Every Time with a Highlander (21 page)

Michael stared frantically into the darkened theater, trying to get his bearings. He was onstage, in a scene, squirming under the gaze of a thousand rapt patrons.

Was he in costume?

What was the play?

Did he know his lines?

An actress beside him said something, but her mouth moved in a bizarre imitation of a fish, as if she were talking in slow motion, and the roar in Michael's ears kept him from hearing what she said. He was drunk or something like it. The play seemed to be about Spain, but the set wasn't right. The actress, a blond, clutched a silver box that seemed to open and close on its own. He tried to remember if Friar Laurence used a box in Romeo and Juliet, but he could barely recall the central themes of the play. Romeo and Juliet were lovers. He felt certain of that. But something happened. Something came between them. Was the friar the villain or the hero? He found himself hoping they'd be happy. They seemed to want it so much. Did they end up together? A great wave of unhappiness came over him as he pondered the other eventuality. Was he supposed to change the end? Could he do it if he wanted to?

Someone nudged his ankle.

The audience waited for his reaction. He tried to move, but his legs weighed a thousand pounds.

The person nudged harder.

“Mr. Kent?”

Michael opened his eyes to see a deeply concerned Nab standing over him under the eaves of the Morebright stables.

“You need to wake up,” the boy whispered. “I think Undine is in trouble.”

“When did she go in?” Michael said, peering at the window from behind an exuberantly trimmed topiary pig.

“About an hour ago, I think,” Nab said.

“An hour?” How long had he been asleep? He remembered holding the twist of paper, defeated, and staring at the house, looking for a sign of Undine beyond the darkened windows. He'd reviewed their conversation in the bedroom over and over, feeling both traitorous and stupid. After trying so hard to get in that house to be with her, why had he given it all up over something as foolish as a ring from a man she hated that had meant no more to her than, well, a ring from a man she hated?

“A quarter of an hour or more,” said Nab. “And Bridgewater went in a few minutes after she did.”

“What makes you think she's in trouble?” Apart from the obvious, of course, which Michael decided he needed to stop thinking so much about.

“Tom—he's one of the servants—found her first. I thought,
och
, she's fine. The man's as old as Cairnpapple and kindly like. But the instant he left the room and closed those doors, up he went to Bridgewater.”

“Bridgewater, you're sure? Not Morebright?”

Nab's cheeks puffed as he thought. “I dinna know. Bridgewater came down, fast as a hare, and in he went. So I went to look for you.”

“Thank you for the footman's clothes, by the way. They proved to be very useful.”

The lad shrugged and eyed Michael with envy. “I wish I was your size. The only parts I get to play are stable hands and kitchen boys.”

“Your day will come.”

Morebright or Bridgewater. It didn't really matter. Bridgewater was possessive and suspicious. Morebright was an unpleasant jerk with a history of shady dealings. Either of them could cause Undine a great deal of trouble. Michael looked again at the windows. The candles were lit, which suggested the two of them were still in there. No one was screaming. No shots had been fired. A few minutes before, they'd heard two strikes of the resonant bell of what Nab informed him was a fancy French clock in the shape of a man chasing a stag that leapt in the air when the chime sounds, a clock that sat on the mantle in the great hall, so Michael assumed if Bridgewater was murdering Undine or—being optimistic—she was murdering him, they'd hear it here by the porcine shrubbery.

“Our best bet may be to go on the offense.”

Nab's brow furrowed, and Michael had to remind himself he was talking to a boy barely more than twelve or thirteen.

“That's, er, making a strike before they can strike you. It's a way to confuse things for the other side and give your side an advantage. Especially helpful if that's the only advantage you have.”

“Like us.”

“Er, right. Hey, not to go all schoolmaster on you, but why are you doing this anyway? Why aren't you at home with your mum and dad?”

“My mum wants me to tend sheep,” Nab said, scratching his nose. “Tending grown-ups is more interesting.”

Michael laughed. “Certainly more varied. Though I doubt you'd ever be able to herd the ones around here.”

Nab's eyes brightened. “Have you met Gert? She's the herd dog—and a braw hand at sheep. Best I've ever seen. Erland and I were playing with her tonight. He's the cooper.”

“Jeez, when do you sleep?”

“Mornings,” Nab said flatly. “Grown-ups don't do anything interesting before eleven.”

The boy cast a quick sidelong glance at the trough against which Michael had been sleeping. “Did she throw you out?”

Michael shifted. “Not exactly.”

Nab frowned. “You left?”

Michael wasn't sure if the boy's loyalty was to Undine or the cause, but in either case, Nab seemed to regard the possibility with disapproval.

“You know she married him?” Michael said.

“Aye.”

