Page 125 of My Highland Love

“And what about this puppy?” Price motioned to Steven.

Marcus looked at Steven.

“I, too, will be waiting at the Josephine.” His expression hardened. “I wish to see my sister before she returns to Scotland.”

Price looked at Marcus. “You will sail on the Josephine?”

“Aye.”

“And you”—he turned again to Steven—”will remain here to deal with me.” Steven didn't reply, and Price said, “Let us adjourn to the library and explain how poor Elise was so out of her head she forgot her husband in Scotland. You can assure them you have no interest in her fortune.”

“This woman leaves with us tonight,” Marcus said.

For the second time that evening, Price showed a flicker of emotion. “A woman in her condition shouldn't to be moved.”

Marcus shook his head. “I will not arrive tomorrow evening to find my sick wife dead.”

“It's unlikely she will die. The only real thing wrong with her is malnutrition. That and the laudanum.”

“Is malnutrition the only thing wrong with Elise?”

“Elise is quite well.”

“Alive and well?” Marcus pressed, maintaining a firm grip on his fury.

“Very much alive.”

“Then let us speak with your guests. Steven will remain here.”

“Of course,” Price said, and opened the door for Marcus.

At nine o'clock that night, Marcus settled the woman impersonating his wife into the carriage, then assisted the maid, who would tend to her on the short ride to the Josephine, into the carriage. He strode to his horse and took the reins from Steven. They mounted, then urged their horses after the carriage. They remained silent until long after leaving the estate.

“He has no intention of allowing you to return to the Josephine tomorrow evening,” Steven said in a low voice.

“Aye,” Marcus replied, and lapsed back into silence.

* * *

Elise started awake, her eyesight finding and fixing on the sliver of light that jabbed beneath her door into the darkness of her cell. The stench of sweat, urine, and blood met her nostrils. Hers, she realized with a clarity she hadn't experienced in weeks. Memories washed over her in a tidal wave.

Scotland. The carriage careening down the road. Shots fired. Price. Price was in Scotland! No—he had been in Scotland—he—they—were now in America. He had brought her back to Boston. He waylaid her coach. She squeezed her eyes shut. Six—seven men murdered in cold blood. And Mary—the memory of the girl's pleas for mercy as Price forced her into the carriage left Elise as cold now as they had then. Mary was the informer Marcus sought.

Marcus. Elise sobbed. He believed her dead. She ceased crying. She was dead. She had signed her death warrant when she signed over her shares in Landen Shipping. But the death of the unborn child he had used to coerce her now stirred something within her.

The child is dead! she mentally screamed. Price has no more hold over you.

He wanted her dead. Yet, his affirmation, when she demanded to know if he knew Robert had been poisoning Amelia, had shaken her in a way she hadn't thought possible. He had looked out through those expressionless eyes and answered “Of course” in that cool voice her mother had so loved.

The stirring flared into anger, and with anger came the realization her mind was free. No one had come the previous night to administer another dose of laudanum. She hesitated. Was this the next day? Perhaps two, three, or five days had passed. She couldn't know. But she could think, could find out. Was she strong enough to leave this place? Her heart skipped a beat. Was she strong enough to even rise from this putrid pallet?

Elise took a deep breath, then pushed up to a sitting position. Her pulse raced. The movement had been effortless. Could she—she shoved to her feet. She tripped, one foot having landed on the floor, the other on the pallet, and she stumbled sideways, slamming into the wall. She slid to the floor, head swimming.

“Too fast,” she told herself between the gasps for breath she prayed was fear and not lasting effects of the laudanum.

Her pulse slowed and she, at last, rose. Her head remained clear, despite the lurch of her stomach with the first step. She halted, waited a moment, then, eyes fixed on the light, she edged forward until her fingers touched the cold steel of the door.

* * *