My Heart's in the Highlands (20 page)

T
hese were assaults with malicious intent.

Bloody hell
, Ian thought, he was willing to take the risk for himself, willing to be on his guard and await an opportunity to catch the culprit red-handed, but he would not risk Hero, Beaumont, or the rest of his household to the very real threat lurking within his own walls. 

Someone was trying to hurt
him or even kill him.  But who?  And why?

As far as he could tell
, only Daphne had any motive.  But why would she want to harm him if her goal was to marry him?   Despite Ian’s rejection of her proposal and what must be his obvious attraction to Hero, she didn’t seem to have given up on her plan to marry him.  Over the past two days, Daphne had flirted outrageously, trying to win him over. 

She was obvious in her ambitions
, so why hurt him?  Even doing away with the more obvious impediment she had in Hero would make more sense than attacking him.

Of course,
Ian conceded, his death would give her everything she ever wanted.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“I heard his grace took a fall from his horse today, Lady Ayr,” Camron Kennedy said that night after dinner while he and Hero played chess in the library while Daphne read aloud from Charlotte Bronte’s
Villette
.  “Is he quite all right?”

“Yes.
  His pride was hurt far more than his body,” Hero told him absently as she made her move.  The evening had been a long one thus far, with only Robert’s niece and nephew for company.  Her father had stayed abed, with Simms ordered not to leave his side, depriving Hero of his good-natured buffer.

As for Ian,
Hero didn’t know where he was at all. 

“I must say I’m surprised our host wasn’t present for dinner,” Kennedy added in an echo of her thoughts.
 

Yes, Hero thought, there was that.
  Ian had left before tea without a word to anyone regarding his destination or his return.  Not even to Dickson.  Given his anger earlier, Hero could only hope that at best he was blowing off steam.  Mandy had been full of gossip of his tirade to the stable master and grooms.  Those who had been targeted by the marquis over the incident had been surprisingly tight-lipped regarding what was said, but the general consensus among the remainder of the staff was that Lord Ayr had threatened all their livelihoods if the tack was not kept in better order.   One of the laundry maids had said that she could hear the marquis yelling at them through the walls.

Granted
, Hero wasn’t as familiar with Ian’s temperament as she should be, but somehow she didn’t think such a rage was typical of him.  She couldn’t picture him yelling at all.  Of course, when the safety of the household was threatened by negligence, alarm often resulted in a more emotional reaction.  Certainly that’s all it was.

“I’m sure that after the veritable deluge we’ve had these past several days
, Lord Ayr is merely seeing to the welfare of the estate,” Hero offered as explanation.  “I have heard that several of the northern fields were flooded.”

“I would image the marquis’s work is never done on a property this large,” Kennedy said after a few minutes.
  “I can’t imagine why Daph would want it so badly.  Work, work, work all the time.  She’d hate it in the end, I think.”

Hero pursed her lips but couldn’t keep from asking in a low tone, “Then why does she want it so?
  Does she truly love it so much that she would marry a man she doesn’t care for just to have it?”

Kennedy raised a mocking brow.
  “You think Daphne wouldn’t enjoy her duties as Ayr’s wife?  Oh, I think she wouldn’t mind that part of it at all.”

Swallowing back the bile that rose in her throat at Kennedy’s mocking words, Hero pushed her queen into a bad position, anxious for the evening’s end.
  Of course, Daphne wouldn’t mind that aspect of marriage, especially with a man like Ian.  Any woman would feel lucky to espouse such a handsome, virile man.  But Hero was certain Daphne would never have truly appreciated Ian—if she ever actually got to know him at all.  She wouldn’t have taken his kindness as an asset.  More likely she would have seen it as a weakness. 

Mandy’s chatter over the last couple
of days of her confinement to the sick bed had provided enough household gossip for Hero to know that Daphne had been a strict mistress during her short tenure at Cuilean.  She ruled on the principle of punishment being a stronger motivator for quality of work than reward.  If she were to rule by Ian’s side, they would lock horns within days.

Luckily for the staff at Cuilean, such a union wasn’t in the cards.
  Ian had asked Hero to marry him.  By his own admission, he’d done so without coercion because he loved her.  Catching her lip between her teeth, she bit back the emotion that rushed through her at the thought.  How had she gotten so fortunate?  It had never occurred to her when Robert died that she might ever find real love.  Certainly not so quickly.  Certainly not a love so consuming.

