The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
Her face contorting, Mirabelle gestured irritably. “Get on, girl! Tell me more about it.”
Angelica swallowed. “Well, it was big, as you say.” She let her voice hitch—as if remembering something lovely that was lost to her. “A very large number of the ton attended, and I wore a white gossamer silk gown over white satin, with tiny teal rosebuds around the neckline and waist, and about the edges of the hem and sleeves.” What lady ever forgot her come-out gown? “I wore teal ballroom slippers, and carried a teal silk reticule, and there were teal silk roses in my hair, anchored by pearl pins. I had on my grandmother’s pearl necklace and earrings, and a pearl armlet and ring my father gave me.” She paused to draw a shaky breath, then rushed out, “And I definitely danced every dance.” That was all but obligatory at one’s come-out ball.
“Who was your first partner?”
Impressed by how thorough Dominic’s father’s informers had been, she sniffed, then nearly wailed, “His Grace, the Duke of Grantham. Oh, my heavens—I should have accepted him when I had the chance. I’ll never get a better offer, not now!”
Gulping back sobs, she mopped her eyes with the handkerchief and kept her head bowed. From beneath her lashes, she watched Mirabelle eye her coldly.
“Stop sniveling.” Mirabelle shifted in her chair. “Now tell me about your sisters. What gowns did they wear to their come-outs?”
Angelica managed to drag the information from her memory, but was relieved when, from there, Mirabelle’s attention, albeit increasingly avid, deflected first to her brothers and their offspring, then to ton events, and from there to the customary pattern of tonnish ladies’ days.
Such questions she could answer without thought, but judging that she’d satisfied Mirabelle as to her identity, she seized every pause, every opportunity, to weep and rail against fate, and turned every question to her own purpose, bemoaning the loss of the life she’d led—the very life Mirabelle seemed so keen to hear about.
Mirabelle grew increasingly restive, eventually becoming sufficiently irritated by Angelica’s whining to dismiss her.
Angelica quit the sitting room in Brenda’s charge. She and Brenda exchanged a speaking glance, but said nothing as they walked back to her store room-cum-cell.
The gong for luncheon sounded as they reached the door, and they diverted to the great hall. Angelica slipped into her shrinking, cowering role as they entered the cavernous room, allowing Brenda, her supposed jailer, to roughly escort her to her chair.
Dominic appeared, nodded to Brenda, and dropped into his chair. Without looking at Angelica, he murmured, “How did it go?”
“I passed the identity test, but she was even more interested in hearing about ton life, how we live in London, that sort of thing. And no, I have no idea why she’s so interested in that.” She’d kept her head down, murmuring at her plate.
Beside her, Dominic shifted. “Here she comes.”
Angelica clung to her pose of weak, wilting, crushed violet. At one point Dominic glanced at her, then asked his mother, “So, are you satisfied?”
“I congratulate you,” Mirabelle said. “She is, indeed, Angelica Cynster. However, to fully realize my enjoyment of my revenge, I believe I’ll need more information from her. I’ll have to think about it, but not this afternoon. I’ll speak with her again tomorrow.”
Angelica inwardly frowned, perfectly certain Dominic was doing the same thing. What was in his mother’s twisted mind? Deeming that a question impossible to answer, Angelica shifted her attention to the hall and its occupants. Reasonable enough that, having been forced to stay, she should at least look around.
No one was paying any particular attention to the three occupants of the high table . . . except for two small boys who had slipped into seats at the far end of the hall. The pair’s big round eyes were fixed on her. She let her gaze sweep over them before returning it to her plate. From beneath her lashes, she watched the pair observe, then talk to each other—back and forth, punctuated by glances at her. She debated warning Dominic that his wards’ anticipated step over the boundaries he’d set had already occurred, but she was curious to see what they might do and was reasonably certain that, if explanations had to be made, the pair would understand the concept of a necessary make-believe.
