Chapter Nineteen
WILFRED CARDROSS WAS drunk when the messenger came into the hall, dusty and mud spattered, two letters clutched in his hand.
“Urgent messages from Golden Isle, my lord,” he said, and backed out quickly before Cardross’s boot could speed him on his way.
Cardross tipped the blowsy serving wench off his lap—she was someone from the kitchens, he had no idea whom, and she had been rather inexpertly trying to arouse his lust, but he was too bored and too drunk to be interested.
He reached for his wineglass first, spattering drops over the letters, tilted it to his lips and drank greedily.
“Fetch me more,” he said to the indignant girl, slamming his glass down on the table with a force that made the crystal shiver.
“Hope it chokes you,” the wench said viciously, under her breath as she headed off back to the kitchens.
Cardross ignored her. He opened the first of the letters, tearing it a little in his careless haste.
As expected, it was covered in McTavish’s writing.
Cardross read a few words and threw the letter down on the table in disgust. McTavish was as nervous as an old woman, rambling about warning beacons and Methven’s suspicions of a French raid.
The French pirate, Le Boucanier, would never show himself if there was any chance of capture.
And while Le Boucanier was free, Cardross knew his own secrets were safe.
Yet even as he tried to reassure himself, a sliver of doubt wedged itself in the earl’s gut and started to gnaw at him.
Supposing, just supposing, Methven was clever enough to trap the French privateer.
Le Boucanier would very likely trade his own freedom in return for information on the Scottish nobleman who was treasonably selling his country’s secrets to the enemy.
Cardross glowered into his wineglass. Could he take the risk?
Then another line in the letter caught his eye.
“Methven is sending for half his clansmen from his western estates to mend the beacons and defend the isle...”
Cardross paused. How entertaining it would be, he thought suddenly, if the press-gang should take all those Methven men and impress them into the Royal Navy.
Then not only would the marquis lose half his clansmen and plunge his other estates into hardship and ruin, but Cardross could also claim the reward for leading the recruiting officers to such a rich prize.
The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea, and the more he liked the idea, the more he wanted to be there to see Methven’s anger and despair on losing those clansmen he had tried so hard to protect.
Cardross laughed, slopping the last of the wine into his mouth.
Some of it splashed onto the table and he cursed aloud.
He shouted for his steward to bring him pen and ink.
He would write immediately to Wilson and Scott, the northern recruiting officers, and have them sail to Golden Isle to take the Methven men.
Greed, like a canker, ate into him, and it felt sharp.
He would sail too; Wilson in particular was a brutal and corrupt individual who would cheat him of his blood money if given half a chance.
And once the Methven men were taken and Robert Methven had retreated south to lick his wounds, he would be able to take up once again the lucrative business of free trading and of passing information to the French. He could not lose.
The earl was so taken with his idea that he almost forgot the second letter lying unopened on the table.
Snatching it up, he unfolded it and scanned the few lines, first with impatience, then with a quickening interest. When he had finished he paused, tapping the paper against the table edge, a smile on his lips.
His spy in Lady Methven’s household had come through with a ripe piece of news. His smile grew as he thought about it.
Robert Methven would not meet the terms of his inheritance. There would be no heir.
Now he would most certainly go to Golden Isle to witness the downfall of his rival. In fact, he would go so that he could inform the marquis in person of his wife’s betrayal and enjoy Methven’s shock upon receipt of the news.
His steward had not appeared. Neither had the girl with his wine. Cursing them both, Cardross staggered to his feet and set off to make preparations for his voyage north.
* * *
IT WAS THE ghosts that had finally driven Robert out of the house.
He had sat for a long time after Lucy had gone, eating nothing, aware of nothing but the frustration that was locked tight inside him.
Eventually he had gone down to the sea, to the bay where he and Gregor had gone so many times as children.
He had loved Golden Isle then. It had been special, Gregor’s kingdom.
He had never once thought that would change.
