Chapter 34
Gordon’s nerves bristled as he stepped into the din and chaos of the Great Hall. He had never liked gatherings, and he liked this one even less, for the threat of Edwin still loomed over him. If that bastard was going to strike, it would be tonight.
He had already gone out to speak to the guards countless times, which had given him an excuse not to mingle with his guests. Thus far, there was no sign of Edwin.
“Has Agnes come down yet?” he asked Keith while his gaze flitted to the nearby clock.
It was nine o’clock. She should have appeared by now.
Keith nodded toward the hall doors, a cup of wine in hand. “She was talkin’ to some lad. Left about twenty minutes ago.”
“What?” Gordon leveled a hard stare at him. “What lad? Where did they go?”
Keith shrugged. “I daenae ken, me Laird, but she didnae seem to be in any trouble. She followed him like she kent him.”
“How old was he?”
Keith puffed out a thoughtful breath. “Hard to say. A little younger than her, maybe?” He grinned. “Why, are ye jealous?”
Gordon ignored him, his mind racing. From what Agnes had told him, Edwin was a much older gentleman, nearing fifty. She had also said he looked younger than his years, but no fifty-year-old man could resemble a man more than half that age.
It’s nae Edwin. Or else he would’ve been spotted.
“She seemed calm and content,” Keith added, his tone more serious. “There’s nothin’ to worry about. Our men willnae let that English weasel in. He cannae get to her.”
But the fine hairs on the back of Gordon’s neck refused to stand down, a chill of gooseflesh prickling his forearms. Maybe he was worrying over nothing, but he would not be able to shake his unease until his wife was back in the Great Hall, standing at his side.
“I need to find her,” he said, and promptly walked out the doors he had just come through.
Keith followed at a run, abandoning his cup of wine and wearing the look of a man who was worried he had made a mistake.
They had not made it more than ten paces into the hallway when a feminine voice called out, “Laird Buchlann?”
He whirled around to see the vaguely familiar figure of Emma Anderson, the Lady of Clan MacLellan, walking toward him. A rather short and plump woman with fiery red hair and blue eyes, no one would have expected an English accent to come out of her rather local appearance.
“Have ye seen me wife?” he asked abruptly.
Emma raised an eyebrow. “Your wife? No, but I have been dying to. Is she nervous? Does she need someone to coax her down from her chambers? I remember my first cèilidh. It can be rather intense at first, but—”
“What did ye stop me for?” Gordon interrupted.
Emma gave him a rather sour look, clearly unimpressed by his curtness. “A gentleman gave me this. Told me to pass it on to you.” She handed over a folded piece of paper.
“What gentleman?” Gordon asked as he opened the note.
Emma shrugged. “I didn’t think to ask for his name. He was a charming fellow. I just happened to bump into him on my way back from my room.”
Gordon was only half listening as his eyes scanned the short note, his anger bubbling up, tinged with the icy chill of fear. A fear he had not felt in a very long time.
It said: The baby for your wife. Bring the child, and no harm will come to Lady Agnes. Look for our beacon.
“Where?” Gordon rasped. “Where did ye bump into him?”
Frowning, Emma twisted and pointed toward a door in the opposite direction. “He was just coming out of there,” she replied.
Crumpling the note in his fist, Gordon broke into a sprint, barreling through the door she had gestured to. It was an empty room that had not been used for any particular reason in years. His gaze flicked to the open window, which let in a cool breeze.
“He’s got her,” he hissed as he ran for the window and climbed out.
Keith wasn’t far behind. “What?”
“The Duke. He has her.”
Gordon crouched low and touched the earth, grateful that it had rained this afternoon. His fingertips brushed a fresh footprint alongside a deep groove.
He dragged her.
Squinting down at the ground, his eyes adjusting to the evening dark, he followed the trail of footprints around the castle until, in a slight recess of the wall, they turned into the crescent shape of hoofprints.
“Bring me horse to the gates,” he barked at Keith. He would deal with him later.
Keith rushed off to obey, while Gordon continued to track the hoofprints all the way to where his guards were supposed to be checking everyone who came in and out of the castle grounds.
“Did a horse ride out of here?” he snarled.
The men jumped.
“Aye, me Laird,” one replied hesitantly.
“And the rider?”
The same guard frowned. “There was a lad and a lass. Said she’d taken a fall and he was takin’ her to the healer at Braemar.”
“And ye didnae bother to look at the lass?” Gordon seethed, about ready to rip the heads clean off the necks of these incompetent fools.
The guard gulped audibly. “She was cloaked, me Laird. Swayin’ like. She didnae look well.”
