Chapter 20 #2
Rhona went a bit shakily. She had hardly hoped to be met with huzzahs and kisses, but neither had she expected to be threatened by a child half her size.
The marquis closed the door behind them and escorted her down the hall to her own chamber. A candle flickered beside her bed.
“Here you are then, lass, safe and sound.”
She tried not to scowl, but it had been an odd day and her mind was atremble. “My thanks, your lordship.”
“There is no need for such formality.”
“What would you have me call you?” she asked, and lowered her eyes, trying to emulate the delicate baroness.
“We shall see,” he said.
She raised her gaze to his, and he only smiled.
“Such a sweet thing you are. I hope you will not be frightened alone in your room this night.”
“I’ll try to be brave, my lord.”
“No need for that, lass.” He moved the slightest bit closer. He smelled a bit like old whisky. Not an unpleasant scent, but not altogether soothing. “I am just down the hall.”
“I will surely sleep better knowing ’tis so.”
He eyed her carefully. “I look forward to getting to know you, Lady Rhona. I think you are a rare woman.”
“You flatter me, my lord.”
“I try.”
She glanced up sharply, and he laughed as he bowed.
“Good night, lass,” he said and turned away.
Although Rhona carefully studied the layout of Claronfell on the following morning, her day did not go much better than the last and the next still no better.
She found no opportunity to safely investigate the manse.
Reeves acted as if Rhona had come to burgle the spice chest. The marquis did his best to seduce her.
Colette shamelessly teased Lachlan—not that Rhona cared.
And the lassies watched her as if she were a slavering wolf, though she rarely saw them, for when they weren’t in the small, high chapel with Lady Irvette “where nothing was between them and God,” as the baroness informed her, they were closeted away in the nursery. Rhona had wandered into it once.
“Hurry up!” Colette had been saying. “Correct your stitches afore—”
She’d jumped nervously when Rhona entered, then executed a bow and turned to help the girl with her embroidery.
Perhaps Rhona would have stayed, but Edwina’s wide eyes seemed to welcome her no more than her sister’s narrow gaze, and if she were asked to join them, the truth would be out. She had fled the room in a matter of moments.
But on the third day Lady Norval left Claronfell for the village, and since the marquis was still about, this seemed the ideal time to draw the girls out of themselves. When Rhona ventured into the nursery, however, she found the room empty.
She considered asking about their whereabouts, but she did not altogether trust Colette. She was too bonny, too pert, too perfect. And if the girls were where they were not supposed to be, she dare not cause trouble for them.
Eventually she found them in the stable.
They sat in the dirt like two wayward urchins, their hands soiled and their shoes muddy. They were playing with twists of straw that vaguely resembled steeds.
“So there you are,” Rhona said. She thought her tone was lilting and gay, but the girls reared back in unison as if flogged by the same whip. And in that instant Lachlan stepped out from behind a stall, a straw horse in his own capable hand.
“Ye’ve frightened ’em,” he said, then leaned a brawny shoulder against the wall and glanced down at the girls as if they shared some secret to which she was not privy.
“But ye needn’t fear, lassies, she’s not so fearsome as she appears.
” There was humor in his tone, but Catherine wrapped her arm about her sister’s shoulder, pulling her to her feet.
“I’m not afraid of her,” she said, backing away and tugging her sister with her. “Even though she be Satan.” And with those words she broke and ran.
Rhona felt her face redden, but she could do little more than stare after them. Lachlan did the same, startled from his leisurely stance to watch them fly toward the house.
“I’ve no idea why I worried,” he said, not losing his rough accent. “For it’s a way with the children, you ’ave.”
“She’s not a child,” Rhona said, feeling flushed. “She’s the devil incarnate.”
“Truly?” He gazed after the girls as if deep in thought, then turned that same expression on her. “And ’ere I be thinkin’ that she reminded me of another I know.”
Rhona drew herself up to lambaste him, but the truth of his words seared her. Maybe this Catherine was not so different from herself.
“You play the gitarn beautifully, dumpling.”
The solar was filled with candlelight this evening.
