Sleepless in Scotland Read online

  A person’s political inclinations determined how he viewed the newspaper she wrote for and her columns. She was a heroic social crusader to some but a troublemaking demon to others. She didn’t know for certain, but she could only imagine Captain Bell was firmly in the Tory camp. His father, having made his fortune in Baltimore, had returned from America on the eve of the revolution there. And the son had proven his value in the battlefield and now served as a high-level administrator in Fife. It would only make sense that they would be on opposite ends of the political spectrum with regard to support for the government.

  “Your uncle’s wife, Gwyneth Douglas Pennington, isn’t she a novelist?” he asked.

  His statement surprised and relieved her. Captain Bell knew of her aunt’s writing, and she heard no hint of scorn or condemnation in his voice. Gwyneth’s work was published pseudonymously, but the subject of her writing was far less problematic than Phoebe’s.

  “Yes, for many years she’s been quite successful with her adventure novels. How did you know about it?”

  “Sarah was a great fan of her work,” he told her. “So is my mother.”

  “Of course. I knew that.” Phoebe had given her friend some of those novels and arranged for Sarah to meet Gwyneth at Baronsford when her aunt and uncle were visiting. But it surprised her to know that Captain Bell was familiar with his sister and mother’s choice of authors and books.

  “Is that what you do? Write romantic adventures?”

  Phoebe decided evasion was in order. If that’s what he thought, it was close enough to the truth. In any event, it would have to do. “My aunt has always been my idol, but I’m only at the start of my calling. I’m still feeling my way, as it were.”

  He nodded but didn’t seem convinced. “But you haven’t mentioned any of this to your family?”

  “I have. Well, I mean they know of my aspirations. They’ve encouraged me to pursue it on some level. There is a collection of fables in Baronsford’s library right now that I put together from the stories Ohenewaa told us.”

  “Ohenewaa?”

  “She was a freed African woman who was a grandmother to all of us as we grew up.” Phoebe never forgot how happy her mother had been when she presented the printed collection to her. “What my family doesn’t know is that I foolishly put myself in such grave danger in Edinburgh that night. I went there to gain firsthand knowledge of the Vaults. It was a mistake.”

  She saw no reason to draw Millie into any of this. Phoebe slid her hands along the embroidered belt that ran beneath her breasts and looked along the path. She couldn’t remain in one place. Pacing suited her restless nature, especially when she didn’t care to tell the absolute truth.

  “Would you care to walk, Lady Phoebe?”

  “That would be very nice. I love the scent of flowers in the evening, don’t you? You have lovely gardens at Bellhorne. The roses should be blooming at this time of the year, I believe.”

  “They are,” he said, falling in beside her. “But you wouldn’t be thinking of changing the topic, I hope.”

  “No, of course not.”

  They walked in silence for a moment. The music in the ballroom had stopped, and in the distance, the faint yipping of a brood of young foxes could be heard.

  “Going into the Vaults was more reckless than anything I’ve ever done.” Her words were heartfelt, and she hoped he recognized that. “And you found me. You must know how terrified I was. I know how close I came to catastrophe. I’ll never do that again. I assure you.”

  They reached a wall at the bottom of the garden. In the orchard beyond, apple trees stood in neat rows like burly night sentinels.

  “You don’t know how close you came,” the captain said brusquely. “A man was killed there that same night.”

  “A man?” Her nightmares abruptly became reality. Had she saved the lad only to have him be caught again? “Was he old? Young?”

  “I don’t know his age.” He pressed a fist into his other hand. “The murder was discovered by a constable the next day as two men were carrying the body through Cowgate toward the medical college.”

  Her chin dropped, and she stared at the dark paving stones between his boots and her skirts. Duncan had warned her, but she’d heard before about the villainy and dangers lurking in every shadow. Life lost its value when you ventured into those catacombs and the twisting alleyways surrounding it. But the warnings hadn’t dissuaded her from going.

