Chapter Eleven #3
Cameron clasped his shoulder. “All will be well.” He glanced meaningfully at Elise, his hand dropping back to his side.
Marcus focused on his father. “She isn't to leave Brahan Seer while I am away.”
“Aye.”
“If Loudoun doesn't agree to intervene with his clansmen, I will seek an audience with King George.”
Cameron nodded. “The earl willna' relish the possibility of losing his property to one of our attacks. Castle Kalchurn is his pride and joy.”
“I plan on using that fact,” Marcus replied. He nodded toward Elise. “I had better say my good-byes.”
Marcus strode to Elise. The warrior she handed a small cloth package to grasped it and murmured thanks before joining his nearby comrades. She turned, taking a surprised step back when she nearly collided with Marcus.
“You will honor your promise?” he asked.
“I won't leave Brahan Seer.”
She couldn't leave. He had seen to that.
The passageway had been boarded shut and the guards had orders not to let her pass.
Marcus drew her to him. His heart pounded with every halting step closer she allowed until he could wrap his arm around her.
Marcus cupped her neck in his free hand.
Her gaze flitted to the side, but he cared nothing for the crowd.
He kissed her. The familiar hunger lashed out.
Had she any understanding of his need for her?
She had called it lust. By God, he did lust after her.
Marcus took a long draught of her. When he returned, he would have set in motion what he should have done a month ago: discover her identity.
He released her and motioned to the man who stood near the gate holding his horse's reins.
The man pushed through the crowd and stopped beside him, reins extended.
Marcus mounted, then paused, locking gazes with Elise.
“Elise.”
She waited.
“I will return.”
It seemed she didn't breathe.
“Be ready when I do.”
* * *
Three days away from Brahan Seer—from Elise—had taken a toll.
Marcus looked up from the letter he was reading to the grandfather clock in the far corner of the study in his London home.
He curbed a growing irritation. He'd been forced to follow the Earl of Loudoun to London, and now that Marcus awaited his arrival, the fool had the temerity to be late.
Marcus finished the drink sitting before him, then returned his attention to the note sent to him by Margaret's father, Lord Ross.
Marcus, the note began, I was unexpectedly called to London and have just learned of your arrival two days ago.
He gave a low laugh. “You hate London nearly as much as I do. What story did Margaret concoct to coerce you into accompanying her?” Marcus continued reading the note.
Lady Ross is giving a ball tomorrow evening.
I trust you will have time to attend. Marcus tossed the invitation aside.
“You trust wrong, Ferris. I have no interest in seeing your daughter.”
Marcus looked up from reading the Sunday Times when a knock sounded on the door nearly an hour later. The door opened and his butler entered.
“The Earl of Loudoun to see you, Lord Ashlund.”
Marcus glanced at the clock. An hour and a half late. “Show him in, Bower.” Marcus refolded the paper and laid it on the desk as Loudoun entered.
He bowed. “Lord Ashlund, it has been some time.”
Marcus indicated the chair in front of his desk. “It has,” he said, noting Loudoun hadn't had the good grace to acknowledge his tardiness. It was impossible to civilize a cur.
The earl seated himself. “I understand you wish to see me on a matter of some importance.” Bored amusement shone in his green eyes.
“Have you seen your Hastings clansmen lately?” Marcus asked without preamble.
Surprise flitted across Loudoun's features, but he replied, the boredom reaching his voice, “Haven't been to Scotland in an age. Why?”
“They attacked a group of women at Brahan Seer.”
Surprise resurfaced. Then… satisfaction in the guise of disbelief. “Come now,” he drawled. “Surely, you are mistaken.”
“I was there.”
“I suppose one cannot question the word of the Marquess of Ashlund. Was your father, the duke, there as well?”
“Nae. You know anything of the attack?”
“Me?” The earl laughed. “I never involve myself in the petty squabbles on that side of the family.” He studied Marcus. “Attacked your women, did they?”
Marcus nodded.
Loudoun shrugged. “Probably just wanted a bit of sport. Why bother yourself? If someone had been hurt or if it had been cattle—”
“Do not try my temper,” Marcus cut in. “You know nothing of it?”
“As I said, I have little to do with those barbarians.”
“In that you may be wise. I assume you still exercise some authority over them?”
“I suppose so. Can't say I've ever cared to try. Their actions are their own, so long as they don't interfere with my life.”
“Spoken like a true Campbell,” Marcus muttered.
Loudoun's eyes flickered, and there was a biting edge in his cultured voice when he said, “Unlike you, Ashlund, I am far removed from those people. I don't live in the wilds of Scotland, yearning for the days of old.”
“It isn't the days of old I yearn for, but, like any civilized man, simple peace. Yet, it is your clansmen who make that impossible.”
“Mayhap you should appeal to our king. He is in a better position than I to help.”