Chapter Four

Four

T he leaded glass window distorted the world into sparkling diamonds of green. Sebastian heard the door behind him open and close. Before turning, he shifted his weight to disguise how heavily he leaned upon his cane.

The Persian carpet muffled D'Artan's steps. He seated himself behind the walnut desk as Sebastian faced him. The older man leaned back in his chair and steepled his bony fingers beneath his chin. A cryptic smile touched his thin lips. He did not offer Sebastian a seat. The study was devoid of all but the desk and D'Artan's thronelike chair. Sebastian knew what D'Artan was doing. He would maintain his enigmatic silence until Sebastian started to babble. Sebastian was determined not to give him that satisfaction. He clenched the gold-claw handle of his cane.

D'Artan, however, knew Sebastian as well, if not better, than Sebastian knew him. The faint twitch of Sebastian's fingers only deepened his smile.

His mellifluous French poured over Sebastian as smoothly as his silvery cap of hair poured over his scalp. "Your wound? Does it trouble you?"

"No. It's nearly healed."

Sebastian was lying. Before a hard rain, the throbbing of his ankle could bring tears to his eyes. He still awoke trembling and sweat-drenched from nightmares of the sunny morning when Tiny had rebroken the bone. The opium Tiny had forced him to smoke had dulled the pain, but not the memory. Nor had it dimmed the memory of a girl's voice, as soft and alluring as velvet crushed against the nap. Sebastian did not care to speak of that night. He did not want D'Artan's sneer to sully it.

He tapped his cane on the carpet. "Quite an elegant retreat you have here."

D'Artan crooked an eyebrow. "Lord Campbell was kind enough to grant me use of his country estate while he is residing in the city."

"Still the darling of Edinburgh, are you? Playing upon Lord Campbell's sympathies for the tragic French émigré fleeing the terrors of the revolution?"

"The British are notorious for their lack of imagination except when it comes to their own thick skins. They see in me their fate should the revolution cross the Channel." D'Artan uncorked a decanter and poured two brimming hookers of Scotch. He handed one to Sebastian. "That's one of the reasons I summoned you here. Lord Campbell's admiration has finally culminated in something more substantial. I leave for London tomorrow for an appointment with the King. I'm to be elected to the British House of Commons and gifted with a tidy annual pension of five thousand pounds."

Sebastian choked. The whisky seared his throat as he threw back his head and laughed. "Old George must be going daft again. How would the King and Lord Campbell react if they knew they were harboring not an émigré but a revolutionist, and that your tidy pension will be sent to Paris to buy gunpowder and guns?"

D'Artan shrugged. "No gunpowder. No revolution."

"No revolution. No war with England. I doubt the King will be so hospitable when he finds his own country looking down the barrels of those guns."

"The spread of the new order is inevitable." D'Artan lifted his glass. "All for the glory of France."

Sebastian hiked his own glass. "All for the glory of D'Artan. Just how high are your aspirations? Chief Citizen of Great Britain perhaps?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in an uncouth gesture he knew D'Artan would despise.

D'Artan drummed his long, tapered nails on the desk, eyeing Sebastian's cane with distaste. "It was very unfortunate, this accident of yours. But not as unfortunate as the indiscretion that followed, eh? Your man spoke to me of a certain young mademoiselle."

Damn Tiny anyway, Sebastian thought. He was as protective as a wolf bitch guarding her pups. He braced himself for the blow he sensed coming.

"Far be it for me to begrudge you your liaisons," D'Artan continued, "but don't you think it unwise to reveal your face to some gibbering little light-o'-love?" Reproach dusted his voice, but did not alter his expression. Sebastian had always thought D'Artan's face was eerily unlined for a man his age. "Was it not you who told me the mask added the attraction of danger and immediacy to your…romantic interludes?"

Sebastian wondered if he had ever really said anything so callous. He must have been feeling smug after the Devony Blake encounter. "I did not choose to reveal myself. My mask fell away. As for the girl, she neither gibbered, nor was she my light-o'-love."

D'Artan cleared his throat. "That's even more unfortunate. You should have pressed your suit to make her so. A threat of scandal might have silenced her effectively."

"I don't recall rape being one of my duties."

D'Artan shrugged as only the French could. "Why consider it a duty? Consider it a privilege of the position."

Sebastian turned back to the window, needing a moment away from those steely eyes to steady his breathing. The dark oak paneling of the chamber absorbed both sunlight and air. He unlatched the window and shoved it open. A gentle breeze wafted in, bringing with it the scent of honeysuckle and the teasing warmth of a perfect summer day. An unexpected edge of longing closed Sebastian's throat.

