The MacLeans - Sleepless in Scotla Page 3

  Aunt Lavinia pressed her handkerchief to her mouth.

  Triona frowned. “He is still in town, isn’t he?”

  “He was to leave this afternoon. Your sister told me at lunch. At the time, I didn’t think—I hadn’t thought…who would have foreseen? But now that I think on it—”

  “Then they’re gone,” Triona said flatly. “Be that as it may, I’m not giving up! I’ll find Caitlyn before it’s too late, if I have to follow her to the gates of hell and back.”

  Outside the MacLean town house in fashionable Mayfair, Hugh MacLean pulled on his gloves. “Did you leave the stables unsecured as I requested?”

  “Aye, m’lord,” his groom replied in a low voice, sending a nervous glance at the carriage. “And I pulled the laird’s favorite carriage into the center o’ the drive so it wouldna be mistaken for another.”

  “Thank you. You’ve done well.”

  Ferguson leaned forward to whisper, “I sprinkled sawdust around the doors as ye suggested, and there was a footprint in it this afternoon.”

  Hugh smiled grimly. He would enjoy teaching the brazen chit a lesson. Ever since she had announced that she was determined to have Alexander in her court, Hugh had been leery. Alexander might laugh her off, but Hugh knew a thing or two about scheming women that Alexander did not.

  So Hugh had paid a servant to keep an eye on the busy Miss Hurst, which was how he’d discovered her plan to stow away in Alexander’s carriage and force an offer of marriage. Hugh’s jaw tightened at the thought. The woman had no shame. None at all.

  Without notifying Alexander of his intentions, Hugh had urged him to visit their property outside Stirling to wrap up a lucrative land deal. The night Alexander had left, Hugh put his plan into effect. He’d gone to a dinner party and said well within Miss Hurst’s earshot that his brother was preparing to leave on the morrow and would, of course, travel in his favorite carriage.

  Thus the trap was set.

  Ferguson sent an uncertain glance toward the carriage. “M’lord, ye willna be a-hurtin’ the lass, will ye?”

  Hugh smiled, though not nicely. “Miss Hurst will get what she so richly deserves, but no more.”

  “That isna reassuring.”

  “Rest assured, I merely wish to frighten her.”

  Ferguson looked dubious. “I just hope ye dinna get caught in the parson’s trap yerself.”

  Hugh snorted. “The last thing Miss Hurst wishes is to be saddled with a younger son. She will demand to be returned to town immediately, which I will gladly do once my point has been made.”

  Ferguson’s expression darkened. “I dinna blame ye fer takin’ a stand, m’lord. She’s a rare handful, she is.”

  Hugh nodded. Many people considered him the most easygoing among the MacLean brothers, and he usually was. He saw no reason to inflict his problems and issues on others and he rarely lost his temper—which was a good thing, considering the family curse.

  It had long been rumored that a white witch had cursed the MacLean family so that whenever they lost their tempers, the heavens above would open. Unfortunately, the curse was more than mere rumor. Hugh had conquered his temper and it took huge provocation to rouse it, but his brothers were not so fortunate. They were passionate men who fought as hard as they loved, leaving a trail of broken hearts and fierce storms in their wake.

  Except Alexander. His answer to the curse was to keep everyone at arm’s length, even his own brothers. Only Callum, their youngest brother who’d died under suspicious circumstances years ago, had been able to penetrate Alexander’s rock-hard exterior. After Callum’s death, Alexander had retreated even more. Though he spoke of business and discussed common family matters with Hugh, rarely did another word pass between them.

  Hugh had attempted to warn Alexander about the Hurst chit, but Alexander had only shrugged and changed the conversation. Alexander didn’t understand the danger as well as Hugh did, which was why he was forced to act. He hoped his brother would appreciate his efforts, though Alexander was more likely to be angered by the interference. Too bad. Hugh was decided on this action, though it would have been helpful had Alexander been more forthcoming about his feelings on the matter. Callum would know how to tease Alexander into confiding his feelings about the Hurst chit. But only Callum.

