In the darkness, he’d held her close against his slowing heartbeat, and spoke of serious things, of his brothers and the fear her capture had caused him. Of his intentions to bring Hamish to London and have him face the military tribunal that was doubtless waiting for him. He’d told her stories of Collin Talmage, the Duke of Trenwyth. As Liam had been gaining glory on the battlefield, Trenwyth had been a secret agent, spilling blood in the dark. After Hamish’s presumed death, it turned out Trenwyth had made Liam aware of several war crimes he’d previously been ignorant of. His status as the Demon Highlander had shielded his brother from facing justice.
But justice awaited Hamish now, and it promised to be swift and merciless.
“How strange,” Mena had commented, while stroking her hands through the soft and sparse hair on Liam’s chest, enjoying the feel of his masculine skin. “That a duke like Trenwyth would be in such service to the crown. If I remember correctly, he’s something like seventeenth in line, practically a royal.”
“Trenwyth is no royal dandy. He’s one of the most dangerous men I’ve ever met, with a self-destructive streak twice as long as my own.”
“Oh, my.” Mena yawned.
“He was born a second or third son, though, and didn’t take on the mantle of duke until he’d already been in Her Majesty’s service for quite some time. I imagine Trenwyth spends little time in the field now, though, as he lost his hand on a cover mission to Afghanistan.”
“Poor soul,” Mena murmured. “Did Hamish have anything to do with it?”
“I imagine Thorne and I are about to find out.”
Though Liam was the Marquess of Ravencroft, Laird of the clan Mackenzie, and a retired lieutenant colonel, Gavin St. James, the Earl of Thorne, acted as local magistrate, and so they were both to transport Hamish as their prisoner in the morning.
Exhausted beyond physical comprehension, Mena must have fallen asleep before the part where Liam had mentioned he intended for his children, and thereby, Mena, to accompany him on the journey.
It wasn’t until an ecstatic Rhianna had accosted her in her bed, where she’d awoken alone with pillars of late-morning sun slanting in through her open windows, that she’d found out the panic-inducing news.
The dear girl exuberantly informed her that her father had accepted their grandmother’s request for them to join her in London for a few small soirees before she would whisk them off to spend Christmas in Paris and celebrate the New Year in Florence.
Mena’s reaction had been the antithesis of Rhianna’s exaltation. Nausea had risen above a haze of denial choking off her throat. The suffocating steel band of dread, of which she’d thought herself rid, had clamped back around her rib cage.
She’d barely had time to don her robe before Jani arrived with a bevy of maids to pack her things and help her dress.
Mena had penned a frantic plea for help to Farah Blackwell, Lady Northwalk, and thrust it into Jani’s hands, begging him to have it delivered to the telegraph office in Strathcarron. She’d paid him a full week’s wages, and he’d scampered off to comply.
She’d gone in search of Liam, but he and Gavin had taken Hamish to the station early to secure a locked car and spare the children the traumatic verity of his tragic return and, even worse, his eventual fate.
They’d lost him already, it wouldn’t do to see the creature he’d become.
Before she’d quite gathered her wits, Mena had quickly cleaned and dressed, the children were gathered, and they bundled into a carriage that raced down the Bealach na Bà at a dizzying and at times stomach-dropping pace.
Liam had met them at the train station, and Mena’s fraying composure faltered at the knee-weakening sight of him. His welcoming smile never reached his haunted eyes. Though his hand had covertly found hers as they’d made their way to the private car, and he pressed his palm against hers with a meaningful deference. Whether he gave reassurance or sought it, Mena couldn’t be certain. Either way, it only served to fuel her dread.
Jani had been there, assuring her the telegram had been delivered to London posthaste.
The news did little to uncurl the fingers of dread threatening to squeeze her heart into stillness, which would be preferable to these constant, breathless palpitations of anxiety.
She’d done what she could to keep her growing panic from the Mackenzies and Jani. Much of the journey was spent indulging the children with descriptions of London.
Barraged with endless questions, Liam did take the time to tell her about their town house off Oxford Street overlooking Hyde Park.
“I want to go to the marina to look at warships.” Andrew’s blue eyes had gleamed with relish. “And to see the Egyptian exhibit at the British Museum!”
“I want to attend a real opera, and a ballet, and a play at Covent Gardens. Oh! And then one at Vauxhall Gardens! And we have to go to a real Russian tearoom; and a Turkish bath, they’re all the rage, Father.”
“And I am going to try my hand at gambling,” Andrew speculated.
“You most certainly will not,” Mena indignantly chimed in.
“Why not?” Andrew threw his father a plaintive look. “’Tis a gentlemanly pursuit,” he argued as he drew his wiry frame to a more erect posture, trying to take advantage of every inch that he’d sprouted in the past few months.
“Sorry, son,” Liam rumbled as he shook his head and hid a smile.
“They willna let a whelp like ye in the clubs, ye have to be a man first.” Rhianna elbowed him in the ribs. “Like Jani.”