Lunch ended. Dominic glanced at her. She didn’t meet his eyes, but ducked her head in a cringing manner and whisperingly offered, “I suppose I’d better go back to my room.”
He momentarily closed his eyes, then opened them and mildly glared at her. Then he looked up and summoned Brenda with a nod. She came; in her charge, Angelica slipped out of her chair and, giving Dominic a wide berth, scuttled past and out of the hall, back to her room.
Safely inside, she made herself comfortable on the bed, propped Robertson’s tome open, and settled to read.
Two hours later, when Brenda looked in to ask if she wanted tea, Angelica shut the Robertson and stated, “Prisoners are customarily allowed to take the air. Let’s go for a walk on the battlements.”
Brenda readily agreed. She led Angelica through the corridors, away from the north tower and the witch therein. Angelica glanced into the library, but Dominic wasn’t there. Skirting the kitchens, she passed numerous castle staff, all of whom beamed and bobbed curtsies or bows, murmuring a polite “miss” or, more often, “m’lady.” Clearly the entire castle, barring only Mirabelle, knew of their charade.
Angelica had to admit that made her feel a great deal more comfortable. Having Dominic forced to portray himself as a violently aggressive, dishonorable man hadn’t sat well, no matter how essential.
Brenda led her to the battlements along the castle’s south wall. “Even if her ladyship gets some bee in her bonnet and looks out of her bedroom window over the bailey, she still won’t be able to see you here.”
“Good.” Climbing the steep steps beside Brenda, Angelica admitted, “It’ll be nice to stand straight and stride about a bit. That hunching is making my shoulders ache.”
“Don’t know how you do it, myself.” Brenda looked at her with admiring amazement. “You really do look like a weak feeble thing, so spineless you’ll collapse if her ladyship blows hard at you.”
“Yes, well, let’s hope that’s all she sees until she hands over the goblet. Once she does”—stepping onto the battlements, Angelica smiled—“she’ll rapidly learn her error.”
Pausing, she stretched her arms over her head, then out to her sides, breathing deeply, savoring the tang of the forests and the crisp, bracing air. Then she and Brenda set out, swinging along the empty walks.
When Angelica asked about the lack of personnel, Brenda replied, “There’s only guards at the gatehouse, two older clansmen, just to keep watch. If anyone they don’t know approaches, they come along here and hail them as they reach the bridge.” Brenda tipped her head beyond the wall.
Angelica stopped to peer out between the crenellations at the bridge from the loch’s shore to the smaller island; it lay directly across from where they now stood. She considered the two swiftly running stretches of water, one separating the shore from the smaller island, the other the smaller island from the castle. “I’ve seen a few castles, and this would rank as the most defensible. Is it possible to swim across?”
“Possible, but difficult, and risky, too.”
They heard footsteps and turned. Angelica smiled as Dominic joined them.
He nodded to Brenda. “I’ll see our prisoner back to her cell.”
“Aye, m’lord.” With a curtsy and a grin, Brenda headed back to the steps.
Dominic fixed his gaze on Angelica’s face. “What brings you out? Boredom?”
“Not so much that as frustration.” She turned to look over the roofs of the numerous buildings hugging the walls, over the bustling bailey to the keep. “There’s so much I want to learn about this place and the people in it, but I have to hold back until we’r
“Sadly, that’s true.”
Raising one hand to hold back her hair, drifting in the light breeze, she looked up at him. “One thing I wanted to check—is there anyone in the castle who, while they might remain loyal to the clan, might also feel sympathetic to your mother? If there is anyone in that category, I should be more careful around them.” Her gaze went past him, then her eyes widened. “Oh.”
Hearing the clicking claws, he swung about.
“What lovely dogs!”
About to step in front of her and halt the charging beasts, he pulled back and let the three water spaniels romp up; they barely paused to lift their dark heads to him for a pat before, tails waving, heads bobbing, pushing past to greet the new person.
Holding out her hands, then ruffling their ears and ruffs, she laughed as the three dogs—any of which could easily bring her down—cavorted around her. “They’re beautiful. What are they?”
