Scottish Brides Page 13

  “Make use of the desk in the library,” Duncan offered, the epitome of the urbane host. “You’ll find everything you need there.”

  Jeremy hesitated. “You’re sure I won’t be putting you out?”

  “No, no.” With an easy smile, Duncan waved the suggestion aside. “I’ve completed all the estate business necessary.” His gaze swung to Rose. “I rather think I’m more in need of relaxation.” The timbre of his voice altered subtly; his gaze, holding hers, grew more intent. “I was thinking of a game of croquet.”

  Rose didn’t bat an eye. “Croquet?”

  “Hmm. Somewhat combative for a lady, I know, but I wouldn’t have thought that would deter you.”

  He was pricking her deliberately, challenging her, doubtless in the hope that she’d rise to his bait and forget that the croquet lawn, while not far from the house, was surrounded by a screening hedge—a completely private enclosure for a game that, unless she missed her guess, would have very little to do with hoops and mallets. Not unless she used one on him.

  Rose smiled and rose—and limped around her chair. “So sorry to disappoint you, but I seem to have turned my ankle.”

  “I say.” Solicitously, Jeremy offered his arm. “Is it serious?”

  “Oh, no,” Rose replied. “But I think I should rest it for the afternoon.”

  “How did it happen?” Jeremy asked as she leaned on his arm.

  Rose shrugged lightly and looked at Duncan. “Perhaps on the island—it was rather rocky.”

  “Or perhaps,” Duncan said, his tone carrying an implication Jeremy heard but couldn’t interpret, “it happened in the boathouse—you seemed to experience some difficulty there.”

  Rose stared at him calmly, then lightly shrugged again. “Perhaps,” she said, her eyes on his. “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to accommodate you.” She let a second elapse before adding, “With a croquet game.”

  With that, and a calm look just for him, she hobbled off on Jeremy’s arm.

  She made very sure she was not alone at any time for the rest of the day, and the whole of the evening. Lady Hermione gave her a very odd look when she offered to play and sing for the company. Rose ignored it; she had already decided that being on the piano stool, under the eyes of the entire company, was about as safe as she could be.

  All she had to bear with from Duncan was a quirking brow and a look she tried hard not to notice. She survived the evening and retired without any further challenge from him.

  Midsummer’s Eve dawned, full of promise for the next day and the evening’s revels. The sun shone, and the air was crisp and clear, as it could be only in the Highlands.

  Strolling into the breakfast parlor, Duncan was surprised to discover Rose and Clarissa already there, heads together. A more unlikely pair he could not imagine—Clarissa so innocent, Rose anything but. They looked up and greeted him, both smiling—Clarissa sweetly, Rose somewhat smugly. She explained that last as he sat.

  “Clarissa has always wanted to learn how such a large establishment runs. I’ve offered to show her about.”

  “We’re to start in the stillroom,” Clarissa eagerly informed him.

  “Hmm.” Rose’s smile was serene. ‘‘And then we’ll go through the buttery and the dairy—and, of course, the succession houses.”

  “And after that, Lady Hermione has offered to demonstrate how she tends her special plants.”

  Duncan smiled easily, but the glance he sent Rose held a warning and a promise.

  Rose noted it, but, her confidence resurrected, felt sure she could outwit him—at least until Midsummer, when she could release Jeremy and then decide whether to stand or flee.

  She wasn’t up to making that decision yet; she had to live through Midsummer’s Eve first.

  Luckily, her confidence had yet to reach the cocksure; as they left the breakfast parlor, Clarissa suggested and she concurred that they’d need wraps to brave the cool of the stillroom. Clarissa’s room was in a different wing; leaving her own minutes later, Rose headed for the side gallery, the shortest route to the stillroom.

  She never knew what warned her—perhaps a shifting shadow or a whiff of sandalwood. Some sixth sense alerted, she stopped, quivering, on the threshold of the long, narrow gallery.

  And knew Duncan was close—very close.

