Adventures of a Scottish Heiress Page 3
Oh, yes, she had engineered her running away as carefully as her father plotted shipping schedules. In another day or two, they would arrive at Amleth Hall, the seat of her mother’s clan, the Davidsons, in the Highlands. Her mother’s people would take her in, and fortune-hunting Robert could kiss her money good-bye.
Of course, she did have a pang of conscience over her poor papa worrying about her…but she also had a healthy respect for his ire. The smartest course she could take was to place plenty of England between herself and him…or would he even notice her missing?
He was so besotted with his “duchess,” especially now that she carried his “son,” it seemed he had little care for Lyssa anymore. Yes, she was three and twenty, and the Duchess was right, she should think about marriage—but Lyssa wanted to pick her own husband. And she missed how close she and her father used to be.
His new wife had stepped in between them. She’d pushed Lyssa’s father to force her out for a Season when Lyssa felt too old and too awkward. She’d orchestrated the courtship with Robert and had campaigned for Lyssa’s father to accept the marriage offer over Lyssa’s protests.
And all the while, she had expected Lyssa to befriend her. She’d even wanted Lyssa to call her Frances. Lyssa would never do that. To do so would be admitting that the Duchess had taken her mother’s place—and Lyssa would not let her.
Now, as Lyssa listened to the night chirping of frogs and crickets, she felt she had finally had the last say—no marriage. At least, not to Viscount Grossett…or anyone else of her stepmother’s choosing.
“It is time for sleep,” Abrams announced, returning to the ring of light around the campfire. He’d gone off in the woods for a moment alone. He would sleep in front of the fire while the women climbed into the cramped quarters of the red and purple painted wagon.
Duci and Lyssa rose dutifully; Madame Linka, however, did not move. Instead, puffing her pipe, she said, “I need my cards.”
Duci looked at Madame Linka in surprise. “Now?”
“Yes. I must read Viveka’s future. The time is at hand.” “Viveka” was Madame’s name for Lyssa. Duci had told her it meant “little woman.” The name pleased Lyssa, and since she didn’t want anyone to know her identity until she was safe in the arms of the Davidson clan, she continued to use it. Even Abrams and Duci called her by this name.
“It is late, Madame,” Abrams protested wearily. “We have a long day ahead of us on the morrow. Certainly this can wait?”
“No. Now.”
The tone in her voice brooked no argument. The hairs tingled at the back of Lyssa’s neck and she knew she wasn’t alone. Duci’s eyes widened and even Abrams appeared surprised. From the beginning of the trip, Lyssa had been begging Madame Linka for a reading. She’d even offered to pay a goodly sum—and been refused.
So why did Madame wish to do one now?
Abrams did not question his mother a second time. “I will fetch your tray and your cards.”
While her husband climbed into the wagon, Duci asked, “Do you wish a drink of gin, madame?”
Madame Linka shook her head. “Sit here, Viveka. I need you to watch my hands move over the cards.”
Lyssa sat on the log stool across from Madame’s chair. They were as close to the fire as they could be for the light. Abrams set up a folding table and then reverently handed Madame her tarot. He was very proud of this ability of hers. He’d told Lyssa that Madame had predicted his meeting Duci and everything else of importance in his life. He said she’d once given a reading for the king of Spain, who’d been so taken with what her cards had revealed, he’d gifted her with the gold ring that hung on a chain around her neck.
Madame removed the deck from their velvet box. “Here, Viveka, shuffle the cards.”
“For how long?”
“You will know,” was the enigmatic reply.
Lyssa’s fingers trembled in anticipation. The tarot were more than ordinary cards. Abrams had told her this set had been handed down from one fortune-teller to another amongst his tribe. No one knew how old the cards were, but they could only be given to one who had the “gift.” The medieval characters on the faces were hand painted, and the gilded edges and bright colors of the cards, with their legends in French and Arabic, had been dulled by the passage of time.
The large size of the cards made shuffling difficult. Lyssa shuffled once, then started to shuffle again but stopped. A whisper of a voice in the recesses of her mind said This is enough.
Lyssa set the stack of cards facedown on the table.
Madame Linka smiled. “Good.”
Duci and Abrams had pulled up a log for seats for themselves. Now, they held their breath just as Lyssa did as Madame lifted the top card from the deck and place it and two other cards face down.
“This is the Past,” Madame said. “Here is the Present.” She laid a row of three cards beneath the first. Then, she took the next card off the deck and pressed it into Lyssa’s hands. “This is your Future. Hold it tightly and do not look until I am ready.”
