He had a great fondness for jewels, and in private celebration of his elegant disposal of the threat of Jamie Fraser, he had bought a new stickpin, topped with a beautiful ruby. He contemplated this with quiet satisfaction, noting the lovely shadows that the stone cast on the silk of his ruffle.
His mother was safely planted at her sister’s house, he had an appointment for luncheon with a local lady, and an hour to spare beforehand. Perhaps a stroll to stimulate appetite; it was a beautiful day.
He had in fact pushed back his chair and begun to rise when a large hand planted itself in the center of his chest and shoved him back into it.
“What—?” He looked up in indignation—and took great care to keep that expression on his face, despite a sudden deep qualm. A tall, dark man was standing over him, wearing a most unfriendly expression. MacKenzie, the chit’s husband.
“How dare you, sir?” he said, belligerent. “I must demand apology!”
“You demand what ye like,” MacKenzie said. He was pale under his tan, and grim. “Where is my wife?”
“How should I know?” Forbes’s heart was beating fast, but with glee as much as trepidation. He lifted his chin and made to rise. “You will excuse me, sir.”
A hand on his arm stopped him, and he turned, looking into the face of Fraser’s nephew, Ian Murray. Murray smiled, and Forbes’s sense of self-satisfaction diminished slightly. They said the boy had lived with the Mohawk, become one of them—that he dwelt with a vicious wolf who spoke to him and obeyed his commands, that he had cut a man’s heart out and eaten it in some heathen ritual.
Looking at the lad’s homely face and disheveled dress, though, Forbes was not impressed.
“Remove your hand from my person, sir,” he said with dignity, straightening in his chair.
“No, I think I won’t,” Murray said. The hand tightened on his arm like the bite of a horse, and Forbes’s mouth opened, though he made no sound.
“What have ye done with my cousin?” Murray said.
“I? Why, I—I have nothing whatever to do with Mrs. MacKenzie. Let go, God damn you!”
The grip relaxed, and he sat breathing heavily. MacKenzie had pulled up a chair to face him and sat down.
Forbes smoothed the sleeve of his coat, avoiding MacKenzie’s stare and thinking rapidly. How had they found out? Or had they? Perhaps they were only trying a venture, with no sure knowledge.
“I am grieved to hear that any misfortune might have befallen Mrs. MacKenzie,” he said politely. “Am I to take it that you have somehow misplaced her?”
MacKenzie looked him up and down for a moment without answering, then made a small sound of contempt.
“I heard ye speak in Mecklenberg,” he said, his tone conversational. “Very glib ye were. A great deal about justice, I heard, and protection of our wives and children. Such eloquence.”
“Fine talk,” Ian Murray put in, “for a man who would abduct a helpless woman.” He was still crouching on the floor like a savage, but had moved round a little, so as to stare directly into Forbes’s face. The lawyer found it slightly unnerving, and chose instead to meet MacKenzie’s eyes, man to man.
“I regret your misfortune extremely, sir,” he said, striving for a tone of concern. “I should be pleased to help, in any way possible, of course. But I do not—”
“Where is Stephen Bonnet?”
The question struck Forbes like a blow to the liver. He gaped for a moment, thinking that he had made a mistake in choosing MacKenzie to look at; that flat green gaze was like a snake’s.
“Who is Stephen Bonnet?” he asked, licking his lips. His lips were dry, but the rest of him was heavily bedewed; he could feel sweat pooling in the creases of his neck, soaking the cambric of his shirt beneath his oxters.
“I heard ye, ken,” Murray remarked pleasantly. “When ye made the bargain wi’ Richard Brown. In your warehouse, it was.”
Forbes’s head snapped round. He was so shocked that it was a moment before he realized that Murray was holding a knife, laid casually across his knee.
“What? You say—what? I tell you, sir, you are mistaken—mistaken!” He half-rose, stammering. MacKenzie shot to his feet and seized him by the shirtfront, twisting.
“No, sir,” he said very softly, his face so close that Forbes felt the heat of his breath. “It is yourself has been mistaken. Most grievously mistaken, in choosing my wife to serve your wicked ends.”
There was a ripping sound as the fine cambric tore. MacKenzie shoved him back violently into the chair, then leaned forward, seizing his neckcloth in a grip that threatened to choke him on the spot. His mouth opened, gasping, and black spots flickered in his vision—but not sufficiently as to obscure those brilliant, cold green eyes.
“Where has he taken her?”
Forbes gripped the arms of his chair, breathing heavily.
“I know nothing about your wife,” he said, his voice pitched low and venomous. “And as for grievous error, sir, you are in the process of committing one. How dare you assault me? I shall prefer charges, I do assure you!”
“Oh, assault, forbye,” Murray said, scoffing. “We havena done any such thing. Yet.” He sat back on his haunches, tapping the knife thoughtfully against his thumbnail and regarding Forbes with an air of estimation, like one planning to carve a suckling pig on a platter.
Forbes set his jaw and glared up at MacKenzie, who was still standing, looming over him.
