Chapter 24

London, England

Garrett yanked at his waistcoat in irritation, the stiff fabric driving him mad. He had become so accustomed to wearing a military uniform he had almost forgotten what it was like to dress in formal civilian clothes.

He tugged at the white muslin stock tied tightly around his neck, his fingers brushing against the frothy lace jabot. He winced uncomfortably. He couldn’t say he had missed them. He felt like a preening peacock in his borrowed clothes, the pleated outer coat and breeches of plum velvet, the gold brocade waistcoat, the cream silk stockings and red-heeled shoes.

Either London fashions had become more outrageous, Garrett thought dryly, or his brother was stretching the limits of good taste. He sensed it was a bit of both. He had finally drawn the line at the curled tie-wig his brother’s dresser had insisted he wear. He had no time or inclination for such frippery. It was enough he had agreed to Gordon’s insistence that he change out of his travel-stained clothes the minute he walked in the door.

Garrett smiled thinly, recalling his brother’s expression when he had entered the plush salon where Garrett was waiting for him. He was a study of unruffled composure, though Gordon’s eyes had reflected his shock. And how like Gordon to demand Garrett change before they discussed his matter of great urgency, so that his stink and his mud-splattered clothes would not offend the household.

Garrett glanced about the library, which was clearly his brother’s private domain. Well-dusted tomes stretched from floor to painted ceiling, a goodly portion of them from their late father’s collection. The room was dominated by a massive desk placed near the high, arched windows overlooking the fashionable street. Garrett could well imagine his brother sitting there, poring over letters and papers dealing with the king’s business.

His eyes strayed to the crystal decanter on the mantelpiece. He could use a tumbler of brandy right now. He started to rise, then changed his mind and sat back down. He wanted to be completely clearheaded for the important discussion which lay ahead.

Garrett drummed his fingers impatiently on the stuffed armrest, wondering what was keeping his brother. He had journeyed at a devil’s pace to get to London, the exhausting trip taking him just over four days with stops for fresh horses and brief respites for sleep. A few moments’ wait might be trivial, but to him it seemed unbearable. Every instant that passed brought Madeleine closer to—

“So, Garrett, what is this urgent matter which has brought you so unexpectedly to London?” a deep, resonant voice sounded from the doorway, startling him.

Garrett stood up and turned to face his brother. “Gordon,” he acknowledged stiffly, though he did not cross the floor to greet him. He thought fleetingly how little Gordon had changed in the two long years since he had last seen him.

His older brother was nearly as tall as he and slightly broader, with the same gray-green eyes as his own, but the resemblance ended there.

Gordon took after their father’s side of the family, with his pale coloring and dark brown hair barely visible beneath his full powdered wig. He was probably considered handsome, with narrow, patrician features that had a somewhat hawkish look about them.

An undeniable air of authority clung to Gordon, tinged with studied restraint. He had a fearsome temper, which Garrett had witnessed on numerous occasions when it had usually been directed at him. The last occasion had been two years ago, just before Garrett left London to fulfill his commission. Their parting had been anything but convivial.

“You look well, brother,” Gordon said, looking him over as he walked to stand by his desk. He smiled tightly. “The military seems to have agreed with you. You look hale and healthy, though a bit weary from your journey.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Garrett replied, attempting to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice. By his brother’s raised eyebrow, he knew he had failed utterly.

“Ah,” Gordon murmured. “So the tone is set.” He moved purposefully to the mantelpiece. “A brandy, Garrett?” he asked over his shoulder. He poured two tumblers without waiting for a reply, returning to hand one to Garrett. “Here, you seem tense. This might help you relax.” He clinked his glass to Garrett’s, then took a good swallow. “Go on, drink up. It’s the best quality, I can assure you. You probably haven’t tasted good brandy in some time.”

Garrett set the untouched glass on the table next to his chair. “I’d rather talk first, Gordon. Perhaps I’ll share a drink with you later.”

“As you wish,” Gordon said lightly, sitting down at his desk. “Dammit, man, at least take a seat. And you might cease that glowering.” He chuckled wryly. “I’ve already surmised this isn’t purely a social call or necessarily a friendly one.”

