The Reckless One (7 page)

“Carr didn’t even look for Jamie and his pipe,” Muira cackled. She sat at the dressing table in the bedchamber Carr had reserved for Favor Donne’s chaperone.

As Favor watched, Muira dipped a cotton wad into a jar of grease and began rubbing the ochre-tinted paint from her face. “Not that he’d have found him. He may have lived in the castle over twenty years but he doesn’t know half her secrets, one being as how a body whispering on the parapet beneath the south tower will sound like he’s standing in the gardens below the courtyard.”

“You’re very sure of what Carr knows and what he doesn’t know,” Favor said.

“I should be. I’ve been listening to his raves and curses for two years and I’ve been watching him for a dozen before that. Aye. I know Carr’s black soul as well as my own,” Muira said. She tossed the stained cotton into the fire and began rolling the clothes she’d shed into a small bundle that she would later store in the locked chest at the foot of her bed.

Favor looked around the room, wondering what secrets it held. Happily, her own room was unconnected. She disliked the idea of Muira having unimpeded access to her.

“If only I could remember some detail about Janet that only Carr would have noticed,” Muira muttered, her eyes narrowed in concentration on her image in the mirror.

“Well, you’d best come up with something soon,” Favor said. “We’ve been guests at the castle two weeks and so far he hasn’t taken any more note of me than a scullery cat. Aside from dancing naked in the firelight, I don’t know what else I can do to attract his attention.”

Muira flashed her an annoyed glance. She finished plumping out her cheeks with a bit of cotton wadding and quickly dusted her face with fine white powder, taking special care with her brows and lashes. That done she twisted her white hair into a bun atop her head.

No one who saw her now, looking so pudding-faced and pale, would recognize her as “Pala,” the dark, wiry Gypsy whom Carr had found in his stables nearly two years earlier.

“I’ve spent two years filling Carr’s head with hints and omens about Janet’s return,” Muira said. “If you fail to make Carr believe you are she, it’s because you
want
to fail.”

She regarded Favor thoughtfully as she stuffed her bodice with woolen bolsters. “Is that it? Are you wondering what would come of you if you could call your future your own?” Her brogue thickened with her growing contempt. “Yer still thinkin’ on that English prison scarecrow, aren’t ye?”

“No.” Favor denied the charge.

“Aye.” Muira nodded. “Jamie says as soon as he returned from France, just before we come here, ye asked him if he’d ever heard what become of the man.”

“I know you’ll not believe this but I asked because I feel—”

“Guilty.” Muira spat out the word. “So you say. So you’ve said this past half year. Well, it seems to me your fine conscience has developed a large appetite. Now me, I’d think that any lass responsible for the deaths of most all her clansmen wouldna have room for any more guilt.”

“You’d be surprised at the things of which I’m capable,” Favor stonily returned. The old woman’s methods of persuasion were never subtle but certainly one could not gainsay their effectiveness. Since she’d brought Favor from France she had lost no opportunity to remind Favor of what she owed her clan. They’d each learned a great deal about the other.

Favor had learned to hide her vulnerabilities. Muira had learned that the biddable puppet she’d hoped to manipulate was an independent young woman not easily managed. It had been a lesson the old woman disliked and one that had pitted the two women in constant conflict.

“Or,” Muira said now, “are you wondering whether or not your blooming sweet youth really does need to be sacrificed after all?”

Favor faced her silently.

“Well, darlin’ lassie, all those men that died because of you were blooming with youth, too. And they all deserved bonny brides and plump bairns and warm hearths. My husband, my brother, and my three sons among them.”

“I know.” Favor did, too. She’d sneaked out to the stables the night they’d arrived at the castle and found Jamie, who was masquerading as Thomas Donne’s driver. She asked him to intervene in the battle of wills between her and Muira. Instead Jamie had told Favor about how on the night of the massacre Muira had lost every one of her family yet still found the strength to rescue the wounded and tend them back to health.

