Much later that afternoon, the squire realized the depths of his daughter's determination to, as he put it, "ruin her life." He had followed Mrs. Bloom's heavy coach for most of the day, frustrated at the lack of speed. At this rate, they'd have to spend another night in an inn, which distressed the squire no end. He'd been dreaming of staying in his own town house, with its fresh sheets and thick mattresses and the services of a cook directly from York, where he'd been born and raised. Soon he'd have Elizabeth safely tucked away from her ill-conceived pa.s.sion, and life could resume normality.

Mrs. Bloom, for all her irascible ways, had shown herself to possess a generous heart. The one time they'd stopped, Elizabeth had remained huddled in her corner of the carriage, the hood over her head, a hand pressed to her forehead as if pleading a headache. The squire thought she was merely engaging in histrionics, but Mrs. Bloom was inclined to believe she was suffering from overexcitement, first at being removed from her "fiance," then by their accident and the days of being confined to the inn. Elizabeth had eventually fallen asleep, her head drooping, the cloak hood covering her face and blocking the unwanted light. Mrs. Bloom had become quite protective and had refused to allow anyone to awaken her.

A wooden sign proclaimed another inn ahead. The squire sighed when Mrs. Bloom's plump hand extended from the window, waving a white handkerchief to signal that she wished to stop once more.

Good G.o.d, the woman must possess England's smallest bladder. Grumbling to himself, he waved agreement, hoping they wouldn't be long. The carriage turned smartly into the yard, and the squire followed, deciding to remain outside while Mrs. Bloom did what she must and sampled the tea dishes.

He informed Mrs. Bloom of his intentions as her groom opened the door.

"Very well," she said airily. "Although it's bad for your digestion to miss tea."

"I am certain I shall survive. Has Elizabeth been better company?"

"La, no! The child has done nothing but sleep. She sleeps as quiet as a mouse, too. Why, if I couldn't see her breathing, I wouldn't know if she was alive or not. I do hope she'll feel better for her nap." With that, Mrs. Bloom went into the inn, where she was welcomed by the innkeeper and his wife, both heartily hoping she would leave a pot of vales in her wake.

The squire leaned in through the coach window and peeked at his daughter. She was exactly as Mrs. Bloom described, covered head to foot in her blue cloak, sound asleep, not a sound emanating from her but deep, even breathing. Poor child. He had been a little rough on her, but it had been for her own good.

He had led his horse to the front of the carriage, checking the wheels and equipment, when the sound of approaching horses made him turn.

Three men rode into the courtyard on horses that made the squire envious. The first two men were very large, dark-haired, and dressed in somber black. The last was blond and more slender, his clothing of a dandified cut, his coat and boots clearly from London.

They pulled up at the inn door, and one of the dark-haired men swung down, removing his hat as he did so. The late sunlight filtered over him, highlighting the streak of white in his hair and outlining the planes of his face.

The squire blinked. He knew that face, that defined nose and chin.

The squire moved forward. "Good afternoon, gentlemen! I don't wish to intrude, but are you perchance related to Gregor MacLean?"

The man standing by his horse sent a quick glance at his companions before nodding. "Yes, we are." His voice was thick with a Scottish burr. "Gregor is our brother. I am Hugh MacLean. These are my other brothers, Alexander and"-Hugh nodded toward the blond man-"Dougal."

"Actually, I know Dougal MacLean from a business endeavor. I am Squire Higganbotham. I was hoping to learn Lord Gregor MacLean's address so that I could thank him for the service he did for me and my daughter."

Dougal swung off his horse and came forward, his green eyes bright. "Did you say our brother had performed a service for you?"

"For us all. We were stuck in an inn because of the snow. He a.s.sisted us in getting the carriages repaired, he and his man healed the injured horses, and he helped make certain our luggage was well tied. He was quite helpful."

Hugh rubbed his forehead as if struggling to understand something. "Helpful? Are you certain it was my brother? He has a scar-"

The squire traced a line down the left side of his face.

"Hmm." Hugh shook his head in wonderment. "I cannot believe 'twas him."

"Why not?" the squire asked, puzzled.

"It is rather out of character for Gregor to be so helpful."

Dougal edged forward. "Did Gregor appear injured in any way? A wound to the head, perhaps?"

"No."

"Hmm. I thought that might account for such a change, but perhaps it was Miss Oglivie's influence."

"Oglivie? Who is that?"

Dougal's brows rose. "A woman about this high?" He held out his hand to his shoulder. "Brown hair? Gray eyes? A bit plump? She would have been with Gregor, along with a man named Ravenscroft."

"Why, yes! You are talking about Lord MacLean's charges, Mr. and Miss West."

A tense silence ensued.

Alexander scowled so heavily the squire took a step back. "I beg your pardon," Alexander growled, "but did you say the Wests?"

