The Devilish Lord Will, Page 2

  Lillias didn’t know French, but she had a good idea Glenna was insulting her. Josette gave her daughter an admonishing look and led the reluctant Lillias away.

  Josette didn’t give voice to the thought, even inside her own head, that Lillias might be right. Will would take what he wished and leave, as he always did. But it was worth the risk, Josette reminded herself with another glance at Glenna. Definitely worth it.

  Will spun in and out of sleep. He tried to rise, but he groaned and dropped to the pallet, pain exploding in his head. Dried bracken crackled beneath his back, and the scent of peat smoke invaded his senses.

  It was the peat that made him believe he was in Scotland, not hell.

  He tried to remain awake long enough to assess where he was and how badly he was injured. He could breathe—no hissing or gurgling in his lungs. His heart beat fairly evenly. He was hot, feverishly hot.

  The pain that wracked his body radiated from the side of his head. Had the captain hit him again?

  No—the flash came to him of a flight through a tunnel after a thorough and satisfying kiss. Then the business end of a spade swinging at his head, wielded by a small but fiery woman with flame-red hair.

  Josette had led him into a trap, he dimly realized. Why, he had no idea.

  They hadn’t parted easily last time. Will took the blame, though Josette could be bloody-minded. He hoped in the intervening years she’d forgotten what a bastard he was.

  One look into her entrancing eyes told him she hadn’t forgotten.

  Despite the fact that Josette had drugged the captain and major to help Will escape, he had no way of knowing whether he was in the hands of friends or enemies. Josette knew how to play both sides of a coin. Survival, she’d say, and she’d be right.

  Will wanted to leap up, find her, question her, but his healing body took over, and he succumbed once more to sleep.

  When he finally floated to consciousness again, the fever had faded, and Will opened his eyes, alert and aware.

  He studied the roof over his head, beams and stone. Inside a castle, he concluded, one of the many that dotted the hills of Scotland like old ghosts.

  He’d hoped for a nice bed in a warm manor house, like his father’s rented home in Paris, but he ought to have known he wouldn’t be that lucky.

  Will sat up, stifling a groan, pressing his hand to the bandage on his head. Mal and Alec would laugh themselves sick if they knew he’d been felled by a stripling of a Scotswoman with a garden spade. That she was a Scotswoman, Will had no doubt. She’d wielded her weapon with the ferocity of a clanswoman defending her bairns.

  He swung himself out of the bed, leaning on the cold stone wall while he steadied himself and got his bearings. He wore no shirt, but had on a pair of trews made of some scratchy fabric. He’d been lying on a plaid, which he snatched up and wrapped around himself in the approximation of a kilt.

  The room did not have a proper door, only a blanket tacked over the opening. Will pushed it aside and found himself in a stone corridor.

  This part of the castle looked solid enough—ceiling intact, wooden floor fairly even and not rotted as far as he could tell. His room was the only one on the short hall, which ended in a stone staircase spiraling down.

  Unlike his brother Mal, who could put a name to every room, hall, and corner of a castle or keep, Will had only a vague idea where he was in the building.

  Castles had been built as hiding places, refuges from wild lands and violent neighbors. This one seemed to have no windows at all. Will followed the staircase down, one hand on the wall to keep himself from growing too dizzy.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a flicker of firelight led him to a wide room with rounded walls. The enormous fireplace that lit the chamber looked to have been added at a later date—different stone—and it didn’t fit quite right against the curved wall. Kilmorgan Castle, Will’s family home, had been overhauled and updated with each generation, but this keep had obviously been left in the past.

  Kilmorgan was no more, Will reminded himself with a rush of pain. Now it was a heap of burned rubble, courtesy of British soldiers. It was also the main reason Will had returned to Scotland. Kilmorgan’s destruction needled at him, and he desired to put it right.

  The kitchen—obviously what the room was being used for—was filled with women.

