Seventeen
London
“Constance, may I come in?” Miranda asked from the other side of the bedroom door.
In response, Constance turned over in her bed, pulling her pillow over her head and pretending she didn’t hear her sister.
She’d been in London over a week and had yet to leave this room. But if someone had asked what color the drapes or walls were, she wouldn’t have been able to tell them.
For almost a fortnight she’d laid awake on her pillow, unable to sleep. Nor had she been hungry for food and drink. Her stomach couldn’t seem to keep anything down, especially in the morning.
She knew her sisters worried. Both Charlotte and Miranda had petitioned her relentlessly to eat and drink more. Miranda was always kindly encouraging, while Charlotte’s temper often found the best of her. She would plead, cajole, and then order.
Except, ordering didn’t work with Constance any longer.
The sister they had known had changed. She blamed them for playing a hand in turning Gordon away from her.
Every part of her being wanted to reject the memory of him leaving.
She couldn’t escape that terrible moment.
It sucked her dry, stole her will to live, and destroyed the courage that had once been so much a part of her.
Even the duke’s wife, Francesca, had joined their entreaties.
None of them understood. They thought she would recover. Recover into what? The life they chose for her? That was what she’d attempted to escape from in the beginning.
Miranda knocked once more on the door and then did not wait for an invitation to enter.
They never did. Not even the maids, of which there were an overabundance.
After the simplicity of life with the clan, the duke’s London mansion came across as overly lavish.
Constance missed the fresh Scottish air and going to bed tired and happy after a good day’s work.
She stared at the far wall, refusing to acknowledge Miranda in any way…then remembered there was something she wanted to say to her sister. It had haunted her through the wee hours of the night before and she could not find peace until she said, “Alex shouldn’t have cut Brian’s ear.”
There was a beat of surprised silence, and then a distinctly male voice said, “Brian? Brian McAllister?”
Constance shot bolt upright, moving so fast her head went dizzy. She turned and was shocked to see the Duke of Colster standing by her bed instead of her sister. “Where is Miranda?” She pulled the covers up to her shoulders to modestly hide her night dress.
“She’s outside,” he said, reaching for an upholstered chair and pulling it up to the bed. Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down. “We’ll need to light the lamp soon. It’s almost dark.”
“I don’t want it lit,” she informed him. “I like the dark.”
“Your sisters are concerned,” His Grace said. The burr in his voice reminded her of Gordon’s own soft accent. “They’ve patiently come to see you almost every hour for the past several days. I thought I would try my hand at talking sense into you. But first, what happened to Brian’s ear?”
“Alex cut it,” Constance said, not trusting him.
The duke made a commiserating sound. “Miranda warned me that Alex can go to what we would consider excess. It’s the Shawnee side of him.
He told me he’d put the willies into you all, but didn’t say what he’d done.
But we Scots can be an equally bloodthirsty lot.
Brian likes the ladies. He’ll have to let his hair grow so they won’t notice a piece of him missing. ”
“It was terrible,” she said, sounding even to her own ears a touch self-righteous.
“Kidnapping is terrible, too. Alex was just protecting his own.” The duke paused a beat and then said, “I have word of Gordon Lachlan. Are you interested?”
All thoughts of modesty fled Constance’s mind.
“Yes,” she said, leaning forward. “Tell me. What do you know? Has he contacted you?” Is he looking for me?
She prayed he was. He had to be—and then she realized how terrible she must look.
Her hair was unkempt and there had to be deep circles under her eyes.
The duke’s gaze dropped to the untouched supper tray on her bedside table. “I will answer you but first you must eat.”
“It’s bad news,” she whispered.
“No, not completely.” He took a glass of lemonade off the tray. “Try this.”
Constance didn’t like being pandered to, but she was also pragmatic. The easiest way to gain the information she wanted was to do as he asked.
She took a sip. The lemonade was sweet and tasted surprisingly good. She drained the glass, realizing at the same time that the walls of the room were painted a soft, dusky rose. The bedding was rose, too. Rose and cream. The carpet was a pale green over dark wood floors.
Handing the glass back to him, she demanded, “What word have you had of Gordon?”
He held up a finger, reminding her of the bargain they’d made. He took the covers off a bowl of rich, dark broth. “Oxtail. Simple but tasty.” He offered the bowl to her and picked up a spoon.
