Текст книги "My Fierce Highlander"
Автор книги: Vonda Sinclair
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Against her cool hair, his lips formed a kiss. Saints! How he treasured her and wished to kiss her all over. Without thought, he brushed his lips across her forehead, then pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks. She pulled in a shaky breath, drawing his attention to her lips he hungered to taste again.
Tilting her flushed face down and to the side, she withdrew her arms from around his waist. Disappointment besieged him, though in truth he didn’t know what the devil he was doing kissing her face in such a way. Had he gone mad? He immediately released her.
With much hesitation, she glanced up at him with darkened blue eyes. “I must go see to the injured men.”
Shoving away the ardent feelings that now filled him, he focused on her words. “Nay. You are to go get some sleep yourself, afore you fall down.”
“But—”
“I won’t be hearing an argument about it. Off with you now, to your room.”
Maybe if he treated her like a child, she would lose some of her womanly appeal. But he doubted anything would cool his body’s heated interest in her.
***
Having washed away all traces of soot, blood and grime, and wearing fresh clothing, Gwyneth paced from one end of her chamber to the other, past the ostentatious bed, where her freshly bathed son lay snoring within the downy mattress. She paused by the narrow window with its wavy glass. She was not sleepy in the least. Tired and shaken, yes, but not relaxed enough to sleep. She was glad Rory had agreed to a nap.
The events of the past few hours replayed through her mind over and over. The fires, the violence, the death.
The fear.
Fear for Rory’s life and for Alasdair’s.
After she’d found Rory and held him in her arms, her worries had turned to Alasdair. She’d feared his broken toe would cause him to make some small mistake in battle and get himself killed.
But he was alive, thanks be to God.
Alive and warm and strong. When he’d held her for those few shining moments in the library—heavens! She’d almost broken down into sobs. Why? Not sadness. No, with thankfulness, and joy and a hundred other emotions that crashed in on her when he touched her.
The intensity of his dark brown eyes and the firm grip of his arms told her he’d needed to hold her. That his regard for her went beyond a man’s physical need for a woman. He had felt the same concern for her safety that she’d felt for his. And the way he’d kissed her forehead, her cheeks. With affection. With passion that went beyond the physical. She’d been near shaking with emotion for him by the time she’d left the library.
Always, he looked at her with such admiration—she could not fathom it.
He wasn’t like his charming seducer brother, but Alasdair was nonetheless charming and seductive, in a more subtle way. Mayhap in a more cunning way that gave her a false sense of security, until she was well caught in his trap…and then she would be a gone goose.
“No. No, I must not,” she whispered. “I must go away from here.” For the sake of Rory’s life and her own sanity.
But the prospect didn’t hold the appeal it once did.
Chapter Eight
“May I have a word with you?” Gwyneth asked Lachlan later that afternoon when she found him in the noisy great hall. Normally she would not have asked anything of him, but she was desperate.
His brows lifted. “Indeed.” He followed her to the less crowded side of the huge room where they might have a bit of privacy.
“I searched you out as soon as I heard you were going to Edinburgh,” she said.
“Aye, Alasdair is sending me to petition the Privy Council on his behalf. He kens of how charismatic and diplomatic I can be.” Lachlan smiled and winked.
The man should learn to rein in his effortless seductive charm. No more than a flick of an eyelid from him, and she felt like an awkward young girl. Not that she was attracted to him—certainly not in the way she was attracted to Alasdair—but Lachlan constantly left her in a state of discomfiture.
“You said if I ever needed your help to ask,” she reminded him.
“Aye.” He watched her warily, his countenance turning serious. “What would you be needing help with? As I said, I’m in your debt for saving Kean’s life.”
“I want to leave the Highlands.”
He frowned and glanced about. “Aye, but I don’t think you should travel with me this time. I’m in a wee hurry.”
“No, not now.”
He smiled. “I’m relieved. As I’m sure Alasdair will be. He would be in a foul mood indeed if I deprived him of seeing your lovely face every day.”
Heat rushed over her. The implication that Alasdair enjoyed looking at her—goodness. It filled her with giddiness and sparked the memory of his wicked kiss.
“He would take his fury out on the clan—and me too, of course,” Lachlan continued. “There would never be another peaceful day here at Kintalon. I wager he would follow us all the way to Edinburgh to reclaim you.”
