Beguiled (2 page)

Pity the bastard who'd fired the shot, for his life belonged to Lachlan MacKenzie. A slow, painful death awaited the villain.

Through a fog of anger he heard the earl of Cathcart say, “The quarrel's embedded in her flesh, but it's missed her heart and lungs.”

The clinical explanation enraged Lachlan. “I should rejoice for that?”

A hand touched his shoulder. His wife, Juliet, knelt at his side. “Have a care, my love, and tell me what happened.”

Anger gave way to fatherly angst. “ 'Twould seem that trouble has again found my firstborn.”

“Worry not.” Juliet cupped Agnes's cheek, but Lachlan knew her words of comfort were meant for him as well. “We'll take care of you.”

Agnes bit her lip, but her eyes shone with rare trust.

Again the voice of the earl. “ 'Tis not a mortal wound, but the arrow must come out.”

Straining, Agnes looked at the stubby arrow. “The fletchings are English,” she said.

Tough, unreachable Agnes, thought Lachlan. Why couldn't she be like other young women her age? Why did this sensitive and loyal woman risk her life for others, then make light of her own injuries? For years, he'd indulged her, but now Lachlan intended to quell her penchant for danger.

Knowing the pain he was about to cause her, he grasped the quarrel and tugged. He met resistance.

Agnes winced as the barb tore at her flesh.

“Sorry, sweeting.”

“Move aside, Your Grace,” said Cathcart, his attention focused on Agnes. “I'm a doctor. I studied here in Edinburgh.”

Lachlan searched the man's face, hoping that he spoke the truth. Edward Napier's achievements were legend, but medicine was not known to be among his considerable accomplishments.

“The children, Papa,” Agnes pleaded. “Protect his children.” Her elegant features, so like her noble mother's, turned angelic in entreaty. “Promise me you will.”

Lachlan would promise to turn Puritan to save her. “Aye, lassie. You have my word.”

“I can protect my own children,” said the earl. “But if that arrow doesn't come out now, you'll lose the use of your arm.”

Flattening himself on his belly beside Agnes, Cathcart peered under the book. After examining the spot where the arrow impaled her, he smiled reassuringly. “ 'Tis not too deep.” Catching Lachlan's gaze, he said, “Pull—very gently and do not twist it. I'll lift the book. Lady Juliet, hold her hand.”

Juliet reached for Agnes and said, “ 'Twill be over before you can make the MacKenzie war cry.”

Agnes set her jaw. “I'm ready.”

Lachlan grasped the wooden shaft. The fletchings prickled his palms. At the first tug, Agnes moaned.

“Easy, love,” Juliet murmured, still speaking to the both of them.

“Do it, man!” Cathcart urged.

His stomach sour with worry, Lachlan pulled the arrow free.

The earl cursed and shoved the book, with the arrow running through it, into Lachlan's hands. Like an evil invader, the bloodied tip of the quarrel protruded from the book. Lachlan tossed it aside.

Agnes's yellow gown was stained crimson. Her skin glowed pasty white.

Cathcart grasped the bodice of her dress and ripped it, pulling the sleeve away. With a gentleness that should not have surprised Lachlan, Cathcart explored the wound. Using the skirt of his kilt as a bandage, he stemmed the flow of blood.

Agnes sucked in her breath.

Cathcart murmured soothing words of encouragement, and as Lachlan watched, the distinctive black-and-white tartan of the Napiers literally ran red with MacKenzie blood.

Agnes's blood. His golden-haired, once precocious child had yet again endangered herself for another. And all because she could not let go of the past.

Impotent rage coursed through him. Noise from the onlookers rose to a deafening roar. He must end her foolish quest. But how? He could not treble her chores or take away her pony. Banishing her to the country wouldn't work; he'd tried that before and paid the heavy price of a year's estrangement.

Again fabric ripped. “Here,” said Juliet, handing Cathcart a length of white petticoat. “God bless you, Lord Edward.”

Cathcart took the cloth and pressed it over the wound, but his intense gaze never left Agnes. “Breathe slowly,” he told her. “The pain will ebb. Do you understand? Will you trust me?”

She nodded, her nostrils flaring, her lips pursed in agony.

Lachlan pierced him with an accusing gaze. “Was the assassin sent for you?”