Garrett resumed his chair, not taking his eyes from his brother. “It’s a personal matter, Gordon, and I’ll come right to the point. I take it you’re still interested in possessing Rosemoor?”

Gordon’s gaze widened slightly, his expression tightening. “An unexpected question, Garrett, I must admit,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, studying Garrett thoughtfully. “I’m sure you can guess my answer. Why do you ask?”

Garrett felt an oppressive weight lift from his chest, though he knew the battle was not won yet. “I may be interested in parting with it—for a small price, of course.” He watched Gordon’s face, gauging his reaction. He could see his brother was stunned, though he was trying hard not to show it.

“What has brought about this change of heart?” Gordon inquired shrewdly. “Gambling debts, perhaps? I’ve been told military officers spend much of their leisure in such idle diversion. Have you gotten yourself into a bit of financial trouble, Garrett?”

“Again, sorry to disappoint you,” Garrett responded with a short laugh. “My finances are secure.” He sobered quickly. “My price is this. I have a friend, a young woman I met in Scotland, who desperately needs my help. Unfortunately, I cannot help her without your assistance, Gordon.”

“Have I heard you correctly?” he asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “You puzzle me, Garrett. You speak of Rosemoor in one breath and a mysterious Scotswoman in the next.”

“Exactly. They are intertwined, Gordon. If you are able to assist me in this matter to my full satisfaction, I shall present you with Rosemoor. Then we shall both have what we want.”

Gordon did not reply for several long moments, his eyes boring into Garrett’s. His voice was barely above a whisper when at last he spoke. “You have captured my full attention, Garrett. Now, what has this woman done? It must be something serious for you to consider striking such a rare and priceless bargain.” His gaze narrowed knowingly as Garrett sharply exhaled. “Ah, so it is just as I thought.”

Garrett was not surprised by his brother’s astuteness. “Her name is Madeleine Fraser,” he began. “She’s the daughter of a baronet who was killed at Culloden—”

“A Jacobite?” Gordon interjected archly. “I’m sure you can hear Father spinning in his grave. You and he were always far apart politically, but this…” At Garrett’s frown he hastily apologized. “Go on. I’ll not interrupt you again.”

Garrett quickly recounted the entire story, doing his best to ignore Gordon’s changing expressions: incredulity, contemplation, and grim humor. Finally a serious look settled on his countenance as Garrett relayed General Hawley’s plans for his prisoners.

When Garrett finished, a weighty silence fell over the room. It seemed to stretch interminably, filling him with dread. He felt an added chill when Gordon tossed his head back and downed the fiery contents of his glass in one draft, then rose to refill it once again. He returned slowly, stopping in front of Garrett’s chair. He lifted the tumbler as if in salute.

“I applaud you, Garrett,” he said sarcastically, shattering the grim silence. “You could not have presented me with a more difficult task. A king’s pardon, and the restoration of an estate, for a Highland wench nicknamed Black Jack who will shortly be tried for treason against the Crown, if she hasn’t been already.” He laughed under his breath. “If you were not dangling Rosemoor before me, I would have told you right out I could not help you.” He paused, taking a quick sip. “Even so, I cannot guarantee my efforts will prove successful. You may find yourself alone and growing old in Rosemoor.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Garrett shouted angrily, jumping to his feet. “Either you can help me or you can’t!”

Gordon grabbed the glass on the table, sloshing some of the brandy onto the carpet. He shoved the glass at Garrett. “Drink this,” he demanded between clenched teeth. “When you’re calmer, we’ll talk.” He walked around the desk, pausing to peer out the window as a glossy black carriage clattered to a halt near the front door. His tone softened somewhat. “Ah, Celinda must have completed her afternoon calls.” He turned around just as Garrett slammed his empty tumbler on the table.

“There, I feel better,” Garrett said, his throat burning. “Do we have an agreement, Lord Kemsley?”

Gordon nodded, eyeing Garrett steadily. “I will draft a petition of pardon and present it to the king tomorrow morning. I well understand the need for haste in this matter. “

“What will you tell him?”

Gordon impatiently waved off Garrett’s question. “Leave the particulars to me, Garrett. I know the king’s mind. His Highness has an intense dislike for Jacobites, as you’ve seen displayed in the Duke of Cumberland’s and Hawley’s recent behavior, both being sons after his own heart.”

“I’d call them butchers,” Garrett spat.

“Now, now, brother, you’d best be careful what you say, or you might find yourself being tried for treason,” Gordon warned, throwing him a dark look.

Garrett’s jaw tightened, his eyes flaring. “Don’t even think of it. You know such a scheme would only drag you down with me, blackening your name along with mine.”

“Believe me, Garrett, I realized long ago that that idea lacked potential,” Gordon commented dryly. He began to pace behind his desk, idly playing with the frothy white lace at his throat. “A young woman stealing food to save her starving people… Well, even if she is a Jacobite the story does have a decided touch of pathos.”

“Pathos?” Garrett snorted. “You have a gift for reducing brave and desperate acts to a matter of little consequence, Gordon. You should see what’s been done to the Highlands, see the innocent people struggling to survive on what little we’ve left to them.”

Gordon pointedly ignored his outburst. “Yes, it just might sway the king,” he considered aloud. “After all, the Highland Scots are his subjects as well, though they’d be the last to admit it. King George has already granted pardons for some of the misguided fools who participated in the uprising. Why not pardon a woman who has wisely seen fit to charm an English officer?” Suddenly he stopped pacing to stare at Garrett.

“What?” Garrett snapped, glaring back at him.

“You said you love this wench?” Gordon queried. “Perhaps, then, you’re even considering a marriage?”

“Her name is Madeleine,” Garrett corrected him, “and yes, that is my hope, if she’ll have me. After what Hawley did the other night, she’s more likely to spit in my face.”

“It’s perfect,” Gordon said to himself. “That might be exactly the point to sway him.”

“What are you talking about?”

Gordon set down his glass and came around the desk to stand in front of Garrett. “You’re a fool if you think the king will restore a forfeited estate to a pardoned criminal,” he said harshly. “What guarantee does King George have that she won’t begin her disruptive activities again?”

Garrett shook his head, unable to answer.

“Exactly. So what I propose is this. Offer the wench a choice. If she agrees to marry you, she’ll be granted the king’s pardon and the estate will be restored in your name. You’ll be stationed permanently in Strathherrick, where you’ll complete your commission, and King George will rest easy knowing she’s wed to an Englishman who will keep her under firm control.”

“And if she doesn’t agree to marry me?” Garrett asked grimly, though he already sensed the answer.

Gordon shrugged. “Then she chooses her own death sentence.”

Furious, Garrett grabbed Gordon’s velvet coat, wrenching his brother to within inches of his face. “That’s not good enough, Gordon,” he grated, his voice dangerously low. “Either she lives or you’ve lost Rosemoor forever. I’d burn it down rather than have you ever set foot in it again.”

Gordon’s face was ashen, though he didn’t flinch. “Let go of me,” he demanded quietly, belying his barely controlled rage “Don’t threaten me again, Garrett. I’m your only hope, and you damn well know it. Do you think I’d rest this entire agreement on the fickle whims of a woman?”

He staggered back as Garrett roughly released him. His expression was grim as he straightened his coat, his gray-green eyes darkened to the same hard slate as his younger brother’s. “You said she has five kinsmen who were captured with her.”

Garrett nodded, too angry to speak.

“It’s simple, Garrett. Tell Mistress Fraser that if she doesn’t agree, her kinsmen will share the same fate as her own. Do you think she will so wantonly throw away their lives? I doubt it. From the way you’ve described her, she’d do anything to save them.”

Gordon moved away at the sound of tapping footsteps in the outer hall. “I share the same Scots blood as you, Garrett,” he added quickly. “I’ve heard grandmother’s countless stories of clan loyalty. If Mistress Fraser knows her kinsmen will also be pardoned if she agrees to a marriage, then you’ll have a wife before the day is out.” He threw back the last of his brandy. “I only hope she’s worth it to you.”

Suddenly the door swung open, and a tall, blond woman in a beribboned gown of rose satin walked gracefully into the room.

“Oh, forgive me, darling,” she said, stopping abruptly. “I didn’t know you had a visitor.”

Garrett turned around, his gaze meeting cool ice-blue eyes in an exquisite porcelain face. “Celinda,” he said, swallowing his ire. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Garrett,” Celinda said, clearly stunned. She walked stiffly toward him. “What a surprise.” She cast a look at her husband as Garrett kissed her hand lightly. “Gordon, you didn’t tell me your brother was due in London. I would have planned a dinner, made arrangements—”

“It was as much of a surprise to me, my dear.”

“It’s only a short visit, Celinda,” Garrett replied, seeking to ease some of the tension in the room. “I trust I will be on my way back to Scotland tomorrow, after my business here has been completed.” He glanced meaningfully at Gordon, who slightly inclined his head.

“Well, I hope you’ll share supper with us,” Celinda said graciously, having recovered herself and her impeccable manners. She accepted Garrett’s proffered arm. “Do you have lodging? If not, we’d be delighted to have you stay with us, wouldn’t we, Gordon?”

Garrett found himself smiling. Celinda was as beautiful and imperturbable as ever. He had long ago forgiven her for her slight, realizing she had meant him no ill will. She had evidently always wanted to be the wife of a member of the House of Lords, something Garrett could never have offered her.

He walked with her from the library, thinking how fortunate he was that Celinda had chosen Gordon instead. It had left his heart free to love his wild Highland beauty.

Garrett felt his heart lurch in his chest at the thought of Madeleine in a cold prison cell.

God willing, he prayed fervently, King George would sign the pardon, and he would arrive in Edinburgh in time to save her from the gallows by making her his bride.

***

It was three days before the precious document was placed in Garrett’s hands, three days that had passed like the slowest torture.

“His highness was reluctant to sign,” Gordon stated matter-of-factly, “no doubt anticipating Hawley’s displeasure. It was his high regard for my good judgment and the marriage clause that finally convinced him, though he quipped that you must be mad to take on a Highlander as a wife. He trusts you’ll keep her well in hand.” He sighed meaningfully. “I hope the delay does not prove costly to us.”

Garrett made no comment as he read every word carefully, at the bottom of the page tracing his finger over the king’s florid signature and the royal seal. His blood roared in his veins and he felt light-headed with relief, scarcely believing it.

Madeleine’s pardon.

“Satisfied?”

Garrett glanced at his brother across the desk. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “Everything seems to be in order.” He quickly rolled up the document and slipped it inside his heavy riding coat. “You’ve reviewed the papers drawn up by my solicitor?”

Gordon nodded tersely.

“Good. I have retained a quarter interest in the property’s income and the monetary inheritance I received from Father, for which you receive full deed and title to Rosemoor and the remaining yearly income. Are you agreeable to this arrangement?”

“I have signed it,” Gordon answered, arching a dark brow. “You strike a hard bargain, Garrett. I look forward to hearing from you posthaste concerning the outcome. I trust it will prove profitable for both of us.”

Garrett was already striding to the door. As an afterthought he stopped and turned around, his gaze meeting his brother’s. “I thank you, Gordon,” he said, the words not leaping easily from his tongue. He knew if not for Rosemoor, the priceless parchment next to his heart would never have come to pass. Yet he meant it all the same, for what it was worth.

“Don’t thank me yet, brother,” Gordon replied. “You’ve a long ride ahead of you. You don’t want to tempt the devil.” He glanced out the window, then back to Garrett. “I’ve given you the best charger I own to start you on your way. Arabian bloodlines.”

Garrett swallowed hard, not missing the hint of understanding in Gordon’s eyes. It was the first warmth he had seen there in years. “Lord Kemsley,” he said with a short bow, then turned to go.

“She must be truly extraordinary.”

Garrett started, glancing back at his brother. He smiled faintly, then walked through the door.