Daphne’s voice rose then above Hero’s thoughts and she listened as Daphne read with surprising passion,
“‘No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being told to cultivate happiness. What does such advice mean? Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in mould, and tilled with manure. Happiness is a glory shining far down upon us out of Heaven. She is a divine dew which the soul, on certain of its summer mornings, feels dropping upon it from the amaranth bloom and golden fruitage of Paradise.’”

Camron groaned loudly.
  “Bloody hell, Daph, must you read such balderdash?   You are making my head ache.”

“It is not balderdash, Cam,” Daphne rebuked
defensively, clutching the book to her chest. 

Hero had to agree with her niece for once.
  She rather liked
Villette
and found the tale’s theme to be far more reaching than some critics thought.  The story implied that a person, rather than Fate, was responsible for providing meaning to his or her life.  That the power of one's own will could change that Fate into whatever suited one best.  It was a formidable concept that had in some ways influenced Hero’s decision to return to Scotland.

“I like Lucy,” Daphne continued
hotly.  “The way she struggles to be free and to take what she wants from life.  She even questions whether a man is necessary for such happiness!”

“It’s thoughts such as those that get you in trouble,” Camron retorted as he rocked back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.
  “You should listen to Father and be happy with what you have, rather than fighting for something beyond your reach.”

Daphne followed his gaze to Hero and
then looked back to her brother with a sneer, but it was enough for Hero to know that Daphne recognized his implication and that she was none too pleased with her progress at Cuilean thus far.  “You’re a fine one to talk!  You hate the law and yet there you are, following meekly in Father’s footsteps.  Lucy shows that wanting something badly enough and pursuing it wholeheartedly can change your life.”

The front legs of Camron’s chair thudded back down on the floor.
  “Like you are changing yours?”

“Yes!” Daphne said.
  “I am making things happen, not waiting for them.”  She flipped through the pages of the book until she found what she was looking for:  “‘While I looked, my inner self moved; my spirit shook its always-fettered wings half loose; I had a sudden feeling as if I, who never yet truly lived, were at last about to taste life. In that morning my soul grew as fast as Jonah’s gourd.’”

The corner of Hero’s
mouth turned up at that and the squabbling of the Kennedy siblings faded away.  That was one of her favorite lines from the book.  She had almost forgotten it, but now the words took on a whole new meaning, given recent events.  Since her arrival at Cuilean, it was
her
spirit breaking free,
her
life that was finally truly being lived.

Where Lucy had struggled
, wondering if she could be free and love a man at the same time, Hero knew that struggle would not be hers.  Ian’s love was the key to her freedom.  He was her other half, making her life complete. 

Angry shouts drew Hero back to the moment.
  The two Kennedys were now toe-to-toe, arguing with one another, but Hero only gave an inward shrug.  Nothing new in that.  They’d been that way for years, and Hero was certain that on some level they both enjoyed it.  But with Daphne’s words, Hero’s eternal annoyance with the young woman seemed to have lowered—if only a notch.  

Though Daphne had always wanted more than she had, or even had rights to, Hero had never considered that Daphne was reaching for that kind of happiness.
  Obviously Hero wasn’t about to turn Ian over to her niece so that Daphne might gain the one thing she had always wanted, but perhaps her tolerance for Daphne’s methods was bolstered, if only a wee bit.

In a way, that insight into Daphne’s motivations made Hero feel almost sorry for her.
  Daphne would never get what she wanted from Ian.  Once she knew in no uncertain terms that Ian had no intention to marry her, Daphne would be heartbroken.  Well, perhaps not literally so, since she didn’t seem to have developed a tendre for Ian.  Daphne might desire him physically, as her brother had implied, which was understandable, for Ian was an exceptionally handsome man, but she did not love him.  Hero was certain of that.

Daphne loved his title, wealth
, and power and hunted those much as Hero had been pursued as a debutante.   Hero knew how that felt well enough and she knew she wouldn’t be able to tolerate watching that pursuit much longer.  Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to.  Soon she and Ian would announce their engagement and Daphne could return home knowing that she had done all she could to gain the title she so desired.

But
in the end, Daphne would simply have to dream new dreams.

Hero
glanced up at the clock once again and saw that it was nearing midnight.  Was all Hero to have of him that night more of the same?  Nothing but dreams?  The time of their planned rendezvous.  Hours without word from him, and she wondered if she should begin to worry.  Or at least consciously admit that she already was.

Where was he?