Her whole body started to sweat. She couldn’t believe how he was going on about Alasdair’s interest in her. Surely he exaggerated. “Please, sir—”
Lachlan chuckled, and she realized he was teasing her. The knave.
She cleared her throat and tried to remember what she’d wanted to ask him. “As I was saying, I must find a place to go in the Lowlands or England. I want to find a governess or tutor position if possible. Laird MacGrath has said he will write me a recommendation. If you should run into a friend or acquaintance in Edinburgh, perhaps you could inquire whether they are in need of someone.”
“I will make every effort, m’lady.” Lachlan bowed, took her hand and kissed her fingers.
She snatched her hand away. He grinned and headed for the door.
“Have a safe journey,” she rushed to add.
She glanced across the great hall and met Alasdair’s midnight eyes. His scowl told her he was vexed about something—surely not because she’d been talking to his brother.
***
The next evening, Gwyneth oversaw the clearing of the tables after the meal in the great hall. This day had been a long, sad one with the funerals of six clan members who had died in the attack. The kirk had been overflowing with mourners. A pall of tragedy hung over the clan like the gray clouds above.
Downstairs, just outside the kitchen, Gwyneth paused upon hearing one of the female servants whisper her name.
“’Twas Gwyneth’s fault the village was burned, I tell you. The MacIrwin sent a message, he wants her back.”
“You best not let Laird MacGrath be hearing you say that. You’ll be spending the night in the dungeon,” another female voice warned.
“Fie!”
“Stop spreading rumors,” a third woman said. “Mistress Carswell has saved the lives of four men including Laird MacGrath himself.”
“Shh.” One of the women spotted her through the doorway and they all hurried back to their tasks.
Had the woman spoken the truth? She was to blame for the village being burned? It seemed a rock had been dropped onto her chest for she could hardly breathe. Why would Donald want her back that badly? Or was it a matter of revenge?
Footsteps approached from behind and Tessie stopped at her elbow. “Laird MacGrath wishes to see you in the library,” she whispered.
“I thank you.” Gwyneth would ask him about this.
Determined to learn the truth, she turned and climbed the stairs. What could Alasdair want? He had not said more than five words to her all day. As was to be expected, he had given his full attention to the families who had lost loved ones. Gwyneth saw how much he cared about them all, and she admired this in him.
When she stopped outside the intricately carved oak door of the library, her palms sweated, and a sudden giddiness rippled through her. Not because she was afraid to be alone with him, but because she was looking forward to it too much. Though it was folly, she craved his complete attention. How greedy she was. Often, she did not know what to do with his attention once she had it. To feel his gaze on her and to hear his deep voice murmuring words, no matter whether mundane or scandalous, to her alone. Those were the moments when she didn’t have to share him with his clan, yet also the moments that thrilled and frightened her most.
Drawing in a deep breath to calm her frantic heartbeat, she tapped her knuckles against the door three times.
“Come,” said a deep voice from inside.
She stepped into the room. A small fire popped and flickered in the hearth, the glow adding further warmth to the candlelit room. The scents of smoke, melted tallow and rich spice blended into a comforting fragrance.
Alasdair stood, facing her, before the mantel, looking dark and mouth-watering, wearing a fine belted plaid and doublet. She forced herself not to stare and instead focused on the fire. The last time they’d been alone together in this room, he had held her tightly in his arms and kissed her face. How comforted and protected she’d felt, but just beneath the surface, smoldering embers of desire had near scorched her. She both hoped and feared he might embrace or kiss her again.
No, don’t think such thoughts.
Risking a glance at him, she found him studying her face, then his gaze dropped to her clothing. Well, in truth, his late wife’s clothing, which she’d worn today for the first time. She hoped the garments hadn’t brought back painful memories for him.
“You wished to see me?” she asked.
“Aye. Have a seat, if you would please.” He motioned toward one of the wooden chairs situated not far from the hearth, and she lowered herself into it. “Would you care for some clary?” he asked, pouring wine into a pewter mug.
“No, but I thank you.” Though the sweet ginger scent of the mulled claret did tempt her, she had to keep a clear head around him.
Carrying his mug, he took the chair opposite her. “Glad I am to see you finally wearing the clothes I gave you. You look lovely in them.”
Heat rushed over her and she was thankful for the dim lighting. Dropping her gaze and trying to think of something neutral to say, she studied the exquisite cloth of the dark gray woolen skirts. “I thank you. I wouldn’t want to ruin the fine clothing in the day-to-day running of the household, but for the funerals I needed something better.”
