Chapter Thirty

Thirty

K illian MacKay trudged up the steep hill, one ear tuned to the whispered promises of an early spring, the other to the jubilant warbling of a mistle thrush. The previous night's storm had washed the sky clean. A fat melon of a sun dodged buoyant clouds against a mat of azure blue. A soft breeze sifted the tips of the swaying conifers in the glen below, carrying to his nostrils the taunting hint of a warming and ripening earth. A hint of green rippled in the brown grasses of the moor.

MacKay ignored the steady pangs of his joints. He had tethered his gelding at the foot of the hill, telling himself his weary bones would enjoy the walk. He knew, though, he was only delaying the moment when he might discover he had made yet another terrible mistake.

He hadn't made the climb to Dunkirk since the sticky summer afternoon when he'd discovered Brendan Kerr had died. He grimaced at the memory of the rocks tumbled over a shallow grave, the hollow tap of his footsteps as he strode through the filthy hall, calling for the boy. His only answer had been the hoarse echo of his own voice and the mocking flutter of the swallows in the rafters.

His hand shook as he slipped it into his plaid and drew forth a sheaf of creamy vellum dripping crimson seals. Dread tightened an icy claw around his heart. If Kerr had hurt Prudence, she had only him to blame. How could he explain to her that he'd had to give the lad a chance? He owed him that much.

The paper rustled as he topped the hill and braced himself for the stark shadow of the castle to fall over him. His dread swelled to amazement as he took in a view of utter domestic charm.

The small castle, once the haunt of only hobgoblins and swallows, looked as if it had been scrubbed clean. The warped door hanging on rusty hinges had been replaced by a new door painted a deep forest green. Two snowy goats nibbled on the grass around the stoop. Three dresses, faded but crisp and clean, flapped on a rope strung between two Caledonian pines.

The rhythmic slap of a trowel on mortar cut a counterpoint to the steady thump of an ax biting wood. MacKay shaded his eyes against the sun. A man worked far down the hill, building up the low stone wall that jutted over the moor. Sunlight gilded his hair. Beside him, a slender woman raked a hoe through the stubborn cords of dead ivy creeping up the gate, her own dark cloud of hair whipping in the wind. In the courtyard, a thin, freckled lad grunted as his ax dug into the roots of a massive stump.

The serpentine roots of the stump gave with a snap. The lad stumbled backward. Despite the cool breeze, he was forced to wipe sweat from his eyes; and then he saw MacKay.

He dropped the ax. "Praise be to the Lord! Swear to me ye're the magistrate. Sweet God, I've been delivered!" He rested his palms on his knees, breathing hard. "Me da always told me I'd be punished for me wicked ways, but I never believed him. I'm turnin' meself in." He strode forward, offering MacKay his upturned wrists. "Ye'll take me back to Edinburgh, won't ye? Maybe they'll ship me off to a workhouse where me weary bones can get some rest."

MacKay grinned. "You must be Jamie, the minister's son. The one he fished out of the Glasgow gutter." MacKay looked around. "Where's the other one? The strapping lad he used to run the moors with?"

"Tiny's at his cottage." Jamie's eyes narrowed as he glared at the paper in MacKay's hand. "If ye ain't the magistrate and that ain't a writ of arrest, how do ye know so much about us?"

MacKay smiled enigmatically. "Not a magistrate, my lad. Only an admirer."

Jamie snorted. "Most of me admirers are of the female persuasion." He eyed the hilt of MacKay's claymore. "Ye haven't a daughter, have ye?"

"No. No children."

Jamie looked relieved at MacKay's reply. A husky ripple of laughter drew their gazes to the two figures silhouetted against the azure sky. Sebastian sat on the wall with Prudence nestled in the cradle of his thighs. As they watched, he tilted her face to his and gently kissed her. The knot in MacKay's throat tightened. He slipped the vellum back into his plaid. When his hand emerged, it cupped a gold pocket watch.

Jamie sighed. "I'm warning ye. You'd best go back where ye came from. If they see ye, ye'll never escape. They'll have ye milkin' chickens and polishin' goat eggs quicker than ye can remember yer own name."

MacKay snapped open the engraved cover of his watch, sending a dart of sunlight across Jamie's eyes. "Look at the time, will you? I've an important engagement in the village. I fear I shall have to call on your master another day."