“Hold this.” Cathcart shoved the now bloodied wad of satin into Lachlan's hand. “I'll carry her.” He scooped her into his arms and turned to the cleric. “Lead the way to your chamber. I'll need boiled water, and send someone to the Dragoon Inn for my medical bag.”

The clergyman whirled, surplice fluttering, and headed for the side of the chapel.

“Lady Juliet,” said Cathcart. “I'll need plenty of bandages. And bring a clean sleeping gown.”

To Agnes Juliet said, “Shall I send them with Auntie Loo?”

Resting in the cradle of Cathcart's arms, Agnes struggled to keep her eyes open. “Yes. Show her the arrow. I need her.”

To his children Cathcart said, “Christopher, Hannah, you can come out now. You're to go with Lady Juliet and mind yourselves.”

They scrambled from beneath the pew. “You'll make her all better, will you not, Papa?” his son pleaded, a protective arm around his bewildered sister.

“ 'S'bad,” the girl said.

“Will you make her better?” his son demanded.

“Of course I will.” He started to move away, but stopped. “Come, MacKenzie, and keep the pressure on that wound.”

Taking orders was foreign to Lachlan. The sight of another man tending his daughter . . . ripping her clothing . . . holding her possessively robbed him of logic. “Give her to me.”

“No.” Slightly taller than Lachlan and slimmer in his youth, Edward Napier no longer appeared the esteemed scholar and respected statesman; field general better suited his manner. “She grows weaker by the moment.”

Cathcart spoke the truth, but Lachlan balked.

“Please, Papa,” Agnes begged. “There isn't much time.”

Her eyes were now glassy. Lachlan's fear returned with a vengeance. “Time? What do you mean?”

Perspiration dotted her brow, and her head lolled against Cathcart's shoulder. On a sigh, she said, “The arrow was poisoned.”

*  *  *

As he cleansed the star-shaped wound that marred Agnes MacKenzie's shoulder, Edward Napier struggled between anger and gratitude. The duke's daughter was either the bravest or the most foolhardy woman he'd ever met.

But she had saved his life—at the risk of her own.

The unselfishness of her act moved him in a way that was new. Gratitude didn't begin to describe his feelings; he'd need time alone to explore what was in his heart. The event was too vivid: the sight of the crossbow aimed at him; the fear for his children; the image of Agnes MacKenzie moving into the path of danger, the horrible sound of the quarrel bringing her down.

“Are you well, Lord Edward?” she asked. “You look as if you might swoon.”

He banished the memory but knew it was only temporary, for he'd never forget her bravery, her generosity.

“Never mind about me.” His voice caught, and he had to clear his throat. “How are you feeling?”

Fatigue rimmed her warm brown eyes, and her skin was as pale as snow on ice. She gave him a valiant smile. “I've been better. But your children are safe now.”

He had spoken briefly with her the evening before, and Edward recalled every word of their conversation, for at the time the casual exchange had been a welcome respite from the troubles that had plagued him of late.

“Are you done?” demanded the duke of Ross.

“I doubt he'll ravish me, Papa.”

Edward summoned patience. Most men in the duke's position would have forbidden another man—even a physician—to touch a female relative. No matter how unskilled, a female healer was the preferable choice in the circumstances. Necessity had forced MacKenzie's hand, and now that Edward had ministered to her, the duke reverted to propriety.

To spare his wife and his other daughters, MacKenzie had barred them from the room. Under the father's watchful eyes, Edward had cleansed and stitched the star-shaped wound. The arrowhead had missed her clavicle. No bones were broken, but she'd have a powerful array of bruises on the morrow.

If the arrow tip had been poisoned, as she believed, the poison was weak. That or the act of traveling first through the wooden bindings of the heavy book and the layers of thick vellum had somehow worn away the potion. Yes, that theory had merit.

“Well, Cathcart? You've seen enough of my firstborn. She's half naked, for God's sake.”

She was half naked for her
own
sake, but Edward didn't point that out to the worried duke. Instead he counted to ten and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Did you hear me?” roared the duke.