Then Gregor had died and he had hated Golden Isle for taking his brother from him, hated it as much as he had loved it before. He realized that he and Lucy shared that common thread. They had both lost a sibling who had been so dear to them that the loss haunted them still.
The night air was soft and gentle, as was the hush of the tide on the sand.
Robert sat on one of the rocks that commanded the shore and felt the cold granite rough against his palms. On the high cliffs above was the Devil’s Bridge, where Gregor had fallen.
No one could explain it. Gregor and he had both been as sure-footed as mountain goats; the cliffs held no fear for them.
Yet on that day, Gregor had gone over the Devil’s Bridge to try to save one of the boys who had got into difficulties climbing down the cliff face for the gannets’ eggs.
The lad had survived, but in trying to help him Gregor had fallen from the bridge and had died.
Robert sighed. He knew he had to go back to the Auld Haa and find Lucy. He had to apologize—again—for his dourness. He had to stop running. Lucy had been much braver than he; she had trusted him with her fears while he had withheld his from her.
He stood up. Tonight was such a calm night. The moon patterned the shifting sea with silver. It felt peaceful.
Then he saw Lucy. She was standing on the other side of the Devil’s Bridge.
At first he thought she was a ghost conjured by his memories.
Then, with a clutch of fear that nailed him to the spot, he realized she was not.
It really was Lucy and as he looked she started to walk across the narrow arch of the cliff toward him.
He heard the rattle and tumble of stones as they fell from the arch into the chasm below.
Pure cold fear pierced him and held him still.
She is going to fall.
He was running, stumbling over the tussocks of grass toward her, half falling, swearing, until he collided with her and clutched her to him, snatching her away from the edge of the cliff and those dark, dangerous rocks, feeling her warm and real in his arms, even as he panted with exertion and dread.
“Robert?” She did not even sound out of breath. “I came to find you. I was worried—”
“You little idiot! You stupid, foolish, crazy—” He realized that he wanted to shake her.
The violence in him was vast, spawned by utter terror.
He was trembling. He could not speak. Then the relief swamped everything and he held her cruelly tightly, his face against her neck, feeling her warmth and hearing her breath.
“Oh,” she said, and there was a revelation in her tone. Then more quietly: “Oh.”
“I thought I was going to lose you,” Robert said. He could feel himself shaking. He had to make a huge effort to loosen his grip on her. “I love you so much and I thought Golden Isle was going to take you from me too.”
He did not know where the words had come from. He only knew that they were true. His complex emotions had turned out to be fairly simple after all. He had named them lust, tenderness, admiration, anything other than love.
Lucy cupped his cheek in her palm and held him as fiercely as he held her, and he felt the emotion crash through him as powerful as the tide and as irresistible.
He pulled her down onto the soft, springy turf, a deliciously comfortable bed, and she came easily into his arms and he pushed the cloak from her shoulders and found beneath it just her nightgown, shredded by the sharp rocks where she must have scaled a couple of the field walls.
He ripped the remaining shreds from her and felt her shiver.
The little half boots he found ridiculously erotic and did not remove.
Her naked body was pale and golden in the moonlight and when he kissed her she kissed him back, hungrily, fiercely, sliding her hands over his back, pulling him closer.
There was no hesitation in her and no doubt, and he knew the waiting was over.
He was hit by such a wave of possessive desire that for a moment he could not breathe.
He cupped her face in his hands, feeling her hair silken soft against his palms.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He was afraid of the force of his need for her.
“You won’t.” She strained up to kiss him, her breasts brushing his chest. “Please, Robert. I want this. I love you too.”
His hands were shaking as he loosened his pantaloons.
He parted her thighs and slid into her, trying to be careful of her even in the midst of his raging need for her, and felt her jerk with the discomfort of his entry.
He heard her breath catch. Her eyes opened.
She looked bemused, on the edge of losing that lovely sensual pleasure.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “In a moment it will ease.”
She nodded. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please don’t stop now.”