“Water spaniels.” Pushing the three back, he commanded, “Sit.”
They thought about it, but eventually all three obeyed.
“This is Gwarr, the eldest, and this is Blass, and the lady is Nudge—for obvious reasons.” Nudge was already leaning heavily against Angelica’s legs, looking up in blissful adoration. He’d never seen the dogs so readily accept anyone . . . but he and Angelica were sharing a bed; they might be able to smell his scent on her.
He stood and watched her speak with each dog, solemnly telling them her name and repeating theirs, and felt a lightness in his chest that, after a few moments, he identified as simple happiness. His lips curved . . . then he realized that where the dogs went . . .
Raising his head, he looked back along the battlements. Sure enough, two small figures stood watching from twenty feet away.
Gavin met his gaze. “Is she your friend we can’t come near?”
He nodded. “Her name’s Miss Cynster.”
“But you can call me Angelica.” Still patting the dogs, Angelica smiled at the pair.
Both regarded her steadily, then the one who hadn’t spoken earlier asked, “Why can the dogs go near, but we can’t?”
“Because dogs can’t get illnesses from people, just as people can’t get sick from dogs.” She pulled a funny face at them. “I’m sorry, but I hope we’ll be able to get to know each other soon.”
They seemed to accept that at face value.
Dominic walked back to them; standing behind them, facing Angelica, his face softer, his expression one of pride and unabashed love, he put a hand on each shoulder. “This is Gavin.” He whispered something, and Gavin smiled shyly and executed a small bow. “And this is Bryce.” The younger boy bowed more jerkily.
Patting both shoulders, Dominic said, “Take the dogs off, now. I’ll come up tonight and read you the rest of that story, all right?”
Their eyes still on Angelica, the boys nodded. Dominic whistled—the boys did, too—and the three dogs, interested spectators to the little exchange, rose and obediently ambled to them.
Dominic saw the group off, watching as they ran back along the battlements, then clattered down the steps.
Angelica walked slowly to join him where he stood watching boys and dogs race away across the bailey. “They planned that, didn’t they?”
“Almost certainly.”
She grinned. “They’re sweet.”
He looked down at her. “Never tell any male that he’s sweet. It’s an invitation to be anything but.”
She laughed, then she linked her arm with his and they headed back to the keep.
“You asked about any who might be sympathetic to Mirabelle.” Dominic slid beneath the covers of his big bed; propping on one elbow beside Angelica, he looked into her face. “There’s only one I can think of—McAdie, the old steward.” He grimaced. “I replaced him after my father died—if I’d been here, I would have had him replaced sooner. He’s a good man, but ineffectual. Sadly, he never understood, and so I’m not his favorite person, but he has nowhere else to go, so he’s still here, wandering the corridors and keeping an eye on Erskine, his successor, trying to find fault, which he never does because John’s excellent in the role, but still McAdie gripes.”
“Is he a little on the shortish side, round like a top, with gray hair that’s like a tonsure, and he wears a robelike coat over his trews?”
Face hardening, he nodded. “Has he approached you?”
“No, but I noticed him watching me in a puzzled sort of way in the great hall. I don’t think he’s seen me out walking, or at any time when I’ve not been playing my crushed violet role.”
Dominic considered, then said, “He is, ultimately, loyal to the clan, but he’s always been . . . accommodating, possibly even a trifle toadying, toward Mirabelle, and I expect that’s grown more marked in recent years. However, he’s not generally out and about. He keeps to himself, mostly in the staff quarters, so you should be able to avoid him.”
Angelica nodded. “I will. Regardless, now I know about him, I’ll make sure he sees nothing but the crushed violet.”
Settling beside her, he drew her into his arms. “I’m not that fond of your crushed violet. She’s . . . irritating.” He kissed her chin. “Weak.”
She brushed her lips over his. “Helpless?”
“That, too.”