But Favor, guided by the Abbess’s sweet reasoning, also knew that she was only in part responsible for the tragedy that had occurred that night. It had taken the Abbess years to make Favor believe that. Yet daily, what with Muira carefully tending it, she felt her old guilt growing back.

“We did not hide here, risking the last of our men’s lives smuggling French brandy, just to keep you happy in that fine French convent of yours. We did it because we had plans for you, plans you have a blood debt to carry out.”

“I have never denied it.” Dear God, no. Not she. The weight of the McClairens’ expectations had at times near crushed her, but she hadn’t bowed before it. She would not break now. No one wanted to pay off that debt more than Favor.

“We did not work and plan and sacrifice for all these years so that you could ruin everything now, at this last stage.”

“I won’t ruin anything.”

“If all goes right—and that’s in your hands—the isle and her castle will soon once more belong to the McClairen. Is that not what you want?” Muira demanded.

“Yes.”

“Then mind me well, you must not
act
like Janet McClairen, you must
be
Janet McClairen. Do you ken?”

“I’ve tried,” Favor said, unable to hide her frustration. “My face aches with my efforts but Carr doesn’t seem to notice.”

“Then try harder!” the old woman said grimly.

Favor did not back away. She did what she did for her own reasons, to put her guilt finally and completely behind her. “Time’s running short and you’ve not been able to supply me with the key to Janet McClairen. Perhaps your memories are faulty, your recall not as keen as you think. Perhaps you can’t teach what you don’t know.”

Abruptly, Muira chuckled. “You doubt my thespian skills, child? Don’t. Have I not convinced Carr I’m a sweet old lady?”

She blinked myopically, her mouth curving in a benign smile. In a trice she’d become every inch the vague, elderly relative she pretended to be. Favor watched with grudging admiration.

They’d arrived six months ago and taken up residence in Thomas Donne’s empty manor house. Soon after, Muira had forwarded Lord Carr a letter ostensibly written by Thomas Donne, introducing her as Mrs. Douglas, his aunt, and his little sister Favor’s chaperone.

As Muira had predicted, Carr couldn’t resist adding a wealthy, ill-protected heiress to his guest list. An invitation had been immediately forthcoming and a few days later Muira had trailed Favor up the steps to Wanton’s Blush shedding lace kerchiefs and whispered “oh, mys.” They’d been at Wanton’s Blush on and off as guests ever since.

Muira’s smile disappeared. “You’re right on one mark, though. Time is running short. You need to find Carr alone tonight. But that’ll never happen if he sees me at yer side.

“Damn the man, I think he has yet enough sense to be afraid of your brother. He doesn’t want to chance having me report anything amiss in his conduct toward you.” The notion tickled her and she chuckled.

“I’ll go down soon,” Muira said thoughtfully, “I’ll drink a wee bit, and a wee bit ostentatiously at that. You come down in an hour. By that time I’ll seem to have fallen asleep. You’ll be able to catch Carr alone without him worrying on the repercussions.”

She stood up, drew on her gloves and picked up a fan. Moving to the door, she paused briefly. “Tonight it must be. ‘Pala’ promised Carr his dead wife would be returning for him. I saw his expression. He’s rabid to see her.”

Muira shook her head, fascinated. “Even though he flung her from the cliffs, he still pines for her. He honestly believes he loves her. And that she loves him.” She gave a brief, rueful laugh. “Our plan is perfect. Once he finds her again, he’ll never let her go.”

Her expression hardened. “Only then will you have paid yer debt. After he weds you, and McClairen’s Isle belongs to the McClairens once more.”

An hour later, Favor McClairen rose from where she’d remained seated since Muira’s departure. She carefully arranged the fall of her wine-red taffeta skirts, adjusted the treble ruffles of black lace that fell from her sleeves and exited her room.

Her face betrayed no emotion—and indeed, there was none to betray. She felt like a member of the audience witnessing a play from the balcony seats.

She would convince Carr she was his dead wife come back to life. She would marry Carr. She would then disappear, returning to France where he would never dare seek her. And then she would wait for however long it took for Carr to die and then the castle would be back in McClairen hands. For this was Scotland where a woman inherits her dead husband’s estate.