“How can ye ken that when ye didnae look at her bloody face?” Gordon snapped.
“No one without an invitation has been allowed in, me Laird. We’ve checked everyone,” the guard protested, albeit tentatively.
“Aye, but nae hard enough.” Gordon clenched his jaw and turned his attention up to the battlements before shouting, “Do ye see a beacon anywhere?”
A guard standing in the gate tower looked from him to the landscape, agonizing seconds ticking by before he replied, “Aye, I think so. Out by the meadow with the fallen oak. There’s somethin’ glowin’. A torch, maybe?”
At least someone was capable of doing their job.
The next moment, Keith was there, leading Gordon’s horse with one hand. In his other hand, he held Gordon’s sword.
“Do ye want me to come with ye, me Laird?” he asked.
Gordon hoisted himself up onto the horse’s back and reached down to grab his sword. “Follow on foot. The meadow with the fallen oak. Bring a few men, and search the surroundin’ woods for anyone who shouldnae be there.”
He gave no further instruction before urging his horse through the gates and riding as fast as he could toward that faint, winking orange light in the distance. Toward the woman he could no longer pretend he didn’t love.
Agnes blinked awake to a stinging pain in her cheek, her eyes watering. That strangely sweet scent lingered in her nostrils, her mind foggy as she tried to make out where she was.
A figure stood before her.
“That’s better,” a familiar mocking voice said. “For a moment there, I thought my brother had given you enough ether to kill you, instead of putting you to sleep.”
Horror writhed in Agnes’s stomach as she met Edwin’s cold eyes. “You cannot have her,” she croaked. “You cannot have my niece. I won’t let you kill her, like you did my sister.”
She had meant it indirectly, considering she had never been able to prove anything, but the harsh laugh that tore from Edwin’s throat made her blood freeze in her veins.
“I told you, Agnes, I will not allow anything to ruin my life,” he said with a wink. “If I must get rid of every last one of you to keep my secrets, then I will.”
“You… killed her?” Agnes’s heart cracked. “You really did it, didn’t you? I knew it. All this time, I knew it. I could never shake the feeling. My sister was fine before you went into her room, and hours after you left, she was gone.”
Edwin smiled. “I did her a kindness, Agnes. She would never have been allowed back into society, and she thrived on company. She would have been miserable. I put her out of her misery.”
Just then, Samson walked into view, an anxious expression on his face. “There is a rider, Brother.”
Edwin’s demeanor changed in an instant. “Thank you, Samson. I know this has all been so hard for you, but we will soon have the situation remedied. Soon, my daughter will no longer be in the company of thieves and scoundrels. She will be where she should be.”
“What if he brings an army?” Samson asked, fidgeting nervously. “Really, I wish there was a more civilized way to do this.”
“To do what?” Agnes hissed, glaring at him.
Samson tutted. “Why, to retrieve what was stolen, of course. I am sure you are perfectly pleasant, Lady Agnes, but you have no right to take a child from their father. I am sorry that I lied and deceived you, but I had no choice. A child should be raised by a parent, not an aunt.”
“And if that parent killed the child’s mother and wants to do the same thing to his daughter?” Agnes shot back as she struggled to her feet, still woozy from the ether. “Your brother doesn’t want to be a father to Lizzy. He wants to get rid of her!”
Samson shook his head. “No. No, Lady Agnes, you are quite wrong. My brother has spoken of nothing but restoring his daughter to her rightful place, growing up as the daughter of a duke at Pembury House.”
“Then he has lied to you,” Agnes rasped. “If anyone were to find out about his daughter, he would lose everything. He would lose his chance to wed to a wealthy woman.”
“Lady Portia?” Samson frowned. “No, that is not true. My brother has told me that Lady Portia is eager to raise Elizabeth.”
“Your brother lies as easily as he breathes. There isn’t an honest thing that comes out of his mouth,” Agnes scoffed, her eyes brimming with tears.
She had been so certain that something was wrong when Christine died, but no one had believed her.
She had been told it was just her grief and that no one was to blame.
But there he was, standing there with a smile on his face—her sister’s murderer.
A real monster, hiding behind fake charm and a silver tongue.
“I would wager that Lady Portia knows nothing about my niece,” she added. “And never will, because your brother plans to kill Lizzy too. Isn’t that right, Edwin?”
Edwin rolled his eyes. “I think everyone needs to calm down. I am sorry that you have lost your fight, Lady Agnes, but really, you brought it upon yourself. This could have been so simple if you had just handed over the child when I asked, but you are as stubborn as your sister.”