  Glenna stood at a table shaping pieces of dough for a gray-haired lady to roll out. The red-haired wench who’d wielded the deadly shovel turned a spit at the fireplace. The spit was large enough for a whole oxen, but only two small roasting birds rotated above the flames. Josette seemed to be in charge, moving from table to table, supervising the preparations, reaching out to help sort greens or chop an onion.

  Female voices washed over him like gentle rain. Will leaned on the doorframe, unnoticed in its shadow, and listened to their chatter.

  “Are you certain you’re well?” one woman was asking.

  Will opened his mouth to answer, then realized she’d not been addressing him. The red-haired woman at the fireplace nodded. “I’ll mend. Those soldiers only grabbed me for a moment. I move quickly.”

  The gray-haired woman slapped a round of dough Glenna handed her to the table. “As long as they never knew what you were about.”

  “They had no idea.” The younger woman looked smug. “Thought I was another light skirt. As though I’d waste me time.” She spit into the flames, which crackled.

  Laughter and salty comments followed. Will was in the Highlands all right, where the women didn’t withhold their opinions. They spoke English, not Erse, likely so Josette could understand them.

  When the ladies wound down, another asked the red-haired lass, “What did you learn?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, despondent. “The soldiers didn’t know a blessed thing. From their talk, they’ve heard no more than we have.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Josette answered, her tone brisk. “Finding out nothing is still helpful. Means it’s not yet in the hands of King Geordie.”

  Will smothered a chuckle. He was the one who’d taught the French Josette to call George the Second of Britain “King Geordie.”

  The gray-haired woman cast her eyes to the ceiling. “What about our new source? Are we going to use it?”

  Four of the eight ladies present nodded and the other half shook their heads.

  “Ye can’t,” the red-haired woman wailed. “He’ll betray us all.”

  Glenna burst out with indignation. “He will not. He’s saved Mum and me countless times.”

  “Aye, but who put you in danger in the first place?” another asked.

  She had a point. If not for Will, Josette would still be in France, perhaps the pampered mistress of a wealthy patron. She’d recline in her parlor in finery, telling her paramour which artists to hire and which models to have said artists paint.

  Because of Will, she’d had to flee Paris, and now, apparently, London.

  “He’s a fine man,” Glenna snapped back. “Better to me and Mum than my own pa ever was. He scarpered the moment Mum knew she was having me.”

  “Glenna,” Josette admonished.

  “’Tis true, Mum. I’ve never minded.” The flash of hurt in Glenna’s eyes said otherwise, and Will felt old rage flicker at the man who’d deserted Josette.

  “Will Mackenzie’s the worst ye could turn to, I say,” the red-haired woman said. “He and any of his family. Where are they now, eh? Living well in Paris while their people starve.”

  The gray-haired woman broke in. “Because they’d be shot or hanged on sight if they returned. Kilmorgan burned to the ground and all were turned out. And I’ll remind you they lost two brothers to the fighting.”

  “All of us lost someone,” the red-haired woman said hotly. “They likely will only come out to swing.” She blinked and coughed. “Blessed smoke,” she muttered.

  She received looks of sympathy, nods of commiseration. She was correct—everyone in the Highlands had lost someone to the war that had
torn families asunder and created so many outlaws.

  Another took up the argument. “If we use him, what’s to say he won’t take it and rush back to France? Won’t help us none.”

  “But if any can find it, it’s Will,” Josette broke in, voice firm. She was the only non-Highlander in the room besides Glenna, but the ladies went silent as she spoke, acknowledging her authority.

  “He knows everyone in Scotland,” Josette continued, “and could wile information out of the devil himself. We can either poke around until we’re in our graves or we can locate it quickly—or know for certain it’s long gone. It would be foolish not to ask him. He’s an honorable man, whatever he may seem.”

  The red-haired woman stuck out her lip. “And all know ye were his lover. What’s to say ye won’t find it with him? And you and he run off to France and live in luxury?”

  Glenna jumped to her feet. “Now, see here, ye two-faced—”

  “Glenna!” The sharp word from her mother halted the South London foulness from Glenna’s mouth. Glenna went scarlet, but she sat down, lips tight.