With a jaunty swing of his sporran, he started back down the hill, his claymore clanking against his boots.

"Wait," Jamie yelled after him. "Who shall I tell him called?"

MacKay's cheery whistle floated back to him on a burst of wind. Shaking his head, Jamie hefted the ax and made a halfhearted swing at the stump. Sunlight splintered against the blade as it had flashed against the inscription on the stranger's watch. The ax slipped, sinking into the ground dangerously near Jamie's toes.

His head jerked up. "Why, MacKay, ye canny old bastard!"

The old man was gone. Sun warmed the empty path.

Jamie glanced down the slope. Sebastian had plucked a vine out of Prudence's hair and was tickling her under the chin with it.

Jamie eyed the shade of a pine longingly. "Me da always said I should learn to mind me own business," he muttered.

Creeping beneath the tree, he pulled his cap over his eyes and settled down for a long afternoon nap.

Sebastian lowered the bucket of mortar and stood with hands on hips, surveying his handiwork. When he looked over at Prudence, his expression softened. Her hair hung in snaky tendrils, half up and half down. A fierce scowl furrowed her brow as she clawed at the ivy on the gate like a vengeful lioness.

He wanted to laugh at his own arrogance. He had repaired the stone wall to separate her from the vast emptiness below, knowing deep in his heart that even a mighty fortress would be powerless against it. Whether basking in the deep greens of summer or drenched in the purple of coming autumn, the moor's heathered breath would be carried by wind and mist to breach any barriers he could build. The wind stung his eyes. It wasn't the moor that had killed his mother. It was his father's mercurial temper and unrelenting fear of betrayal.

Sebastian was surprised to find that the rending grief that always accompanied memories of his mother was gone, leaving an odd peace in its place. The early afternoon sun warmed his back. Shadows of clouds chased each other across the dappled grasses. It was too easy to pretend the moment, like the promise of spring, would last forever.

He walked over to Prudence and folded her cool fingers in the warm cup of his hand. "Come with me."

He gave her no time to protest or question as he pulled her through the gate and away from Dunkirk. A narrow footpath materialized from the sheer drop of the cliff. He clambered down the rocks with the confidence of a mountain goat.

Prudence clung to his hand, bracing her weight against him when she would have stumbled. The wind battered them, snatching her breath away. She fixed her gaze on the whipping halo of Sebastian's hair, for without the wall to shelter them, the height was dizzying. Down, down, they climbed into the waiting glen. By the time they reached the bottom, she was gasping for breath.

Sebastian caught her around the waist. "What ails ye, wee English lass? Ha'e ye nae spirit in yer puir pitiful frame?"

She shoved against his chest, hiding her smile behind a black scowl. "Spirit eno' to keep up with a barbarous Highlander, methinks."

With a dazzling grin, he pulled her into a pelting run, away from the shadow of the cliff and into the sunny arms of the moors. They ran hand in hand like children, parting the rustling grasses, freeing the scent of the coming spring from the spongy turf. Prudence laughed, throwing back her head to drink in great gulps of air. Sebastian spun her around, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

As he drew her into the sparkling gloom of a pine forest, she collapsed in a heap on the ground. The ripple of water against rock drew her attention. She crawled forward on her elbows, parting a curtain of needles to peer below.

She was surprised to discover they lay atop a mossy brae overlooking the village. The river twined beside the sleepy cottages, shimmering silver in the sunlight. Smoke drifted from the stone chimneys.

"Sebastian!" she exclaimed as his deft hands worked their way beneath her skirt.

"Aye, dear?" His tongue flicked against the sensitive skin behind her knee.

"You musn't do that. The village is right below."

"We have complete privacy here. Just try not to scream as loud as you did last night when I…" His words were mercifully muffled against her thigh.

Heat pricked the back of her neck. "Why, I believe you have a predilection for making love in public places!"

"Nonsense. Of course, there was the time in the sunken bandstand at Vauxhall Gardens…"

Her foot came up, catching him neatly in the ribs.

He slipped behind her and nuzzled her nape. "Ha'e ye nae mercy on a puir ravishin' bandit?"

His words evoked a hazy memory in her, like a dream sweetened around the edges by erotic tension. Her head fell back, swayed by the persuasive heat of his lips, the artful press of his fingertips against silken drawers dampened by longing.

