been those who’d been off duty. He’d made the schedule. He’d decided everyone’s fate that night. Well, all but the one.

He'd heard the men afterward, mumbling as he passed.

"You saved the wrong lives."

And when he'd left Aphrodite, he'd saved the wrong life too. He'd saved himself, yet again.

Now he wondered if she'd even agree to marry Lord Fool.

The long driveway was covered in a lush green canopy of ancient trees. Noting his favorite trunk to climb shot pain to his stomach, so he stopped noticing anything at all.

He rode directly to the stables and handed his reins to a boy there. A few minutes later he'd made his way past the fountains and into the gardens that lead to the duchess’s courtyard. Surely she'd died, though Leland hadn't been told. Surely Farrington wouldn’t entertain such depravity with his beloved wife still sharing his home.

There in the garden, Leland found the first three items he sought; the boots, the vest, and the old man. The latter knelt beside the path, his back to Leland. His vest matched that of the head thief. The boots were unmistakable. Shiny patches peeked around fresh smears of rich soil.

"Gordon."

The man froze, but did not turn.

"I wondered how long it would take your memory to catch up with you, Young Wescott."

Ever the rebel, Gordon addressed no man formally.

"On your feet."

The man dropped his head for a breath, then made his way up off his creaky knees. He turned and grinned at Leland as if he couldn't be more pleased to see the young duke back in his gardens.

"You didn’t recognize me at Whites. What gave me away, then?"

"The boots."

"I thought as much. You were eyeing them mighty closely. Good thing you were drunk off your arse yesterday or I'd have been in trouble."

"Yes. Lucky thing."

"Where is he?"

"Where's who?"

"Farrington."

"Oh, now, you don't want to go upsetting His Grace, Wes, do you? He's not so well these days."

"Well enough, I imagine."

"Oh, dear me. Well." The man scrubbed at the back of his neck like the answers to all his problems lie in scratching a deep itch.

"Well, what?"

Leland had a sinking feeling he didn't want to know...

***

Mister Gordon hurried into the drawing room and didn’t seem to notice the dirt on his boots or the whiteness of the rug, marching up to the Duchess of Farrington without so much as a bow.

"Your Grace, come quickly. Young Wescott arrived and called out His Grace. They're dueling on the lawn."

Tempest jumped to her feet and followed the duchess from the room. If she allowed the old woman to take the lead, someone might die before they got out of doors! If she tried to get around the woman's broad skirts, she might knock the duchess over and there'd be nothing left but a pile of bones.

Finally, the hall widened and she pardoned herself as she barreled past the Duchess of Farrignton and headed out the door.

There, at the bottom of the expansive lawn, its growth currently kept in check by a small flock of sheep, stood the Duke of Stromburg with a sword in his hand. Ten yards away stood the bow legged form of Dear Henny, the Duke of Farrington. There was no telling in which decade the duchess had added Dear to her husband’s name, but it stuck as if added to his certificate of birth.

Dear Henny slashed his saber in a wobbly line through the air. His opponent appeared to be stretching his legs and testing the flexibility of his blade.

"Are you ready, Your Grace?" The old man's voice sounded much stronger than he looked.

"Whenever you are, Your Grace." Stromburg was all manners.

"Don't you dare!" Tempest's momentum, having gathered all the way down the slope, threatened to take her through the center of the duel and beyond. Her feet were happy to stop, but her head kept going. She ended by somersaulting. Twice.

By the time her senses settled on which way was up, the men had begun their duel as if they'd never noticed her entrance, nor heard her warning. She dared not wait until she was on her feet to speak.

"Your Grace, put down your weapon. You have no issue with His Grace. It was Her Grace, the duchess who sent Gordon to win the bidding. She was in town and heard what was happening. That night, at my home, I was one of the thieves. So was the duchess. We wore breeches."

Wescott dropped his sword a bit. She wondered if the idea of her wearing breeches was the part of her story that caught his attention. "To which grace are you speaking, my dear?"

"To you!"

"To me, what?"

“I don’t understand.”

"To you, Your Grace,” he instructed.

"What? You’re worried about manners? Now?”

He nodded.

She carefully stood, smoothed her skirts and folded her hands.

“Fine. I was speaking to you, Your Grace."

"Much better. En guard."

Steel blades connected and clanged.

Tempest screamed. It was a straightforward scream. No words.

Both men put down their swords.

"My sweet Aphrodite, if you would please forbear your screaming until one or the other is wounded, I’d be most grateful."

She gave up trying to understand Stromburg and tried to reason with Dear Henny instead.

"Your Grace, please don't hurt this poor, addlepated man. He's tried so very hard to rescue me, and he clearly doesn't understand what's going on here."

"To which grace are you speaking, dear?" asked the old man, though he was unable to keep a straight face in the end.

"Your Grace! You're teasing me! How could you?"

In unison, they answered, "To which grace--"

Tempest screamed again. The duchess had arrived quite out of breath, Gordon at her side. Big John was not far behind, his new gardener’s apron looked more like a napkin tied about his neck.

Tempest pointed at the duchess.

"How dare you frighten Her Grace so? She might have died flying to your side."

“Oh, my dear," gasped the duchess. "I didn't quite fly, as you did of course. And Gordon here did wink."

"'Tis true. I did wink." Gordon winked again as if to prove he could do it.

"You winked.”

“I knew the duel was a prank,” confessed the duchess.

“A prank.” Tempest was too weary to do anything but repeat people, apparently.

Suddenly the Duke of Stromburg was at her side. He gave a dramatic, courtly bow.

“Forgive me, my lady. These kind and gentle folks are neither kind, nor gentle. They thrive on pranks like these. They’ve played them on me all my life. I couldn’t resist being on the inside, as it were. Just this once.”

“Forgiven. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see what that tumble has done to my hair.” She could smile for approximately one minute more, but her tears had sent warning; they were on their way. She so envied the relationship these people enjoyed.

Since she’d arrived, she’d heard a lifetime of stories about the Duke of Stromburg, his late father, and the Duke of Farrington. She couldn’t have hoped for a better place to leave her loyal servants, safely out of reach of the injured and insufferable Baron Ledford. Too bad there was no place for her as well. At least they’d help her find a respectable position, until her reputation caught up with her of course.

She turned and started back up the hill much slower than she’d descended.

Stromburg was at her elbow. She kept walking, so he walked backward to face her.

“You haven’t forgiven me. It’s only right. I should be punished. For a week at least.”

She wanted him to go away.

“Ooo, that bad? I must admit my mother was never very fond of such teasing.” He tripped, or pretended to. She refused to react. He caught up quickly. “Please, Aphrodite, at least take my arm.” He held a bent elbow before her. She ignored it. “Come on,” he whispered. “You know you want to take it. There’s a good girl.”

She stopped and faced him. He would not give up until he saw her tears? Well, there they were.

“I am not a dog, sir.”

“I am not a dog, Your Grace,” he corrected and wiped away a tear with his thumb, though he never asked why she was crying.

“I am not a dog, Your Gr--” She knocked his hand away and growled in frustration. “I do not wish to be trained. Please cease instructing me on the particulars of addressing dukes. I shall never frequent your circles again. Your. Grace.” She poked him in the chest with her last two words, then turned once again to her hike. He took her arm and swung her into him, nearly knocking the breath from her.

Slowly, he dropped his mouth to hers.

She soon cared not if she ever breathed again.

“I beg your pardon,” he murmured, between kisses. “I’m just so relieved to find you safe.”

She was just so relieved he came to save her, even if she didn’t need saving.

“Aphrodite?”

“Mmm?”

“Will you take Hercules...”

Her body froze, breath and all.

“...to be your lawfully wedded duke?”

He couldn’t have meant it! He couldn’t! She pushed him away.

“Of course not.”

It was his turn to stop breathing, but it didn’t last long.

“Please? Aphrodite was never meant to be alone.”

“Fine. If you insist.”

He looked a bit disappointed in her choice of words, then took up her gloved hand and sighed. Speechless for once?

She took pity.

“I’ll say yes to you now, but I’m going to wake in a moment and this will have been a nightmare.”

He smiled. “You mean a dream.”

“No. I mean a nightmare.”

“Now who is the one who’s teasing?” He pulled her close and kissed her on the tip of the nose. “You’ll still have to call me Your Grace, of course. Sometimes, in private, you may call me Lord Fool.”

She frowned and tried to push him away. He was having none of it.

“Will it make a difference that I shall also be addressing you as Your Grace?”

“It might.” She grabbed his cravat and pulled him close. “Kiss me, Lord Fool.”

THE END

BLOOD FOR INK

Book One of The Scarlet Plumiere Series

CHAPTER ONE

Capital Journal, Fiction Section, Friday, February the First

A rumor currently circulates among the gentry in Londonberry that the white/blond Viscount of F had a visitor one recent morning, or rather, visitors, as the woman who claimed to be his wife brought with her a pair of identical offspring closely resembling the earl himself. Piercing blue eyes and straight white hair adorned both cherubs whose mother was blessed with the dark hair of her pure Spanish ancestors.

Not believing the woman, or his own eyes it seems, The Viscount of F shooed the little family from his noble steps and into the halls of a certain hotel where they have taken up residence until a higher authority might be able to hear their tale.

It was also rumored that the mistress of Viscount of F has moved out of his grasp as she deemed it unwise to associate with a man who possesses untrustworthy…eyes.