And if between the first and the last something (consummation) occurred (or was forced), which she would personally find unpalatable
(abhorrent),
she would still, at long last, mark “paid” to the debt she owed—

A black-haired wraith flickered and vanished in the corner of her eye. Startled, Favor spun to face the creature and only then realized that she’d seen her own reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall.

She gazed unblinkingly at the creature—beyond pale, spectral white skin, empty black eyes, soulless as a selkie.

She studied the mirror seeing white flesh, high cheekbones, small bowed lips, a slender throat, and thin arching brows. All of it an illusion, the product of an artist’s tricks of embellishment, accentuation, and de-emphasis. Powder laced with the finest, iridescent lead created her white skin. Carefully applied salve made her lips look thinner than nature had ordained them, and a bit of rouge accented her cheekbones.

More rouge, beneath the jaw, created the impression of a long neck and Muira’s tweezers had produced those thin, arching brows. A drop of belladonna dilated her pupils to such an extent that they nearly eclipsed the blue of her irises, making her eyes appear less blue.

Finally, thrice weekly Muira pulverized bits of roots and berries and dyed Favor’s tresses black. A dead color, Favor thought privately, so deep an ebony, lacking any of the sheen of health.

At least in repose, Favor was as close to looking like Janet McClairen as Muira and her paint and potions could make her. For the rest, she needed to rely on the memories of those who’d known that long-dead lady to augment her resemblance. Experimentally, she flicked open her fan. Briskly—because Janet McClairen did nothing languidly—she covered her lips, lowered her eyelids and glanced sidelong. Too coy. She tried again—

“I say, Miss Donne, you won’t be so cruel as to use up all those blisteringly come-hither looks on your own reflection, would you? I mean, you will save at least one for me?”

Favor spun around. Lord Orville stood with one shoulder rammed against the wall. His voice was slurred, his mouth puckered scoldingly. Favor backed away.

On her first evening at Wanton’s Blush, Lord Orville had cornered her in a vacant room. Without preamble he’d grabbed her and kissed her with lip-splitting brutality. Even now her belly rebelled at the memory of his cool, wet lips. She’d tried to get away but he’d been too strong. She hadn’t dared scream. Carr might send her away for being prudish, or worse, form an aversion to her maidenly sensibilities.

Only the timely arrival of Orville’s giggling wife being hotly pursued by a disheveled footman had distracted Orville long enough for Favor to break free of his embrace and flee. Since then she’d managed to avoid him.

Her luck apparently had run out.

“Cat got your tongue?” Orville drawled. “Lucky cat.”

Sophistication,
she adjured herself. It was her only hope. Orville would have no idea how to handle a woman whose worldliness surpassed his own. She forced her breath to an even tempo. Snapped the ivory fan closed.

“Lord Orville”—she rose on her tiptoes and pretended to peer behind him—“is that your wife I see disappearing up the stairs with one of the stable boys?”

He sneered. “What of it? May she have her fill of him—or rather”—he laughed without amusement—“may the lad have his fill of her. Everyone else does.”

He pushed himself from the wall, his lip curling back. “I’d much rather have my fill of you, Miss Donne. Bite by bite.”

He strolled toward her, tapping his long white chin. “I’d be tasting something rare, something few other men had sampled. Oh, don’t look surprised, my dear. I’ve asked after you, you see. We all have.”

“How tedious of you,” Favor said, forcing herself to stand still. “I can’t imagine why since I’ve shown not a whit of similar interest in you.”

“Tch. Tch.
Such a rude little Scot. Aren’t you curious about what I’ve discovered?”

“No.”

His smile grew. “I know your older brother is some sort of dispossessed Scottish thingie—dispossessed because he chose to go off to the Americas rather than stumble ’round the Highlands with the rest of his Jacobite-loving kin. Seems eminently sensible to me but apparently your clansmen thought it showed a certain lack of fealty.”