“Aye.” After taking a sip, he leaned forward, propped his elbows on his knees, bare below his kilt, and frowned into his mug. It seemed the weight of all of Scotland rested upon his shoulders. “I’m grateful to you for attending the funerals and consoling the family members of those who died.”
Unexpectedly, her eyes stung—a combination of having seen so many others in pain, Alasdair’s own apparent depth of feeling for his people, and the fact that he appreciated her presence. And she hoped, took some comfort from it.
Though her throat tightened, she forced the words out. “I’ve come to care for your clan. They have treated me far better than mine own.”
“I’m glad.” Alasdair drank another swallow of the clary, and Gwyneth suddenly craved the taste of it. Surely the spicy sweet flavor would be as drugging as the man. But she did not trust herself to drink such an indulgent beverage in Alasdair’s presence. She was certain it would drown her good sense.
“I’m building a case against Donald MacIrwin,” he said. “And I would like you to testify against him if you’re willing, before the Privy Council in Edinburgh.”
Heavens, that could be nerve-wracking, but no question, her cousin and his lawlessness had to be stopped. “I’ll be glad to.”
“Good.” He raised a brow. “You’re willing to testify even if it means some of your cousins are imprisoned or hanged?”
A tremor of revulsion passed through her. “I hate to see anyone hanged. But they are guilty of murder. Mora’s for one. As well as the defenseless people who were not able to escape their burning cottages or who were slain in the street. And I’ve no doubt Donald would’ve killed Rory and me if he’d half a chance.” With great effort, she pushed away the dark suffocation of her memories and focused on the man before her.
“Aye.” Alasdair blinked hard once and glared into the fire for a long moment as if deadly thoughts passed through his mind.
The accusation of the whispering women haunted her, the burden of their words increasing. “Did Donald burn the village because of me?” she asked.
Meeting her eyes, Alasdair frowned. “Nay. Why do you ask?”
“I overheard someone talking about it. I regret that I’ve put your whole clan in danger by coming here. First, young Campbell lost his life, and now six more of your clan. Not to mention, the village burned.”
“Nay, the blame does not rest on you.”
“I know how cruel and bloodthirsty Donald is. When I escaped him, it angered him beyond measure. He wants revenge, does he not?”
“’Tis but an excuse. Donald burned the village nine years past, too. And I suspect you were far from the Highlands then.”
“Yes.” What a monster Donald was.
“Well then. When he’s furious with us, for whatever reason, he does things like this. I escaped his clutches as well, so he could just as easily be angry with me alone. I wish you would tell me who said this.”
She shook her head. Though Alasdair’s rational explanations made much sense, they could not calm her worries. “I also heard that Donald wanted me returned to him.” Her stomach ached with anxiety. “Is this true?”
Alasdair sat back, scowling. She knew the fearsome look was not meant for her, but for her cousin. “He did send a message by one of his men. But I would never, and I do mean never, return you to him. ’Twould mean certain death. Or worse, imprisonment and torture.”
It was as she’d feared. She had to do something. “Your clan would be much safer from Donald if I left.”
“Nonsense,” he muttered in a surly tone.
“How can you say that? He burned the village and killed people. What will he do next? No, it is clear to me that it would be best for everyone—your clan, Rory and me—if Rory and I left the Highlands.”
Maintaining his annoyed expression, Alasdair remained silent.
“I asked Lachlan to inquire while he’s in Edinburgh as to whether anyone he knows might be in need of a governess or tutor for their children,” she said.
“Ah.” Alasdair placed his mug on the small table by his chair, stood and approached the fireplace. After staring into the flames a long moment, he turned back to her. “I don’t want you to leave.”
Though his words said much, his troubled expression told her more. He wanted her to stay because—
The rest of the thought was too outrageous. Too tempting. Exciting. She studied her fingers clutched tightly together on her lap. Heaven help me. “I had best check the kitchen maids.” She sprang from the chair and charged for the door.
“M’lady.”
Though she wanted nothing more than to flee the room and the keen exhilaration of him, she halted, pulse racing.
He approached upon soft footsteps and stopped in front of her. For a moment, he studied her, his dark eyes gleaming. With gentle fingertips, he traced her jaw to her chin.
“I don’t want you to leave.” His raw whisper snatched her breath. Without warning, he ducked his head and kissed her. The spiced wine on his lips intoxicated her, and she curled her fingers into his thick silky hair. She was not the master of her own body when he touched her.