Stay tuned to see if the current fiancée of this poor-sighted creature is also saved from his company.--The Scarlet Plumiere

“Well, Stanley, you can’t very well sue the paper for libel when they did print this in the fiction section.” Ramsey Birmingham, Earl of Northwick kept a straight face, but only just. His friend was not the first to be chastised by the red-penned writer. That he was being so dramatic about it, so early in the day, was an invitation for torment.

“But North! I tell you there was no woman. No wife. No children with my blue eyes and white hair.”

“White hair, even. Not blonde.” The Marquis of Harcourt prodded poor Stanley from behind, then walked around the man and offered him a much needed drink.

“It’s early.” Stanley waited for someone to agree.

“Drink!” Harcourt slapped him on the back, nearly spilling the shot of courage.

Stanley needed no more prompting and emptied the glass, then stared into its empty depths. “Yes, white hair. There are no such creatures, I assure you. I’ve only been to Spain two years ago…oh dear.”

“Well, the vixen got that right at least.” Earnest Meriwether, the unfortunately named Earl of Montpelier, chimed in from the far stacks of North’s immodest library.

“But Monty, I’m telling you, there is no such woman.” Stanley looked at a chair, but North shook his head, as if to say the morning’s business was so serious he should keep on his toes.

Stanley straightened and lifted his chin, poor man. So easily manipulated. The Scarlet Plumiere really shouldn’t have picked on such a harmless chap. North was of half a mind to hunt her down and tell her so.

“Well, the Scarlet Plumiere has yet to accuse an innocent man, even if she is a bit inaccurate on the specificity of the crime.” Monty joined the rest, eyes fixed on an open volume of Shakespeare--the red leather set. He took the seat Stanley had wanted.

“He’s right, of course. Let’s hear it, Stanley. What have you done?” Harcourt hooked a leg over the corner of a table and leaned forward for the details.

Of course, Stanley broke.

“I’ve done nothing! Nothing the rest of our lot hasn’t done from time to time.”

North couldn’t bring himself to prod the Viscount further. The poor man had asked his three closest friends to meet that morning to find a solution to his newest problem--as fresh as the morning paper. They really should get to the business of helping the chap.

Harcourt was in no such hurry.

“Stanley, you’re trying our patience. Spit out the confession now or I don’t see us making much of an attempt to save your sorry hide.”

Stanley flushed from his pinned cravat to the roots of his transparent-like hair. The color hardly became him.

“I set Ursula aside yesterday.”

“You what?” Three baritones in unison sounded almost rehearsed.

North shook his head. “I’m sorry, old boy. You did what?”

“He set her aside.”

North turned to Monty. “He set her aside.”

“Yes, blast you. I set her aside.”

Monty closed the book and set Shakespeare on the overstuffed arm. “Pardon my slow wit, but just how does one put an Ursula aside?”

Monty was right. Stanley and his hair had had the pick of women since they were all in knee breeches together. Now he had the pick of all mistresses and he’d chosen very well. It was quite possible Stan, old pal, was the first man to actually end an affair with the woman. Ursula did the shopping for a new lover. Ursula let that lover know when he was no longer welcome. But Stanley Winters, Viscount Forsgreen, had set her aside.

“I suppose he picked her up by the shoulders, turned, and set her down again.” Harcourt demonstrated with an invisible model, then dusted his hands. “Out of his way, presumably. Is that accurate, Stanley?”

Stanley’s blush looked to be seeping into his actual hair.

“I let her go.”

“Aah. Like fishing, then? You took the hook from her mouth, so to speak, and put her back in the water.” North couldn’t help but laugh at Harcourt’s miming skills.

“Can she swim, do you suppose?” Monty was ever concerned with details. In exact opposition to his given name, he was obsessed with remaining sober and somber. But no longer. He dissolved into laughter at his own jest, as did they all.

Stanley stood straighter, if possible. “You know perfectly well what I mean. I ended our affair. I told her she was free to do as she pleases.”

North nodded and composed himself. “And you paid her a nice settlement, of course.”

“Actually, she wouldn’t take it. She wasn’t at all pleased that I offered it.”

Harcourt bent over, giggling, and dove onto the davenport.

“So, you have slighted Ursula.” Monty sobered. “That has to be it! Ursula found the Scarlet Plumiere and had you punished. Severely punished, it appears; if night follows day, and things play out the way the SP has predicted, you, my dear Viscount of F, are about to be released from your engagement.”

“But that’s why I let her go, you see? It would be poor form to keep one’s mistress while one is preparing for marriage, and honeymoon, and fatherhood, and…”

“And death.” Having solved the mystery, Monty’s nose was back in the book.

“Yes, that too. If Irene Goodfellow breaks it off, Mother will have me fed to the fish, and even though she’s doddering, she’ll find a way to bear another son to replace me.”

“It’s unsettling the way that woman tosses that threat about,” North admitted. “It fairly gives me nightmares thinking about it.”

“Well, thinking about it has put me off seeing Ursula.”

“Quite so. Quite so.” But what to do about it?

“It would be best to have her put down, Stanley. For your own good,” Harcourt mumbled against the cushion.

“Who? The Scarlet Plumiere? I can’t have a woman murdered, even if she’s essentially ruined my life with her blasted article. I can’t believe you’d suggest such a thing.”

“Oh, not her, man. Your mother.” Harcourt rolled onto his back and spoke to the ceiling. “Have your mother put down like the old horse that she is and enjoy the reprieve. Marry in another ten years.”

“Put down my mo...you’re mad!”

“No. Actually, it wasn’t a bad idea a’tall.” Monty closed his book again and tossed it onto the table.

“All right. You’re both mad. I won’t be having my mother...put down, for God’s sake.”

“Oh, Stanley. Do keep up.” Monty folded his hands and grinned. He must have had a grand idea. “I mean the SP, of course, not your dear saintly horse-of-a-mother.”

“You mean it? You can stand here in front of God and good whisky and talk of having a woman murdered? Because all of London knows it’s a woman writing those articles. Good lord, man. Perhaps I don’t know you at all. Perhaps you could actually do the deed yourself!”

“Oh, I would rather not do the deed myself, of course. But I suppose if I must...”

North couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed up his hands.

“I surrender as well, Monty. What are you thinking? You can’t be talking about having a woman murdered.”

“Not murdered. Put down. Taken out of the picture--or the Capital Journal at least.” Monty leaned in and lowered his voice. “The only way to control a woman these days, gentlemen, is to marry her off.”

Harcourt rolled back onto his face and mumbled, “I was afraid you would say that.”

Callister stepped into the library with a small box tied with string. North nodded his butler over and reached for the package, but the old man shook his head.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but this just arrived for Viscount Forsgreen.”

Something yawned and stretched inside North’s breast, something that had been sleeping for years. Usually, when it woke, he drugged it with Brandy until it slept again. He wasn’t sure, but it might have been his soul. And with some sort of premonition which he’d never been known to possess, he suspected that thing within him would somehow be affected by Stanley’s box.

He watched, as did they all, as Stanley slowly pulled the tails of the string, as if they expected a cat to jump out of it any second.

The string fell away. Nothing happened. Stanley sat the box upon the table, lifted the lid, and set it aside. He frowned, looked at North, then reached inside. He pulled out a pair of spectacles and a bubble burst in North’s chest.

He laughed. Stanley didn’t seem to understand.

“Who did you tell about this meeting, Viscount F?” Monty had to raise his voice to be heard.

North laughed harder. Watching Stanley’s face as realization dawned, struck him as particularly amusing. Or maybe it was the joke played by the Scarlet Plumiere.

“Poor eyesight.” Harcourt laughed. “I say, she’s a clever minx.”

North agreed. The woman was clever. And she might have just won over his heart, if not his very soul.

CHAPTER TWO

Capital Journal, Fiction Section, February the Third

A wild tale is spreading like the black plague through ladies’ parlors at this very hour. Supposedly, the men of Londonberry, or at least those allegedly eligible for marriage, have held a meeting in the honor of a particularly talented writer and drawn lots to see who among them is the lucky so-and-so who must not only ferret out the identity of said writer, but must marry her in order to control her...uh, plume...thereby removing the threat to his fellows’ reputations that might very well be the last resort for some women to find justice in this world.

Bravo, Mr.Lott! Did you think of this scheme by yourself? I cannot imagine a sweeter justice than for the man who imagined such a lottery to be its first selected victim. I say “first” because after you fail at your task, sir, undoubtedly there will be a few boisterous fools who think they can succeed where you are about to fail.

And you’ve boasted you can find me by Valentine’s Day? Bon chance!

If you’d like to read more about North and his search for the Scarlet Plumiere, visit my website www.llmuir.weebly.com and you’ll find Blood for Ink on the Regency Book page.

SOMEWHERE OVER THE FREAKING RAINBOW

CHAPTER ONE

“You’re such an idiot.” Jamison shook his head.

Ray grinned as he watched his paper airplane glide out the glassless window and into the darkness. “You love me.”

Jamison didn’t know whether it was his imagination or the glow of white paper that his eyes followed, arching off to the right, then lodging in a corn stalk twenty feet below the old tree house. He itched to turn on the flashlight, to see if it had landed where he thought, but that would screw up their little stake-out.

The tree was enormous, nearly five feet in diameter, and the ancient clubhouse was so insanely high people forgot it was there. Built thirty or forty years ago, before people knew better than to pound railroad stakes into living trees, a dozen three-foot boards were nailed to the side of the trunk, creating a ladder. Not realizing it had been mortally wounded, the tree hung on to those boards like a dutiful soldier. Unfortunately, and fortunately, the gaps between the rungs stretched with each year and little kids could no longer use them.

Not that they would want to; even Jamison hated being up so high.