Rhythmic hoofbeats thudded on the road below. Prudence thought it the mad beat of her pulse until Sebastian straightened and lifted a branch.

She felt an agonizing tug at her heart as they saw Laird Killian MacKay ride into the village below, dressed in the full resplendence of plaid and kilt. His broad shoulders were painfully straight. She wondered what the effort must cost his gnarled joints. Stealing a wary look at Sebastian, she saw his mouth was twisted, his eyes dimmed with an unreadable emotion.

They watched the village spring to life. Cottage doors flew open. Sacking flapped in open windows. Piping laughter rang in the air as from every cottage, every yard, every corner of the village, poured children in a ceaseless stream. They danced around MacKay's dappled gelding, faces turned upward, little hands brushing his horse's satiny flank. Not a single hand came away empty. The children ducked their heads, shy eyes glowing, grubby fingers clutching handfuls of sugared walnuts. These children did not look like the children of Jamie's village. Their cheeks were chubby, their feet encased in sturdy brogues. Prudence wondered how much of that had to do with their laird's benevolence.

MacKay leaned forward with a mighty groan and swept a blond boy into his saddle. The boy clutched the pommel, beaming a toothless grin at his envious friends.

Sebastian let the branch fall, enclosing them again in the muted world of green. He rolled to his back, staring up at the creaking canopy. "Twenty years ago he would have lifted the boy to his shoulders. The bastard's getting old." He tucked a pine needle between his lips with painful nonchalance, but the tautness of his jaw betrayed him. "I used to come here and watch him when I was a boy. I thought he might be the king of all Scotland. I think I started to hate him even then."

"For what, Sebastian? Being kind to children?"

He rose without answering, brushing dry needles from his shirt. His eyes were as cold as flints. "We'd best get back. I have a visit to make."

She caught his hand. "Tomorrow will be soon enough." She rubbed her lips lightly over his knuckles, tasting the warm spice of his skin. "Sebastian?"

He gazed at their interlaced fingers as if hypnotized. "Mmm?"

"Are there other ways to make love without making babies?"

Sebastian's breath caught in his throat as he stared down at her, lost in the curious brilliance of her eyes. "Aye."

She eased the tip of his thumb between her lips. "Show me."

His resistance melted beneath the sleek, wet heat of her mouth. Groaning hoarsely, he tangled his hand in her hair, forgetting MacKay, forgetting everything but the temptation to play with abandon at the game they had created.

Rosy shafts of late-afternoon sunlight pierced the arrow slits in the hall. Holding her breath, Prudence eased herself from beneath the weight of Sebastian's thigh.

His long fingers wound in her hair. "Going somewhere, Duchess?"

She winced. Didn't the man ever sleep? She rested her fingertips lightly on his chest. "I'm parched. Would you care for some ale?"

He twirled a strand of hair around his finger. "We shouldn't have sent Jamie away. He could have fetched ale and dropped grapes in our mouths."

"He already believes himself a slave. We mustn't humor his delusions." She wiggled out of his grasp, tucking a blanket under her arms.

Sebastian's gaze swept her from head to toe as she rescued the flagon of ale they had left warming on the hearth. His lazy grin disarmed her. "Decadence becomes you, Miss Walker."

She curtsied, holding the blanket high enough to show off her shapely calves. "Thank you, my lord. I've been practicing."

She twirled away from him and knelt by the hearth, her motions hidden by the folds of the blanket. Her hands were oddly steady, she noticed, as she splashed ale in a goblet, then twisted the lid off the tiny vial she had slipped from her trunk earlier. She dared a glance over her shoulder. Sebastian sprawled on the blankets like a contented satyr, a swath of wool riding low on his hips. A flush of satiation touched his cheekbones. Decadence also became him, she thought. Too well for her peace of mind.

Five. Ten. Fifteen drops. She paused, then tilted in two extra drops of the laudanum. Sebastian's frame was much larger than Tricia's.

Her hands did not falter until she knelt beside him and pressed the goblet into his hand. It swayed, dribbling ale in the sandy hair scattered across his chest. She inclined her head to hide her burning cheeks and dabbed at his chest with a strand of her hair.

He drank deeply. "Mmm. Hot and sweet." His eyes studied her with smoky intensity. "Like you." He cupped her nape and drew her down for a long, wet, open-mouthed kiss.