  Her thoughts cleared. She’d battled only one man.

  “Two men?” she asked.

  “Workmen. Not the murderers.”

  “Horrible. I . . .” Words seemed insignificant in the face of something so awful. She wanted to know if the boy she fought for had been the victim, but there was no way for her to find out. And what difference would it make? A human being had died.

  “The men said they found the body in an alcove not far from the place where your attacker approached you.”

  Unexpected tears threatened to break free, but she fought them back and looked away.

  “The throat was slashed. That was enough to cause the victim’s death. But then the murderer made another cut, from the chin to the navel.”

  Her hand flew to her neck. Her wounds were healing, but the memory of those moments in the dark passageway—the hot panic, the fight for the boy’s life and then her own—wasn’t fading. And now, to learn what happened afterward stung her badly. She’d fought a battle only to find out later she’d lost.

  The captain injected no added drama into his voice. The facts were harsh enough.

  “Over the past three years, I’ve learned of or seen with my own eyes over a dozen corpses with the same wounds. All of them were found in the Vaults or in the wynds of Cowgate and Canongate. All in the same vicinity. And these are just the bodies that were recovered before they could be sold and dissected by anatomists. I have no way of knowing exactly how many have died by the same hand.”

  Her stomach churned. She recalled the impression of malevolence when the man passed, before she knew him for what he was. She felt the evil he exuded.

  “Someone is killing in a consistent manner?” she asked, unable to ignore a chill that had taken root in her very bones. Whatever horrors had infected her dreams, they were nothing compared to this grim assertion. “One person is doing all of those killings?”

  “Yes. A coldblooded hunter who is manic enough to leave a distinct mark. A signature, so to speak.”

  Phoebe turned away from him, trying to force air into her lungs. After the incident in the Vaults and the exchange of only a few words with Ian, the vague idea of a criminal underbelly existing in the world became an ugly and horrifying reality. She had grappled with a murderer.

  She was relieved when she felt him press his hand into the small of her back, steering her back toward the house.

  “I’ve said too much, Lady Phoebe. I apologize for telling you all of this.”

  His candid description only now struck her as surprising. How many men, she wondered, would have been so blunt? So graphic? Women were to be sheltered from the sordid and the horrific.

  “Do not apologize. I was there, Captain. The man I fought with, he could surely have been the killer. He could have been responsible for the other man’s death. For all those other deaths.”

  His hand remained on her back, a gentle caress giving her support and comfort through the layers of her dress.

  She wondered if any person had seen another attack, someone who’d been as close as she was. Someone who could identify him. For a moment, it had been only the two of them, predator and prey. She’d felt this killer’s knife slashing toward her throat. But the Vaults were too dark, the moment too frenzied. She’d been too blinded by fear and the need to fight to look at his face. But he saw her.

  She glanced out into the night. He could be out there in the darkness now. Waiting to strike. To finish what he’d begun.

  The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps Sarah had been the victim
of this same man. But she was hesitant to ask, unwilling to dig at wounds Ian was still nursing.

  They paused by the door leading into the house, and Phoebe felt an odd sense of loss when he removed his hand from her back.

  “This tragedy is only one incident amid a morass of corruption and murder that is rampant in the rookeries of Edinburgh.” His face was in shadow. “I don’t know what your novel pertains to. But please, don’t ever, ever, place yourself in such danger again.”

  Captain Bell had kept her secret. He hadn’t exposed Phoebe to her family. He believed the partial truth she’d told him. She was grateful for that. But it was his concern that touched her more deeply than she would ever have imagined. She felt the emotion—the pain—that laced his words. He was thinking also of his sister, Sarah.

  “I am sorry,” she said softly, touching his arm. “I’ve said a great deal, but nothing excuses what happened.”

  She stared at his chest, not trusting herself to look into his eyes. Sadness, like some hot poker, wedged itself into her breast and pried loose a long-buried regret; she’d not had the courage to speak the words in her heart at Sarah’s funeral.