Another page was loudly ripped from a dusty tabloid.

“Dude!” Jamison groped for the magazine in the dark and pulled it away from the childhood friend whom he’d barely recognized two days before when Jamison had returned to his grandpa’s farm. “I didn’t freeze my butt off ‘til three o’clock in the morning just so you could give us away.”

“Oh yeah. Okay.”

Behind them, Burke began to snore.

“Hey. Hey, wake up. It’s almost time.” Ray thumped on the guy until he stopped snoring and dragged himself over to join the party.

“This better be good, man.” Burke rubbed his eyes and set his chin on the two-by-four window frame. There was no moon, but in the eerie blue light from the stars, the skater beanie hanging off the back of his head made his profile look like an alien’s.

Space was tight, with all three of them looking out the rectangle opening, but at least Jamison was warmer. Colorado in the fall was like Siberia to a kid who’d spent the last five years in Texas.

A door spring creaked from the left, then creaked again, as if the neighbor’s old porch screen had slowly opened and then shut even slower.

“Holy crap,” Ray whispered. His legs started bouncing.

“Relax.” Jamison tried not to get too excited. So someone was up at three a.m. just like Ray had promised. They still had no clue what was planned, only that it was a secret, and maybe a cult thing.

“It’s not that. I have to piss.” Ray’s legs still shook.

“You’ll have to hold it,” Jamison ordered.

“No way, bro. My Dew just hit.” Ray stood up. “I’m going down.”

“Me too.” Burke stood up. “I gotta go too.”

A chill ran up and down Jamison’s spine like a pinball between bumpers. If he got busted spying on their neighbors, his mom would kill him. Heck, he’d die of embarrassment all by himself, especially if the hot one heard about it; either way, he’d be dead. When he started school tomorrow, he wanted to be able to look her in the eye again, not hide from her.

“Just find a bottle,” he pleaded.

“No way. It would overflow.” Ray shuffled toward the exit in the corner of the floor. “I’d arc it out the window, but I might hit someone.”

Burke choked on a laugh.

“Okay. But if you’re going down, be quiet. And hurry.”

A few seconds later Jamison was alone. He pulled his hoodie over his head but held it out from his ears, listening for Ray to make too much noise.

A breeze disturbed the field below.

At first, he worried it was his friends, peeing over the fence. Why else would the tree leaves not be moving too? But the rustling came from the ground and grew louder, as if tons of people were walking through the dense drying field.

Jamison turned back to the window.

Tons of people. Holy crap.

Suddenly he’d have given anything to be tucked in bed, completely oblivious to what his grandpa’s freakish neighbors did in the middle of the night. Maybe if he, too, would have needed to pee, he could’ve snuck back into the house instead of sitting in the front row of what he hoped wouldn’t be some sort of ritual sacrifice.

They made movies out of this stuff—a boy witnesses a murder. Boy reports the murder. There is no body. Soon...there is no boy.

Not daring to sit front and center in case the moon suddenly showed up, he stood and moved back, satisfied to watch only what came into view. He tugged harder on his hood, to hide his blond hair, folded his arms, and tucked his cold hands into his armpits, grateful for the thick soft cotton of his new sweatshirt.

Small glowing lights moved among the plants, headed for the center of the field. As Jamison shifted from foot to foot the specters spread into a circle about fifty yards out from the tree. At first, he thought someone was going to burn the field, but the lights were as steady as the people carrying them.

But they weren’t actually carrying them.

Robes—the light came from under their robes as if each person wore a single, battery-operated Christmas light on one shoe. He would have laughed at the costumes if he hadn’t just noticed that the neighbors were standing in a ring, in the middle of...of...a crop circle!

He, Ray, and Burke had climbed up pretty early—around eight o’clock. They’d looked over that field for an hour or so before it got dark. They would have noticed a freaking crop circle!

Come on. Come on. If those two didn’t hustle, they’d miss it. They’d never believe him if the circle somehow disappeared by morning. He’d never believe it. They’d also never believe the lights—coming from...wherever.

They’d believe the robes, though; this group wasn’t just eco-friendly, they were eco-nuts. Calling themselves Somerleds, they lived like the Amish or Mennonites—keeping to themselves, living simply—only instead of wearing black all the time, they wore white. Ray told him they wore only raw wool and raw cotton, and as far as his friend knew, they only ate raw food as well. No meat. Strictly vegetarians.

At least if they were sacrificing something, or someone, they wouldn’t be eating it afterward. For some reason, that put Jamison a little more at ease. He still stayed back from the window, though. Who knew what might light up next and clearly show the Somerleds the face of their new neighbor/spy?

The circle of lights and bodies settled. Nothing else moved through the field; all were contained in that deep bowl of dried husks, the sides towering over the tallest of heads, the tassels waving in the breeze like flags above a circus tent.

Very clever; no one in that flat county would notice the meeting place unless they were flying overhead...or perched in one of Granddad’s windbreak trees. They would never get away with this closer to the mountains.

But just what were they trying to get away with?

Movement.

A taller one—had to be a man—moved around the circle, stopping at each person for a minute. When he stopped near a small figure, the two hugged. For just a second that hot girl’s face was lit up over the man’s shoulder, her hair spilling down the guy’s arm, and Jamison was hit by an invisible Mac truck.

She was there. She was part of it. He’d fallen for a circus freak.

Jamison moved to the side of the window, wanting a better look, but more afraid of getting caught than before.

"Just show them a little respect for the good neighbors they've been to me," his granddad had asked in his letter.

Jamison had never been so near Somerled people before. For the last two days he’d tried not to stare and had done a pretty good job, he’d thought. He was a good actor, just like most kids in big city high schools; you had to walk a thin line between ignoring the dangerous people and showing them enough respect, and do both without drawing their attention. He’d managed to live a pretty invisible life in Texas and treating the Somerleds like dangerous gang members had been a good plan...

Until a girl his age had pulled up in a green BMW and caught him with his mouth hanging open. Her clothes marked her a Somerled, but her car was anything but simple. What was up with that?

He wouldn’t call her pretty, but she had a look that said one of these days she’d be beautiful. Her nose was kind of cute and boxy on the end. Her eyes were so dark you couldn’t tell where the iris ended and the pupil began. There was something warm and melty about those eyes, like chocolate in the bottom of a black cup. Her face was what his mom would call heart-shaped.

She styled her light brown hair the same as every other American female did—long and straight. It swung like a heavy drape when she walked.

And she wasn't overly hot, or at least he'd never be able to tell with all her white layers of clothes. Her pants looked like white jeans. She wore an off-white t-shirt that showed in the V of her same-colored sweater. Her rough-looking coat was kind of the same color of pencil lead. Her boots looked like moccasins and matched the fringe of her scarf, both of them the shade of raw leather—like the inside of an orange peel. A She-eco-nut. Just like the rest. Just like you’d find all over the world.

But she wore plain pretty well. Whether or not it was the confidence in her walk, or her steady gaze when she’d finally noticed him, he couldn't say. One thing was for sure, though. She’d gotten his attention and he was never going to get it back.

Especially when she teased him with crop circles and secret meetings in the middle of the night.

The tall one finally moved away from her and walked toward the center of the circle. His movements were slow, deliberate. Bent corn stalks tugged at his robes as he passed over them, but he kept going until he reached the center.

Jamison was relieved there wasn’t an altar in sight.

The Somerleds cleared their throats, then began...singing...kind of. It was more like the sound an orchestra makes when the musicians are warming up, only with voices.

A choir? Some stupid kind of choir practice at 3:00 in the morning? Something that couldn't be sung in a building somewhere, but in a crop circle?

Jamison smirked. How lame. Oh, he was going to kill Ray.

The noise sharpened, the voices blending better. He'd stay and watch for another minute, then he was going to bed. Ray could live until morning when they met up at school. If this was his idea of a joke, he’d be dead before first period.

Jamison glared out at the scene, disgusted that he’d lost sleep for this. He didn’t know what he’d been hoping to see, maybe a body being buried or some blood-drinking ceremony, but not this. Okay, the crop circle was pretty cool, but that was it.

He was about to turn away when the man in the center suddenly started getting taller and taller. Only he wasn’t growing—he was rising in the air!

With the lights from the far side of the circle it was clear there was nothing lifting him up—definitely a David Blaine kind of thing.

But then, twenty feet in the air, nearly straight out from the tree house, he...exploded.

Fiery pieces of him flew in all directions and disintegrated, like a meteor burning up in the atmosphere. But there had been no sound. The singing had stopped short when the guy exploded.

Holy crap! They blew him up!

"Holy shit!" Ray's voice rose through the drop door and none too quietly.

Immediately, light hit the tree house—not small lights but more powerful beams, like cop flashlights. The Somerleds started moving back into the corn, heading not in the directions from which they came, but toward the trees! Some started to run.

Jamison's heart splashed into his bladder and he thought he'd piss his pants. He hurried to the hole and leaned over.

"Get out of here!" he hissed. "They're coming."

But Ray had already noticed. He was nearly sitting on Burke's head as the two climbed down as fast as the awkward rungs would allow. If Jamison tried to follow, he'd get to the ground just in time to welcome the neighbors to his back yard.

Crap!

Would they come looking in the tree house?

He peeked out the window. Long robes didn't seem to be slowing anyone down. They looked like a search party after escaped convicts and they didn’t appear concerned about the fence, either. Did they expect to run right through it?

Hell yes, they'd come looking in the tree house.

Suddenly he remembered the other trap door, but this one opened onto the roof. Jamison had "remodeled" when he'd inherited the hideout. Although with no handholds of any kind, and nothing to keep one from falling off the roof, the opening had only been used to hide contraband when Grandpa started huffing and puffing his way up the tree.