  With a smothered shriek, she whirled and ran. Behind her, she heard him curse. She hied straight down the main corridor of bedrooms; in her soft slippers, light on her feet, she made very little sound. Duncan, so much heavier, could not follow, not fast—if he ran, he’d have everyone on the floor poking their heads out of their doors and asking what was wrong. Rose reached the end of the corridor and slowed, then skipped lightly down a narrow side stair. She gained the bottom, slipped out a side door and started across a flagged terrace.

  Halfway across, she looked up—and saw Duncan watching her from the gallery above.

  She waved; he scowled.

  Smiling even more brightly, she headed for the stillroom, conscious of exhilaration streaking down her veins, conscious of the pounding of her heart.

  They were no longer children—but they could still play games.

  “I really think it’s time I took you for a ride.”

  Duncan uttered the words in his most charming voice—to Clarissa, not Rose.

  “Oh, yes!” Clarissa smiled brightly and turned to Rose, beside her. “That will fill in the afternoon nicely, don’t you think?”

  Slowly, her eyes on Duncan’s innocent face, Rose nodded. “Indeed.” She could see no danger in a ride; on the back of her customary mount, while she couldn’t outride Duncan, she could at least outmaneuver him. And she’d have Clarissa and Jeremy near. She nodded more definitely. “A ride sounds an excellent idea.”

  Getting changed and sorting out mounts and saddles filled the next half hour—it was midafternoon before they were away. It was rapidly apparent that while Rose and Duncan were superlative riders, the others were much less accomplished. Jeremy handled his chestnut with confidence but insufficient skill; Clarissa was clearly uncomfortable above a slow canter.

  Exchanging a long-suffering look with Rose, Duncan dropped back to ride beside Clarissa, leaving Rose to entertain Jeremy. While she pointed out various peaks and other spots of interest, she listened to the murmurs behind her. And inwardly approved. Duncan’s manner was that of a host, considerate of his guest’s enjoyment; Clarissa was full of that evening’s ball, of her gown, of the anticipated dancing—Duncan indulged her with an avuncular air.

  As they rounded the loch and, hooves clacking, crossed the stone bridge spanning the river, Rose felt much more in charity with Duncan than she had for days. He was behaving exactly as he should.

  They rode on through the lush meadows, and on into the foothills, eventually reining in on a bluff looking out over the valley. From the valley floor, the view was deceptive: although from the house the bluff looked quite close, it was actually miles away. That became apparent when they looked back at the house, small and white on the opposite side of the loch.

  Clarissa viewed the wide expanse, broken only by a few scattered cottages and copses, with something akin to dismay. “Oh!” She blinked, “Good heavens—well!” She glanced at Jeremy.

  Who was drinking in the view. “Quite spectacular,” he averred. Turning, he looked behind them, at the gradual rise of the foothills, lapping the feet of the towering crags. “It’s amazing how much arable land there is—you wouldn’t think it from the house.”

  He and Duncan fell to discussing the various farms that made up the estate.

  Clarissa bit her lip and looked down, nervously plaiting her mare’s mane. Rose, on the other side of Jeremy, inwardly sighed and held her tongue.

  “Shouldn’t we be getting back?” Clarissa abruptly suggested, silencing both men. They looked at her; then Duncan inclined his head.

  “Of course—you’ll be eager to dress for the ball.”

  The smile Clarissa beamed at him was truly ing
enuous; Rose resisted the urge to shake her head. Picking up her reins, she was about to swing her mare’s head for home when she saw Duncan frown and cock his head.

  She stilled and listened. And heard what he had: a distant mewling, carried on the light breeze.

  Both Jeremy and Clarissa, noticing their absorption, listened, too.

  “It’s a cat.” Clarissa tightened her reins. “It’s probably just mousing.”

  Neither Rose, Duncan nor Jeremy replied; they all frowned abstractedly, concentrating on the sound. It came again, louder—a wail, ending on a telltale sob.

  “A child.” Rose scanned the nearby slope, then, eyes widening, looked down the rocky bluff, a tumble of boulders angling down to the valley floor. “Oh, God! Duncan—you don’t think . . . ?”

  Face set, he was already dismounting. “They must be in the caves.”

  “Yes, but which one?” Pushing aside the skirts of her habit, Rose kicked free of her saddle and slid to the ground.

  Duncan shot out a hand to steady her. “Heaven only knows.”