  “The most upsetting part of all of this right now is knowing what I’ve done to you. Of dragging up bitter memories. For that, I can offer no excuse. Sarah was my friend. I loved her dearly. But then the tragedy struck. She was in our lives one day, and the next, she was gone.” She heard her voice quaking. His face wavered in her vision as tears burned her eyes. “Whatever feelings of loss I had, I know they were nothing compared to what you suffered. The prolonged search for her. And then . . . the day of the funeral . . . seeing how you suffered.”

  A single tear broke free and found a path down her cheek. Another followed, and she dashed them away.

  He pulled her roughly into his arms, and she went willingly. Her hands found their way around his middle. Her face pressed against his heart.

  The workings of her disposition—how she felt and even acted—were always so extreme. Right now, her heart ached because of what he’d suffered, because of what she’d made him suffer.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t intend to dredge up the tragedy of Sarah’s death.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. You cared for her,” he said in low voice. “Do you think she’s ever far from my thoughts?”

  “No,” Phoebe murmured. “How could she be?”

  Ian caressed her back and then, taking hold of her arms, pushed her just far enough away to look into her face.

  “Promise me you’ll never again put yourself in that kind of danger.”

  “I promise.”

  They stood still, his hands on her arms, their bodies so close.

  And suddenly, the rest of the world ceased to exist. There was Ian. His face, with its hard edges and rugged lines. She saw tenderness and vulnerability in his eyes. She’d longed for this moment for much of her life.

  Before she could even think to stop herself, Phoebe raised her hand to his cheek. She felt the rough shadow of whiskers, and then the tips of her fingers moved to his lips. They were surprisingly soft. Their gazes locked, and she saw hunger in his eyes.

  She withdrew her hand, knowing she’d gone too far. “I shouldn’t have—”

  He crushed her lips beneath his, silencing her. Phoebe’s palms pressed against his chest, but her body wouldn’t muster the strength to push him away. It had been so long since she’d felt a spark from any man’s kiss, but never had she felt the scorching heat that Ian ignited in her now.

  He deepened the kiss and her knees grew weak. She leaned back against the stone walls of the building. He followed, pressing against her. Excitement blazed a delicious path through her veins. She wanted him even closer. Her hands moved up and slipped around his neck, and she molded her soft curves against his hard, powerful body.

  The dreams of youth were back. Far too many times she’d imagined this, pictured herself wrapped in Ian’s embrace, protected by the shadows of the night, lost in the passion of their kiss.

  Phoebe knew the moment a sense of urgency seized him. His arms tightened around her. The pressure of his lips increased, and she melted into the kiss. His tongue was soft and insistent, and she opened to him as he started sampling, tasting, learning the texture of her mouth.

  Never before had her body burned like this, seared by the mere touch of lips and tongue. Never before had she wanted more of this. And she wanted it now. Her tongue responded to his, becoming bolder by the moment as his taste, his scent, the pressure of his body dazed her. The heat, the raw desire growing within her was unlike anything she’d ever imagined.

  Phoebe didn’t even hear the sound until Ian broke off the kiss abruptly and stepped back. Two people were approaching along the path from the ballroom. They were talking and laughing. Ian stood staring silently into her eyes, and she burned with excitement, nearly overwhelmed by what had just happened.

  The intruders stopped at the entrance to the garden when the music began again. The two were here to stay.

  “I have to go to Bellhorne for a few days,” Ian told her, his voice sounding strained.

  “I’ll be returning to Edinburgh at the end of this week.” She didn’t know what made her speak so candidly about her plans. Yes, she did. She was offering him a chance to call on her if he chose to.

  “Edinburgh, it is, then.” A smile tugged at his lip. “Will you promise not to cause any trouble or put yourself in any danger until I get back?”

  He was asking too much of her. She still had an inflammatory article to write. And she still needed Mr. Leech’s information.