Jamison moved beneath it, thankful to still be deep in the shadows where the flashlight beams didn’t reach him.

No go. Crap crap crap. He’d remembered the hole being so much larger.

The side window was barely big enough, but all he needed. He thrust one leg through and found a fat branch for his shoe. With a bit of maneuvering he found enough footholds to make his way to the roof and eased himself onto it, flattening as best as he could. The wood was cold and would have been smooth if not for decades of bird droppings, leaves, and sap sealing out the elements as well as shingles would have.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are." The taunting voice came from far below. The clubhouse was over six feet tall, so now that Jamison was on the roof his mind did the math and he froze. He was too high. He would die if he fell.

"Please, God, help me!" Ray wasn't acting. He wasn't joking. He sounded terrified, but Jamison couldn’t help; he couldn't move. His mom would have to call the fire department in the morning and they'd come after him with a cherry picker, like a stupid cat.

All he could do was listen.

A deep laugh rumbled up to the canopy of dried leaves that waited for just the right breeze to pry their grasps from the high branches. "Don't you just love Desperation Prayers?"

"Oh yes," a woman answered. "They're like dessert, like the cherry on top. I bet I’d like cherries."

"Get your hands off me!” It was Burke’s voice. “Let me go, you mother—"

"Now, now. Is that any way to talk? We're going to help you, son."

"I don't need help, you sick—"

"Stop that. You'll only feel worse for it in the end." The woman's voice and Burke's were moving away.

"Yes, and you have enough to repent over already, don't you think?" The deep voice laughed again. "Come along, Ray. Do you mind if we call you Ray?"

Ray couldn’t be fond of cops, not with the candy store in his pockets he’d shown off to Jamison that day. Maybe that was why he sounded so terrified. Maybe he thought he'd be arrested.

But that wasn't right. They weren’t trespassing. They were on Jamison’s property, or at least they had been. If the Somerleds called the cops, Jamison would set them straight. They had no reason to arrest anyone. If anything, those guys should be charged with kidnapping.

But Jamison couldn't defend anyone stuck in a tree. He wanted to get down--he was freezing--but there had been so many of them. Some could still be waiting for him to show himself.

Forget that. I’d rather freeze.

He heard murmurs beneath him, getting closer, getting louder. Although he was expecting it, vibrations sent a wave of panic through him when someone dragged himself up through the hole, into the clubhouse.

"Cool."

More vibrations.

"Yeah, but look at the view."

Heavy steps shuffled toward the big window.

"Uh, oh. Not good."

"Not good is right."

"Well, we've cleaned up messes before." The small search party moved around the room, tossing around magazines, snooping through the long wood boxes that served as storage and seating for generations of little boys’ butts.

"Are you going to come out, Jamison?" The words pushed through the wood.

Hell no.

He wasn't even going to breathe unless they climbed out, squeezed through those twisted tree limbs, and crawled onto the roof. They had no proof he was there. No proof.

He held his lungs open so air could come and go as it pleased, but he wouldn't rustle a friggin' leaf!

"Do you think he's here?" one whispered.

Jamison smiled in relief—they didn't know for sure!

"He has to be. Why would those two be here without him?"

"I don't know. Skye said Ray's been watching her closely. If he knew about the tree house, he could have come without Kenneth's grandson."

"Uh oh."

"What?"

"Another trap door."

Jamison felt pressure on the hip that covered the escape hatch. He held still, not pushing back, but not giving way. In his bladder, Jamison’s heart moved over to make room for his Dew. If he pissed his pants, would they think it was rain?

"A seventeen-year-old couldn’t fit through there."

"But he could be on the roof... You on the roof, Jamison?”

CHAPTER TWO

Moments earlier...

The silence was broken by a “Holy shit!” and it took Skye a moment to realize she hadn’t imagined it.

From inside the deep circle of flattened cornstalks the only thing visible, besides the star-dotted sky, was the row of trees marking the end of Kenneth’s property. Nestled in the branches of the second tree was the old clubhouse. Dangling beneath the clubhouse, and to either side of the giant trunk, were the spot-lit faces of two wide-eyed teenagers.

No!

Chaos erupted around her. The Final Host moved as one toward the trees. Some broke into a run. She had to go along. What excuse could she offer if she didn’t?

A twisted ankle?

Her ankles didn’t twist.

Too tired?

Her kind didn’t need rest.

Too distraught over losing Warren?

Perhaps. Though losing people was the one constant of their existence. In fact, they’d be losing her in a matter of weeks.

Her turn to stand in the center of the circle had never bothered her before, but two days ago a lot of things changed. Two days ago she’d felt a tug in her empty chest and looked up to see Kenneth Jamison’s handsome grandson looking back at her. Two days ago she’d slipped easily into the character of the sixteen-year-old girl she was supposed to resemble. Of course she didn’t feel mortal; she’d never feel that. But she’d felt something. And in a body with no sensation, feeling something was monumental.

Unfortunately, that something was being smothered by dread.

Step by step she dragged her feet through the cornfield but instead of leaping over the fence with the others, she stalled. She couldn’t bear it. Young Jamison would have noticed her in the circle. What a freak he must believe her to be.

If he’d seen.

There was a chance he hadn’t recognized her in the darkness, from that distance, and that slim chance kept her from joining in the chase. If she came face to face with him now, he’d fear her, and she dreaded seeing that emotion mar his strong face. Even worse would be finding disgust in his big brown eyes.

While they’d watched each other over the fence for the past two days, she’d gotten a good look at him. His brows were much darker than his golden blond hair with their ends bowed up like the edge of a bird’s wing. His flat cheeks rippled into dimples when he’d laughed with his mother, and his straight white teeth only made his Texas tan stand out that much more.

So foolish! What she should worry about was losing his cooperation, not his approval. Making an enemy of Jamison Shaw would jeopardize her assignment, and all she could think about was his dimples?

Ridiculous! She was impervious to everything. She felt nothing. The emotions of mortals were things she watched from a distance, manipulated when necessary. They did not manipulate her.

Why, then, did she suddenly feel emotion? What would the others say? Was she flawed? Would they call for a replacement and send her to the center of the circle early?

Fear. This is fear.

She sagged against the fence and nearly laughed in relief. Those of the Final Host had nothing to fear; that was the entire point of The Arrangement.

Her thoughts calmed. Everything would happen as it was destined to happen. Jamison, and the strange connection she felt with him, had a purpose. She needed only to wait and see what that was.

She heard Ray Peters pleading for God’s help and found a gap through which she could watch the proceedings. He was on the ground, held firmly by three of her robed “cousins.” Shock had him shaking like a junkie in withdrawals and she pitied him, even though he half-deserved a good fright. She’d warned him to mind his own business, first kindly, then sternly. She wondered if at that moment her warning was replaying in his head—“Curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed...the cat.”

She took a deep, bracing-but-unnecessary breath and looked back to where the other captive sat.

It wasn’t Jamison!

A very black-haired Burke Costley struggled and spit, but his captors only laughed and interrupted when he began cursing. If he meant to punch empty air he was succeeding nicely. He probably saw six robed men, not three, and he was fighting the wrong three.

Clearly he was far too wasted for adrenaline to sober him up. The fight drained quickly, turning his arms to sagging rubber and he slumped to the ground in a loose pile next to his well-recognized beanie. Burke was soon carried away like a baby, and Skye had little doubt that if left to himself, he probably wouldn’t remember anything in the morning.

As Ray was led away his army fatigues churned beneath him, but there was no need. He barely touched the ground, thanks to his escort.

The yard was quickly emptying of white robes, except for the circle of men surrounding the base of the tree, as if they might shake the mighty trunk until Jamison dropped from the branches like a ripe peach. Thank goodness that wasn’t an option; from that height, they’d end up with peach jam.

Skye had assumed, when she’d first seen Kenneth’s grandson, that he noticed her only because of her apparent age. After all, she’d been given plain, non-memorable looks. But as she’d moved throughout the compound, and he’d gone in and out of his grandfather’s house, the connection between them had become real.

It was this connection that made her sharply aware of his presence over nearly thirty feet above her. Too bad she hadn’t been so aware of him before the ceremony began. If she hadn’t been so saddened to be losing dear Warren perhaps she would have felt that tug and warned the rest. An interruption would have been welcomed; it would have supplied an excuse to keep Warren for an additional day.

Lucas and Jonathan began climbing the tree. If the situation weren’t so serious, their struggle to find the elusive footholds in billowing skirts would have been funny. The two were aware of Skye’s assignment and that Jamison could not be handled as Ray and Burke would be. But what would they do? Jamison must not resist. If he struggled and fell...

Skye had always wished she could taste peach jam, but she suddenly scratched it from her wish list.

She turned her back; she couldn’t watch. Lucas and Jonathan would keep him safe. Besides, she and the boy would both be embarrassed if Jamison fought like Burke then found her watching it all for entertainment.

Conversation was apparently unaffected by gravity since she couldn’t catch a word that was said. She strained to discern a voice other than Lucas and Jonathan’s, but got nothing.

Leaning back, she slid down the fencepost until the ground hit her rump and she folded her bell sleeves over her knees. Nothing to do but wait and count stars.

Two robed figures vaulted over the fence to land beside her.

“Too weak to clear the fence, Skye?” Lucas chucked her under the chin and pulled her to her feet so abruptly she nearly took flight.

Jonathan looked at her closely. “More likely she didn’t wish the young man to know of her participation. It might have played against her, and she is working under a time constraint.”

