Scandal In Scotland Part 9

"No. He went to help you, leaving me trapped in the coach."

"You're free now."

"I worked at it," she replied huffily.

With her hair in a tangle, and dirt smudging her face, she looked like an outraged kitten. He hid an unexpected smile and replied in a milder tone, "I'm sorry I snapped at you for holding so tightly to my neck, but I couldn't see where I was walking."

She was silent a moment. To his surprise, she said, "I'm sorry, too. I was just worried. The s.h.i.+p was on fire and then there was the explosion and I kept picturing you broken and bruised, trapped by a burning beam with no one able to reach you, and the fire raging all around-"

"Good G.o.d, you have a vivid imagination!"

"I know. It's a burden."

"Tell your imagination that it will take more than that little explosion to rid the world of me."

She peeped up at him, her wet lashes radiating from her eyes, which looked darker than usual. "Invincible, are you?" she asked, a faint teasing note in her voice.

"Today, yes." They reached the coach. Despite his intentions otherwise, he found himself oddly loath to release her.

He deserved this moment of peace, when he wasn't questioning her and she wasn't defying him. Soon enough, their relations.h.i.+p would return to its normal, abrasive path. And the more contentious their relations.h.i.+p, the better for them both, he decided. Despite all that had transpired between them, he was constantly aware of a tug of attraction that was far too strong. Once he had the artifact he'd never see her again, which was fine with him.

He suddenly noted how the coach door hung at an odd angle. "Interesting."

Marcail turned to see what had caught his attention. "Oh. That."

"Yes, that."

"Poston tied the shutters and doors closed. I had to find a way to open one from the inside."

"I didn't see Poston on the quay, but that's not surprising. Every person in town seems to be there." He set her on her feet, frowning at the dirt on her gown and her black stockings. He flicked a glance at her face and noted she was pale beneath the grime, her face streaked by her tears.

Too late he realized that he apparently had a weakness for emotional females, particularly ones with violet eyes and tear-streaked faces. The sooner she was back to being her usual composed, collected self, the sooner he could get the artifact and forget that this week had occurred.

He leaned back and regarded her from head to foot. "Good G.o.d, you're filthy."

Her tremulous smile disappeared as her chin snapped up. "So are you."

"Yes, but I was in the middle of the fire. You were not." Seeing her struggling for a witty retort, he hid his satisfaction and glanced at the door. "How did you open this door?"

"I used the handle of the foot warmer on the hinge pins." She reached inside and held up a pin, one end oddly flat. "See?"

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l."

"I did what I had to." She tossed the pin onto the floorboard.

He could tell from the timber of her voice that her emotions were calmer now and not so raw. Good. The last thing I want to deal with right now is a weepy woman. He jerked his head toward the coach. "Get inside. I'll find Poston and we'll leave."

"Oh? Where are we going?"

"Back to your room, where you'll give me the artifact so I may save my brother."

"William, I must-"

"Hush." He picked her up and set her on the seat. "We'll discuss this later. Don't even think about leaving while I'm gone."

Her chin lifted. "If I'd wished to leave, I could have, and yet I stayed here. I was in plain sight the entire time and made no effort to return to the inn, though I could have done so."

"True. Just don't get any bright ideas now." He tossed her cloak at her.

She caught it, and as she did so, William caught a glimpse of one of her palms.

He grasped her wrist. She tugged, trying to free herself, but he ignored her and turned her palm upward.

A bright angry stripe of raw skin glared back up at him. "d.a.m.n it, how did you do that?"

She curled her fingers over the stripe. "It's nothing."

But it was. "You got that from carrying water buckets."

"I couldn't just sit by and not help. I knew how much your s.h.i.+p meant to you and I-I suppose I felt responsible, in some way."

He looked into her upturned face, noting the delicate rings beneath her eyes and how her shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

She brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, unwittingly exposing the angry red stripe across the palm of her other hand.

His gaze narrowed, his heart oddly twisted. d.a.m.n it, don't begin imagining that her actions mean any more than her words. She's an actress-and a brilliant one, too.

His gaze flickered over the delicate lines of her face and throat, obvious even through the fine coating of grime. "That does it," he said, straightening. "When we return to your hotel, I want to see every bruise, cut, and burn on your body."

She narrowed her gaze. "I'm not removing my clothing for you."

He shrugged. "Then strip for a maidservant. I don't care, so long as someone sees to your bruises and cuts."

"Why do you care?"

"I don't. But if you're patched and cleaned at least-ah, there's Poston now."

The groom hurried up. "There you are, sir! I was lookin' all over fer ye and I-" He leaned forward, frowning. "Why, the door is completely off its hinges!"

"Miss Beauchamp decided to take a walk."

"A walk, sir?"

"Yes," Marcail said in a bitter tone, "a walk." Why did they both seem surprised that she had wished for her freedom? She'd wager her last penny that neither of them would have accepted being locked in a coach.

"I found Miss Hurst wandering the pier and I convinced her to join us here."