The squire nodded.

The men exchanged glances once again, sending a ripple of unease through the squire. "You seem surprised, and I don't understand. Who is this Ravenscroft? And who is Miss Oglivie? I've never heard of her, yet you seem to think she looks exactly the same as Miss We-"

"Och, good squire!" Dougal smiled, coming forward to shake the squire's hand mightily. " 'Tis just a piddly little family matter. I don't suppose you know where our brother was heading?"

"Mr. West said they were to visit Miss West's grandmother in Stirling."

"We know the estate," Alexander said, appearing less than happy.

"Good." The squire paused, his thick brows drawn. "That's odd. I don't know why it didn't dawn on me before, but Mr. West spoke of the grandmother as if he wasn't related to her."

Dougal shrugged as he turned to remount, his brother Hugh doing the same. "I happen to know Mr. West very well, and he's a bit of an idiot."

"Thank you for your a.s.sistance," Alexander rumbled, turning his huge horse toward the road. His brothers followed suit.

"Good evening to you!" Dougal called over his shoulder.

"Wait!" The squire hurried forward, but the men were gone, the thunder of hooves proclaiming their hurry.

What was going on? Why were MacLean's brothers in search of him? And why had they seemed surprised to learn of his wards? Surely, if they were his brothers, they would know of his wards?

The squire glanced at the inn, wishing Mrs. Bloom had been there. She had spoken with Miss West quite a bit, as had Elizabeth-Ah! His daughter might know something about the now-mysterious Miss West. They had shared a bedchamber, and women tended to tell one another things.

He hurried to the carriage and opened the door. His daughter was still deep asleep, her breathing quiet- The squire's own breath caught in his throat. No sound? Elizabeth had snored since she was a small child. Even sitting upright, she snored and gasped as if fighting for breath.

He reached for her cloak. If he didn't know better, he would think- Mrs. Bloom heard the bellow from where she sat before the fireplace in the inn, lifting her first cup to her waiting lips. Regretfully setting down her tea, she gathered her pelisse and hurried to the innyard.

Standing by the carriage, his hands clenched in fury, face almost purple with rage, was the squire.

And before him, swathed in a familiar blue cloak, was not Miss Elizabeth Higganbotham but her brown-haired maid.

"You-you-you-" The squire couldn't seem to find the words.

Mrs. Bloom hurried to his side. "Really!" she said to the wretched girl. "How could you? Where is Miss Higganbotham! Tell us this instant!"

Though terrified, Jane was also sincerely attached to her mistress and wholeheartedly agreed with the dramatic Miss Higganbotham that her father was cruel and a beast to try to separate her from her beloved Henry.

Jane thought it a cold crime indeed that anyone should cause the lovely and amazing Miss Higganbotham to cry.

No one could cry as prettily as Miss Higganbotham. Her skin remained unblotched, her eyes clear, her nose lacking the pink tone of those of other weeping misses.

Jane was abjectly and completely under her mistress's spell, especially once Elizabeth had tearfully revealed that the squire intended on hiring an older, more staid individual to wait on his daughter in London. Jane's days with her beloved mistress were numbered.

With nothing to lose, Jane had agreed to take Elizabeth's place in the carriage. It was the one way she could prove her love for her beautiful mistress before being banished back to the country, and she was prepared for the squire's red-faced threats and bl.u.s.tering yells.

Mrs. Bloom, however, interrupted the squire in midtirade with an abrupt "This is getting us nowhere."

The squire, rendered speechless, stood glowering.

"Squire Higganbotham, with your permission, I should like to speak to Miss Jane"-she fixed a steely eye on the now-quaking maid-"alone." She reached over, grabbed Jane by the ear, and led her forthwith into the inn.

What happened after that the squire was not to know. From the innyard, all he heard was a loud squall and the babbling of a weeping girl.

Finally, Mrs. Bloom came marching out, the inn keeper and his wife watching her with newfound respect. "Squire Higganbotham, please instruct the coachman to take us to Stirling."

"Of course, but-"

"Ride with me, and I will tell you what that silly daughter of yours has done. But hurry, for there's not a moment to be lost." A martial light in her eye, Mrs. Bloom added, "We will rescue both your daughter and Miss Platt, for I fear that she, too, has fallen in with a band of common adventurers!"

Chapter 18.

Livin' well is the best revenge. Those as wish ye harm will find nothin' more bitter t' swallow.

OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING.

M rs. Oglivie was going to die. Oh, not in a corporeal sense, but rather on an emotional level- which was much, much worse than a mere bodily death.

They would find her here, in her bed, dressed in her best pink silk, alone, her eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, her expression empty of emotion...

She frowned thoughtfully. Her expression might have some emotion. An indescribable aura of suffering, perhaps. Yes! That was what they'd see. Endless suffering.