  The memory of his youngest brother, so full of laughter and charm, weighted Hugh’s heart. Callum had been the heartbeat of their family and they each felt his absence keenly, though none more than Alexander. Indeed, the weeks following Callum’s death had been dark and bitter as the MacLean curse roused a stormy madness that had slashed the earth with wind and rain.

  After Callum’s death, their sister, Fiona, had tried hard to draw Alexander from his dark ways, and in some ways it had worked. But now that she was married and involved with her own husband and children, Alexander was more alone than ever.

  It made Hugh’s heart ache to know his brother was so isolated, yet there was no way to reach him. Hugh’s jaw tightened. The least he could do was keep schemers like Caitlyn Hurst out of Alexander’s way.

  Ferguson looked up at the sun. “’Tis getting late. Shall we go now, m’lord?”

  “Yes. And to teach the ‘lady’ a lesson, hit every rough spot in the road from here to Stirling. No sense in making her trip pleasant.”

  Amusement twinkled in the groom’s eyes. “’Twill make a rough ride for ye as well.”

  “Yes, but I will have a cushion beneath my arse while she will be cramped in her boxlike prison.” Cheered at the thought, Hugh headed for the carriage.

  “Aye, m’lord!” The groom threw open the carriage door.

  The interior of Alexander’s coach was as luxurious as the exterior. While the outside gleamed with black lacquer and silver, the family crest discreetly mounted behind one window, the interior was all plush red velvet and rich wood accents with silver trimmings.

  Hugh glanced at the floor and saw a trace of sawdust beside the forward-facing seat. The latch was also twisted to one side. The woman was boringly predictable.

  He settled on the thickly padded seat and told the groom in a loud, clear voice, “To Stirling.”

  “Aye, m’lord!” Ferguson gave a broad wink and, still grinning, closed the door.

  Hugh settled back against the thick cushions as the carriage set off. Trust Alexander to have a coach the Prince would lust after. Hugh was more about efficiency and simple comforts, so his coach was much plainer, though well sprung and with wider wheels that guaranteed a most comfortable ride. He was a man who knew his value and didn’t wear his wealth on his sleeve. Alexander, as laird of the clan, was expected to make a statement, and he wore his wealth with a natural arrogance and elegance that made every dying-to-wed female pant.

  Hugh received plenty of attention when he wished—and he’d garnered far more than his fair share—but his being a younger son kept most desperate females from pursuing him. Which was just the way he liked it.

  As the carriage rattled down the cobblestones at a brisk pace, Hugh imagined the discomfort Miss High-and-Mighty Hurst must be feeling, and grinned. He hoped that by the time they reached Cadesleeds, she’d be hungry, thirsty, and thoroughly jounced about.

  No one took advantage of the MacLeans. No one.

  Thoroughly satisfied, he tugged his hat over his eyes, settled back in the seat, and drifted off to sleep.

  Nurse hung on to the leather strap with both hands and moaned, her face green. “Does that coachman have to drive like a crazed man?”

  Triona leaned out the window, the delicious wind tugging her hair. “We have to catch up with Cait. She has a good hour on us; MacLean’s footman said the carriage left at four.”

  “Och, I know, but—” The coach hit another huge hole in the road and Nurse bounced, her head hitting the low ceiling of the ancient coach.

  Triona lost her hold on the window and fell across the seat, her head smacking the wood side panel. “Ow!”

  Nurse settled back into her seat, her pale face
grim. “The road is cursed by the devil himself.”

  Triona scooted across the seat so she could look out the window again. They were just approaching a small inn. Though the footman on the roof was supposed to watch for MacLean’s distinctive carriage, she didn’t trust him to remain vigilant. She stared at the innyard as they whizzed on by, but no fancy coach could be seen. She sighed.

  “Did ye see it?” Nurse asked.

  “No, but Aunt Lavinia’s coachman said there are several inns favored by the gentry along this stretch.” Triona peered through the darkening afternoon at the lights of an upcoming inn, and gasped. “There it is!” She stood and banged on the ceiling with her fist.

  The carriage immediately slowed and pulled off the road into a low copse, an innyard visible through the trees. “There’s the coach! I can see the crest, just as Aunt Lavinia described!”

  “God be praised!” Nurse closed her eyes for a quick prayer.