  “Until you get back,” she promised.

  * * *

  The wind, foul with the dead salt smells of the harbor and fish, whipped across the darkened town, yanking at shutters and roofs of thatch and scattering the sleep of those huddled within. Windows rattled fiercely, as if marauders from the marshes were beating at the panes, threatening entry. Children clung to each other in their beds and cried out that the death crone had come. Ragged clouds scudded across the face of the dying moon, and out in the raging sea, battered sailing men clung to crude miniatures of loved ones while their ships rose and fell, shuddered and groaned. If this was summer, what evil would descend with the bitter northern blasts of winter.

  But monsters did not roam abroad. They dwelled within.

  He pushed the papers on the table away and rose to secure the window latch. It had been a night not much different from this one when he began his journey. When he first heard them.

  You’ve been chosen. Avenge us.

  He’d not yet reached his fifteenth birthday when he stumbled out into the dark street to answer the summons.

  The man came into his path by accident, stumbling from the tavern. The sounds of carousing followed him out the door, but the drunkard came alone.

  His knife burned in his hand. It was the same tool he used to sharpen his pens, trim the wick. But when the voices called, it took on new life. It was Excalibur, the claymore of the Wallace, the sword of Drogheda.

  Avenge us.

  As he drew the blade across the drunkard’s throat, he felt the Fire of the Ages ignite within him. Power surged through his veins. The sweet, copper smell of blood flooded his senses, overwhelming the foul odor of the bog.

  Finish. Mark him. As they did to us. Mark him.

  He left the mark. And it was done.

  Until they spoke to him, the Chosen, again. And again. And again . . .

  Chapter 5

  Bellhorne Castle, Fife

  At the top of the rise, Ian reined in his mount and looked south toward the distant Firth of Forth, glistening under the noonday sun. Taking off his hat, he breathed in the smell of the first haying as he waited for his estate manager, Mr. Raeburn, to catch up.

  He’d grown up on this land. He knew every field and lane, every sparkling brook and every green glen. He knew every tenant and every fisherman in the village. Bellhorne was his home.

  He’d left it fo
r the first time during the wars. Purchasing a commission in the cavalry, Ian had served “with distinction” in Germany and Denmark and then on the Peninsula. Badly wounded and taken by the French at Talavera, he’d only learned of his father’s passing after he was released. So he’d come home to Bellhorne to recover and take over the duties that went along with running a vast estate. And that included the care of his mother and sister.

  The horrors of war, however, had left deep wounds to his spirit that continued to pain him long after his body had healed. Riding through these hills and fields provided his only escape.

  Day and night, through every season and every kind of weather, he’d push his horse at breakneck speeds in an effort to exhaust himself. What he’d witnessed and done in the wars, what he’d suffered in the French prison at Lille, continued to haunt his sleep. But the pain that plagued him then was nothing compared to what Sarah’s loss brought later.

  After her murder, this land that had once been imbued with memories of youthful innocence became a sharp and constant reminder of his sister and how he’d failed to protect her.

  And now he had only his mother left.

  Ian forced his attention to the north end of the valley that led down to the fishing village. The four connected towers of Bellhorne Castle were just visible above the trees of surrounding deer park. He was sure that Fiona Bell would already be on the terrace overlooking the beloved garden, arranging roses she’d just cut to grace their dinner table.

  As sweet as the roses she cherished, his mother was even more fragile in body and mind.

  Ian wasn’t looking forward to dinner, but he saw it as his duty. Everything at Bellhorne was now arranged to maintain the delusional world in which his mother lived. And that included keeping her away from all but a limited number of neighbors and friends who were party to the elaborate charade.

  Ian’s gaze wandered down to the meadow bordering the loch, and the painful knot in his chest grew in size. It was there that he taught Sarah to ride when she was not yet five. On so many cold, wet mornings, they’d fished that loch together, cut off from the rest of the world by Fife’s heavy mists. He expelled a long breath.