Chapter Twenty-Six

The creak of a loose floorboard woke Ian instantly from a restless sleep but before he could react, a cloth was slapped over his mouth and nose by a brutally strong hand and Ian took a quick intake of breath in surprise.  And exhaled quickly.  After years on the battlefields in Crimea, Ian recognized the sweet, pungent scent instantly.  Chloroform.

Bloody hell.

Holding his breath, he grasped the wrist of his attacker and pulled with all his strength.  His assailant was not expecting a response, it seemed.  His hand lifted an inch before he realized what Ian was about.  A split second Ian might have had to take a breath, but the cloth remained over his mouth.  Using his superior leverage, the assailant forced Ian back down, but Ian wasn’t a weak man by any means and all those years at war had proven him a survivor.

Wrapping his hands around the man’s wrist, Ian used his own weight
to roll to the side, dragging the attacker with him in an attempt to break his hold.  Despite holding his breath, Ian could already feel his skin tingling in reaction to the chloroform’s fumes.  Though his assailant fought against the motion, Ian pushed against the bed with all his strength until he was able to roll over the side.  His unsupported weight pulled his attacker with him to the floor.  The cloth was lost and Ian dragged in a deep breath.

Shaking his head
to clear the fog that had been building, Ian stumbled to his feet, ready to fight, but the man was there with the cloth ready again, trying to cover his mouth once more.  Ian was no longer in an indefensible position, however.  Jabbing his elbow back, he caught the assailant’s midsection and was rewarded with a grunt as the man took a step back, leaving Ian able to turn and ready to fight.

But though they seemed
well matched in size, the man was apparently disinclined to compete with a fully cognizant opponent or perhaps a completely nude one.  He turned, running for the door.  Ian was on him immediately, hitting him behind the knees.  Falling to the floor on top of him, Ian pinned him down with a knee in his back and hissed into the near darkness as he twisted the man’s arm behind his back:  “Who sent you?  What do you want?”

“Just finishin’ me job, mate,” came the hoarse an
swer, but it could not mask the Cockney accent of a Londoner.  “Weren’t expectin’ ye to fight back.”

“What were you expecting?” Ian growled
, pulling his arm higher.  “Knock me out and what then?”

“If the chloroform didn’t do ye in, it was o’er the balcony
wi’ ye,” the would-be assailant revealed with unanticipated honesty, then added with a shrug,  “Nothin’ personal, guv’nor, a job’s a job.”

“I appreciate your ca
ndor,” Ian bit out sarcastically.  “While you’re being so forthcoming, might I have the name of your employer?”

“No name
, jus’ another swell w’ five quid too many.”  The man struggled beneath Ian, rocking from side to side in an attempt to knock Ian off of him.

Ian drove his
knee deeper into his back.  “What did he look like?”

“No matter to ye,” the Cockney Londoner
said.  “Weren’t 'im that wanted ye to 'op the twig.  'E was just sent out to 'ire.”

Ian growled
low in his throat as frustration built.  He had spent all night securing the grounds, scouring the outer walls for breach points, before setting his grooms, huntsmen, and gardeners to stand watch.  Every lock had been checked. Every firearm, knife, and lamp locked away in the armory—all of Cuilean secured to ensure that another incident didn’t take place.  To ensure that Hero remained unharmed. 

Time had gotten away from him.
  Ian had been so focused on his task that he’d even forgotten his rendezvous with Hero.  Perhaps with the accident that afternoon, she had as well.  At one in the morning, he’d arrived at the pagoda to find it empty and had returned to the castle to collapse on his bed with utter fatigue.  Only to be awakened an hour later by this intruder.

A
fter all of his efforts, how had this man gotten into the castle?  Ian wanted answers.   He wanted to know who was behind this, and was prepared to do whatever damage was necessary to persuade the man to reveal what he knew.  “I don’t believe you.”

“Aye, well
…”  The assailant bucked unexpectedly and rolled, catching Ian in the groin with his knee before he scrambled to his feet with a grin.  “Ye should ha’ wore yer jim-jams, guv’nor, and ye wouldna been left flapping in the wind.”

Ignoring the pain in his groin, Ian leapt up with murder in his eyes
, and with wide-eyed comprehension, the man turned to run, but Ian was on him again within seconds.  Again he tackled him to the ground and together they slid across the hall floor and into the iron rails of the staircase balustrade.  This time there were no questions.  Fist met hard flesh again and again until the man was moaning for mercy, but Ian did not relent until the Londoner slipped into unconsciousness.