“This is a public place,” he pointed out. “You cannot harm me without notice being taken.” He glanced behind MacKenzie, hoping that someone would come into the parlor and interrupt this grossly uncomfortable tête-à-tête, but it was a quiet morning, and all the chambermaids and ostlers inconveniently about their duties elsewhere.
“Do we care if anyone notices, a charaid?” Murray inquired, glancing up at MacKenzie.
“Not really.” Nonetheless, MacKenzie resumed his seat and resumed his stare. “We can wait a bit, though.” He glanced at the case clock by the mantel, its pendulum moving with a serene tick-tock. “It won’t be long.”
Belatedly, it occurred to Forbes to wonder where Jamie Fraser was.
ELSPETH FORBES was rocking gently on the veranda of her sister’s house, enjoying the coolness of the morning air, when a visitor was announced.
“Why, Mr. Fraser!” she exclaimed, sitting up. “What brings ye to Edenton? Is it Neil ye’re in search of? He’s gone to—”
“Ah, no, Mistress Forbes.” He swept her a low bow, the morning sun gleaming off his hair as though it were bronze metal. “It is yourself I’ve come for.”
“Oh? Oh!” She sat up in her chair, hastily brushing away crumbs of toast on her sleeve, and hoping her cap was on straight. “Why, sir, what could ye possibly want with an old woman?”
He smiled—such a nice-looking lad he was, so fine in his gray coatie, and that look of mischief in his eyes—and leaned close to whisper in her ear.
“I’ve come to steal ye away, Mistress.”
“Och, awa’ with ye!” She flapped a hand at him, laughing, and he took it, kissing her knuckles.
“I shallna take ‘no’ for answer, now,” he assured her, and gestured toward the edge of the porch, where he had left a large, promising-looking basket, covered with a checkered cloth. “I’ve a mind to eat my luncheon in the country, under a tree. I’ve the very tree in mind—a braw, fine tree—but it’s a poor meal, taken without company.”
“Surely to goodness ye could find better company than mine, lad,” she said, thoroughly charmed. “And where’s your dear wife, then?”
“Ah, she’s left me,” he said, affecting sorrow. “Here’s me, with a wonderful picnic planned, and her off to a birthing. So I said to myself, well, Jamie, it’s shame to waste such a feast—who might be at liberty to share it with ye? And what should I see next but your most elegant self, taking your ease. An answer to prayer, it was; surely ye wouldna go against heavenly guidance, Mistress Forbes?”
“Hmph,” she said, trying not to laugh at him. “Och, well. If it’s a matter of wasting . . .”
Before she could say more, he had stooped down and plucked her from her chair, lifting her in his arms. She whooped with surprise.
“If it’s a proper abduction, I must carry ye away, aye?” he said, smiling down at her.
To her mortification, the sound she made could be called nothing but a giggle. He seemed not to mind, though, and bending to sweep up the basket in one strong hand, carried her like a bit of thistledown out to his carriage.
“YOU CANNOT KEEP ME prisoner here! Let me pass, or I will shout for help!”
They had, in fact, held him for more than an hour, blocking all attempts on his part to rise and leave. He was right, though, Roger thought; traffic was beginning to pick up in the street outside, and he could hear—as could Forbes—the noises of a maid setting out the tables for dinner in the next room.
He glanced at Ian. They had discussed it; if word hadn’t come within an hour, they would have to try to remove Forbes from the inn, take him to a more private place. That could be a dicey business; the lawyer was intimidated, but stubborn as a ball bearing. And he would call for help.
Ian pursed his lips thoughtfully, and drew the knife he had been playing with down the side of his breeches, polishing the blade.
“Mr. MacKenzie?” A small boy had popped up beside him like a mushroom, dirt-smeared and round-faced.
“I am,” he said, a wave of thankfulness washing through him. “Have ye got something for me?”
“Aye, sir.” The urchin handed over a small twist of paper, accepted a coin in return, and was gone, in spite of Forbes’s call of “Wait, boy!”
The lawyer had half-risen from his seat in agitation. Roger made a sharp move toward him, though, and he sank back at once, not waiting to be pushed. Good, Roger thought grimly, he was learning.
Undoing the twist of paper, he found himself holding a large brooch in the shape of a bunch of flowers, done in garnets and silver. It was a good piece of workmanship, but rather ugly. Its impression on Forbes, though, was substantial.
“You wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.” The lawyer was staring at the brooch in Roger’s hand, his heavy face gone pale.
“Oh, I expect he would, if ye mean Uncle Jamie,” Ian Murray said. “He’s fond of his daughter, aye?”
“Nonsense.” The lawyer was making a game attempt to bluff it out, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off the brooch. “Fraser is a gentleman.”
“He’s a Highlander,” Roger said brutally. “Like your father, aye?” He’d heard stories about the elder Forbes, who by all accounts had escaped Scotland just ahead of the hangsman.
Forbes chewed his lower lip.
“He would not harm an old woman,” he said, with as much bravado as he could summon.
“Would he not?” Ian’s sketchy brows lifted. “Aye, perhaps not. He might just send her awa’, though—to Canada, maybe? Ye seem to ken him fair weel, Mr. Forbes. What d’ye think?”