Page 97 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“I am not. I am staying in London.”
Cecelia was staying to make sure Anne left safely with the gold.
She locked both hands with Cecelia. Faithful friend, ally, confidante. No finer woman walked the earth. If the Jacobite rebels had let Cecelia fight, they might have won on her tenacity alone. A fierce, loving streak a mile wide ran through her. She would be the first and last foot soldier on the field of battle. At present, her battle visage sterned, pretty and blond, her carmine lips curving with vicious determination.
“Tell me, Anne. Don’t you want to grind the countess under your heel and ruin her?”
God help her, she did.
Chapter Thirty-Two
He was perusing paintings of places he’d never seen and likely never would. Lush English landscapes, hedgerows, horses leaping over hedgerows, a manse vast enough to house a small village, and a quaint river with a folly beside it. He’d never actually seen a folly, but he knew of them. By virtue of their name, the men who built them and the men who paid others to build them, had to know it was foolish.
A playhouse for adults, follies were. The provenance of people with too much wealth and not enough brains to wisely use it. Hence, their foolish spending. No folly graced Clanranald MacDonald lands. Highlanders had the good sense to cry foul—or fool—as it were. If a castle was crumbling, it was because man or nature had a hand in it. No need to pay someone to build something and make it look like it was falling apart.
False things were a foil for the truth.
As a perfect example, there was him. An overlarge mirrored sconce reflected a man playinga velvet-clad guest. It was him playing a false game, not unlike his sojourn asprivate footmanunder Ancilla’s roof when footmen slept belowstairs, while he’d lived abovestairs.
Thankfully, none of the servants trawling the room were here when he was in residence.
One of them slowed his stride. “Champagne, sir?”
The footman was liveried in a diminished spirit, eyes properly downcast.
“None, thank you.” The footman turned, when Will asked, “Have you a good stout ale?”
The footman in scarlet and navy blue hesitated.
Will urged the lad’s gaze to meet his. “You know, a hearty, dark ale. Something a man can sink his teeth into. Something you probably drink on your half day.”
The almost blindingly white periwig edged up a few degrees. The lad looked to be eighteen, if he was a day. An obliging servant, he gave the expected response. “I can ask in the kitchens, sir.”
Will already knew the answer. “Never mind. Can you tell me when red wine will be served?”
That set the lad’s shoulders right. “No red wine tonight, sir. Her ladyship’s orders. I can have a word with the butler. Lady Denton might change her mind if enough guests ask for it.”
“No’ if they’re pouring her expensive champagne down their gullets.”
Which earned him a twitch on the lad’s mouth. “I suppose not, sir.”
“Thank you.”
The footman moved on, and Will whistled lowunder his breath.No red wine.The art of chaos. When it can, it will strike. Anne and Cecelia needed to know this news, but they were currently engaged in an animated discussion which centered on Mr. James Hadley. He remembered the newly wedded Spruce Prig, the sheer delight in his bride and his supposed promise to leave a life of crime.
So much for promises.
He continued his amble along the row of paintings. Boring landscape, boring landscape, another boring landscape until his well-heeled shoes stuck to the floor. This one took his breath away, a painting of a place dear to him. Sandy beaches, purple heather, and otherworldly standing stones.
The Isle of Benbecula.
Longing wrenched his heart. The artist captured sunlight on water, the beach’s slope, and the scruff of land above it. The carpet underfoot became soft sand. He heard sand crunch under his boots and felt the sun shining on his head. He breathed deeply as if smelling the island’s clean, briny air. He touched the painting like a desperate man. Fair distant winds whispered through it. Haunting him. Calling him. The whisper keened with bagpipes, a sharp, ancient cry.
Come home, it said.
He’d landed on that beach as a boy, many times, with his father.
The very same place he’d thought to show his son someday.