"I was coming back on my own," she retorted. "If you'd been ten minutes later, you would have found me here."

Poston glanced from her to his master before saying in a quiet tone, "Pardon me, Cap'n, shall I fix the door so we can get under way? Or do you-"

"No, no. Fix the door." William climbed into the coach and sat across from Marcail. "Once you've secured that, drive us back to the hotel. Miss Beauchamp has something of mine that she would like to return."

Marcail sniffed.

"Yes, Cap'n. Right away."

Marcail lifted a hand to brush her hair from her face, caught sight of her filthy fingers, and winced. Her gown was streaked with soot and dirt from the buckets, her stockinged feet quite black. She was almost afraid to see how her face and hair had fared.

The coach dipped as John Poston replaced the hinge pins. Though it had taken her some time to undo them, he seemed to have no problem replacing them, though the final pin stuck out at an odd angle.

Upon seeing the sadly bashed pin, the groom had sent Marcail a concerned look, but he never said a word. He checked that the door would still work and, satisfied that it did, he closed and latched it. Soon, they were under way.

Suddenly weary beyond words, Marcail leaned back into her corner of the coach. When they arrived at her room in the inn, William would demand the artifact and she would give it to him. She had no choice, now that she knew what the stakes were for him and his family.

But what would she do about the blackmailer? Could she negotiate a settlement, exchange the artifact for another one, perhaps one that was worth more?

Whatever it took, she'd pay.

A letter from William Hurst to his brother Robert, written from the deck of his first s.h.i.+p.

I named my s.h.i.+p the Agile Witch. She's a wonder. She's swift and cuts the water like a cutla.s.s. I wonder now why I hesitated so long to purchase her.

It's odd how often we face a change in our life that can only yield benefits, and yet we fight that change as if it carried poison and not opportunity.

CHAPTER 9.

William broke the silence before the carriage had rounded the first corner. "I'm still astonished that you thought to steal the artifact from me to begin with. You had to know I wouldn't stand idly by and allow you to escape."

Marcail glanced at William from under her lashes. He seemed so calm, so controlled all of the time. He didn't used to be that way. Life hasn't been kind to him. A thought struck and she looked down at her hands, clasped loosely in her lap. I hope he's not this way because of me. Surely our break was easier on him, for he had the benefit of being angry. All I had were regrets and- "Marcail?" He shot her a hard look. "We must talk about the artifact."

"You're right. It's time we dealt with this." She sighed. "I told you I'd handed it over already, but ... I lied. I still have it."

"I know."

"How could you know?"

He appeared faintly amused. "Because you were still here in this town. Charming as it is, I can't see the great Marcail Beauchamp staying in Southend unless you were waiting to meet someone."

"I enjoy charming towns as much as I enjoy London," she said stiffly. "They're small and-and charming."

William lifted his eyebrows.

"I stayed in Brighton before-"

"Which is ten times the size of Southend."

"-and I enjoyed myself very much."

"I daresay you went with a houseful of guests."

Blast it, she hated it when he read her so well. She shrugged. "Perhaps."

"So you weren't alone ... as you are here." His dark blue gaze flickered across her. "Suppose we begin again and you tell me why you're here and why you took that artifact. Only this time, tell me everything."

She felt a deep flicker of anger. "I am trying to be honest with you, and you just-" She took a slow breath to calm herself. "William, we're facing a horrible conundrum. You need that artifact to free your brother, and I need it for-" Should she tell him? Could she afford not to?

She met his quizzical gaze. "William, it is as I told you before: I am being blackmailed."

The words hung between them like the light from a candle, flickering uncertainly, so weak that the faintest breath could extinguish it.

"Who?"

"I don't know. He sends-"

"He?"

"I think so. He sends a woman-a Miss Challoner-to deliver messages and to collect the funds."

"Miss Challoner. So the messenger has a name, at least."

"Yes. I don't know much about her. She says where to meet her, then when I arrive, she takes the money and disappears. I've tried to have her followed, but she always manages to slip away. She's very good at evasion."

"She's never been followed by John Poston."

"Your groom?"

"He's more than that. Poston was with Wellington's army in Spain and was the best tracker they had."

"Perhaps he could do better," Marcail said, though William thought she didn't sound very certain. "I must discover my blackmailer's ident.i.ty." She sighed. "I think Miss Challoner's afraid of him. She gets a look on her face and-it's fear. I know it is."

William studied Marcail. Her expression was earnest, but then it always was. Yet it was her voice that caught him and made him weigh her words more cautiously, tasting them for their truth. "How much has this person gotten from you thus far?" he asked.

"A lot. More than I can afford."

"What did you do, that you are willing to pay a stranger to hide it?"

She pa.s.sed a hand over her forehead wearily, leaving a black smudge on her pale skin. "It's-It's complicated. I don't want to explain it all and-Just know that's what has happened and please, leave it there. I shouldn't say more."

He almost ground his teeth in frustration. "Marcail, I am not going to play games. I want the truth. All of it."

"It's not my secret to share."