  Jeremy frowned as they both tethered their mounts to nearby bushes. “Can’t you simply follow the sound?”

  “Echoes.” His face grim, Duncan strode to the lip of the bluff. “The entire rock face is riddled with caves. They’re all joined—any sound made in one echoes throughout the system. It’s damned hard to locate the source of any sound.”

  “Oh.”

  “But . . . ,” Clarissa frowned as she studied Duncan, who stood, hands on hips, looking down the cliff. “Shouldn’t we head back, then?”

  “Back?” Duncan glanced at her, clearly at a loss.

  “So we can send someone for the child,” Clarissa artlessly explained. “We can send a groom to the farms around here to let them know one of their children is lost in the caves, so the parents can get them out.”

  Rose kept her gaze on Duncan’s face, ready to intervene if need be. She sensed his reactive rage; to her relief, he mastered it. And, in a voice devoid of inflection, explained, “By the time we ride back and a groom rides out again, it’ll be twilight. Despite its appearance, this area is not a wilderness—there’re cottages and crofters’ huts scattered all over. And it’s Midsummer’s Eve—everyone will be everywhere, getting ready for the festivities.”

  “Precisely,” Clarissa returned. “And your mother’s ball is the most important festivity—you can’t possibly mean to be late.”

  Rose grabbed Duncan’s sleeve, not that he seemed to notice. Jeremy’s horse shifted uneasily.

  “Ahem,” Jeremy said, drawing Clarissa’s attention. “I rather think Strathyre means that it’s potentially too dangerous to delay going to the child’s aid.”

  Clarissa stared at him. “But it’s only some shepherd’s brat. They’ve probably just twisted their ankle, It will serve them right—teach them a lesson—to stay out all night and miss the Midsummer’s Eve revels. I don’t see,” she concluded, elevating her nose haughtily, “how any gentleman could possibly suggest that because of some uncouth brat’s misdemeanors, I should be forced to be late for the ball.”

  That speech held Jeremy, Rose and Duncan silent for a full minute. Clarissa looked belligerently back at them; it was patently clear she meant every word.

  His expression grim, Duncan looked at Jeremy. “I would be much obliged, Penecuik, if you would escort Miss Edmonton back to the house.”

  Jeremy frowned. “Shouldn’t I stay? What if you need help?”

  Duncan glanced at Rose, approaching beside him. “Rose knows the caves as well as I do.” He looked back at Jeremy. “I need her with me”—he nodded at Clarissa—“and Miss Edmonton requires an escort.”

  Jeremy’s expression stated very dearly what he thought of Clarissa’s demands, but he was too much the gentleman to argue further. “Should I send any others out to help?”

  Duncan glanced at the sky. “No. If we need help, we’ll find it nearer to hand.”

  Jeremy nodded, then wheeled his horse and waved Clarissa to join him. She sniffed and did so; they set off down the track. Rose and Duncan turned back to the cliff’s edge. Ears straining into the quiet, they waited—and finally heard the distant crying again.

  “It’s so weak.” Without hesitation, Rose started down the cliff, climbing down between two boulders. “They’re a long way down, don’t you think?”

  Duncan nodded. “I think.” He grimaced. “But they could simply be deep in the system. If they’re young, they might have gone even farther than we ever did.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Rose whispered.

  The cliff was not sheer but a steep, boulder-pocked rock face. They climbed down without talking, Duncan quickly outstripping Rose and swinging across beneath her. Rose noted the protective measure but said nothing. Gradually, the soft, thin wail grew louder.

  Duncan stopped and waited for Rose to reach him. When she was approaching beside him, he whispered in her ear, “Call to them—if I do, they might panic and shut up.”

  Rose nodded. “Sweetheart,” she called, her voice soft and comforting, “where are you? It’s Rose from the big house—you remember me, don’t you?”

  Silence—then, as if fearing some trick of nature, came a hesitant, “Miss Rose?”

  “That’s right. A friend and I are going to get you out. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Jem, miss. Jem Swinson.”

  “Are you all right, Jem—not hurt?”

