The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (free reads txt) 📗

“Yes, it is,” Kate said, her chin resting on the steeple of her fingers in a thoughtful attitude. “She avoids him, but she seems to be watching him all the time from a distance, almost as if she is trying to get his measure. Perhaps Anne’s yardstick is a more accurate one than mine, Daisy, for her assessment seems to be on the mark.”

Daisy shook her head in bewilderment.

“I measured the man by the gauge of gossip. I did not even attempt to see beyond his reputation,” Kate considered.

“Well-deserved, from what I heard,” Daisy maintained. “The Mad MacLean was a byword from Bristol to Bengal and back again.”

“And would you have thought that the Mad MacLean would risk himself in a noble futile gesture?” Kate asked. “To place himself in harm’s way with no hope of success?”

“Mayhap you misunderstood?” Daisy posed the question.

Kate shook her head. “There was no mistake, except on my part. He has done nothing but help us, these past weeks, repairing the pens and stable, clearing ground so that we may get in some a late planting. Yet I have been avoiding him, as if he was some lowly untouchable. I did not see him clearly.

“Or you’re letting yourself be blinded by one grand gesture, I say,” Daisy disputed, settling herself down next to Anne. “Even the most forsaken man can do one bit of good and get himself a ticket to Kingdom Come. Could be that was the Mad MacLean’s claim to grace, but one minute don’t change a lifetime, I’d say. As for the fixin’ and the plantin’, ‘tis his property and his belly.”

There was no denying the sense of Daisy’s argument. But Kate could not quite reconcile what she had just witnessed with the Mad MacLean’s reputation. The friend that Marcus had described was a vain coxcomb, a gambler, a charming scoundrel who viewed women as challenges and life as a lark. The haunted man below had dared to fight a hopeless battle, had paid an awful price for those moments of doomed courage. Which one was he then, the hero or the reprobate? Kate pulled her wrapper tighter around her and went to the window, hugging herself against a chill that had nothing to do with the uncommonly warm Highland night.

He was out there; the glow of moonbeams touched him, wrapping him in a lambent silver sheath.

“Are you back to yourself, Sir?”

She heard Fred’s voice.

“Aye, unfortunately,” came the reply. “Every time, I find myself hoping that the Frenchies will finish me and put me out of my misery, but lamentably, even my dreams run afoul of luck. Get yourself some sleep, Fred.”

“Might be well to take your own advice,” the Cockney told him.

Kate caught a harsh bark that was not quite laughter.

“There’s no sleep for me tonight, Fred, so you can stop playing at Nanny. I’ll not be going back to that stifling room. ‘Tis too much like a cell for my peace, even sharing it with just one instead of a dozen others. I think that I’ll be making my bed out of doors from now on. After two years of not seeing the stars, I still have not got my fill of open skies. I’ve my blanket and some bottles to keep me company. What more can a man ask?”

Kate heard the sound of retreating footsteps echoing against the stone. She went to the wardrobe and pulled out a shawl.

“Where you goin’?” Daisy asked, eying her through half-shut lids.

“To get some air,” Kate said. “If Anne calls for me, I shall be right below in the courtyard.”

“In sight of the window, I hope.”

Kate concealed a smile. Even partly asleep, there was little that could get past Daisy. “I am not a green girl who needs a duenna, my friend.”

“I know, but don’t you be forgettin’ either what he is. Seen a hundred like him, you have, in your Pa’s regiment, bold as the brass buttons on their uniforms; playin’ with hearts like they were so many draughts. ‘Tis a game to him. But ‘tis you who have everything to lose.”

“I am not likely to forget just what is at risk here, Daisy,” Kate said, affection mingling with annoyance. Really, the woman was forever treating her as if she was just barely out of swaddling clothes.

Daisy sighed. “I know that lass.”

“I shall return shortly after I have made certain that his Lordship has not come to grief.”

“‘Tis not his grief that brings me to worry,” Daisy mumbled under her breath as she watched Kate light another candle and go out the door.

. . .

The scotch seemed to get smoother with every swallow. It was a crime, Duncan knew, to be drinking fine aged whiskey like so much water, but that was not, by far, the worst trespass that the MacLeans of Eilean Kirk had ever committed. “To you dear Father,” he said, raising the bottle to the sky in a mocking salute, “for having the foresight to put this down in your cellar and the grace to die before you drank every dram, God curse you.”

“Blasphemy, milord?” Kate asked softly.

Duncan spun round. “Well, well, what have we here?” he asked, drinking in the sight of her, the candle in her hand casting a halo of light round her face. Her hair fell simply about her shoulders glowing strands of copper imbuing the chestnut with embers of seductive flame that made a man wish to singe his hands. Kate had an air of innocence that was breathtaking in its allure, yet entirely at odds with the experience of a widow. Her dressing gown caught the dull moon-glow with an unmistakable gleam. As many lightskirts as he had franked, Duncan knew the sight and sound of silk and marked it as one more inconsistency among the many he had upon his list. Silk and flannel, luxury and poverty, porcelain and steel, fragility and strength, the woman was a walking contradiction.

He took another swig of the bottle, but it did nothing