  Josette faced the red-haired woman. “You all asked me for help, Lillias, and I agreed, for the Mackenzies’ sakes.”

  The gray-haired woman held up a floury hand. “And we accepted that help because Lord Malcolm and Lord Alec vouched for you, Mrs. Oswald.”

  “We’re trusting a lot of Mackenzies,” Lillias growled.

  Will chose that moment to step forward.

  “Why don’t you lassies tell me what it’s all about?” he asked in easy tones. “And I’ll decide whether or not ye should trust me.”

  Chapter 3

  Josette had known he’d stood in the fold of darkness, listening. Will had taught her how to sense a presence, and she’d known exactly when he’d arrived. She’d also known he would reveal that presence only when he was ready.

  Lillias, predictably, snatched up a poker, ready to strike. “Ye told us he’d be out at least another day.”

  “He ought to be.” Josette glared at Will. “I wager he’s barely keeping himself to his feet.”

  Will’s sway told Josette she was right. He was gray around the edges, the plaid gaping to show tanned flesh with a wan tone.

  Glenna had leapt from her stool with a glad cry and now rushed to Will and flung her arms around him.

  “Are ye chuffed to see us, Uncle Will? We thought you were a dead man, but ye rose again, didn’t ye?”

  Will lifted Glenna and spun her around, much as he’d done when she was a mite.

  “I am right chuffed, little lass,” he said as he set her on her feet. “How have you been keeping yourself?”

  Glenna bussed him loudly on the cheek. “I’ve been keeping well. Hear you’ve gone and been captured a number of times. Thought you were more careful.”

  Will dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m always careful, little dove. I let myself be captured on purpose—what better way to find out what the enemy is up to than to hear what questions they ask?”

  “Ha,” Lillias said. “More likely he stumbled into their traps, probably sang all kinds of songs about our men and our families, who are being hunted down one by one.”

  Will regarded her without much surprise. “Lillias McIver. The little hellion who used to follow my younger brothers and get into much mischief. Mal was fond of you, I remember.”

  “And I’d be whipped because of that mischief.” Lillias jerked the windlass, sending a spatter of grease into the fire. “Entirely their fault.”

  “Why’d ye keep following them, then? Thought you’d safely married yourself off and settled down. But there ye were, popping up behind me and whacking me with a shovel.” Will gingerly touched the bandage on the side of his head.

  “My man’s a guest of His Majesty, isn’t he?” Lillias snapped. “Captured on Culloden Moor. And the likes of you will get him killed, blundering about, giving up information to English soldiers.”

  “English soldiers didn’t get a word out of me. Not even my name.” Will’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, Lillias. Where is your husband being held?”

  “I don’t know.” Frustration and grief filled her voice. “But he won’t come out except at the end of a rope. Or maybe gutted where he stands.”

  “If he’s alive, I’ll get him out,” Will said with conviction. “Ye have my promise on that.”

  Lillias turned away. “Ha. The word of a Mackenzie. Does nae give me reassurance.”

  Will caught Josette’s eye. He wished to speak to her privately, she knew, wanted her to tell him exactly what was going on.

  But these ladies didn’t trust him—didn’t trust much of anyone—not that Josette could blame them.

  Josette’s entire world had changed the day Will Mackenzie had walked into his brothers’ rooms in Paris, Will tall, strong, and nonchalantly arrogant. His whisky-colored gaze had rested on Josette, who’d reposed in her altogether, nothing between her and the world but a wisp of red cloth and the bend of her arm shielding one breast.

  Will hadn’t seemed much impressed. He’d winked at her, acknowledging she was in the room, but that was all. As though naked women draped about his brother’s apartments was a common occurrence, which it had been. Alec had received commissions from cardinals, archbishops, princes, and dukes who wanted mythological and allegorical paintings, most of which involved voluptuous women with no clothes on.

