against his chest, filling his lungs with the scent of her skin and her hair, holding her close as he had been longing to do… For seconds only. And then it was over. She had drawn away from him. With the utmost propriety, they had made their way to Berkeley Square to be welcomed into her noble English family.
There, for one more second—just one—he had smiled, knowing that on the morrow he would finally tell her everything that was in his heart.
And then he had seen it. Julie’s eyes were fixed on that other man. Her face was lighting up with love. As hers blazed brighter, Ross’s hidden flame of love and hope had flickered and sunk to a dull ember. And then to cold and twisted dross.
She had never loved him. Never. She could have been in no doubt that Ross was losing his heart to her. Did she care? Certainly not enough to tell him the truth, that her heart was already given. She had prevented him from declaring himself, no doubt to save her own blushes, not his heartbreak. For, if he had once spoken, she would have had to refuse him. And to tell him why. Oh, it was so much easier to play him like a fish on a hook, a little slack here, a little tug there. Keep the stupid fish thinking that it is not being duped, that it has free choice. Never let it see that it is about to be served up on a plate.
Incensed at himself, and at Julie, Ross slammed his clenched fist into the wall. For a moment, the pain stopped him from thinking. Then bleak sanity returned.
Was I bewitched? he wondered. One beautiful woman, helpless, dependent on me for her safety, relying on my honour to preserve her virtue? Is that all it takes? Aye. One beautiful woman gazing up into my eyes and my wits go a-begging. After all those years in the wars, I should have learnt to deal better with women. God knows there were enough of them asking for our help, for our ‘protection’. And beautiful women, too. But not one of them wormed her way into my heart.
Until Julie. Beautiful, desirable, bewitching Julie. With a heart encased in cold stone.
Ross felt as if a powerful fist had grasped his own heart and was squeezing fit to crush the life out of him. The pain was immense. Unbearable.
‘No!’ he cried the single word aloud. No! I will not let one scheming woman ruin my life. I will forget her, as she deserves. She is not worth one instant’s suffering. And I will never again allow a beautiful woman to bewitch me as Julie did. If ever I take a wife, let her be dark and ugly and…and mute. I will not be beguiled again, not by beauty, or honeyed words, or gentle touches on my skin. If ever I find another woman in distress, pleading for my help, I shall turn my back on her, and laugh as I ride away.
A sudden spasm of pain in his injured hand caused him to gasp aloud. And then he began to laugh, a great gale of cleansing laughter welling up from deep inside his soul, sweeping away the bitterness and the anger. When at last it subsided, he felt totally drained. But now, finally, he was free.
He had loved Julie. He would willingly have died for her. But the love was gone, extinguished like a single candle flame doused by a torrent of water. He was whole again. He could go forward. Like an adder, he had sloughed off his old damaged skin. In its place was a new whole one, strong and supple, with a clear warning pattern.
He forced his shoulders to straighten into something resembling his normal upright carriage. He must look to the future, however threatening it now seemed. He had come to Scotland to solve the mystery surrounding his family and if…when he managed to escape from this prison, that was exactly what he would do. No one, however noble, would be able to look down on him in the future. He would still be an officer and a gentleman, but he would find a family to be proud of. It would be a new life.
In that new life, he would keep his heart well-armoured against tender feelings. For any woman.
Chapter Three
S tooping, Cassandra muttered darkly under her breath. There was light coming through the keyhole. James had clearly taken the precaution of removing the key. Perhaps he suspected that Morag had helped her to escape?
She crossed to the single chair and dropped heavily into it. She must protect Morag from James. The maid would be prepared to take risks for Cassandra—out of love and devotion—but she must not be permitted to do so. For James was a cruel and vindictive man. He would take pleasure in dismissing Morag and in doing everything in his power to ensure she starved.
There must be another way.
Ross Graham was in Dumfries gaol. He was to be brought to trial. That meant an appearance before the provost, perhaps even before the Sheriff himself. The provost would believe Jamie’s accusations of abduction. He would authorise a trial. He had no reason to doubt the Elliott laird’s word.
Unless the Elliott daughter herself disputed it.
She had to find a way of persuading the provost to call her as a witness. She had to tell him what had really happened. Perhaps Morag…? No. Too dangerous. Not Morag. Besides, the maid would have no plausible reason for going to Dumfries, and no means of travelling there, either.
Cassandra leant her elbows on the table, picked up her pen and began to chew the end of the quill. She must do it herself. Somehow.
She could write a letter, of course, but there was no one to whom she dared entrust it. Morag was the only one who would take her part. And using Morag for such a hazardous task was out of the question.
She raised her hand to wipe her damp brow. She must have caught a chill from being out in that thunderstorm. She felt a little hot. But what did that matter? It was but a minor indisposition when a man’s life was at stake. She felt in her pocket for a handkerchief.
Her fingers found, not fine linen, but a tiny scrap of paper.
Alasdair! The fifteen-year-old youth from the nearby estate who fancied himself in love with Cassandra. The lad who wrote her bad poetry in which he swore to serve her unto death. Would he dare to serve her now, in spite of the risk of crossing her fearsome half-brother?
She must try. If Alasdair were caught, James would give him a thrashing, but nothing more. Even James would not dare to do real harm to a gentleman’s son, especially when they were such near neighbours. James could not afford to make even more enemies in Galloway.
Cassandra swallowed hard. If only she could escape! She had absolutely no wish to put Alasdair in danger, but what choice did she have? None. She was about to wager a beating for Alasdair against a hanging for Ross Graham. She could not allow her rescuer to die.
She rose and began to pace, planning what she must do. She must write a careful note to the provost. But not now. Not yet. There was always the chance that James would have her chamber searched, or walk in on her, as he had done when he found her with Alasdair’s poems. No. The note must be written just before it was despatched.
But how to despatch it? She could drop it out of the window, perhaps, but only if Alasdair were already there. And the lad knew better than to be found on Elliott land. What if—?
A tiny knock on the door interrupted her ravelled thoughts.
‘Miss Cassie!’ The strident whisper could be clearly heard. Morag must be at the keyhole.
Cassandra ran to the door. ‘Morag!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Be careful! If my brother hears you—’
‘Dinna fret, Miss Cassie. The master’s at his meat. And Tam is waiting on him. I’ve told Tam that ye need feeding too, but—’
‘Never mind that, Morag. Listen. I need you to get a message to Alasdair. Tell him to come here as soon as it’s dark. I’ll drop him a note. He’s to take it to Provost Scobie. Tell him it’s urgent. Can you do that? Please, Morag? I know that—’
‘Wheesht, lassie. Of course I can do it. I’ll tell Tam I’m away to see the cook at Alasdair’s house, that I need to borrow—’
Even through the barrier of the heavy bedroom door, Cassandra heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Oh, God! Morag would be caught! And it was Cassandra’s fault. She held her breath, waiting for an outburst from Tam, or from her brother.
None