Wanting more of him, she opened her mouth to receive his honey and ginger flavored kisses. She should not partake…but she couldn’t resist. He flicked his tongue over hers, then away in a delicious game.
A low animalistic growl rumbled from his throat, and the kiss became something irreverent and without restraint. She sucked at his tongue, famished for the male taste of him.
Muttering words she did not understand, he kissed a mesmerizing path down her chin and underneath. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back, giving him access to her throat. He trailed his tongue down over the tender skin and pressed kisses lower, the stubble of his chin scratching beneath the neckline of her smock.
He pulled at the ribbon tie and she felt it loosen. He inhaled deeply against her skin, his lips caressing carefully now the upper swells of her breasts. “Mmmm. I could devour you.”
She gasped. Her nipples tingled, yearning for his hot, wet mouth. Though her corset prevented him from moving lower, he rubbed his chin over her nipples beneath the thick material. She was certain he couldn’t feel them, but he stimulated her, made her yearn to tear all the clothing from her body so she might feel the delights he would heap upon it.
A lascivious moan met her ears and she realized it had come from her own mouth.
But she was beyond caring. All that concerned her at the moment was Alasdair, his mouth, his hands.
He moved behind her, and nuzzled her ear with warm lips and tickling breath. She shivered, her body quaking with such a thrill as she’d never felt. He stroked her neck and the upper part of her chest. Upon raising her arm, she threaded her fingers into the silk of his unbound hair and he slipped his downward toward her bodice. Into her bodice, beneath her corset.
His warm fingertips glided over the sensitized, bare skin of her breasts. She had not imagined he could reach such a place. Bowing her chest inward, she invited more. Oh, how much more she wanted! Obliging her with a muffled growl, he moved lower, and his thumb and finger closed gently over her hardened nipple. His tongue circled her ear even as his fingertip circled her nipple. He whispered Gaelic words that meant sweet, beautiful.
Paralyzed with riveting sensation, she could not breathe; he had stolen her ability. He sucked her earlobe into his mouth and plucked at her nipple with his fingers.
Grasping a handful of his clothing, his wool plaid, she groaned, shocked at the wanton noise she made and the need that filled her. Her back arched, and she pushed her derriere against his hard shaft. Near out of her mind with arousal, she turned her head toward him, ready to beg, and he immediately captured her lips, sliding his tongue into her mouth.
She couldn’t bear another moment of these exquisite sensations. She might well splinter like a falling star.
Something thumped, jerking her from this sensual dream and away from Alasdair—a log in the fireplace had shifted and sparks showered the hearth.
What am I doing? Her body aching, she glanced up at him from inches away.
The renewed fire illuminated Alasdair’s passion-filled expression and lowered brows. He looked like he wanted to bite her, ravish her. She yearned to do the same to him but—heavens.
“Mo chreach. I swore to myself I wouldn’t do that. But you’re so—” He blew out a harsh breath.
I must go while I still can. While I can still make a rational decision. Stumbling toward the door, she tried to calm her ragged breathing and will some strength into her wobbly legs.
I must leave the Highlands before I become a slave to mine own desires and the drugging effects of this man.
***
When Gwyneth fled the library, closing the door behind her, Alasdair sucked in a deep breath, trying to drive away some of the lust engulfing him. He could not recall being so aroused in his life.
“Damnation! I’m daft,” he muttered, approaching the mantel and leaning an arm upon it. He should not have accosted her with such force. Likely she would never speak to him again, and who could blame her? He was no gentleman. Nay, he was a rogue, in truth. But her sweet delicious mouth. Her soft breast…in his hand…it had fit so perfectly. Her nipple peaked, aroused. He would give near anything to taste it, draw it into his mouth. Her silky skin and her scent seduced him. Thought deserted him when he touched her. The wanting near consumed him. He turned into naught more than an animal that craved to have her beneath him. The drive to taste, to claim, to possess clutched at his gut.
Though he was loath to admit it, she was amazing to him…lovely beyond words. He could never tire of looking into her blue eyes, like the summer sky, and he could not yet comprehend all he saw there—intelligence, sensuality, caring. More. His carnal side said he could never allow her to leave. But deep in his vitals he knew if she stayed, he might well lose his heart. Again. And what if she left after that? He could not bear to give up another woman he loved. The last one had near killed him.