She gave Jonathan a generous smile. He was a great reader—minds, faces, auras—he read them all. Clearly. Subjectively.

“Well, then, you have little to worry over, my dear.” Lucas began walking along the fence, toward the house. “He wasn’t up there.”

Skye had begun to follow, but stopped. “What do you mean, he wasn’t up there?” she whispered a bit loudly.

“He. Wasn’t. Up. There. Jonathan walked around her to follow Lucas. “No heat traces of him on the ground, either, so relax.”

Of course she couldn’t relax! She happened to know Jamison had been up there. He was still up there. The question was what should she do about it?

Perhaps he was asleep, under a blanket they hadn’t checked. Perhaps he’d missed it all. But that wasn’t likely. Lucas and Jonathan were anything but subtle. They wouldn’t have tiptoed up the tree, taken a peek and come back down. They would have stomped through from corner to corner and bellowed out the windows.

Jamison wasn’t asleep. He’d seen it all, and now he was hiding. She couldn’t blame him. She’d hide if she were him, if she’d seen what he’d seen then heard his friends being taken away.

She had a choice, which was odd since she never had choices to make, only clear-cut objectives. There was no owner’s manual to tell her to report any strange connections she felt with her mortal counterparts. She had no clear obligation to correct Lucas when he claimed Jamison wasn’t up there. After all, her senses could be wrong. She wasn’t supposed to have such a sense anyway. Who was to say she wasn’t imagining something up there? It was over the property line, unhallowed ground. It could be a demon.

It could be, but it wasn’t. It was only Jamison.

Only Jamison. If only it were that simple.

CHAPTER THREE

“There’s the bell. You’d better get going.” Jamison’s mom gave him a subtle squeeze and turned toward the parking lot.

He hoped she wouldn’t look back because he wasn’t moving an inch until Ray showed up. Screw first period.

Mom didn’t look back, but before her car pulled onto the street a green BMW screamed into the space she’d just left.

Okay, actor boy. Act cool. You saw nothing. She knows nothing. I was never there.

The door opened and a ball of white and gray unfurled. He watched like someone had commanded him not to take his eyes off her. So much for cool.

She must be cold. More layers than usual. A leather book bag dug into her shoulder. A white glove pushed the door shut and she turned. Sunglasses. Clever.

Were they allowed to wear sunglasses? Plastic, black sunglasses?

“Hey.” She smiled as she walked toward him, but she revealed nothing. “You’re Kenneth’s grandson.” She held out a gloved hand and stopped two feet away. Guess she forgot she was in a hurry.

“That’s me.”

“You’re wondering if I’m allowed to wear sunglasses.”

Holy shit, he thought, but he kept his face blank, except for his raised eyebrow. Granddad had taught him that, years ago.

“I’m teasing. Don’t imagine I can read minds. I just get asked that every time I wear them.” She started to take them off, took one look into his eyes, then replaced them.

“Hungover?” He couldn’t believe he just asked, but he covered the slip with a friendly smile.

“That’s not allowed.” She laughed. “But I am allowed to shake hands.”

Stupid! Her hand was still out there, hanging!

He grabbed it a little fast, a little hard, but she just laughed again. It wasn’t a silly Tickle-Me-Elmo laugh like most girls. It was a real laugh, like...the kind of laugh that made you think a person got you. And he wished there was a stupid red button on her palm he could push to hear it again.

Push here.

He still held her hand, not looking up as a kid ran past even though he felt the guy staring. Her gloves were the softest he’d ever felt, like the angel hair his mother always laid under the nativity scene at Christmas time.

“Lamb’s wool. Nice, huh?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, still holding firm. She’d given him the excuse. Not his fault. “Like angel hair.”

She snatched back her hand, biting her bottom lip.

“Nope. Just wool.” She cleared her throat. “I’m Skye.”

“Skye what?”

What an idiot. He’d let a little bit of small talk make him forget all about Ray and Burke, about what the Somerleds may have done to them to keep them from making it to school that morning. Ray knew how Jamison dreaded that first day. If somewhere, deep down, there was any trace of the best friend he’d grown up with, Ray wouldn’t let him down today. Not if he had a choice.

“Somerled.”

“Skye Somerled?” Skepticism snarled out around his tongue. “Do they make you change your name when you join up?”

Her lips pursed like an old woman’s, but with less wrinkles, pushing the tip of her nose up slightly. Cute nose.

“I’ve always been Skye Somerled, thanks. And no one joins up; you’re either a Somerled, or you’re not.”

“And what if you start craving hamburgers?”

She smiled and folded her arms. Ray’d been right about the vegetarian stuff.

Jamison guessed she’d be blowing off the whole first period too, and the thing he’d dreaded all day—running into her—was the last thing he wanted to end.

“Or what if you fell in love with...blue jeans?”

“Ha!” She tossed her head back and put her hands on her hips, holding back all those layers of sweater, coat, and scarf. Actually, the white jeans looked pretty hot.

“Or if you got caught wearing black sunglasses?”

He didn’t want to let the chance pass to learn more about her cult rules. The thought of them punishing her for misbehaving made him want to retch.

She bit her bottom lip again and looked down, adjusted her bag, preparing to walk away. “I found them in the car.”

She’d mumbled, but he’d heard her. It was his turn to laugh. She didn’t sound like she was afraid of punishment. She was just embarrassed to get busted. Sunglasses weren’t allowed, after all.

When he could speak again, he meant to say something smooth, but what came out was, “I’ll keep your secret.”

Her head snapped up. Damn it!

Stay cool. Keep talking.

“You’d better be careful, though. Don’t forget you’re wearing them and drive home like that.” He gave her a teasing smile to distract her from the smell of fear in the air—his fear. It blew in and out his nose with each breath. He hoped she had a cold so she’d miss it. Surely girls who helped blow up people in mid-air knew what fear smelled like.

Jamison struggled to keep a straight face and block the image of Ray and Burke being lifted off the ground, knowing they were seconds away from being blown to smithereens.

Okay. He needed to get away from her. This couldn’t end well.

“Fine,” she said. “You keep my secret, and I’ll keep yours.”

He couldn’t have walked away if his shoes were on fire.

Would she slap his hand away if he reached for her glasses? If he could just see her eyes, he’d know just how busted he was. No one was as good an actor as he was. No one.

“And do I have a secret?” Innocent. Think innocent.

“Don’t you?” She lowered the sunglasses and smiled a smile that bore into his soul.

He suddenly saw nothing wrong with confessing every secret he’d ever kept. Thankfully she winked and that stupid urge disappeared. He stuck his tongue between his teeth and clamped down, just in case.

“It looks like you’re all registered for classes and you’re skipping out on your first day.”

“Oh.” He looked at the schedule in his hand. “No. I’m just waiting for my friend, Ray. Said he’d meet me here before classes started.” He should get an Oscar for the morning’s performance. Honestly. “You know Ray Peters?”

Skye smiled and pushed her glasses back up, but not before he saw something flash across her face. Regret? Pity? He sure as hell hoped it wasn’t guilt.

“Sure I know Ray. And I know him well enough to not be surprised he’s late for school.”

“Yeah?” Jamison stiffened. “I know him pretty well myself. We’ve been best friends all our lives, and he’d rather die than let me down.”

She frowned, though he could barely see the pucker in her brow over the glasses. “And he’s letting you down by not showing up to school on time?”

“Yeah, he is.” Jamison looked down at the sidewalk, no longer wanting to explain. She’d think he was so stupid for wanting someone to have his back when he walked through those halls the first day. Then something else came to him; he was more worried about his first day at school than he was about what had happened to his friend. “Loser!”

“What?”

“Sorry. Not you. I’m the loser. I shouldn’t be pissed that he’s not here. I should be worried...worried about why he’s not here.”

She smiled. That was a good sign. Either she didn’t know what they’d done to Ray and Burke, or she wasn’t concerned about it. Then again, she could be a cold brainwashed zombie who didn’t care what had happened to them.

“You’re a good friend to have, I think.” She walked around him and called over her shoulder, “I wouldn’t worry about Ray and Burke if I were you. They’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

He tried not to lean into her as her bulky coat brushed his arm. The fact that he was tempted to do so blew him away. It was like there was a rubber band stretched between them and he automatically relaxed when they were close. As she entered the main doors, he could feel the tension, the stretching, and he knew he’d be spending the rest of the day thinking of a way to stand near her again.

Then her parting words replayed in his head.

He’d never said anything about Burke!

If you’d like to read more, go to my website at www.llmuir.weebly.com . See the Young Adult section for details.

GOING BACK FOR ROMEO

PROLOGUE

Castle Ross, East Burnshire, Scotland 1494

Odd.

The stone closest to Laird Montgomery Ross’s foot looked to be the same shape as the hole remaining in the side of his sister's tomb, but he refused to reach for it.

"Nay.  I'm not ready to be finished." Monty whispered his complaint to God, for surely it was God's hand that wrought such an appropriately shaped thing.

Behind him, one of the priests cleared his throat.  Monty knew without looking it had been the fat one who could not cease rubbing his hands together, even while Monty’s sister was led inside her would-be grave.  The bastard had been rubbing them for a fair two days, since he’d arrived to try Isobelle as a witch. No doubt they were itchy for the feel of a woman’s neck since Monty had cheated them out of wringing his sister’s.

He could let the priest live, or he could be silent, but Monty could not manage both.

"If you canna seem to clean those hands, Father,” he said without turning away from his morbid creation, “I'd be happy to rid you of them before I finish my task here.  I'm sure my sister wouldna mind the wait."