He laid his fist on the windowsill. "If you are so well informed, then you must also know that the girl you speak of was blind."

D'Artan gave a genteel snort. "A bit off the path from the usual pencil peddler, wasn't she?"

Sebastian swung around. "The incident is over. I shall never see her again. What does she matter?"

"She doesn't matter." D'Artan pounded the desk, allowing Sebastian's anger to fuel his own. "But you do. You matter to France and you matter to me. As Sebastian Kerr, you can gauge support for the new French government in the best circles of London and Edinburgh society."

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that. I don't suppose the tidbit I brought you about the Marquess of Dover's speech against the National Assembly had anything to do with his unfortunate phaeton accident in the park."

D'Artan shook his head sadly. "Such a pity about his legs. They say he may walk again someday. But I didn't summon you here to discuss the Marquess's heavy hand with his horses." He rose and paced behind the desk, his hands locked at the small of his back. "I've indulged your little penchant for highway robbery thus far, but I won't put my new position and the influence it will bring at risk. You've become far too cocky. You're turning into a legend along the border! They're composing ballads about the adventures of the dashing Highlander. Those mealymouthed English magistrates are beginning to envy you. Who do you think their wives dream of when—"

"Enough!" Sebastian roared.

D'Artan acknowledged Sebastian's shift from French to English with a pained spasm of a smile.

"You'd take care to remember that my ‘little penchant for robbery' filled your coffers with gold long before Lord Campbell would even grant you an audience. Who do you think has been paying for all those precious cannons and pistols you've been smuggling to France?" Sebastian's burr deepened. "Forget the girl. She was dressed in fashions at least two years old. She's probably some impoverished squire's sister. I doubt she travels in the same circles of society as I do."

"You could be right," D'Artan said with maddening calm. "However, there's too much at risk now. If you are caught, it would take very little effort to trace your name to mine. Then all of my work would be for naught." He sank back into his chair and shuffled the papers on his desk as if they had become of primary importance. "Before I return from London in August, I would like her dispatched. Something simple. A fall from a horse. A hunting accident. You know how to arrange such things."

Sebastian turned and groped for the edge of the windowsill like a blind man. The trim green of the manicured lawn mocked him. Why were the gentry so determined to create a miniature England wherever they went, he wondered, to prune and smooth away all traces of the wilderness and majesty that was Scotland? He hungered for the snowy peaks of Ben Nevis, the wild heathered moors of Strathnaver.

A new resolve tautened his jaw. D'Artan didn't know it, but by the time he returned from London, Sebastian would be trapped forever in a prison of such neatly bordered hedges and marble fountains. It would be a trap of his own choosing, though, and he would be free of men like D'Artan for the rest of his life.

Prudence's words rang through his head in the dulcet tones of a chiding angel. Robbery is a dangerous vocation. Hazardous for your soul as well as your neck . Perhaps it was not too late to escape with a scrap of his soul, before he became the kind of man who would kill the light in amethyst eyes for the sake of greed and politics.

D'Artan rose and crossed to him. "If you decline to protect yourself, I shall be forced to send one of my other men to track her down. I don't believe they have your high, but painless, rate of accuracy. I should hate for there to be a mess."

Sebastian did not bother to hide the contempt in his voice. "That won't be necessary. If my path should again cross the girl's, which I don't believe it will, I shall take care of the situation myself."

D'Artan fondly slapped his shoulder. "Well done, lad. You are a credit to your French blood. Your mother would be proud of you."

"I think not, Grandfather. I believe it is my father who would be proud of me."

Sebastian shrugged the old man's hand away and strode from the chamber, twirling the cane as if it were only an affectation. D'Artan watched through the window as his grandson crossed the rolling lawn, his gaze dark and thoughtful.

An enraged shriek shattered the quiet. Prudence's spine went rigid. Her book slid from her lap.

"Prudence!" The high-pitched screech was followed by a bellow. "Prudence! Come get this damned beast out of my wig!"

Prudence's eyes widened behind her spectacles. "Sebastian," she breathed.

She leaped out of the chair and pelted down the corridor toward her Aunt Tricia's bedchamber, skirts held high. Before she could reach the door, the kitten barreled around the corner, wig caught between his teeth. As his paws hit the waxed parquet, he slid. His claws shot out in a vain attempt to slow his skid, gouging a web of scratches across the precious inlay. He slammed into the opposite wall in an explosion of powder, then sat there, shaking head and wig until it was impossible to distinguish between them. Prudence dove on him, separating wig from kitten just as her aunt flung herself from her chamber in an avenging cloud of disheveled silk.