  Aunt Lavinia’s coachman came to the door. “That’s the coach, all right, miss! I saw it just as ye did!”

  “Can you tell if MacLean’s inside?”

  Fletcher squinted through the trees. “Looks empty to me…ah! I see MacLean standing by the inn with his man.”

  Nurse looked at Triona. “Shall we confront that beast in his lair?”

  The sun was already below the horizon, its lingering beams casting long shadows. Triona regarded the coach with a narrow gaze. She could almost feel Cait’s presence.

  “Seems mighty quiet,” Fletcher said. “Miss Caitlyn must not have revealed herself.”

  “We’re still close enough to London for the laird to return her. She wouldn’t show herself until they were farther away.”

  Nurse shook her head. “’Tis a poor example o’ womanhood who tricks a man like that and—”

  “Look!” Fletcher nodded toward the inn. “They’ve begun to change the horses, miss. They won’t tarry much longer now.”

  Triona unlatched the door and hopped out onto the soft, damp ground. The scent of the decaying leaves under the thin layer of fresh snow tickled her nose. “I wish I could speak to Caitlyn while the carriage is empty; I know I could make her see how foolish this plan is.” What should she do? Caitlyn was within reach, and she couldn’t let the carriage pull away without trying something. But what?

  “I have to get inside that coach.”

  “Ye’ll do no such thing!” Nurse said.

  Fletcher shook his head. “That’s a risky thought, miss. You could get caught.”

  She shrugged. “MacLean doesn’t want anything to do with Caitlyn. If I told him that she was in his carriage, preparing to trick him into an offer of marriage, he’d thank me.” She regarded the coach with a considering gaze. “If I weren’t so determined to leave this place with Caitlyn’s reputation intact—which requires MacLean not knowing about her plan—I’d do just that. I must convince her to leave his carriage while the horses are being changed. No one will be the wiser, and we can return to London and set things right with my aunt.”

  “I suppose ye’re right,” Fletcher said.

  “I dinna like it!” Nurse snapped.

  “It’s all we can do, considering the circumstances.” Triona turned to the servants. “Stay here. I’ll slip through the woods and get close enough to the carriage to speak with her.” Triona shivered as a sudden breeze swirled her cloak and skirts about her boots.

  Nurse and Fletcher exchanged glances, but reluctantly nodded.

  Triona pasted a hopeful smile on her face. “I’m off, then. Keep watch.” Cloak clutched tightly, she quickly set off toward the inn, her heart pounding. Ohhh, Caitlyn, you will owe me for this one!

  Chapter 3

  “The Hursts are known fer their honest souls and their hot, impetuous natures. And let me tell ye, lassies, ’tis that and naught else as led yer entire family down many a poorly chosen road.”

  OLD WOMAN NORA TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ON A COLD WINTER’S NIGHT

  When Triona reached the edge of the woods, she saw MacLean’s coach was pulled up to the inn door, the side facing her in the shadows.

  Excellent. She could sneak up to the carriage and slip in with no one the wiser.

  From the other side of the coach, the coachman’s hoarse voice asked, “M’lord, are ye sure ye wish to go on? ’Tis coming on snow. I can taste it.”

  MacLean’s voice was cultured and colored with a hint of a brogue. “Taste it? Next you’ll be telling me you can smell it, too.”

  Triona almost closed her eyes to savor the man’s voice. Deep and rich, it wrapped around her and warmed her skin in the most amazing way. She could see Caitlyn responding to that voice—Cait’s love of pretty things would make her a pawn under the spell of a velvety-rich voice like that. And if the man matched it…Triona shivered. Her sister wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  She, however, was made of sterner stuff. Though a voice like rough silk might make her heart flutter, it wasn’t temptation enough to make her toss her reputation to the winds.

  As Triona prepared for a crouched dash across the innyard, a stableboy appeared with a leather bucket of oats and went toward the front of the coach. She gave a frustrated sigh, which fogged her spectacles. Using the edge of her cloak to dry the lenses, she examined the innyard again and saw that the stableboy was now beyond the front of the carriage. She could just make out one of the footmen helping a stable hand harness the fresh team, their backs toward her.