Nay, he must control his carnal urges. Though when he was in her presence, controlling himself was the most difficult thing on earth.
The clan…that’s what he must focus on. They would be occupied for the next several days rebuilding the village, replacing the roofs. He would spend all his time working with the men, and he would have no time or energy to think about the lady who had bewitched him.
***
Four days later, Gwyneth paused on her way into the village alehouse where the midday meal for the workers would be served. Bright sunlight gleamed down, heating her skin and brightening her mood. She had hardly seen or spoken to Alasdair during the past few days. He had kept himself occupied, and she had as well. Still, it was impossible to forget the shocking but delectable incident in the library.
Padraig, one of the soldiers who’d been injured in the attack, stood by the door, his attention focused on the men thatching roofs across the way.
“How are you feeling, Padraig?” she asked.
He jerked as if she’d burned him. “M’lady, pray pardon. I didn’t see you there.” He bowed, cradling his wounded arm. “I’m much better. Thanks to God for blessing you with healing skills.”
“I’m glad you’re recovering.” She strode inside the alehouse where several female servants worked, removing food from baskets and readying it for all the workers. The stone floor and walls of the building still smelled of smoke, but the new timbers and fresh thatch overhead gave her a feeling of hope. Gwyneth put down her loaves of bread on a new table near the back which she’d covered with a cloth earlier.
“I would much rather be on one of the roofs,” Padraig said behind her.
She jumped and turned. Was he following her?
“Nonsense, sir. You are not yet well enough to help with the thatching.”
“But I will be soon, thanks to you,” he said eagerly. His craggy face looked ruddy in the dimness. “’Tis glad I am that you came to our clan.”
Good Lord! Surely he was not thinking to court her.
“Would you like a piece of bread? It’s still warm from the oven.” After slicing a thick chunk from the loaf, she handed it to him, hoping to halt his talkativeness.
“Many thanks. You are most kind, m’lady. Most kind, indeed.”
While she sliced bread, he launched into a tale about a cow and three lads. She laughed and realized Rory would love the story. Where was he? She glanced about and saw him playing nearby with another boy.
Before she turned her attention to the bread again, she caught sight of Alasdair standing just inside the door, watching her. Her pulse skittered like a startled rabbit and she pretended to ignore his progress in their direction.
Her hands were a bit unsteady on the knife handle as she continued her chore. She had not talked privately to him since the library incident. Well, truly, it wasn’t an incident. It was an indulgence. One she must not fall into again.
“Padraig, how’s the arm?” Alasdair asked in a boisterous tone.
“’Tis improving, m’laird. I was just telling Mistress Carswell about the time the demon cow run my two brothers and me to ground.”
“Indeed? I wish I could’ve seen that.” Alasdair’s gaze upon Padraig was not as friendly as it should’ve been. The silence between the two men extended and the tension thickened. Pretending not to notice, Gwyneth continued with her task. Slice, slice.
Padraig cleared his throat. “Well, then. I must find Sweeney. Pray pardon.” He bowed and ambled away.
Gwyneth glanced up at Alasdair and lifted a brow. Men. Could they do naught but compete in everything they did?
She tried to pretend their kiss of a few nights ago hadn’t happened. A kiss and a bit more. Do not think of it. He had seemed to be avoiding her the past few days.
“Glad I am to see you here.” The tightness had not left his face.
She tried to think of something intelligent, yet not flirtatious, to say. “I never thought I’d be serving food in an alehouse, but in this case it seems innocent enough.”
Alasdair’s expression lightened. “Aye. No carousing today.”
Gazing into his dark eyes was like food for her soul, but she must not overindulge even in that small pleasure.
A thick post blocked them from most of the others in the large room and created a sense of privacy. Her awareness of him intensified. He smelled of fresh wood shavings, a few of which still clung to his kilt.
“But we’ll be carousing during Feill Sheathain a week hence. Midsummer’s Eve or St. John’s Day to you Sassenachs.” He grinned. “’Haps even a lady such as yourself will let down her hair.”
Good lord, the celebration was certain to be pagan…and beyond scandalous. She had been excluded from festivities while a part of the MacIrwin clan. Donald’s idea of a celebration involved him and his soldiers, food and drink, and all the whores they could find. The common people of the clan were suppressed and barely given enough food to survive, even though they were the ones who did all the work.
“I do not think so, Laird MacGrath. I’m not much for that sort of thing.”