Tricia pointed a shaking hand at Sebastian. "That beast…that monster…that vicious creature…" As Sebastian licked the powder from his paws with wounded dignity, she sputtered into incoherence. Tricia refused to call the cat by name, or even acknowledge that he had a name.

Seeing that her aunt's hysteria was rapidly approaching a swoon, Prudence offered her the matted wig.

She snatched it from Prudence's hand, squealing anew with dismay. Her eyes narrowed. "I should have had Old Fish feed that beast to Boris while I was in London."

Prudence thrust the cat behind her back, blinking guilelessly. "Auntie Tricia, don't frown so. It emphasizes those tiny lines in your brow."

Tricia's face smoothed instantly, as if a porcelain mask had dropped over it. She touched the delicate skin beneath her eye with a long, crimson fingernail before breathing a sigh of relief. The careless frown had not crumpled it.

Cat forgotten, she fluttered back toward her chamber. "Come, Prudence. You may watch me dress."

"My heart's desire," Prudence said softly. She kissed the naughty kitten on the nose before freeing it, and followed her aunt.

The bedchamber reeked of powder and lilac water. Gowns littered the room like the helpless victims of a gruesome explosion. Prudence shuddered at the thought. She swept a lace petticoat from a brocaded stool and sat at her aunt's feet, resting her chin on her palm.

As she watched, Tricia smoothed lamp black over her auburn brows, darkening them to graceful wings. The trick gave her an expression of continual surprise, as ingenuous and natural as her use of cosmetics was artful. "My face is a canvas," she delighted in telling Prudence. "It is my responsibility to make it an unforgettable work of art." Prudence agreed that it was a work of art, although Tricia used more paint than Michelangelo, yet it was done in such a subtle way, she never appeared garish or overly made-up in the fashionably pale circle of society.

"You know, my dear Prudence," she said, dotting her puckered lips with carmine rouge, "this is the most important day of my life."

"I thought the most important day of your life was the day you married the viscount."

Her aunt sighed heavily. "Ah, yes, my poor Gustav."

"Gustav was the German prince," Prudence reminded her. "Bernard was the viscount."

Tricia looked momentarily perplexed as she hooked a lace collarette around her alabaster neck. Prudence imagined her counting her former husbands on mental fingers.

Tricia threw up her hands with a girlish flutter. "Gustav. Bernard. What does it matter? The past, however sweet, is past. Today we welcome my new fiancé to Lindentree." She cupped Prudence's chin in her soft, white hand. "He is eager to meet you. I've assured him you won't be a burden to us after we're wed. I told him how my poor Gustav adored you."

"That would have been poor Rutger. Gustav was already dead when I came to live with you. And Rutger didn't adore me. He simply tolerated me because I kept the household accounts. Bernard adored me."

Tricia leaned over. Her cheek missed Prudence's by several inches. The brief squeeze of her hands on Prudence's shoulders assured her she would have liked to kiss her if it wouldn't have mussed her powder. " I adore you. You are as dear and reliable as my Boris."

Prudence frowned. Being compared to a slobbering and fitfully stupid Great Dane was a dubious compliment at best.

Tricia clucked her tongue against her teeth. "Do stop grimacing, dear. You're not getting any younger." The crunch of carriage wheels on the cobblestones sent her into a frenzy of activity more befitting the second coming of Christ. "Oh, dear God, it's him!" She threw a cashmere stole around her shoulders. "Why don't you go powder that mop of yours? And straighten those dreadful spectacles. Do you want him to see you squinting like a Chinaman?" Without waiting for Prudence's reply, she tucked a perfumed rosette into her bodice and sailed from the room, hiking her rustling skirts to show off the tiny bows on the back of her slippers.

Prudence remained seated for a moment, a row of faceless wig stands surveying her. At last she stood, sighing. She could not seem to shake the cloud of depression that had beset her since the night she had dared to cross the Scottish border. It was as if some other border in her life had been crossed. Now the road before her loomed straight and gray and unbearably long. Her gaze wandered to the window, drawn by the trilling song of a thrush and the haunting scent of the honeysuckle twining up the trellis.