Dragging him back to the marquis’
s chambers, Ian bound his opponent hand and foot with the sash of his dressing gown.  He rang for his servants and while he dressed, Ian contemplated his attacker and considered his options.  He could beat the man to an even bloodier pulp, of course.  That might or might not produce the answers he needed if the fellow was telling the truth.  What else was there for him to do when all his precautions were for naught?

Dickson
arrived with Boyle at his side and Ian laid out his plans for the removal of his attacker from Cuilean and for protection for Hero, all of which was followed by dire warnings against alerting Hero to the attempt.

Together the three men carried
the assailant silently down the stairs.  Ian didn’t know yet who was behind the attacks, but what he had learned was that the mastermind behind all of this had moved past simple accidents. 

It wasn’t injury he or she was after, but Ian’s death.

Resolution filled him to be the one who next turned the tables.

“What do you mean he isn’t here?” Hero asked irritably as Ian’s valet rocked on his heels and stared intently at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
  “Where is he?”

“I canno
t say, my lady.”

“Cannot say or will not say,
Dickson?” she asked, pinning him with a fierce glare.

“I cannot say, my lady,” he repeated
, and Hero loosed a very unladylike snort of disbelief.

“But he was here last night?” she persisted.
  “And left again this morning?”

Dickson
frowned as he considered whether to answer.  “Yes,” he said slowly, as if weighing what the word might reveal.  “He was.”

“All night?”

The valet tilted his head from side to side but remained silent.

“You are of little assistance,
Dickson.”

“Yes, my lady,” was all he said
, but when Hero simply huffed and turned away, she could hear his sigh of relief.

What was going on, she wondered, smoothing her hands down the front of her morning gown as she walked
away.  The sun was beaming brightly through the east-facing windows of the Long Drawing Room,  the beams spilling through the double doors and into the upper hall at a sharp angle that indicated the early hour.  Hero hadn’t even eaten breakfast and already Ian was gone again without a word to her.

Was he avoiding her?
  She couldn’t help but consider the possibility.  Late last night, she had snuck out of the castle like a thief to meet Ian at the pagoda for his promised rendezvous.  Without a groom to be found in the stables, she had undertaken the long walk and chilly night to gain nothing more than the company of an irritable owl who periodically protested her presence with long hoots for her efforts.

Expectantly, she had waited at the rail of the terrace
, waiting for her lover to arrive with her cloak thrown back over her shoulders to display the provocative gown she had worn.  Then the silence of the night had been broken by a voice, a rustic regional brogue that she recognized as belonging to her head groundskeeper, Docherty, as he yelled distorted orders to others in the area.

Privacy lost, she had huddled within the cloak to protect her against
the night’s chill that she had thought would be warded off by Ian’s embrace and made the long trek back to the castle. There would be no midnight rendezvous at the pagoda.  No love made passionately in the moonlight.  No chance to lie in the circle of his strong embrace and glory in the blossoming youth of their love.

And now there was no sign of Ian
this morning, either.

Hero
had spoken with Docherty that morning, trying to find out what had been amiss without betraying her midnight excursion.  A wolf, he had said, had been spotted on the grounds.  But he hadn’t met her eye and Hero hadn’t heard of a wolf at Cuilean in all her years there.

Between that evasion and Ian’s absence, Hero knew that something more was going on.
 

But what?

“Missing something, Hero?”

Hero looked up to see
Daphne in the doorway of the Blue Drawing Room with a sly smile on her face.  Clearly she had been eavesdropping on Hero’s conversation with Dickson.  With a grimace, Hero continued around the hall to the head of the stairs, which was halfway between them.  “No, Daphne, everything is as it should be,  though I do appreciate your ever tender concern.”

“Ayr has not returned to his chambers all night and his valet is reluctant to tell you where he is
, and you aren’t worried?” Daphne laughed and tossed her head, slanting a mischievous glance her way.  “Might be that I could tell you where he spent the night, if you asked nicely.”

Hero stiffened at the woman’s implication
, her hands curling into fists, but she did not dignify the suggestion with a response.  That Daphne would imply that Ian had spent the night in her rooms!  It was preposterous, of course.  Daphne only wanted to shake Hero’s confidence, but Daphne did not know that the competition—if there had ever been one—was over.  Ian had asked Hero to marry him, not Daphne.

Releasing a sigh, Hero recalled her concessions of the night before for Daphne
, but it was difficult to be charitable when she knew Daphne was being deliberately provoking.

“But surely you would like to know
…” Daphne persisted, only to be interrupted.