Prudence wanted to weep. Not sweet, she thought. Bittersweet. She slid down, resting her cheek against the fleecy warmth of his chest. His hand stroked her hair, then fell still. His fingers uncurled against her cheek. When she had measured the rise and fall of his chest for several heartbeats, she rose, dressed quickly, and slipped out into the misty Highland gloaming.

The sinking sun had streaked the sky with pink. As Prudence left the path, her skirt caught on the thorny spines of a hawthorn bush. She jerked it free, ripping a jagged swath from the faded velvet. She had no way of knowing how long Sebastian would sleep. If he awoke before she returned, she would have more than explaining to do.

The sky deepened to lavender as she plunged through a burn swollen from the melting snows. Icy water plastered her skirts to her ankles. A chill nipped the air, drying the sweat at the nape of her neck. She climbed the rocks on the opposite bank, tearing her fingernails on their jagged faces.

She paused to catch her breath. Bowls of mist melted over the glen. The trembling boughs of the birches seemed to mock her. She pulled her shawl up over her hair and darted into the waiting arms of the forest.

A strand of pines streamed past in a blur. She pounded the rich earth beneath her slippers, stumbling only when the rocks bruised her tender soles. A hot blade of pain stabbed beneath her ribs, and she bent double, grasping her side. The agony slowly abated. Her vision cleared. She blinked, believing her bleary eyes deceived her. She wished she had thought to bring her spectacles.

Silhouetted against the darkening sky was a castle of legendary splendor. As she crept nearer, she expected to hear the skirl of bagpipes or see kilted men-at-arms rush out to raise the drawbridge. Only the neatly clipped topiary and mullioned windows assured her she hadn't stumbled through some portal in time. She hastened her steps. This was no time for dallying. She had to reach MacKay before Sebastian did, to warn him that she hadn't yet been able to soften Sebastian's heart toward him.

She pounded on the iron-bound door with her fist, bracing herself to meet the shocked gaze of a proper English butler. The door was snatched open and a strong hand jerked her into the shadowy entrance hall. She gasped as brutal fingers tore the shawl from her hair.

She gazed upward into a face alight with some unnamed emotion. As MacKay's gaze traveled her features, the brilliance in his slate-colored eyes slowly dimmed. He let her go. His color was pasty in the candlelight and sweat tinged his brow. She could smell the staleness of whisky on his breath.

"Sweet Lord, child, I'm sorry. For a moment I thought…" He passed a trembling hand over his face.

"That I was her?" she asked softly. "That I was Sebastian's mother?"

MacKay would not look at her.

But Prudence's curiosity was unrelenting. "She came to you, didn't she? Out of the night. Out of the mist."

MacKay ran a hand through his hair. His broad shoulders were stooped as he ushered Prudence through a doorway beamed with crude timber into a study in cozy disarray. A fire crackled on the stone hearth, holding the darkness at bay. Oil lamps scattered pools of light across the polished wood floors. A virginal sat in one corner, its keys furred with dust.

MacKay sank down in an overstuffed chair, hugging his plaid around his shoulders like a shawl. A plump white cat twined between his ankles. He absently scratched behind her ears with his gnarled knuckles. Prudence sat on the edge of the settee, sensing MacKay needed her silence more than her questions.

He poured himself a tumbler of Scotch and lifted it to his lips with a shaking hand. "Seeing you and the lad together today brought back so many memories."

"You saw us?"

"Briefly. I've never been so close to him. It was as if I could just walk up and…" He fixed his eyes on her. The whisky had burned some of the sharpness back into them. "Sebastian's mother did come to me. Much as you did tonight."

"To beg for your help?"

His even tone shamed her. "If she had asked for my help, do you think I would have denied her?"

Prudence stared into her lap.

MacKay continued, his words dispassionate. "Ours was an arranged marriage. D'Artan sent her here a few months before the ceremony so she could get to know me and my family. She was little more than a child—huge eyes in a gamin face. My father was already ailing, but my mother adored her."

"As did you." It was not a question.

MacKay gazed into his glass. "She fought so hard to hide her fear. She was sweet and brave and funny. And, oh, so tempting. I thought it best to put some distance between us before the wedding. I was in Greece when she was abducted. It took them months to find me."

"Why didn't the law do anything?"

The look in his eyes chilled Prudence. "With my father ill, I was the law. I was in this very room loading my pistols to go after her when she came pounding at the door. To tell me she had fallen in love with Brendan Kerr. To beg me not to intervene. To show me she was already with child— his child."