If Viola closed her eyes, she could almost see it-the weeping servants, the perplexed look on the doctor's face, the penitence in her mother-in-law's eyes. That one made Viola smile, for the dowager was going to be the cause of her demise. Viola was sure of it.

She'd come to Stirling to a.s.sist her mother-in-law, who had succ.u.mbed to an especially horrid case of the ague. The dowager had regarded Viola as an angel, a reaction Viola knew would last only as long as the dowager needed her.

And indeed, the second the dowager was out of bed, the not-so-subtle criticisms began. Unfortunately, the snow started at the same time, and Viola was stuck. Stuck in a house with a woman who believed Viola wasn't "good enough for my Geoffrey."

With growing resentment, Viola watched the snow pile up outside the damp old house. She missed the comfort and elegance of her own home, the presence of her beloved Geoffrey and her beautiful daughter, Venetia.

Actually, Venetia had been the subject of Viola's last argument with the dowager. The old bat had commented one time too many that Venetia was "wasting away" without a husband, implying that it was somehow Viola's fault.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. Viola simmered even now thinking about the unfair comments, the hints that she'd somehow raised Venetia incorrectly or (worse) had selfishly kept Venetia at home to run the household instead of making a respectable match.

Viola clenched the sheets, wishing her hands were around the dowager's scrawny neck instead. If the old bat only knew of the countless efforts Viola had made to interest Venetia in the veritable swath of eligible men she had invited to Oglivie House, of the numerous entertainments she had sponsored, the endless events she'd escorted Venetia to, all in the hope that Venetia might show interest in at least one young man.

And all for naught.

It wasn't that Venetia wasn't cooperative. She wasn't ungrateful, nor did she refuse to partic.i.p.ate in events, but neither was she excited about them or about the men she met. She was simply impervious.

Viola had her own opinion about why her daughter was so difficult to please. His name was Gregor MacLean, and he'd been a blasted inconvenience from the beginning. It was difficult to expect Venetia to pay attention to an ordinary mortal man when Gregor MacLean was about. Even Viola found herself staring at Gregor. It was ludicrous, but the man was simply too handsome to be stood.

So now Venetia was far past the marriageable age, and Viola wished more than life itself to dandle at least one grandchild on her knee before she died.

Thus, the accusations from her mother-in-law were especially painful, and were directly responsible for the fact that Viola was now lying upon her bed, a bottle of smelling salts within easy grasp.

She lifted her head from her pillow and regarded the clock on the mantel. It was five minutes after four. She'd been in her room for more than three hours, and still no one had come to see why she hadn't appeared for tea. Viola threw herself back on the pillow, her stomach rumbling uncomfortably. Surely the dowager would soon send someone to see if she was well. Unless that had been part of the evil woman's plan, to encourage Viola to starve herself and then- A soft knock sounded at the door.

Finally! Viola smoothed the covers, then pressed herself back into the pillow and crossed her hands over her chest.

Another knock sounded, this one a bit louder.

Viola waited, holding her breath. She closed her eyes, cracking one open the slightest bit so she could see the door.

The k.n.o.b turned, and the door opened. From the crack between her eyelids, Viola saw Liza, the dowager's maid, tiptoeing across the room.

Viola closed her eyes tightly and waited.

There was a hesitant step, then another.

Viola imagined how she must look, her long blond hair (light enough to hide most of the gray that threaded through it, thank goodness!) tucked neatly beneath her white lace cap. Her pink silk gown draped to the floor in a graceful slant. Her face in repose, elegant yet proud...oh, yes. It would be a sight to behold.

Hope swelled in Viola's breast. Perhaps the dowager regretted her hasty words. The old woman must have been horridly worried when Viola had not come to tea, had finally realized that she should treat her daughter-in-law with some respect, and had sent her maid with regrets for her boorish behavior.

Seeing Viola's still form, the maid would grow concerned, perhaps even frightened. She would gasp and run from the room, yelling for help. Others would come, and the dowager would be notified of Viola's possible death. The old biddy would be so sorry she'd probably burst into tears, frightening the servants with the unexpected display of emotion. Then everyone would realize how wrongly the dowager had treated Viola.

The maid's footsteps disappeared. There was a thick rug near the bed, so she must be approaching. Viola forced her face to remain perfectly expressionless, her body relaxed, her breathing deep and slow.

"Mrs. Oglivie?" The voice was directly beside the bed now.

Viola allowed her eyes to flutter, but she did not open them.

"Mrs. Oglivie?" Liza placed a tentative hand over Viola's on top of the coverlet. "The dowager sent me to fetch ye."

Viola fluttered her eyes again but did not move.

"Ye ain't havin' yer woman time, are ye?"

Viola almost gasped. How dare the maid suggest such a thing!

"If ye are, I can fetch ye some bitterroot, which will kill off the ill humors."