If Michael had been hoping for a sudden show of shared understanding, he'd been mistaken. Nab's look was as narrow as ever.

“By a real priest,” Michael said.

“You pretended to be a solicitor. I'm pretending to be a stable boy.”

“Right, but now she's really married. To Bridgewater.”

The boy seemed more confused than ever. “Were you going to marry her?”

“I-I… Well, I mean, I might have. It was rather too early to think of such a thing.”

Nab's disapproval turned to curious scrutiny. “How long does it take before you know? My mum said she fell in love with my da the moment she saw him carry a sick calf on his shoulder. She said it was like being hit in the head with a picket.”

“Well, there is that sort of thing, of course—you know, in storybooks or plays—the hero spouting tortured speeches at the darkest moment, the heroine swooning. But in real life, it's quieter. A real woman never swoons. And a real man doesn't run around doing stupid things, putting himself in danger, racing through the countryside, climbing through windows—”

The look on Nab's face made him stop, and Michael realized he'd done everything he'd just described in the last few hours. “Oh. Right.”

The realization stunned him. As a Brit—even one with Scottish roots—the idea of falling into a mad, passionate love was simply unimaginable—certainly since that day the officer knocked. Yet, here he was, standing in the dark of the borderlands countryside, in a servant's livery, in the eighteenth century, with a pistol jammed into his waistband, ready to do battle for a naiad whose singular goal in life was to change everything he knew about Scottish history.

Nab elbowed him. Undine and Bridgewater had wandered into view. Undine's arms were crossed, and Bridgewater spoke rapidly, gesturing with obvious agitation. Michael's heart faltered. Had Bridgewater discovered something? Was this a quarrel about something else? Undine displayed no fear—not that he'd expect her to, even if facing down a primed cannon—and her posture suggested a disdain worthy of a queen. He almost felt sorry for Bridgewater. Almost. The man might win the argument, but he was definitely going to lose the war. The trouble was men like Bridgewater were notoriously poor sports when it came to losing wars. And Undine might be able to fend off his anger with disdain, but she'd never be able to fend off a blow. How far should he let this go? How far
could
he let it go? What would Undine want?

Michael could feel Nab watching him.

“So what do real men do at the darkest moment?” the boy asked.

He groaned. “Wait.”

“I think you've had enough to drink, John.”

In fact, Undine thought, he'd had
far
too much to drink, and it was only making his erratic behavior worse. They'd spent part of the time since he'd arrived discussing—in sometimes heated terms—his concern that she needed to begin to dress “like the wife of a nobleman.” He hadn't—yet—applied a description to her current style of dressing, though the employment of such phrases as “unbefitting a woman of your now elevated status” and “likely to confuse a man who was unaware of your marriage” gave her a very clear hint regarding his perception of it. In addition, he'd announced his insistence that she accompany him and Morebright on the journey to York, which she had no intention of doing, but as she intended to leave the moment he either left the room or collapsed in a drunken stupor, it hardly seemed worth fighting about. And now he was describing the absolute necessity of ending her fortune-telling and spell casting except in those cases he deemed appropriate.

All of it was like a cloud of midges flying around her head—mildly irritating but of very little consequence.

What was of consequence, however, was her strong sense that Bridgewater had come in here for a different reason—a reason involving the hidden drawer in that mural.

When he'd burst into the room, his gaze had cut instantly from her to that wall. Since that moment, he'd done everything in his power to
keep
from looking at it, even when he sat in full view of it, which he'd had to do when she'd insisted on taking a seat on the arm of the chair facing away from it.

The question in Undine's mind, and one she couldn't get a clear grasp on, was whether he suspected her of rifling the drawer, whether he was afraid she would discover the drawer, or whether he simply wanted to get into the drawer without her watching him. In any of these cases, he'd be at that drawer the moment she left his side. And unfortunately, she hadn't had time to relock the box when she'd heard his footsteps, so if he knew what he was looking for, he'd know instantly it was gone.

He poured himself another glass of whiskey—his fourth—and waved the decanter at her. When she shook her head, he said derisively, “Why is it naiads don't drink? Is there something in whiskey that's poison to fairies?”

“John, you know very well I drink.”

This one he tossed back and then, after he was sure she was watching, poured another.

“One might think you wished me drunk,” he said.

“One might think you wished yourself drunk. I wish you only the chance for a good night's sleep.”

“Take care,” he said, taking a more modest gulp. “There are many ways a new husband might interpret that.”

She stood, disgusted, and walked to the window, realizing too late the papers had shifted in her bodice. “I can assure you I said it with only one meaning.”

She'd thought the movement she'd made to readjust the load had been imperceptible, but when she turned the look on his face had changed.

“June twenty-fourth,” he said, standing.