A gasp of outrage was followed by silence, although the Great Hall was filled to the corners with his clan. Those who could not find space inside would soon enough hear of each stone lovingly placed as their laird buried his sister alive within their very hall, upon the stone dais, behind the great Ross Chair. Hopefully they would remember Isobelle’s bravery and not how oft his tears mingled with the mortar.

None breathed, none dared rub their hands. How could he possibly continue? How could he not?

“Nay, I wouldna mind a bit, if you’re quick about it, brother mine.” Isobelle’s voice echoed eerily from the tomb and she smirked at him from within the tiny patch of light the same shape as the odd stone. “In fact, toss the bloody things in here with me and I’ll leave them at the gates of hell. Himself can collect them when he arrives.”

Her unholy laughter no doubt had even the dogs wishing they could cross themselves, but it was music to Monty’s ears. The Kirk’s men allowed her no blanket, but she’d have the image of revenge to keep her warm.

“Isobelle!” Morna screamed. Monty’s other sister stood off to his right, restrained by her puny Gordon husband. “’Tis all my fault. Forgive me.”

Isobelle’s sober face came forward to fill the hole as she searched for Morna, giving Monty one last glimpse of red hair.

“Morna, love. Dinna greet. The faery will come to make it all right again. Watch for the faery...and keep away from your husband!”

“Silence!” the robed bastard roared.

Isobelle laughed again, backing away from the hole. After all, what could the man do to her now?

Monty would not ruin her00 trust in the blasted faery, but if the creature ever placed its magic toe on Ross land, it would be dead before it ever took a breath of heathered air.

‘Twas time.

He looked at the stone.

‘Twas meant.

“I love you, sister mine.” His words were quiet, for Isobelle alone.

“And I you, Monty. Blow us a kiss.”

When he raised his crusted fingers to his lips, his palm filled with tears but they washed none of the nightmare away. He blew a kiss that was instantly returned.

“I’m stayin’ right here, pet. Ye’re no’ alone.”

“Get on, then.” The whimper in her voice was slight. “I’ll have a wee nap if ye’ll but douse the light.”

With a final wink she disappeared.

Monty reached for the stone, dipped its edges in muck, and pushed it home, breaking his heart in the doing. After long moments of stillness, his hands slowly opened and dropped away.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Morna swoon, but someone else would have to catch her—someone without mud or blood on his hands. Morna wouldn’t welcome his comfort anyhow. She claimed it was her fault, but he knew both sisters blamed him.

If he’d have known the outcome, would he have acted differently? What kind of bastard would not?

There was no stopping the twisting of his face, the sob from his chest. He turned his head to the side and bellowed, “Out!”

Nearly everyone fled or slithered from the hall, all but The Kirk’s henchmen who would stay until they believed his sister dead. Only then did he hear the muffled sobs of Isobelle. She sounded as if she were deep in the ground.

His heart shuddered with cold. Dear God, what had he been thinking? His plan was madness; she would never last. Not enough time. He had to get her out!

He reached for the odd stone...and was struck soundly from behind.

CHAPTER ONE

Castle Ross, Present Day

This wasn’t the first time Jillian MacKay had felt a holy-crap-moment coming on. She wouldn’t worry about it now, except for two things. First, her premonitions of holy-crap-moments were never wrong. And second, she was only minutes away from testing The Curse of the Ross Clan.

Jilly was alone for the moment, poised to enter the Great Hall of Castle Ross, the right heel of her green boots rocking nervously while she waited for the tour group to catch up to her. No sirens sounded. No trumpets announced that a simple girl from Wyoming was about to do anything noteworthy, even though, for the first time in her life, she thought she may actually be about to do something noteworthy.

She took a deep breath. Then another. Then tentatively stepped into the dimly lit Hall, turned to her left, and froze.

Holy, holy crap.

Silence stirred from its dreamy corner and rose to fill the Hall, pushing into every nook and cranny. There was no echo of her steps on the wood floor, no muffled voices of the tour group nearing the massive outer door—as if this moment was so pure, so important, that sound could not be allowed to sully it.

And all she’d done was look at his face.

The stone Highlander before her was as broad in the shoulder as a football player in full pads. His triceps must have been formed with soft wet clay smoothed and stroked with passionate hands, not chiseled from stone as she’d been told.

She wondered if it had been responsibility or defending his misdeeds that had layered muscle upon muscle with no thought for the tailor who must cover those arms. But considering the stories the Muir sisters told, Jilly’d bet the latter was true.

Montgomery Ross had earned his way into the Historical Arse section of the Scottish Hall of Fame.

Handsome Historical Arse, she amended, and couldn’t help gaping at him like a stupid fish. Good thing she was alone.

His wild hair draped and waved behind his shoulders. Small braids at his temples kept it from his eyes. And those eyes, while hard as stone, were softened by laugh lines. One corner of his mouth quirked a bit higher than the other side and Jilly would have given anything to have heard the man’s voice, or a snippet of his laugh.

If such a sound still bounced around the chamber, somehow, her ears couldn’t catch it. And her ears were not the only parts of her straining—her hands ached to slide up that chest and around his neck, but a voice in her head warned her to resume breathing and run away. If she ignored it, would she turn to stone as well? Was the Hall so silent, not because she didn’t move, but because she couldn’t? Then again, would it be so bad to stand here next to him for a couple hundred years?

Ho. Ly. Crap.

She touched her own chin.  Still dry, still soft and fleshy. And so she continued her inventory, somehow feeling she might be tested on the details someday.

Wide cloth draped over his bare shoulder, slanted over his heart, and wrapped around his hips and bulging thighs. Jilly had to ignore his navel outright, even though he certainly couldn’t complain about her peeking wherever she pleased. Of course she wouldn’t; she should get points for that.

Large fists rested on his hips along with a belt for his sporran. Another strap crossed his chest under the material and no doubt held his sword to his back; its hilt peaked over his shoulder. Ties crisscrossed his calves over thick-looking socks that must not be trusted to stay up on their own. The too-perfect package ended with square-toed boots.

Jillian whistled. “The Muir sisters didn’t do you justice, laddie.”

Immediately behind him, a rough block of stone held him prisoner, as if the castle itself were trying to absorb him, sucking at the backs of his legs, his kilt and boots, demanding he return to the depths of the rock from which he’d sprung.

Jillian had never believed in ghosts, but she couldn’t argue with the feel of a tangible presence in the room with her. She jerked around to look behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck jumped up to scream in protest, only to still once more when she turned again to face him.

She grinned.

He must not want her to look away.

“Hello, Montgomery,” she murmured, then paused, insanely wishing he would return the greeting.

He smirked on.

Bright lights flickered on in the high raftered ceiling, illuminating the Great Hall and beckoning the tour group, and their voices, to flood the huge space. The silent spell shattered. The Highlander was no longer shrouded in shadows; his face was lighter, his amusement more pronounced. His kilt was still frozen mid-flutter, but Jillian could discern the slightest hint of lines in the cloth that had looked smooth when dimmer light streamed through the narrow windows. The sculptor had at least bestowed a hint of plaid to a man who’d probably lived or died by the pattern in his clothes.

“I see you’ve met Montgomery.” Laird Ross, the ancient Highlander’s spitting image, walked up to her. His voice sent a shiver up her spine. It was a deep rumbly voice she imagined his ancestor might have had. “You’ll learn more on him in a moment. I’m happy to see we’ve found you again.”

“I’m sorry. I fell behind. A woman suggested I wait for the rest of the group in here.” Jilly smiled.

The man’s eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Have you by chance taken our wee tour before, then?” His gaze searched her face, her eyes, and lingered on her hair.

“Nope.” Jilly shivered and hoped her nerves didn’t show. “I think I just have one of those common faces, you know?”

He smiled and shrugged, then walked to the head of the crowd. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Jilly had been thrilled to have Quinn Ross, the token Scottish Laird, giving the tour. He was single, she’d heard one of the other tourists say, a widower. Jilly had listened long enough to learn the self-proclaimed ruler of those ancestral stones supposedly turned to the history of this remarkable building to distract himself from his broken heart.

Before she’d lagged behind, she’d followed the enticing swing of Laird Ross’s kilt through the crumbling maze of his playground. It hadn’t been difficult to catch the purring in the man’s voice as he’d pointed out how incredibly advanced the castle had been for the renovations made in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. For example, he’d explained, the system engineered for cleaning the garderobes was eerily similar to modern day toilet flushing.

Lordy, how the man loved his castle. They were lucky he allowed tourists through it.

In his mid-thirties, Quinn Ross was easily the most glorious creature Jilly’d met on her first trip out of the United States, excepting the literally chiseled Montgomery. Women of all ages blushed around him the duration of the tour; she wondered if it was sorrow or simple humility that made him oblivious to it.

It was just Jilly’s luck to be more attracted to the stone version of him. Though silent as the rock that held him prisoner, Montgomery stole her breath, while she sensed something missing from Quinn. Shouldn’t it be Montgomery who was lacking a certain something? Like flesh and blood? The ability to detach himself from his home, for instance?

Maybe she’d just heard the tale one too many times and the medieval man was becoming real to her.

Reminded of her storyteller companions, Jilly looked about the Hall and saw the two standing just inside the doorway with their heads bent together. When they noticed her, their faces lit up.

The Muir sisters, sweet identical ladies far too old to be traveling abroad, filled their immediate area with a blue glow. There was nothing magical about it; their thick knit sweaters were periwinkle, their hair was a respectable bluish-gray, and they each wore their swollen blue veins like a set of jewelry along their necks and hands.