  Silence again, then, in a tearful voice, Jem blurted, “I’ve just got a few scratches—but it’s m’brother, Petey, miss. He’s fallen down a hole and he’s lying so still!”

  Jem’s voice broke on a sob; beside Rose, Duncan cursed. “Keep him talking.”

  Rose nodded. Jem was seven years old, his brother Petey only four. “Jem?” No answer. “Jem, you must keep talking so we can find you and help Petey.”

  After a moment, they heard Jem clear his throat. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Can you come out of the cave and show us where it is?”

  “No.” Jem sobbed, then collected himself. “I slid into the hole to try and help Petey, and now I can’t get out.”

  “Ask him to describe the cave entrance,” Duncan hissed as he helped Rose past a particularly large boulder. Rose complied; Jem described an opening that could have been one of at least ten on the rock face.

  “Can you still see the entrance?” Rose asked.

  “No. We went around a corner—all I can see is a glow if I look back that way.”

  Rose frowned. “How far did you go in before you came to the corner?”

  “Far?”

  “Think in steps—how many steps did you take before you went around the corner?”

  Duncan threw Rose a questioning look; she ignored it, waiting for Jem’s answer.

  “About four?” Jem tentatively suggested. “It wasn’t very far.”

  Rose smiled beatifically. “They must be in that cave I used to use to trick you, remember?”

  Duncan threw her a glance that said he remembered all too well. And changed direction. “It was over there, wasn’t it?”

  Rose looked across the valley, to where the first lights were being lit at Ballynashiels, then back at the slope, gauging positions. “Yes.” She nodded decisively. “Farther down and farther across—just beyond that boulder with the bush at its base.”

  They skidded and slid in their haste to reach the spot; Rose continued to talk to Jem, confidence ringing in her tone. The boy responded, sounding less and less worried with every exchange. Crossing a stretch of loose rock, Rose slipped. Duncan cursed and slapped a hand to her bottom, steadying her, then easing her descent. There was nothing sexual in his touch; not even when, reaching the ledge where he stood in an ungainly rush, Rose cannoned into him, did either of them so much as blink. They were both totally focused on rescuing Jem and Petey; in that instant, nothing existed beyond that.

  “Yes!” Rose all but jigged when they reached the mouth of the suspect cave and heard
Jem’s voice ring strong and true. “Jem, we’re here. We’re going to get you out.”

  Silence. Then: “I don’t want to leave Petey.” Jem’s voice started to waver. “He followed me in—he’s always following me about—I should of looked out for ’im better.”

  “Now, Jem. Petey will be all right.” Rose prayed that was so. “We’re going to get him out, too, so you needn’t worry.”

  The cave entrance was low and just wide enough for Rose to squeeze through. She knew the narrow passage widened just past the entrance, then turned sharply to the right. She was about to kneel down and wriggle in, when Duncan’s hand closed on her shoulder; he spun her around.

  “Here.” He pushed her hands through the armholes of his jacket, the wrong way around.

  “What?” Rose frowned at the jacket.

  Ruthlessly, Duncan hauled the jacket up her arms and around her, buttoning it up at the back. “They’re presumably down that hole you used to disappear into. I can probably get into the passage, but I don’t think I’ll be able to get around the corner.”

  Rose glanced at him, at the width of his shoulders: there was indeed a great deal more of him than there had been all those years ago.

  “So,” Duncan continued, speaking fast and low, “you lead the way in. We’ll get Jem out and get him back into the passage; then you’ll have to slide into the hole and lift Petey out to me.”

  Rose nodded. “So why the jacket?” She examined her new coat; because of the width of his shoulders and back, it did not restrict her movements.

  “Because,” Duncan tersely explained, “you’re no longer a scrawny fifteen—you won’t be able to simply wriggle, chest and belly to the rock, out of that hole like you used to.”

  Rose’s expression blanked. “Oh.”

  “Indeed.” Duncan gestured her inside as Jem called out again. “I’ll have to haul you out—and I don’t want any of your anatomy damaged in the process.”

  Rose couldn’t help a grin, but she sobered the instant she scraped through the entrance—and discovered she couldn’t even stand upright in the passage. “We’re nearly there, Jem. Don’t be frightened.”