"What did you do?"

"What could I do? I went a little mad inside. Then I let her go. I let her walk right back into that misty night. Oh, I saw her after that. On the mountain. In the village. But I always cut her coldly, turned away. I also saw the way she wore her shawl pulled up over her face, the bruises on her ankles, the welts on her wrists…"

Prudence poured herself a shot of Scotch and downed it in one swig, welcoming the raw path it burned along her throat.

The cat jumped into MacKay's lap and began to knead his kilt with her claws. "But even then my poor wounded pride wouldn't admit that she had lied to me." He lifted his tumbler in a bleak toast. "My godforsaken pride."

Prudence knelt beside him and put a gentle hand on his knee. "Come with me to Dunkirk. Tell Sebastian what you just told me. He believes you abandoned his mother. That you never even tried to help her. Perhaps if you tell him, he'll understand."

MacKay's red-rimmed eyes focused on her. "How can I make him understand when I don't?" He shook his head. "No, lass. 'Tis far too late for me. But not for you."

He stood and shuffled over to a large desk, his steps weighted by the liquor. He pulled a sheaf of vellum from one of the cubbyholes and held it out to her. "The lad's pardon. He'll be expected in London in two weeks to testify against his grandfather before the House of Lords."

She touched the rich paper as if it might burn her. "I wanted you to hide it," she confessed. "But Sebastian's been a prisoner long enough. Tonight I'll give him his pardon. Even if he chooses to be rid of me, at least he'll be free."

MacKay cupped her cheek with a trembling hand. Prudence hadn't seen a mirror since she'd left Edinburgh. She had no inkling of her own transformation beneath the wild, loving caress of both Sebastian and the Highlands. Her hair hung soft and loose down her back. Misty air and hard work had flushed her fair skin with good health. The wind had put a new sparkle in her violet eyes.

MacKay's fingers steadied. "He's a lucky man. You've finally become as beautiful as your aunt always feared you would be."

Prudence plucked a cat hair from his plaid. She despised leaving him alone steeped in guilt and solitude. She wanted to share with him the hope beating in her heart, the joy stirring despite her fear. Beneath his questioning gaze, she went to the desk, uncapped an inkwell, and scribbled something on a card. She pressed it into his hand, then stood on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

His weathered face cracked in a smile. "An excellent suggestion. I shall send for my seamstress tonight."

Prudence tucked the pardon in her shawl. MacKay draped the cat over one arm and followed her to the door. She paused. "Tell me, Laird MacKay," she said solemnly, "did you offer for my hand just to save Sebastian, or were you really willing to marry me?"

The cat's gray-green eyes surveyed Prudence unblinkingly. MacKay inclined his head. "Bella and I could have found a place for you in our hearts, had you chosen to stay."

She gave his hand a hard squeeze, then started across the lawn at a run. MacKay watched until she was only a shadowy wraith among the trees, then buried his face in Bella's fur.

Prudence pelted through the trees, praying she would not lose her way. Moonlight dappled the forest floor, sheening off rocks and ferns. A blinking vole scurried out of her path as she rushed on, afraid but unable to squelch the hope that sang with each shuddering breath. She clutched Sebastian's pardon to her breast. Even when she tripped and fell flat, she kept her palm curled around it. As she scrambled to her feet, her shawl caught on a branch and fell away.

She burst out of the woods into a meadow. The swollen moon laved the grasses with silver. A red deer lifted his head from a gurgling stream, his brown eyes knowing and passive, as if wild-eyed English girls plunged through his meadow every night.

Stars winked to life like icy shards against an inky pelt. They looked so near, Prudence would have sworn she could reach out and capture a handful. The land shifted, steepening beneath her feet. The mist curled damp fingers around her skin. Even it seemed welcoming now, like cool clouds banked at the peaks of heaven. She was going home. Home to Dunkirk. Home to Sebastian.

She stumbled into the courtyard, then stilled her headlong flight. Dread quickened her pulse and slowed her breathing.

A solitary light burned in the window of the tower.

The light was an ugly flare against the darkness, as piercing and relentless as a blade through the soft underbelly of the night.

She staggered forward, then stopped again, teetering on the brink of the ugly gash in the earth where Sebastian's coffer had once been buried.