The only thing not identical about them was the pattern of those veins. Lorraine had a large one running down the middle of her left hand; Loretta had one on her right. Through their weeks of planning and traveling together, Jilly needed only to glance at their hands to keep their names straight.

It had been the most natural thing in the world for her to gravitate to these two. They had a joy about them that was just the opposite of the cantankerous woman who’d raised her, and anything contrary to Jilly’s former dull life was welcome. Grandma had been flannel and overalls; these two were perfume and polyester.

Perfect.

She walked to meet them as the tour resumed. One sister slipped a veiny hand around Jilly’s elbow and held on. Right hand. Loretta. She couldn’t tell which of them was shaking harder; Loretta from age, or herself from excitement.

Along one wall the hearth stretched wide enough to accommodate a dozen men in its dark but clean maw. Along the opposite wall stood an ornate series of cabinets in which all manner of weapons and armor winked from behind glass doors, tempting even adults to ignore the signs requesting they not be touched.

A maze of red velvet cordons led the guests to the far end of the fifty-foot hall where a large pedestal graced the center of a thick stone dais. When the group neared the display, the tone of the presentation turned somber. No doubt the Curse of Clan Ross was about to be revealed.

Holy crap. This is it.

The sisters, one on each side, squeezed her upper arms as if they were thinking just that.

Quinn Ross began the tale with a combination of respect for the superstition and the disenchantment of a modern man.

“The curse of the Rosses is not unlike the tale of Romeo and Juliet,” he explained. “Imagine the Montagues were the MacKay Clan, the Capulets, the Rosses. But in the year 1494, the duty to one’s clan was far more important than any notion of love. Clan meant survival. Allegiances meant...survival. And when our fair Morna’s hand was the price we had to pay for aligning ourselves with the powerful Gordons, Morna did her duty; her Romeo, Ivar MacKay, understood.”

Men’s heads nodded. The women sighed. Apparently they didn’t see anything wrong with Ivar sitting back and letting someone re-assign the love of his life to another man. Maybe, just maybe, Montgomery hadn’t been the only medieval jerk in this little tragedy.

Quinn leaned forward, weakening knees with eye contact as he continued.

“Isobelle Ross was a witch...and Morna’s sister. And even though she was a strange and opinionated woman for those times, Isobelle loved her sister dearly. She would have changed places with Morna, but the Gordons would not consider a union with the wilder sibling who was already suspected of not being right in the head. But Isobelle couldn’t bear to see Morna suffer over the loss of her Ivar, so she placed an enchantment on a simple torque.” He indicated the large C-shaped piece of metal displayed upon the pedestal. “This very torque.”

Jilly stretched her neck to catch a glimpse of silver shining on a bed of black velvet. All along its outer edge were Celtic-looking symbols. A bit nondescript for such an important clan heirloom. If not for the multi-faceted spotlights and the plush black velvet, it might have looked a bit dull.

So, that was it. The necklace. Its prophecy had been recited to her so many times since meeting the Muirs two weeks ago that she’d dreamt about it every night since. Listening to Quinn Ross tell it yet again made her antsy, but his brogue lulled her a bit.

“Isobelle promised Morna that one day soon a faery would claim this bit of silver, a faery bearing the Immediate Blood of both the MacKay and the Ross clans, one who would have the power to reunite our Juliet with her Romeo. They needed only be patient.”

As if to test the patience of his audience, he paused to drink from a water bottle, long and slow. The crowd, including Jillian, was mesmerized by the dramatic bob of the man’s Adam’s apple.

She needed to get a hold of herself.

The Scotsman handed off the bottle and continued, knowing full well he hadn’t lost anyone’s attention.

“Unfortunately, even in their time, innocent women were burned as witches, let alone strange sisters who spewed prophecy. Instead of Isobelle’s plan easing her sister’s aching heart, it broke the organ entirely. Word spread like the plague, and The Kirk came to put Isobelle to the witch’s test.”

He raised an open hand to the stone Highlander behind his left shoulder.

“You have no doubt noticed the sculpture behind me. Some of you likely believe it to be a fantastic rendering of myself, but in truth it is the image of Laird Montgomery Constantine Ross, Isobelle’s and Morna’s brother. The sculpture was done by a young Italian man who was searching the Highlands for inspiration and found it in the sad family tale. His name was Buonarroti. Whether or not it is the work of a young Michelangelo has never been proven, but I have seen with my own eyes some of his pieces in Florence, and they are very similar.”

Jilly had never considered going to Italy before, but if there were more gorgeous statues like this one under the Tuscan sun, it would be worth the trip to see them. With her shiny new bank account, she could make just about anything happen.

“Buonarroti offered to create this statue to guard over this structure to my right.” Quinn’s gaze lingered on the dark stone tomb before he turned back to jab a finger toward the statue. “You’ll notice the unfinished mass of rock behind the legs. It was said the man refused to complete the piece after being called “Mickey” one too many times, but Michelangelo hardly rrrolls off a Scot’s tongue, aye?”

Right on cue, the troupe laughed. Jilly thought Quinn Ross should try stand-up, but then realized this was his gig. A great routine and a daily paying crowd—the perfect set up.

“Betimes I get ahead of myself. Forgive me. As I was saying, Montgomery was laird here and as such held considerable power. But there was no power to equal that of The Kirk in those times. Thus Laird Ross, my great uncle twenty-one times removed, was unable to spare his sister from condemnation. He was, however, able to change the manner in which she was to die.”

Some of the tourists took a deep breath, likely repeat customers bracing themselves for the finale.

With a gesture, Quinn bid the group step closer.

“The oddly shaped construction you see at the back of the dais was erected by Montgomery as a tomb for both his sister and the accursed torque, built here so she would always be near him. You see, Isobelle was spared from a stranglin’ and a burnin’, but she could not escape her death sentence. Before the last stones were set, his very-much-alive sister and her offensive creation were sealed inside the wall by her brother’s hand.”

The kilt-clad Hercules paused dramatically, no doubt so the tragic image could sink in. He pulled a handkerchief from his sporran and turned aside to wipe the corner of one eye. When he dropped the white cloth back in his pouch, the rest of the women sighed, the men cleared their throats, and Jilly resisted the urge to applaud.

“Montgomery thought only to spare his sister the horror of being burned,” Quinn continued. “He had no idea that he’d sentenced them both to madness. Day after day he sat next to the tomb, listening for any sound from his sister within. Actually, for the rest of his life Montgomery Ross would occasionally be seen with his ear pressed against the stones, listening.”

Jilly could not stop herself from leaning toward the edifice at one with the huddled masses, as if they might be able to hear some of what Montgomery had listened for. You could have heard a pin drop.

Quinn’s voice lowered reverently.

“For days he was tormented, regretting his interference, but The Kirk would not allow him to take back the bargain he’d struck. And during that time, Montgomery would cross and re-cross that invisible line into lunacy, thrilling over every little sound Isobelle made, only to cry to God to end her suffering. More than once, he tried to tear down the stones to put her out of her misery, only to be halted by The Kirk’s henchmen who stood guard until the witch was clearly dead. After ten and two days, the little sounds ceased...and the haunting began.”

The squawk of bagpipes lurching into life made Jilly nearly jump out of her skin. It was a moment or two before she was relieved enough to laugh along with the rest. She stood respectfully listening to the set of three tunes that first lured emotion out of her, pulled tears from her eyes with a mournful dirge, then prodded her like a racehorse across an open field. By the time the piper’s bag exhaled its final dissonant breath, she was exhausted.

“Gather ye round, gather ye round.” Quinn stood near the pedestal with its over-glamorized, but romantic jewelry. “If any of you here is believed to have both Ross and MacKay bloods in your veins, come forth and try the truth of Isobelle’s prophesy.”

Two very excited old women gave her a shaky squeeze before prodding her in the back. After that jolt from the bagpiper, Jilly prayed their dusty hearts would last the day. Hopefully, hers would too.

So. This was it. Time to play the game, Jillybean. Before she took a step, however, a girl about six or seven years old stepped up to Laird Ross.

“I’ll try it on, Uncle Quinn, if’n there’s nay one else.”

Rather than chide the little girl for interrupting his show, Quinn picked her up and chucked her under the chin. “And you shall, Eileen, you shall. We all ken you have the bloodlines to do it, aye? But let’s save the best for last.”

Eileen beamed.

And all those silly women sighed again.

Jilly was pushed forward a bit faster than she was prepared to go, but before she could turn a frown on the wiry sisters, Quinn caught her hand and pulled her closer until she was nearly nose to nose with the child on his hip.

“Considering your company, and that black MacKay hair, I rather suspected you’d be stepping up.” He nodded to the Muir sisters and introduced her to Eileen. “I’ve a feeling one of you may do the deed this very day, aye? And when a Ross gets a feeling, well, we’d best stay on our toes.”

Amen to that, cousin.

This was what she’d come all this way to do, butterflies be damned. Later, once she was alone in her B&B room, she planned to celebrate how less-than-dull the day had been.

Then she’d puke.

Jilly stepped in front of the pedestal. After a nod from the laird, she picked up the torque and worked it around her neck. Quinn put down his niece and took Jilly by the arm, turning her to face the crowd...

...a crowd that gave a collective “humph” when nothing holy-crappish happened.

“How do you feel, lass?” He patted her shoulder. “You look a mite green. Do I need to fetch a rubbish bin?”

“No. No, I’m all right.” She pulled her face into what she hoped was a smile and turned her back to the group.