“Just as well, then, that all you’ll ever get is the real me.”
“Promise?”
She smiled into his eyes. “Let me show you.”
Inwardly smiling, he lay back and did.
A sense of being watched drew Angelica from the pleasured oblivion Dominic had left her to wallow in. He’d filled her early morning with a delicious bout of lovemaking, then had risen and gone about his lairdly duties, leaving her boneless in his bed; as Mirabelle was such a late riser, there had seemed little reason to cut short her pleasured peace.
Except . . . the odd sensation dragged at her mind, insistently rousing her.
She was lying on her back, the covers over her shoulders. To convince herself that there was no one there, she raised her lids a fraction—and saw two familiar faces solemnly studying her.
Blinking, she stared at them, then struggled up to her elbows. “Ah . . . good morning.”
“Good morning,” they politely chorused back.
“You don’t have a swollen neck,” Gavin informed her.
“So we thought it must be all right to come and talk to you now,” Bryce said.
It took a moment to realize they’d been told about mumps. “Ah . . . yes.” She was naked beneath the sheets. Holding the covers to her, she wriggled up so she could lean against the pillows. With a wave, she invited the boys to avail themselves of the foot of the bed; they eagerly scrambled up. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Who are you?”
“Where are you from?”
“Why are you here?”
“And why are you sleeping in Dominic’s bed?”
She studied their small faces, saw the budding intelligence and native shrewdness. Decided that her wisest course would be to adhere to her usual tack of starting as she meant to go on. “To answer the last question first, I’m sleeping in Dominic’s bed because he and I are going to get married—we’ve already decided, but it’s a secret for the moment—and this bed is where his wife, his countess, should sleep.”
Slowly, Gavin nodded, hesitated, then asked, “If you’ll be Dominic’s wife, will that make you our mam?”
Danger, danger . . . she searched their faces; as with their older cousin, she could read little in the planes, unformed though they were, but their eyes . . . the soft blue was more revealing, showing a longing that made her heart weep. She recalled they’d been babes when their mother had died; they wouldn’t remember her. “If you want me to be, then I will be—but only if you want me as your mam. If you
That was the right answer; their eyes widened, hope glowing.
“But,” she said, “we’ll need to keep that a secret, too, until Dominic and I get married. All right?”
They both nodded solemnly. Then Bryce asked, “Will we be allowed to be at the wedding?”
“Absolutely. I promise. In fact, I swear I’ll refuse to say I do unless you’re there.”
They smiled hugely and bounced on the bed. “So,” Gavin said, “tell us the rest. The answers to our other questions.”
She thought back, nodded. “All right. But I need to get dressed.” Her clothes were where she’d left them, neatly laid over a stool, but being a male, Dominic had no screen behind which she could retreat. She pointed to the uncurtained window, the one opposite Mirabelle’s tower. “I want you to go to the window and look out, and not turn around until I say. It’s called giving me privacy.”
They immediately scrambled from the bed and raced each other to the window. Once they were in place, she slid from the bed and grabbed her chemise. “Now, as to where I come from . . .” While she climbed into her clothes, she answered their questions, those they’d voiced earlier, and the others her answers inevitably spawned.
When she was fully clothed, she called them, then sat on the bed so when they halted before her, her face was level with theirs. “Now, this is important.” Reaching out, she grasped a hand from each boy. “You love Dominic, and I do, too. I’m here to help him take care of the clan, and I’m sure both of you will do whatever you can to help him do the same.”
Both solemnly nodded. “What can we do?” Gavin asked.
“This is the hard bit—the best way you can help him at this time is to do what he asks you to without question or grumbling.” She looked into their faces, met their eyes. “I’m not ill, but he wants you to, just for the next few days, keep your distance from both me and him, at least while we’re inside the keep. Inside your tower, in your rooms, there’s no difficulty, but otherwise within the keep, it will make it easier for him and me to do what we have to if you both play least in sight.” She searched their eyes. “All right?”