“Well, you should be.” He turned his head sideways and gazed down at her. “There is a time to mourn and a time to celebrate. We should throw ourselves wholly into each when the time comes. ’Tis a part of living. If we don’t enjoy life when given the chance, then the chance may never come again.”
His words sounded sage enough. She longed to live her life fully and enjoy it. But she didn’t know how. Her circumstance for the past few years had been too uncertain.
In the next instant, Alasdair stepped in close behind her, and her awareness of him shot upward like a flaming arrow. His breath warmed her ear, and he brushed his lips across her temple. “Don’t be afraid of living, Gwyneth.”
Chills shimmered through her body. The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered on the table beside the bread.
Oh, good lord. Don’t do this to me, Alasdair. Don’t turn my body into a traitor.
He pulled back a few inches, slid something behind her ear and stroked a finger down the sensitive skin of her neck.
“What is…?” Her words trailed off on a breath. She inhaled the scent of wild roses even as she removed the smooth stem from behind her ear. A simple white rose with only a few petals and yellow stamens in the center. Emotion caught in her throat. Alasdair. She closed her eyes and pressed her nose to the flower, letting its lavish scent and his sweetness wash over her.
“I thank you,” she whispered, not daring to let him see the moisture in her eyes.
He stepped back. “Och! Rory, what are you doing down there?”
Her son peered up at them from beneath the tablecloth. His hair stuck out in all directions, and his curious, wide-eyed gaze darted back and forth between them.
Alasdair chuckled. “You have the look of a wee hedgehog about you, lad.”
Rory grinned and crawled out. “I saw a badger yesterday.”
“Did you now? What did he look like?” Alasdair winked at her before they strolled away, Rory talking as fast as his tongue would move.
Gwyneth exhaled, releasing the tension and savoring the affection he conjured in her. After sniffing the rose once more, she slipped it into her pocket. She would not have anyone wondering what she was doing with a rose behind her ear, or what secret person might have given it to her. Feeling overheated of a sudden, she wished for a hand fan.
Straightening her spine, she picked up the knife and continued slicing the bread, though her hands were less steady than before.
I cannot allow him to weaken me with a rose…with his teasing touches and hot breath, whispering in my ear. I must remain strong at all costs.
Nothing but trouble would follow if she did lose her head. And though he was kind, he was a man like all others, interested in bedding whoever was willing and available…and caught his fancy. It was simply the way of men to pursue their baser sensual instincts.
Well, she was neither willing nor available.
Truly, I am not! I will not think of him anymore.
***
“My lord, a messenger from Scotland is here to see you.”
Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick glanced up at his footman who bowed then straightened. Messenger from Scotland? Could it be that the MacIrwin barbarian was finally heeding his request?
“Show him into the library and wait with him. We don’t want him to stuff his pockets with trinkets, now do we?”
“No, my lord. As you wish.” He bowed again and retreated.
Southwick smiled. He’d written months ago to that damned MacIrwin, inquiring about his son. Finally, a response. He’d never met his son, nor did he know his name, but he would soon. This was the only son he’d ever have, so he had no choice but to find him. All he had to do now was figure out how to make him legitimate. But first he had to gain custody of him from his whore of a mother. That should prove easy enough given he was a marquess with powerful connections, and Gwyneth was…nothing.
Taking his time, Southwick stood and straightened his green brocade doublet and his white ruffled cuffs. He proceeded down the wide, ornate stairway to the library, where a footman opened the door for him. He entered to find another footman and a shabbily dressed messenger in a belted plaid. A barbaric Scots peasant, to be sure.
“M’laird.” He bowed at least.
Southwick cringed at his accent. There was nothing that grated on his nerves more.
“Are you Laird Southwick?” the messenger asked.
“Indeed, I am Maxwell Huntley, marquess of Southwick. And who might you be?”
“Robertson, sir. Chief MacIrwin sent me to bring you this.” He extended his hand and in it was a dirty, bent and folded missive.
Thankful he was wearing gloves, Southwick took the paper, broke the red wax seal and flung the paper open. Perching his spectacles upon his nose, he tilted the paper to the light from the tall, heavily-draped window and read. Well, he tried to read. The handwriting was near illegible. Something about his son. MacIrwin had him and if he wanted him, he must send two hundred pounds.
“Outrageous! Two hundred pounds is an outrageous sum! He is my son. Why should I have to pay for him?” he shouted at the messenger, who stepped back wide-eyed and bowed slightly.