  Now was her chance! Bent low, she scurried across the dark yard to the coach. She reached the door and easily pulled down the door latch. The click was loud in a sudden pause in the commotion, and she froze. Had they heard it? Her fingers grew cold on the brass handle, her ears tuned for every noise.

  In the forest behind her a tree branch snapped, then fell to the ground, scattering chunks of snow across fallen wood and rock. Triona started, and her spectacles slipped off her wet nose and fell to the ground.

  Blast it! She quietly released the door handle and scanned the muddy ground, but could not see them. A noise from the front of the carriage made her realize how vulnerable she was.

  Gritting her teeth, she reached for the door again. She’d look for them after she rescued her sister.

  As she pulled the door open, she heard MacLean on the other side of the coach: “We’ll have to watch for falling snow on our way. That could cause some problems.”

  “Aye, especially when we get that new foot o’ snow me achin’ knee is predicting.”

  “Perhaps. Let’s check the lead horse’s hock. He seemed to limp as they brought him from the stables, and I don’t want him drawing up lame in this snowstorm of yours.”

  Their voices faded as they moved to the front of the carriage.

  Triona cautiously slipped inside the coach, careful not to rock the well-sprung vehicle.

  The inside was as opulent as she’d expected. The seats were covered with thick velvet, the walls a deep oak with heavy silver lamps adorning each corner. The window curtains were fastened down and a foot warmer rested on the floor, its gentle hiss evidence that it had just been filled with hot coals.

  Triona bent down against one of the seat boxes. “Cait?” she whispered.

  There was no answer. She must be under the other seat. Triona moved over, pressed her cheek to the seat and whispered as loudly as she dared, “Cait? Can you hear me?”

  Silence loomed. She reached for the seat latch, her ears locked on the sounds around her—the occasional jingle of the harnesses, the faint wind whipping through the trees. Over that, she heard something that made her blood run cold—the coachman’s voice growing louder, MacLean’s deep voice answering.

  They were returning! She struggled to open the latch, but it was stuck.

  Directly outside the door, the coachman’s voice seemed unnaturally loud. “Scoff if ye will, m’lord, but I can smell the snow. ’Twill be eight, nine inches at least.”

  MacLean laughed softly, and Triona shivered again at the velvet brus
h of his low voice. “Ferguson, that’s more snow than they’ve had here in the last five years combined.”

  “Trust me bum leg, m’lord. ’Tis never wrong.”

  The latch finally gave with a faint scrape of metal on metal. Triona lifted the seat and peered inside. No Cait. Her sister had obviously been here, though, for her favorite thick muff sat in one corner beside a bandbox and a silver opera cloak lined with ermine.

  Triona frowned. None of it looked disturbed. If Caitlyn had stowed aboard the coach, wouldn’t the cloak have been mussed, the muff flattened, the bandbox bent or crushed? There would have been barely enough room for Caitlyn herself, with so much baggage.

  Triona closed the lid and crossed to the other seat. She slid the hook open and carefully lifted it, the latch creaking the tiniest bit. Outside there was the faintest pause in conversation; then the two men continued to talk, this time about the best route to take.

  Breathing easier, she peered inside. The box was filled to the brim with thick blankets, extra cushions, a leather desk box, and a traveling chess set.

  Frowning, Triona silently lowered the seat and sat back on her heels. Cait, where are you? She had to have been here; someone had stowed the cloak, muff, and bandbox inside the—

  “We’re ready, m’lord!” called one of the footmen from the front of the coach.

  “Let’s go, then,” came MacLean’s voice. “Ferguson, bring my horse. I’m going to ride a bit before it grows too dark.”

  “Yes, m’lord.” The groom called to someone; then Triona heard the sound of approaching footsteps crunching in the packed snow.

  Someone’s coming! Triona reached for the door to escape, but just as she touched the handle, the coach lurched forward and threw her into the door, her knee hitting the floor hard. She gasped as pain lanced up her leg.

  Tears clouded her vision, but she swiped them away and crawled to the seat as the coach rolled on.

  Dear God! What could she do? Exposing herself would be horribly embarrassing. How did one explain one’s uninvited presence in a coach?