Chapter 15 #3
“I like having a new friend too. That brown dress will do for today. It won’t show the dirt if you sit in the grass for your picnic.”
“Or in a tree,” Augusta replied. She made short work of getting dressed, because Fiona was ricocheting around the room more energetically with each gunshot, darting from the bed to the window and popping in and out of the wardrobe.
“They must be hunting already,” Augusta said.
“Uncle Ian doesn’t use beaters,” Fiona replied from the depths of the wardrobe. “Says the bunnies and such need a sporting chance. Your clothes all smell good, like flowers.”
“Your mama uses flowers to keep your whole house smelling fresh.” Augusta glanced around the room. She’d soon be packing up, should probably start on it immediately so there would be less to do after the wedding.
Weddings.
The thought brought her mind to a stillness, while the recognition of all Augusta would not have—with Ian, at Balfour, in Scotland, with the MacGregor clan sprinkled all over the shire—washed over her, and her door clicked open again.
“You’re awake.”
The last person—the very last person Augusta ever wanted or expected to see in her bedroom was Willard Daniels. He stood just inside her door in tidy hunting attire, but his eyes were bloodshot, his complexion splotchy, and his mouth curved in a cruel smile.
And in his hand was a large, lethal-looking pistol.
“Uncle. I believe the hunt has started. What brings you here?”
And please, Almighty God, she prayed, give Fiona the sense to remain hidden in the wardrobe, because the baron’s purpose had to be evil.
“The hunting is just under way, and you and I have a little excursion to make. You will accompany me right out that door to the terrace, Augusta. So accommodating of you to insist on a bedroom on the ground floor. It has made all manner of schemes possible.”
“I’m going,” Augusta said. “Let me at least fetch a hat to keep the sun off my face.”
“Oh, by all means.” He waved his gun, the peculiar light in his eyes as he continued to smile proof positive the man wasn’t sane. Augusta crossed to the wardrobe and made a show of rummaging among her effects.
“Don’t follow. Stay safe.” She whispered the words to Fiona who was crouched, wide-eyed among Augusta’s boots and shoes. “He has a gun.”
Fiona nodded and shrank into a smaller ball.
Augusta grabbed a bright white, wide-brimmed straw hat, which she hoped would make her conspicuous. She closed the door to the wardrobe except for a small crack and put the hat on her head, jamming a hat pin through the crown.
“I assume we’re taking a walk, Uncle?”
“You do a great deal of assuming, Augusta Merrick, but in this instance you’re correct.
We’re taking a little walk in the woods, and you’re finally having the damned accident you were supposed to have much earlier in our visit to this benighted province.
I swear you have more lives than that damned cat of yours—though he at least knew enough to succumb to poison.
Now march, my girl, and keep your mouth shut. ”
He waved the gun again, and even as she vowed to avenge her murdered cat, Augusta noted Altsax had his finger on the trigger.
She snatched her ugly old tan shawl from the foot of the bed and slipped out the terrace door, one step ahead of her uncle.
As soon as they were outside the house, he manacled one hand on her arm, the loose folds of his shooting jacket hiding the gun.
He steered her toward the path Ian had shown her through the woods soon after her arrival. It started off close to the house, meaning there was little likelihood anybody would see Augusta with her demented escort.
Please God, keep Fiona safe.
The baron hustled Augusta along in silence for some yards, his grip on her arm destroying her balance to the point that she stumbled.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Fiona streaking around the corner of the stables, making straight for a woods crammed with hunters who were armed to the teeth and likely shooting at anything that moved.
· · ·
“Your Highness.” Ian bowed to his neighbor. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” A gun went off about fifty yards to their right, while the Prince Consort acknowledged the bow.
“Do you know, Balfour, how the number of children in a household can make the summer months seem particularly riotous? My wife has remarked on this phenomenon herself, but she seems to think it a wonderful thing.”
Albert was tall, good-looking, with a fashionable set of side-whiskers and a kind of bluff, German common sense to him. He was also possessed of sufficient strength of character to husband the lady reigning over the most far-flung empire known to humankind. Ian had liked the man on sight.
The Prince Consort was known to appreciate decent libation too, as well as deer stalking, fishing, and grouse hunting.
“My thanks for that brew you sent over,” Albert continued. “Are we trying to murder every creature in the woods?”
“We’re celebrating,” Ian said. “There were betrothals announced at last night’s ball. Missed you, of course, and your lovely wife.”
Albert frowned as another gun went off at a greater distance. “I sent you regrets, at least for the ball, and a note accepting your invitation today. It was with all that prosing on from the College of Arms.”
Ian passed his companion a flask and settled on a boulder. The hunt would sweep past them, pushing the game toward the edges of the wood. “I didn’t get it.”
“You didn’t get a royal epistle? Time to fire your domestics, Balfour, except I forget: up here, you hire your distant family members so you at least get some work out of all those you support.”
“We hire them,” Ian said quietly, “so they don’t follow all our cousins and leave the realm entirely.”
Albert had the grace to grimace, then took a sip from the flask. “You need to scare up that letter, Balfour. You’re harboring a baroness without portfolio. Her uncle is larking around under some false colors, and my wife is inclined to frown on such behavior among the peerage. Excellent stuff.”
“Keep it.” Highland hospitality—and political common sense—required such generosity. “What baroness am I harboring?”
Albert grinned and pocketed the flask. “Augusta Merrick, of course. Victoria got your epistle a week or more ago, the telegrams and pigeons were sent off, and I sent you the answers. The Gribbony barony is Scottish, while the Altsax title is English. Doesn’t happen very often, unless the titles are quite old. ”
“I knew the Gribbony title was Scottish,” Ian said slowly, “but what does that have to do with Augusta?”
A racket started up in the undergrowth to their right, and Albert immediately had an ornately decorated rifle against his shoulder.
“Uncle Ian! Uncle Ian!” Fiona gasped as she emerged at a dead run from the bushes. “Don’t shoot me. He has Augusta, and he has a gun!”
Albert lowered his rifle and shot Ian a quizzical look. “You’ve got trouble, Balfour.”
Fiona pelted into her uncle, tears streaking her face, her breathing harsh. “The baron’s going to kill her, and you have to save her!”
“Fiona, calm down.” Ian propped his rifle against the boulder and scooped his niece up. “Take a breath and let it out slowly. There’s my girl. Again.”
“He’s going to kill her. He came to her room and made her leave with him.”
“Balfour, what’s the signal?” Albert was pointing his gun at the sky as he spoke.
“Three shots,” Ian said. “As close together as you can.” Ian walked off a few paces with Fiona, while the prince gave the signal ending the hunt.
“Which way did he take her, Fee?”
“Up the path behind the stables. He has a big gun, and Augusta is going to die.”
“No, she’s not.” Ian kissed the child’s forehead. “She is bloody damned not going to die while I have breath in my body.”
Albert, a man exceedingly familiar with small children, reached for Fiona. “Give her to me. I’ll gather a party at the stables.”
“We haven’t time for that,” Ian said, passing Fiona over. “Keep the women safe, explain to my brothers what’s afoot, but don’t alarm the neighbors.”
“Mama will yell at me,” Fee said, curling into His Highness’s neck. “I was really bad, going into the woods when you were hunting.”
“She won’t yell at you,” Albert said. “My word as a papa. Have a care, Balfour. Decent neighbors are hard to find.”
Ian smiled at that and melted into the woods.