She started, keenly aware that was the date stated in the letter by which Bridgewater's “distraction” had to be completed. “What of it?”

“You may have until then,” he said, moving closer. “After that, you move to my bed.”

“For skies' sake, have you forgotten I possess the means to render you incapacitated in this area?”

His gaze cut to his drink.

“Do you think I need a potion?” she said, looking straight into his eyes.

“Do ye think I need a cock?”

She refused to reply, and he lifted his arm.

“Raise your hand to me, and we'll discover exactly how deep your desire for a working cock runs.”

He flung his whiskey into the corner, sending shards of glass exploding in every direction, including the floor around her feet. Whoever lived with Bridgewater would have to put in for a large supply of drinking glasses.

She picked up her skirts, keeping her arm tight against her side. “I'm too tired for this, John,” she said, sighing. “It's been a long and mostly pleasurable day. Let us end this on a happy note, aye? I'll call for a servant.”

She prayed he'd nip at the bait. She prayed he wanted to dive into that hidden drawer more than he wanted to stand here and make her miserable, and she'd take her chances that he didn't know what to look for in there. Even if he did, she'd use a key and be out the front door before he'd completed his search. A moment after that, she'd be out of her clothes and into the river. He could look all he wanted, he'd never find her there. She'd swim all the way to Glasgow if she had to.

“John?”

Bridgewater appraised her closely. She could feel him considering the options.

“
I'll
call for the servant,” he said. “Stay where you are. We don't want anything happening to you.”

“Did you hear that?” Nab said. “It sounded like glass breaking.”

It had. And now a thousand scenes raced through Michael's head, each uglier than the one before—Bridgewater shoving Undine into a china cabinet; Undine throwing a vase at his head; a table overturning as Bridgewater—

Oh God, he had to stop this.

He strained to hear more, but the night had fallen eerily silent. The breeze had died, and even the crickets had stopped. The river's churning was the only sound he could hear.

Undine, come to the window. Show me you're all right.

Nab waited for a sign from Michael.

“Go,” Michael said at last. “Find out what's going on.”

Nab began to run toward the house.

“Wait!”

The boy turned.

“Don't do anything unless you absolutely have to.”

The boy nodded.

Bridgewater left, and when the doors closed, she heard a faint
click
. Had he
locked
them? Her anxiety rose. She hopped over the glass and ran to the doors. Head cocked, she listened for his departure. When she was sure he was gone, she tried the doors. To her great relief, they were open. She slipped into the entry hall and dug in her pocket for the ring of keys. She ran to the towering doors, hands shaking. The largest key fit the lock, but as she turned, the papers in her bodice fell down through her dress and dropped to the floor.

She scrabbled to collect them. When she stood, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered furiously to Nab.

He put a finger to his lips and pointed nearly imperceptibly in the direction of her midsection, indicating an unseen danger behind her. With a thumping heart, she listened but heard nothing. She had to assume it was Bridgewater.

“Did he see the papers?” she mouthed.

“Undine?” Bridgewater said. “What are you doing?”

“I beg your pardon, milady,” Nab said loudly. “I should watch where I'm going.” He added under his breath, “Give them to me.”

“No.”

“Where did you get them?”

“The mural,” she whispered. “Hidden compartment.”

Bridgewater hurried toward them. “Why is the door open?”

She turned, keeping the papers and keys behind her. “I thought I heard a noise out here.”

Nab snatched the papers and keys from her hands and slipped into the dark beyond the door.

“He must have been singing to himself,” she said, battling to keep her voice light. “I thought I heard something and opened the front doors.”

“The doors were locked.”

“I'm afraid they weren't. I think I alarmed the poor boy when I called him in. He dropped everything he was carrying.”

Bridgewater looked at the lock, then stared into the night. She could feel his uneasiness.

“We have a bigger concern,” he said. “The footman says Morebright has lost his keys.”

“Are they the only set?”

“That's not the point. The point is he thought they were on his vest. But they were gone when he retired for the night.”

“Can we help him retrace his steps?”

“The footman's doing that. What I'd like you to do is wait in your room.”

“For what?”

“I see no issue with this, Undine. It's nearly one. Just take yourself to bed. Something may have been taken, and this way, you and I will be removed from the equation.”

“You mean I'll be removed from the equation.”

Two footmen arrived with brooms.

“Please escort my wife to her room and wait outside,” Bridgewater said to them. “I'd like her to remain safely out of the way while the house is searched.”

The men put down the brooms and waited.

Bridgewater stood between her and door.

“Thank you,” she said, curtsying. “I'll feel much safer with you there.”

She made her way to the stairs, footmen on her heels, and prayed Nab was already far, far from the house.