It glowed off the women’s flaxen hair and gleamed like sunlight on the copper strings of Rhona’s tall, slim-necked instrument.
She set it aside and grinned at the foolish endearment.
It seemed at times that there was happiness everywhere, and never more than when they’d christened each other with ridiculous pet names. “But not so well as Tart,” she said.
The three of them laughed in unison, but a draft wafted mysteriously into the chamber. Chill it was, and somehow frightening.
“What was that?” Rhona whispered.
“’Tis Grandmother. She warns us of something.”
“Aye.” A man stepped into the doorway. His face was shadowed, but his intent was not. Evil exuded from him.
Rhona reached for her weapon, but no sheath adorned her hip. Indeed, there was naught there but a silver girdle against the rich velvet of her gown. And in that moment her sisters screamed.
Rhona awoke with a start. Reality came more slowly, but she breathed deeply, settling her mind.
It was well past midnight. She’d been at Claronfell several days now, and though her disguise seemed well accepted, she had learned little, though she had spent some time in clandestine investigation.
The strongroom stored Claronfell’s treasures and seemed the place most likely to house any damning documents the marquis might possess.
But it had shed no light on the situation.
Indeed, it had given her nothing . . . except the key now hidden beneath her cape.
The key that had opened none of the trunks in his strongroom and none of the containers in his bedchamber.
Although Rhona was doing her best to maintain her frail demeanor, she had not been idle since arriving there. Still, time was running out, but the house had long since gone silent, and now was the time for action.
Crafted of impenetrable rock and mortar, Claronfell’s walls were several feet thick and would buffer all but the loudest sounds.
Still, Rhona stood at her door for a long while, making certain not the slightest noise would be heard as she opened it and stepped into the hall.
A corbel of candles flickered in the corridor around the corner, and she slipped toward it, making not a whisper of sound as she set her taper to a flame.
Circumstances would be much simpler if she knew what she searched for, but she did not.
There had only been rumors that the marquis held a grudge against the rogue brothers.
Whispers of planned evil. Still, she would learn the truth for she had impending evil against the lady of Evermyst. Indeed she had tried to implement that evil, and for that she would make recompense.
The house was dark. From somewhere down the hall, she thought she heard a woman giggle.
She froze and waited, but nothing happened.
No one accosted her. Not a soul spoke. She hurried on.
The library housed innumerable books and parchments.
Perhaps that was where Lord Robert kept his private papers, but she would check his solar first. Situated on the south side of the second floor, it offered much light during the day.
Now it was dark and silent. The latch lifted with a groan.
She held her breath, waited, then easing the door open, stepped inside and closed herself in.
Setting her candle aside, she slipped the key from beneath her cape and glanced hastily about. The desk was spindly-legged and simply made. Its surface held little more than an ink-blotched quill and a soft piece of rolled vellum. One glance at the flowing script told her it was of no importance.
A buckler hung on the wall, and on a small console near the door, an ancient helm was displayed.
A tapestry, rich in reds and browns, hung near the window.
Hurrying to it, she pushed it aside, but there was naught behind it except chilly wall.
She spurred her gaze about the room, and then, nestled in the shadows of the writing desk, beside the cushioned stool, she spied a narrow trunk.
It was made of rowan wood, bound in leather, and secured by a solid metal lock.
Holding her breath, she drew out the small trunk and set it silently upon the desk. It opened with barely a sound.
Inside, she found a myriad of odd items—a silk sleeve, a worn rosary, a score of other feminine articles, and a dozen rolled parchments.
Shifting through the bizarre personal effects, she hauled out the scrolls.
The first was written in a woman’s hand.
Rhona’s brows lifted in surprise as she read it, for though it was intimately personal, ’twas obviously not from his late wife.
She shoved it quickly aside and unrolled the next.
It was similar to the first and signed with naught but an I.
So, MacGowan had been right about the marquis’s wandering eye.
Indeed, it was entirely possible that the trinkets that littered the trunk were tokens of his conquests while—
Hell’s saints!
Her fingers trembled against the vellum just opened. She skimmed to the bottom, but the missive was unsigned. She read from the top, skipping over the mundane solicitudes and reading: