The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
“In the flesh.” Reaching his captive, ineffectually dithering on the threshold, he prodded her on.
Obligingly she staggered into the foyer. Stumbling to a halt in the middle of the wide, high-ceilinged entryway, she started to clumsily pirouette as if searching for a way out.
Having no idea what she might next take it into her head to do, he grasped her arm, anchoring her. “Angelica Cynster, third daughter of Lady Celia Cynster. Kidnapped, brought here, and now paraded before you—as you demanded.”
Mouth falling open, Angelica stared, first at him, then at his mother, dawning horror in her face. “What . . . ? It was you . . . ?” After a second, she very creditably shrank away, blinking back tears. “But . . . why?”
Mirabelle’s vindictive smile deepened; malice glittered in her eyes. “As to that . . . you’ll learn soon enough, my dear.”
Dominic drew Angelica further from his mother, effectively interposing himself between them. “I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain—now where’s the goblet?”
Her gaze fixed on Angelica, Mirabelle’s face suffused with gloating triumph. She stared for several moments, then looked at him. Eyes narrowing, she searched his face. After another long moment, she all but purred, “I honestly didn’t think you would do it—that you had it in you.”
“In which you were clearly wrong. The goblet?”
She stared at him for a minute more, then said, “Don’t be so hasty. You’ve surprised me—I need a little time to convince myself this is real and to absorb the implications. To”—her gaze swung to Angelica—“savor my victory.”
“That wasn’t our bargain.”
“I never said I’d hand over the goblet the instant you brought me one of Celia’s daughters.” Her face hardening into its customary spiteful lines, Mirabelle looked back at him. “You will have to allow me a day or two to confirm, and then relish, my revenge. God knows, I’ve waited long enough for it, and you’ll still get your precious goblet back in time.” Returning her gaze to Angelica, Mirabelle beckoned. “Come with me, child.”
“No.” Dominic held Angelica anchored where she was, half behind him. “Until you surrender the goblet, Miss Cynster stays under my control.” He held Mirabelle’s gaze. “I wouldn’t want her escaping, or in any other way disappearing, not after all the trouble I’ve gone to to get her here.”
A muscle leapt along Mirabelle’s jaw, then her eyes flashed. Without another word, she swung around and stalked across the foyer to the door to the north tower.
Once she’d disappeared, he cursed beneath his breath.
“You didn’t imagine she’d hand it over just like that,” Angelica whispered from behind him.
“I’d entertained a wild hope that on setting eyes on you she would be so overcome with delight that she might hand it over without thinking.”
After a moment, Angelica poked him in the side. “Patience. We’ve only just arrived, and needs must when the devil drives, so come and show me this room you’re intending to lock me in.”
He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth against another oath, then exhaled, opened his eyes, grasped her arm, and significantly less forcefully swept her on into the great hall.
Shown to her temporary apartment on a lower level of the east tower, Angelica was pleased to discover small windows set high in the walls, and at the base of one wall a fireplace, albeit presently unused. If she had to spend hours there, it could be made pleasant enough. Circling the room, she tried to spot the door to the secret stair while Dominic, in a mood she equated with an irritated but restrained bear, growled orders to Griswold and Mulley, who had appeared with her bags; Brenda had taken her bandbox away to hide.
“Send John and Mrs. Mack here,” Dominic eventually said, “and organize guards in the corridor in case the countess decides to come looking for Miss Cynster.”
“Aye, my lord.” Mulley bowed and departed.
“I’ll make sure all’s in readiness above, my lord.” With brief bows to them both, Griswold followed.
Dominic swung to face her, then glanced around the room. “We’ll make a show of setting this room up for your use, but in reality you’ll be using my chambers.”
“Where’s the hidden stair?”
He pointed. “Over there.” He picked his way across, around and over various obstacles. “We’ll leave all this here—it’ll make it seem more like a basement cell.”
She nodded and joined him by the outer wall; she’d assumed the stairway would be in the inner wall.
“Give me your hand.” Gripping her fingers, setting his own over them, Dominic guided the pads of her fingertips over and then into a shallow depression in one stone, then pressed.
Click. A section of the stonework popped forward an inch or so. Releasing her, he showed her the finger grip worked into the exposed edge of the stone, then waved her to try it; expecting that she wouldn’t be able to shift such a weight of stone, she nevertheless pulled and discovered the secret door was exquisitely balanced. Easy to swing, but the hinges shrieked horrendously.
The door behind them opened, admitting an older woman with iron gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, and a soberly dressed man a few years older than Dominic.
“My goodness.” Bobbing a curtsy, the woman pulled a face. “I’ll have one of the lads in with some oil within the hour.” Straightening, sparing an expectant, but welcoming, glance for Angelica, the woman clasped her hands, fixed her bird-bright gaze on Dominic, and smiled warmly. “Good day to you, my lord. It’s a pleasure to see you back.”
“Indeed.” The man had glanced at Angelica, then executed a neat bow, and now fixed an inquiring gaze on his master. “You wished to speak with us, my lord?”
Dominic introduced her to his housekeeper and steward as his bride-to-be—a revelation that left them openly delighted and predictably curious. Angelica responded with smiles and polite nods, but left it to Dominic to explain their scheme while she observed Mack’s and Erskine’s reactions.
From the way the pair reacted to him, and him to them, she suspected they’d both known him all his life. As with the others, both were immediately supportive.
Reassured, she glanced at the stairs. Listening with half an ear to the ongoing discussion and Dominic’s orders regarding her comfort, she inwardly smiled. She’d thought she’d been prepared for the impact of his home, but her imagination, usually more than able, had for once fallen short of the mark. If the castle was impressive, the keep was magnificent. The soaring ceilings, the graceful arches, the fluting and carving of the stone were beautifully balanced against the solid simplicity of the stone walls. The windows in the rooms she’d seen were leaded and diamond paned, framed by velvet drapes, and perfectly set to themselves frame the views.
Given the tenure of the cold-eyed, black-hearted witch she’d just met, it seemed nothing short of miraculous that the inside of the keep exuded warmth and comfort, security, and, above all, peace, as if those qualities were embedded in the stone. Dominic’s grandmother had decorated the Edinburgh house; Angelica suspected that it was her influence that still lingered, still dominated, here. That had proved strong enough to hold against Mirabelle’s bleakness.
Angelica had thought she’d been prepared to meet Dominic’s mother, but the moment she’d first looked into Mirabelle’s eyes had been a shock. One thing to think one knew; another to know.
Mirabelle might have insane ideas, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t intelligent, cunning, and calculating. Dominic had warned Angelica, and he’d been correct; their charade wasn’t going to be as easy to pull off as she’d hoped.
“I’ll send some girls in to make up the bed and set things to rights, at least enough to look as if you are staying in here.” Mrs. Mack looked at Angelica. “If that won’t disturb you, miss?”
Dominic glanced at her. “I’ll be showing Miss Cynster around between now and dinner.”<
“As to that, my lord,” Erskine said, “do you wish us to move dinner back?”
When Dominic paused, Angelica asked, “What time would you normally serve the meal when the laird is in residence?”
“Six o’clock, miss,” Mrs. Mack replied.
Angelica caught Dominic’s eye. “It would be best to adhere to your usual schedule. There’s no reason to convert to ton hours because I’m here.”
He nodded and looked at Mrs. Mack. “So we dine at six.”
“Thank you, my lord. Miss.” Mrs. Mack bobbed, Erskine bowed, then they left.
Dominic turned to Angelica. She smiled and waved to the secret door. “Why don’t you show me where this leads?”
Crossing to her, he took her hand, opened the door fully, and led her through.
A few minutes after the clang of the dinner gong faded, Dominic propelled an apparently fearful and cringing Angelica into the great hall and onto the dais. He steered her past his mother, seated at the high table in her accustomed place to the right of his great chair, past his own chair to the smaller chair on its left. He drew the chair out and pushed Angelica into it. “Sit.”
Wild-eyed, she collapsed as if her legs had given way; the damned woman had a histrionic streak a mile wide.
Jaw clenched, he dropped into his own chair. He didn’t look out over the familiar faces gathered about the lower tables, but instead scowled at his plate as the footmen served the three of them the soup course.
The emotion fueling his scowl was real, although he doubted his mother, shooting sidelong glances at him, would guess that it was the necessity of Angelica having to appear before his people as a weak and near-hysterical female, his cowering captive to boot, that was its cause. And gads, the woman could act.
Every second of her public charade was rubbing some part of his psyche raw, but he had to put up with it; she needed his support, not his reluctance.
Luckily, his black temper fitted the persona he needed to show his mother. She would never believe he was happy with the situation, but she might believe—and had thus far seemed to have accepted—that he’d been pushed to the limits of desperation and had surrendered to her demands, and was now darkly brooding over his lost honor.
Well and good.
Setting down his soup spoon, he raised his napkin to his lips and glanced at Angelica.
She’d hunched over her plate, somehow pulling in her shoulders so she appeared more frail, more pitiable. Eyes wide, she was casting furtive glances about the room, and stirring her soup spoon around and around the plate, from which she’d taken no more than two mouthfuls. Her other hand was clenched tight, crushing the napkin in her lap.
If he didn’t know better . . .
“Which cell did you put her in?”
Angelica jumped at his mother’s question, releasing the spoon with a clatter. Clenching both hands on the napkin, she stared at the soup.
Slowly, Dominic turned, took in the cold joy in Mirabelle’s face as she looked across him at Angelica; she was all but salivating. “I’m keeping her in the store room beneath my tower.” Mirabelle didn’t know of the secret stair.
“Why not the dungeons?” She frowned at Angelica. “The lower levels are cold and dank, and so dark—perfect for her.”
“No.” When Mirabelle looked at him, he stated, “As I said earlier, after going to such lengths to get her here, I wouldn’t want to lose her before you deem yourself adequately revenged. I’ll keep her where I think it’s safest—close enough that I or the staff will know if she escapes.”
A mulish expression settled over his mother’s once beautiful countenance. After searching his face, she narrowed her eyes. “I think you’re right to take such care—indeed, you should restrain her. Tie her up so she can’t escape.”
“No.”
Mirabelle’s lips thinned. “At the very least hobble her—she’s supposed to be a prisoner, isn’t she?”
Resisting the urge to glance at Angelica, he lowered his voice to a warning growl. “I’m the laird here. Do you seriously imagine she could make it outside without anyone stopping her?” He wouldn’t, in fact, put that feat past his bride-to-be, not least because all the interested spectators seated at the tables in the body of the hall were eagerly listening, and not one of them seemed anything other than interested in seeing what happened next. Which meant Mulley, Jessup, and the others had spread the word widely and well, so if Angelica did suddenly bolt for the door, everyone would just watch, and wait for the next act in the drama to unfold.
Luckily Mirabelle had never paid attention to his people; she neither saw nor sensed their interest. So it was she who backed down from their staring contest. With a sniff, she sat back as a footman retrieved her empty plate. “Very well. As you wish.”
Noting the platters being ferried out from the kitchens, he turned and studied Angelica, then added as if in an absentminded aside to Mirabelle, “Don’t worry. She won’t escape.” He met Angelica’s green and gold eyes—for a fleeting second saw a smile reflected there—but then she looked down, and he concluded, entirely truthfully, “Believe me, she won’t get away.”
“She wants to gloat.”
“Well, of course she does.” Lying on her back beside Dominic in his now thoroughly disarranged four-poster bed, Angelica settled the covers over her breasts and stared up at the canopy. “But she’ll grow tired of that soon enough, then she’ll hand over the goblet and all will be well. Did you glean any insight into what she’s looking for in terms of me being ruined?”
“No.” Turning onto his back, Dominic raised his arms and crossed them behind his head. After dinner, having informed his mother that Angelica was not a guest to sit in the drawing room with her, he’d dragged his cowering captive back to the tower store room. The bed had been made up and a candle left burning on a crate. She’d rummaged in her bags, hidden among the room’s other debris, hauled out the Robinson, and declared she would be comfortably occupied for several hours. He’d intended escorting her straight up the secret stair so she could wait in the comfort of his rooms, but she’d insisted that it was better she be in the store room in case, while he visited the boys, Mirabelle came knocking.
With the vision of the wicked witch in the fable of Snow White haunting him, he’d locked Angelica in, taken the key, and gone to see Gavin and Bryce.
She turned to him. “How were your wards? You didn’t say.”
He grunted. “Ecstatic to have me back, but predictably much less pleased by their confinement.”
“I assume they normally have the run of the keep?”
He nodded. “They’ll toe the line for a little while—I just hope Mirabelle deems you ruined enough, soon enough.”
He’d been returning from the boys’ room in the west tower when Mirabelle had waylaid him in the foyer. She’d been strangely—even more strangely than usual for her—enthused, expectant. Her eyes had glittered in the darkness. She’d been on her way to see him to tell him that she intended inviting Angelica, “the poor ruined child,” to sit with her the following morning. Mirabelle had sworn to “keep an eye on” Angelica to ensure she wouldn’t escape.
He hadn’t wanted to agree, but he’d known Angelica would want to seize the opportunity, so he’d nodded, and then stalked to the staff’s quarters to make suitable arrangements. “I’ve spoken with Elspeth and Brenda. Brenda will escort you to the sitting room and remain with you while you’re there. If Mirabelle does anything too particular, anything you don’t like, just look at either Elspeth or Brenda, and one of them will come and get either me or one of the others.”
Settling on her back again, Angelica smiled; her knight’s armor was still shining through the mire he was certain he’d smeared all over it. “Don’t fret. This will play to our advantage. Having a sniveling young miss wailing ‘woe is me’ at her is sure to grate on her nerves. Leave her to me, an
He huffed, but didn’t argue, which made her smile all the more.
“Meanwhile . . .” In her opinion, he needed further distraction to take his mind off his mother’s behavior so he would sleep. “You have to admit that my performance today was nothing short of brilliant.”
Another, stronger huff answered her.
Smile deepening, she rolled to her side, then, lifting up, shifted until she was perched across his waist. As naked as he, her hands splayed on his chest, arms braced, she looked into his face.
He opened his eyes wide. “Now what?”
“Now, my lord, it’s time to pay the piper.”
“In that case, my lady, consider me entirely at your service.”
She took the statement literally, and over the following half hour, held him to it.
Chapter Eighteen
“So. Tell me about your first ball.”
Angelica blinked. “M-my first ball?”
“Yes.” Seated in an armchair before the window in her sitting room, Mirabelle waved imperiously. “Your first ball, miss—where it was held, what you wore, whether you danced every dance, everything you can remember.”
Shifting on the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair Mirabelle had insisted she take, set facing the window and the armchair as if she was a maid applying for a position, Angelica frowned. “You mean my come-out ball?” While technically considered her first ball, it hadn’t been the first she’d attended.
Mirabelle frowned. “Yes, that one—the big one.”
“Oh. Well . . .” Fingers twisting a fold of the drab gown that Mirabelle had had delivered to her that morning, a dampened handkerchief clutched in her other hand, Angelica clung to her teary, wilting, helpless persona. “All the balls are big, of course, but that one . . . it was held at St. Ives House—my cousin, Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives’s London residence. His duchess, Honoria, was co-hostess with my mother.”
“Of course.” Mirabelle’s eyes glittered.
Keeping her eyes wide, Angelica paused as if frightened.