Beside the window, four gilt angels clutched a pier-glass in their chubby paws. As Prudence surveyed her reflection, their petulant smirks mocked her. She smoothed streaks of powder from the unadorned poplin of her skirt, bracing herself to meet yet another of her aunt's suitors.

In the seven years that she had lived at Lindentree, Prudence had grown accustomed to the steady parade of doddering dukes and deposed princes. They all shared three characteristics. They were foreign, wealthy, and preferably infirm. Tricia did have her standards too; she had never married two men from the same country. She had amassed quite a fortune in this fashion, as well as the titles of countess, baroness, and princess of a tiny Austrian country Prudence had never been able to locate on any map.

If her aunt chose to believe she was marrying for love, who was Prudence to enlighten her? The old gentlemen carried to their graves the memory of happy days spent in the embrace of a doting, beautiful, and relatively young bride. Most of them were too nearsighted to notice Tricia's steady stream of lovers. Prudence just hoped this one could walk and did not drool.

She tucked a stray piece of hair back into its tight knot and adjusted her steel spectacles with a defiant jerk.

"Come, Prudence." She curtsied to her reflection. "Shall we go meet your future uncle? I have no doubt he will simply adore you."

The afternoon sun slanted across the rolling lawn. As Prudence stepped out onto the porch, a coach rattled past, heading for the yawning door of the stable. Boris danced around its wheels, barking hoarsely. A wiry coachman tipped his wide-brimmed hat at her. Prudence lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the sun's glare, and looked around for her aunt.

At the bend of the long, sweeping drive, Tricia and a man stood in the shaded embrace of a willow. Shadows dappled his broad shoulders. This one must be better preserved than most, Prudence mused as she caught her skirts in her hands and started across the lawn. His back was neither swayed nor humped. He wasn't excessively tall, but the width of his shoulders dwarfed Tricia's dainty grace. Although he stood with legs planted firmly apart and held a slender cane in one hand, he gave no impression of being bandy-legged. As Prudence drew nearer, she could see he wore no wig. His hair was powdered a sandy gray and caught in a neat queue at the nape of his neck.

Tricia's laughter tinkled like a bell. No man, Prudence thought, not even a man aged to insensibility, could fail to appreciate the charm of that laugh. Tricia's skirts swayed in the teasing breeze as she laid a hand on the sleeve of the man's frock coat. She tilted her face to him, listening to his low, murmuring voice with obvious avidity. As the man bent to touch his lips to hers, Prudence ducked behind the nearest tree, embarrassed to be intruding on such a tender scene.

Old Fish emerged from the house at that moment, bearing a silver tray of glasses.

Tricia's voice rang out. "Here comes the wine. And there's my niece behind that tree."

Prudence silently cursed the slenderness of the birch.

"Come, my darling," Tricia continued, "and join in our celebration. I hope it will be the first of many for the three of us." She added sotto voce to the man, "My niece is rather shy. You shall have to overlook her."

Why not? Prudence thought, having heard her aunt perfectly clearly. Everyone else did. She doubted if her aunt's fiancé would be overjoyed at the prospect of adding the burden of a spinster niece to his household. She edged out from behind the tree and followed the curve of the cobbled drive, resisting the urge to drag her feet and kick at rocks like a stubborn child.

Old Fish reached the willow when she did. The stranger plucked a wineglass from the tray and turned to greet her.

Gray eyes laced with the mists of the Highlands sparkled down at her.

Prudence stood hypnotized as he made a courtly bow and brought her hand to his lips. The most terrible thing was not that he was the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick. The most terrible thing was not that he was going to marry her aunt. The most terrible thing was that he did not remember her.

His polite expression was as blindly indifferent as a mole's. The vacant sweetness of his smile was more painful than if he had pulled out a pistol and shot her dead right there.

Tricia linked one arm in Prudence's and one in his. Prudence's arm hung limply as Tricia beamed up at her fiancé. "There. I knew the two of you would be fond of each other."

He murmured a noncommittal agreement and sipped his claret.

"After all," Tricia prattled on, "it would have been tragic if the two people I adore most in the world did not come to love each other."

"Simply dreadful," Prudence murmured.

Her voice brought his head upright. Wine dribbled down his white stockings into his buckled shoes.

Tricia squeezed both of their arms. "I knew you'd get along famously. My dear Sebastian and my dear, dear Prudence."

He met her gaze over the top of Tricia's wig. As his eyes widened, a shiver raked Prudence's spine. How could she have remembered the exotic attraction of his eyes without remembering the paralyzing danger that lurked in their smoky depths?