She wasn’t all right. She was mortified. Standing in the middle of way too many witnesses, trying on a supposedly magical necklace that was supposed to do who-knows-what, and trying not to look disappointed when who-knows-what didn’t happen, left her a wee bit angry at herself.

Magic necklace? Are you kidding me?

Eileen smiled hopefully and clapped her hands. Jillian was more than happy to whip off the silly thing and hand it over.

“Looks like you’ll have to save the day, Eileen.” Jilly slung a brief smile in Quinn’s direction, then moved coolly through the crowd to the rear.

She couldn’t say when it had happened, but sometime between packing for the trip and stepping into the Great Hall, she’d forgotten she was only in Scotland to patronize the fragile sisters in their final fantasy. And to prove wrong her grandmother’s life-long conspiracy theory, that Scotland was a dangerous place for their family and no Scot was to be trusted.

She’d just gotten lost in the role she’d been playing, that was all. She’d begun to pity Ivar and Morna and had spent far too long wishing there was actually something she could have done to help them.

Ridiculous. They’d been dead so long even their dust had dust. Twenty-one layers of it.

She now had to keep in mind the second reason she’d come...

When her grandmother had died, she’d tried to pass her paranoia on with her estate, but Jilly refused to believe that a mysterious group of Scots had sinister plans for a specific Wyoming gal who’d never before been away from home. And for what? Her DNA?

Bull.

In another week she’d be back home, safe and sound, wondering what adventure she might try next while standing over Grandma’s grave, telling her how wrong she’d been.

There. She felt better already.

She couldn’t be disappointed that nothing had happened when she’d put on the necklace. Of course nothing had happened. She was just disappointed for the sisters. That was all.

Jilly was in no mood to stick around and listen to the wrinkled twins tisk and shake their heads. She was out of there.

But as she zipped up her second-hand leather jacket and headed for the door—and a three-mile walk back to town—she could almost imagine Montgomery Ross’s stony form screaming for her to come back and fight.

But Jillian MacKay was done making a fool of herself.

For the moment.

CHAPTER TWO

Castle Ross, 1495

Montgomery Ross took his leisure in his grand chair and let The Gordon come to him. At his right shoulder stood his braw cousin Ewan, and to his left, the Italian’s statue of himself. It did no harm to let the mighty Clan Gordon see him as a Roman-like god who was ever watching over his own.

Posing all those days for the mood-ridden Southerner had been worth the time after all.

“Monty, please.” Ewan spoke low. “I beg you not to do this. You’ve nay thought this through, mon.”

“Oh?” Monty did not turn, but looked steadily at the entrance. “And who else would have me, Ewan? Every lass on the island kens what became of my sisters. None would risk my affections now when the only two women I’ve loved were either buried alive or made to wish she were dead.”

“I won’t argue that, cousin. But why a Gordon?” Ewan grunted his frustration. “Nothing good happens when there’s one about. If ye marry the lass, a Gordon will be about all the time! I’d rather you married a bloody MacKay!” He dropped a hand onto Monty’s shoulder and dropped his voice as well. “Mayhap you should look a bit longer. Try the Lowlands. Hell, I’d rather you kidnap an English lass—”

“Bite your tongue and swallow your teeth, Ewan.” Monty shuddered. “Besides, I’m finished with waitin’. I want the past year forgotten. I want sons. And The Gordon is the only man offerin’ up his daughter just now. I’m told she’s comely and quiet—and it wasn’t a Gordon who told me.” Monty wiped the cold sweat from his palms onto his thighs, then quickly returned his hands to their casual pose. “‘Comely’ is welcome, but ‘quiet’ is a true boon.”

“Neither Morna nor Isobelle were quiet.” Ewan snorted and removed his hand from Monty’s shoulder as footsteps sounded on the steps outside.

“Exactly.”

“Oh, cousin.” Ewan pulled his shoulders back and stretched to his full height. “I’ve a foul feelin’ about this...”

The great door opened and The Gordon finally entered looking none too happy, most likely for not being greeted out of doors. When Monty nodded permission for the man to descend the steps into his hall, the laird paused as if he might not wish to accept permission after all.

“Come.” Monty waved the man forward, holding a smile he did not feel. He had to prove his control in all things now, or the other man would never respect him enough to keep him as an ally, let alone a son-of-the-law, especially with all the trouble Morna had been.

The Gordon gradually came forward, all the while eyeing the statue as if it might come to life and draw steel.

Well done, Mickey. Poor Italian. He really had hated being called Mickey.

“Welcome, Laird Gordon, to my humble home.” Montgomery inclined his head but did not stand. “Ewan, bring The Gordon a chair.”

“Hold, Ross.” The visiting laird raised a hand and pointed to Isobelle’s tomb. “I’ll no’ take me rest in a graveyard, aye?” He turned his back. “We’ll speak out of doors, or not at all.”

The insult Montgomery felt for his sister lit his belly, and dread filled his chest as his temper jumped free of his control, as it used to do. He’d held it in check for months now. Perhaps he could at least avoid a war. As the words bubbled up, however, hope washed away.

“Then I suppose there will be no speech between us, Gordon.” Monty’s venom got the departing man’s attention. “If I’m to wed your daughter, auld mon, the ceremony will take place here, on ground I consider sacred.”

The Gordon’s entire head turned redder than his hair had once been.

“Your sister’s grave could not be consecrated and you ken it.” Gordon retraced his steps until he was once again standing before the grand Ross chair. “How dare you speak to me—”

“Nay, sir. How dare you?” Monty stood and towered over the man who was too proud to retreat a step or two. “This ground is sacred to me in honor of the sister I lost as the unbearable price for an alliance with you.” Monty paused to catch his breath and capture his tongue with his teeth. Slowly lowering his arse back on his chair, he allowed the other man a fleeting sense of relief before he continued. “And if you’d not see your daughter wed to me here, then you may take her home. But do not neglect to leave Morna and her dowered lands behind.”

Monty pointedly ignored The Gordon’s Runt, Morna’s husband, who now stood fuming at his father’s shoulder—or hip, rather—and instead, looked up at his own stone likeness, searching not only for control, but for a miracle. What could he possibly give The Gordon to stop this wedding from slipping through his fingers as his temper had done?

The answer smirked back at him. He waited for the other laird to follow his notice.

“The pity of it all would be your lack of Ross grandsons, would it no’?” Monty waited patiently while the Cock o’ the North took in the details of Mickey’s work, no doubt imagining lads of a like build sporting ruddy manes.

The Gordon looked for a time and then some.

“Don’t just stand there, Ewan Ross. Fetch me a chair and a drink.” The old laird waved away his small escort, his gaze still admiring the statue.

The Runt narrowed his eyes in a miniature threat before making his way back outside, and Monty hoped his sister would not have to pay for the insult he’d just dealt her wee spouse.

“My condolences, Ross. I heard Isobelle was as great a beauty as my daughter-of-the-law.” The Gordon sat and accepted wine. “I fancy a ceremony on the morn as I wish to be headed North by the nooning hour.”

The meeting could not have gone better, to Monty’s thinking. In but a day’s time, he’d have someone other than his hulking cousin at his side. Surely, after he and his wife spent some time together, the blasted loneliness would be gone, as if it had never been.

Although he was never one to ignore one of Ewan’s foul feelings, surely this time his cousin was allowing his emotions to rule his tongue. Ewan had ever been as loyal to Morna and Isobelle as he’d been to Monty, and the man begrudged the Gordons not making Morna welcome. After a year, the stubborn woman continued to be unhappy, but their cousin refused to believe any fault lay at her feet.

At this time on the morrow, Monty would have a wife, his clan would have a reason to celebrate, and Ewan’s foul feeling would be proved as naught but a foul humor.

Anything less and someone would bleed.

CHAPTER THREE

“The Pub”, East Burnshire, Present-Day Scotland

Jilly really had no choice; she had to break into Castle Ross or start taking schizophrenia meds.

That flight-or-fight voice in her head had been joined by a decidedly masculine set of vocal chords insisting that flight was no longer an option. She kept hearing, “Get back here!”

Thankfully, the imagined summons was cut short by a band of sorts, made up of the Muir sisters’ contemporaries striking up an almost-lively tune. Soon the only tension left in the air was the fiddle player’s bow as it squealed across the strings. One man pounded on a bodhran, another played a small version of bagpipes, pumping air with a bellows under one arm instead of blowing with his mouth. Only a statue could have resisted tapping its toes to the tempo.

During the castle tour, Quinn Ross had plugged The Pub and mentioned he came here “of an evening.” As soon as he showed, if he showed, she planned to borrow one of the dozens of bikes propped up around the village green and do something she’d never done in her life...

Break the law.

If you would like to read more, please visit my website www.llmuir.weebly.com . You’ll find ROMEO in the Time Travel Books section.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I sincerely appreciate the small team that helped me get Lord Fool ready for publication;

Marlin, who gave me a push of encouragement...and shoved the children out the door so I could get it written.

Diane, my enabler, who shares my excitement for all things publishing.

Kelli Ann, who never rolls her eyes at my cover preferences, and if she does, she doesn’t let me see her roll them.

And three uber-gracious emergency beta-readers, Wendy, Clancy, and Jennifer.

Thanks to all my friends and my children who just smile and hang on.

About the Author

L.L. Muir lives with Superman in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains. They are raising numerous super-heroes for society, but none will wear tights. Currently, she writes Regency and Scottish historicals and paranormal fiction for both adult and young adult readers.

She is represented by Three Seas Literary Agency.

Check her website often

— www.llmuir.weebly.com ––

for adventures and romance at your fingertips.