Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,111

Your letter is safe with me.

When she finished, she waved the paper about, drying the ink, then folded it and carefully sealed it with candle wax. “I mean nae offense, using the wax,” she said, handing her letter to Jack. “Ye seem a trustworthy gentleman …”

“You are wise to use a seal,” Jack told her, aiming his remarks at Ben Cromar, who loomed over her, arms folded across his chest. “The only person who should break it open is the one to whom the letter is addressed, aye?” Like an angler with a fly lying on the surface of the water, Jack baited the man, seeing if he might bite.

But Cromar merely glared at him beneath a flat brow.

In the stony silence Fiona scurried about the cottage, pouring tea for her husband, righting a toppled book, smoothing the bedcovers. Keeping out of Cromar’s way, by the look of it. “I wonder, Lord Buchanan …,” she finally said. “My daughter had a bonny silver ring. Might she still be wearing it? ’Twas mine once and my mither’s afore me.”

Jack couldn’t recall seeing it and confessed as much. “Perhaps because of her sewing, your daughter finds rings uncomfortable.”

“Mebbe,” Fiona said softly. “ ’Tis not important.” Her crestfallen expression said otherwise. “She is making dresses for yer household, then?”

He nodded. “Gowns for my maidservants. And soon, livery for the menservants.”

Consternation filled her eyes. “My bonny Bess? Measuring and fitting men’s garments?”

Cromar grunted. “I thocht ye prized the leddy’s virtue.”

“You can be sure I do.” Jack looked at them both. Elisabeth had worked in a tailor’s shop. Had he erred in assuming she might sew for Roberts and his footmen? It seemed her mother thought so. “I shall remedy the situation the moment I return,” Jack promised her. “There are several competent tailors in Selkirk. One in particular I have in mind.”

Fiona’s expression lightened at once. “Weel done, milord.”

“He’s done naught but spin wirds,” her husband said darkly. “Onie can do that.”

Jack had had his fill of Ben Cromar. He moved closer, if only to look down at the man. “As a retired admiral of the Royal Navy, I assure you, my word can be trusted.”

The color drained from Ben’s face.

“Then ye’re …” Fiona’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Ye’re leal to … King Geordie?”

Before Jack could answer her, Cromar backed away. “ ’Tis a trap, woman. He has ithers waiting outside. Waiting to burn doon oor hoose and us with it.”

“Nae.” Jack strode toward the door, blocking the man’s escape. “I’ve come alone and not on behalf of the king.” He sought Fiona’s gaze, wanting to assure her. “Your daughter is my only concern here.”

Fiona barely touched her husband’s sleeve. “Lord Buchanan willna hurt us. He’s a guid man.”

Jack clearly saw Elisabeth in her mother now. The tender words, the gentle touch. Yet both women had married men who mistreated them. He could not save Fiona, not in a brief morning visit. But he could see to her daughter’s future. Aye, he could.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Jack said with a slight bow, “and bid you both farewell.”

“Leuk after my sweet Bess,” Fiona pleaded with him. “She’s a’ I have.”

“Depend upon it, madam.” He quit the cottage and was astride Janvier moments later, riding hard for the Mar estate with rain pelting his face and Fiona’s last words beating in his heart.

He found Sir John where he’d left him by the fire, his feet propped on a leather footstool, a dram of whisky in hand.

“Join me, milord,” the sheriff said, raising his glass.

Jack shook his head, his thoughts already halfway to Selkirk. “I wonder if we might head south a bit sooner.” He couldn’t explain his growing uneasiness, nor could he deny it.

Sir John frowned. “Will Thursday next not suit you?”

Jack groaned inwardly. Five more days. “I confess I’ve enough grouse to fill ten of Mrs. Tudhope’s roasting pans. Would you object if we departed Monday?” Even that was a sacrifice. Jack was prepared to leave at once, the letter in his pocket adding to his sense of urgency.

His host downed his whisky, then sighed. “ ’Twould seem your mind is set, Lord Jack. No doubt you are missing my Rosalind, for I can assure you, she’s grieved by your absence.” He waved at their menservants playing cards by the window. “I daresay Dickson and Grahame will be glad to sleep in their own beds.”

“As will I,” Jack agreed, tamping down his impatience. Rosalind Murray? He’d barely thought of the lady