“I’m not a child.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he answered, flipping the handle of the spoon around to her.
A part of Constance rebelled at this treatment. However, the lemonade had sparked her senses. She was hungry. She’d done no more than nibble at her meals. Still, he deserved some defiance. She ignored the spoon he offered and drank right from the bowl.
Colster sat back in his chair. “I imagine Lachlan had his hands full with you.”
She picked up a napkin off the tray and daintily wiped the corners of her mouth. The broth had been good and she could feel her body respond to nourishment. There was an ache in her legs as if they longed to be stretched.
“Would you like more?” he asked.
“I would like to know about Gordon,” she answered.
He offered her a roll from the tray.
Constance stuffed the roll in her mouth, glaring at him the whole time she chewed. After making a point of swallowing, she waved her hand, indicating it was his turn.
The duke didn’t disappoint. “I didn’t want to leave you. I asked him to think of you,” he said. “And he did.”
“I knew that was his reason,” she said tightly. “He was wrong.”
“No, he wasn’t,” Colster disagreed, shaking his head. “I know a rebel’s life sounds romantic, especially to a young woman such as yourself.”
“I may be young, but I’m not naive.”
“Did I say you were?” He poured some tea into a cup on the tray and offered it to her. This time she didn’t bother to argue but took the cup and saucer.
“I know my own mind,” she said. “I love him. I will always love him…no matter what Charlotte or Miranda or the rest of the world thinks.”
“Then he was a lucky man,” the duke answered.
“Was? What have you heard?” she demanded, her chest tightening in panic. She put her legs over the edge of the bed and set the cup and saucer on the tray.
“The camp where the clan was staying was attacked.”
Her heart stopped. “By whom? Did you betray him—”
“You go too far when you accuse me,” he said, cutting her off quickly. “I am a man of my word. And don’t think to accuse my brother. He was not pleased with my decision to give up the sword, but we are twins. He is as loyal to me as I am to him.”
“Then whom?”
“From the reports I’ve received from the clansmen who have come to me, it was a man named Thomas Ovens.”
“Thomas? He was Gordon’s right hand.”
“Gordon wouldn’t be the first man to be betrayed by a friend.”
Constance could barely think. A thousand questions bombarded her, but only one was important. “Is Gordon dead?” she forced herself to ask. Breathing was becoming more difficult.
“No one knows,” he answered, and she thought she would collapse. No wonder he’d insisted she eat something before delivering this news.
She doubled over, folding her arms against her waist, attempting to hold herself together. “What happened? And what of the others? Please, Your Grace, please tell me the clan is safe.”
“From what I understand, most escaped. We are still piecing together the story from those who have come to me for shelter. The belief is that Thomas turned Gordon in for the ransom money. Clansmen say a party of English soldiers attacked, but after Thomas was killed, they ran.”
“Who killed him?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Gordon.”
Constance nodded. “’Tis justice.”
The duke didn’t argue. He said, “We were surprised we heard of the attack from the Scots first. My brother has excellent military resources and they knew nothing of the event. In fact, we told them about it first. Of course, military channels move slowly and it may take some time before we know the complete story. Whitehall has ordered a few officers to London for information.”
Constance couldn’t give a care. “It was the bounty they wanted,” she said with certainty. “The one that was raised because Gordon kidnapped me.”
“The Scots say he sacrificed himself for them,” the duke said. “He led them to a cliff overlooking the loch where the camp was.”
“Yes, the Cliffs. They were a popular meeting place.”
“And then he jumped into the water. No one saw him surface, nor has anyone received contact from him since the attack.”
“But he swims,” Constance said, her heart taking hope. “He can swim like a fish.”
The duke leaned forward, resting his arm on his knees. “Constance, the water was very cold. Lachlan was fully clothed. He took the sword with him. A man would have to be an incredibly strong swimmer to beat those odds.”
“What of his sister?” Fiona would know what happened to her brother.
“No one has seen her since the day of the attack, either. Some of the Scots were killed that day. A handful, but we don’t know how many.
They scattered into the surrounding forest and not everyone is accounted for.
It’s possible that both Lachlans died. The feeling is that certainly someone in the clan would have heard from one or the other. ”
The room started to go black and Constance realized she was about to faint.
The duke reached for her, taking her arm and giving it a squeeze. “Be strong,” he whispered.