“I'll be done as soon as the bandages arrive,”

The door opened. Edward looked up and blinked in confusion at the sight of the unusual woman entering the room. She wore a fashionable if plain gown, and her thick black hair was upswept and coiled at the crown of her head. In bearing and fashion she typified the style of Scotswomen of the day. In heritage and complexion she bore the striking features of the Orientals.

She bowed from the waist. In one hand she held the blood-stained quarrel, in the other she carried a valise. In perfect English she said, “I am Auntie Loo. I've brought the bandages you requested and a gown for Lady Agnes.”

His patient tried to rise. “Come quickly,” she said.

With the heel of his hand, Edward held her. “Stay where you are or you'll rip those stitches.”

She grunted, and the distressed sound again roused her overprotective father. “Stop yelling at my daughter, and take your hand off her breast.”

Edward took no offense. He hadn't noticed her breasts. Well, he had noticed, but not in a disrespectful or lustful way. She was injured. He was helping her.

A basic truth dragged at his conscience. The assassin had been sent for him. Had he remained at home in Glasgow, the bowman would have sought him there. Agnes MacKenzie would be unharmed and making merry at the wedding feast. But strong reasons had compelled Edward to make the journey. The groom, Michael Elliot, was Edward's friend, and he had wanted to share in the joyous occasion. Christopher and Hannah deserved a holiday, and until moments ago, the excursion to Edinburgh had been good for Edward's family.

Reluctantly, he stepped back as the woman named Auntie Loo examined the wound. Satisfied, she waved the arrow before Agnes. “There wasn't enough poison on the barbs to kill you.”

“ 'Twas monkshood.” His patient huffed. “Tell me that when my limbs turn to useless stumps and my tongue rots in my mouth.”

The duke cursed. The women paid him no mind.

From within the folds of her dress Auntie Loo produced a small stone bottle. “The ache in your heart will hurt you more than this latest wound.”

Stubbornness lent the Lady Agnes a queenly air. “So you say. What do you know about it?”

The woman tisked, but her eyes twinkled with mischief. In broken, affected English, she said, “Golden One too strong for Englishman's death powder. But Chinaman's poison send you to the harpers. This potion make you rest and call up your demons.” She waved the bottle, and with a crooked, loving smile, said, “More better you lose one skinny arm?”

Perspiration beaded Agnes's forehead. “Then I couldn't cover both of my ears against your nattering—in any dialect. I will not drink that mind-stealing concoction.”

Auntie Loo stared pointedly at Lachlan. Reverting to the King's English, she said, “Your oft foolish daughter will live to trouble you again, my lord.”

Wringing his hands, the duke paced. “Nay, she will trouble me no more. Her outlandish behavior is at an end.” He gave her a stern glare. “You're coming home with us to Tain, and I'll not let you out of my sight until a husband catches your fancy.”

She rallied her strength for what Edward suspected was an old argument. “Never,” she swore. “You cannot force me to live with you. You cannot force me to wed.”

Uncomfortable at witnessing their strife, Edward fished out the bandages and began wrapping the cloth around her shoulder. Too caught up in his anger, the duke did not notice that Edward was again ministering to his patient.

“That's where you are wrong,” MacKenzie spat. “I forbid you to put yourself in danger again.”

“That's where
you
are wrong.”

“Agnes,” he said on an expelled breath. “I indulged you when you begged to go to China to learn those foreign fighting skills.”

Foreign fighting skills? To what was the duke referring?

She glanced at the woman named Auntie Loo. “Where I saved a member of the royal family.”

He went on as if she hadn't spoken. “I also allowed you to travel with Burgundy.”

“Where I foiled two attempts on the life of his heir.”

Edward had heard the tale. According to the French duke, Agnes MacKenzie, with only a knife for weapon, had brought down two would-be assassins. She didn't appear so formidable now, and if he hadn't seen her in action, Edward wouldn't have believed the tale. It baffled him that this beautiful woman was capable of so much daring.

MacKenzie threw up his hands. “You nearly drowned pulling that gin-soaked beggar from the Thames.”

That rescue was news to Edward.

“She was only a babe,” Agnes said. “Her mother fed her the vile drink apurpose. She would have sold her own child to any man with an unholy urge and a copper.”

MacKenzie paused and pointed a threatening finger at her. “I'll cease your allowance. You'll have no funds to continue that futile search. Your sister is dead.”