  Josette, desperate for coin to feed her daughter, had become a model—in truth, her landlord had more or less rented her out to neighboring artists. Then the artists, liking the look of her, had begun hiring Josette for more and more wages. They’d also appreciated the fact that she arrived at the appointed time and didn’t mind holding uncomfortable poses for hours.

  Will had taken her away from the indignity—and the discomfort and the chill—of posing and gave her another way to earn money for Glenna. She’d be forever grateful to him, but Lillias wasn’t wrong that he always played his own game.

  She made her decision. “We tell him,” Josette said to the silent and waiting women. “Now that he knows we’ve gathered here, we can’t let him go, so we might as well make use of him.”

  Will’s brows went up. He knew good and well Josette could never force him to remain where he didn’t want to be, but he did not contradict her. He was good at pretending to be a prisoner until he was ready to leave, just as he’d done at the army camp. The fact that he hadn’t already vanished into the Highlands told Josette he was at least curious about why they were here.

  “What is it?” he asked. “A plot to free all the men captured by the Butcher? A daunting task, but I’ll help, if that’s the case. I wouldn’t mind tweaking the noses of the king and his dear son.”

  “Partly.” Josette drew a breath, aware of all eyes on her, some filled with anger, others with fear. Mysie Forster’s hands remained fixed in the dough. Lillias’s spit halted, and the roasting chicken’s skin crackled as it burned.

  “We’re looking for the shipload of gold that came to the Highlands from France before Culloden,” Josette said in a rush. “The gold that vanished. It has to be somewhere, in someone’s hands. We intend to find it.”

  Will listened quietly, his face a careful blank, then shook his head. “Lass, ye know the gold is long gone. Either captured by the king’s men or stolen by Highlanders and used to get themselves out of Scotland. The French gold’s a legend now.”

  Josette knew good and well Will didn’t believe that. Last June, he’d discovered that English soldiers were holding and torturing Scotsmen in secret. One thing the English soldiers had been trying to discover was the whereabouts of the French gold, convinced the Highlanders they’d captured knew its location.

  Will’s brother Alec had rescued him, and Will had accompanied Alec and his new wife, Celia, to Paris. A few months ago, Josette had received a letter from Celia that Will had vanished again. Will often slipped away on his own, but he’d send word to the family that he was well—very likely so they’d leav
e him be. This time, however, Will had disappeared without a trace.

  As Will frequently disappeared without a trace, the family was not yet worried, but Celia asked Josette to keep an eye out for him.

  Josette had learned from Will how to be alert to any information that might chance her way. Most of the information that passed through Josette’s London boarding house was innocuous—day-to-day life—but once in a while, she heard a nugget that was valuable.

  Such as a Highland ghost terrifying army camps in Scotland, coupled with the rumors that the French gold was still floating about.

  Conclusion—Will knew bloody well the gold was intact and he was looking into its whereabouts. What he hadn’t known was that Josette and her army of ladies also wanted it.

  Will leaned on the doorpost, folding his arms, his expression well masked. “How were ye thinking to find it? When it’s gone forever?”

  “We don’t believe it is,” Mysie said.

  Lillias spoke in anguish. “If we tell him everything, he’ll take it for himself.”

  “Now, now.” Will settled in more comfortably. “I can’t well walk off with a legend. And I’m not all that greedy. I have enough put by to live out my days in comfort.”

  “You have money on the Continent,” Josette pointed out. “Not in Scotland.”

  Will shrugged. “I’m a dead man here. My name is blazoned on the rolls of the deceased. So, no, I won’t be purchasing a grand estate and settling down in the Highlands.”

  He spoke lightly, but Josette saw bitterness in his eyes. She knew exactly why Will didn’t remain in Paris, Amsterdam, or Basel, where he could do well for himself, why he continued to return to Scotland.

  This was his home, a part of his flesh and bones. He could no more stay from here than Josette could banish herself forever from Glenna.

  “Tell me why you think the gold still exists,” Will said, sounding interested. “And why a regiment of women wants it.”

  “Ye don’t need to know why,” Lillias growled.