Lyssa nodded, conscious of the power of the card in her hand.
“Why do you not give her three cards for her Future like you have for the Past and Present, Mama?” Duci asked. “I have not seen you do this before.”
“I do as the cards bid,” Madame replied dismissively and turned over the first card in the row signifying Lyssa’s past. Her eyebrows came up and she made a soft sound of acknowledgement. “The Seven of Cups.” Her dark gaze met Lyssa’s. “The Lord of Debauch.”
Lyssa stared at the drawing of seven cups spilling their contents into what appeared to be a river of wine. “What does it mean?”
“That you have been surrounded by a multitude of many pleasures in your past. Pleasures that perhaps you don’t trust and may even fear.”
“This is true,” Lyssa whispered under her breath. She did fear the ton, their many excesses, their different codes of conduct and double standards. In spite of her father’s wealth and the grand home and beautiful clothes, she preferred a simpler life. Her books were her most valued possessions. Nor did she like the idea of being married to a husband who thought about nothing but spending money. She wanted a man like her father had been, one who had cherished the memory of his wife, until he became besotted of that woman.
Madame turned over the second card. Her smile turned grim as if she were not surprised. Ten silver staffs crisscrossed yellow-orange flames. “The Lord of Oppression. You have felt frustrated, angry. You want to be free.”
“I want to find my roots,” Lyssa acknowledged. “I want to meet my mother’s clan.” She leaned forward. “Will I?”
“We still have a card in your past,” Madame replied and flipped over the last in the row with the tip of her nail. A huge wheel covered the face of the card. Tapping the card, Madame said, “The wheel of fortune turns and we poor mortals struggle.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why. There is abundance enough for all in the world. This card holds the secret of turning events to your advantage. And that is what you have done in leaving your past.”
Reverend Billows might claim fortune-telling was nonsense and even heresy but Lyssa felt immense relief that the cards seemed to be saying she’d made the right decision when she ran away.
Smiling now, Madame flipped over the first card of Lyssa’s Present and then frowned.
Duci gasped and said, “Death.” Abrams crossed himself.
Lyssa did not like the picture of a grinning skeleton that appeared to be dancing on a grave. “What does it mean?”
“Nothing like what you fear it does,” Madame hurried to assure her. “When Death appears, it means there will be a change in your life, the kind of change that will alter you forever.”
“Well, that’s what I have right now,” Lyssa responded, relieved.
Madame shook her head. “No. Death would be in your Past if that were its meaning. Here, it is telling us something completely different. The change is now. This moment…and something
beyond our simple camp.”
Lyssa glanced around at the darkness beyond the ring of firelight. Was it her imagination or did the shadow of the fir trees seem closer and more looming than before? She looked back to Madame. “My father—?”
“You will not be with us much longer.” Madame did not wait but overturned the next card. What it revealed was even more alarming.
“The Hanged Man,” Abrams said. The card was of the figure of a man hanging upside down from a tree branch. His hands appeared tied behind his back.
Madame Linka nodded. “You are vulnerable, Viveka,” she said, her raspy voice menacing in the silence. “Whatever will be, you must accept. Your destiny is at hand and you must find strength within to meet it.”
Lyssa did not like this fortune…especially when deep in her bones she sensed an element of truth, of warning.
Madame turned over the third card of the Present. A naked woman sat astride a giant creature that was half lion, half man. The woman’s head was tilted back as if in joy, one hand raised toward a shining star. The card made Lyssa uncomfortable, yet there was power in the strength of the girl’s legs hugging the creature.
The card upset Madame Linka.
She started muttering to herself in Romany and pushed the cards on the tray before her, attempting to create a new alignment. Duci and Abrams understood what she was saying. They exchanged glances and Duci touched the cross hanging from the leather tie at her throat.
“What is it?” Lyssa asked. “What do you see? Why are you upset?”
Madame raised dark, concerned eyes to her. “The cards do not speak sense,” she said, her voice full of foreboding.
Lyssa reached toward the card of the woman. “What is the meaning of this card?”
With a sharp gesture, Madame pushed Lyssa’s hand away. Then, reverently, she placed the card in a row, flanked by Death and the Hanged Man. She held her palms over the cards as if they radiated some hidden power only she could divine.
An owl hooted in the night. A sudden wind picked up energy and swept through the small camp, giving the fire’s flames new life. There was the snap and cracking sound of green wood being burned.
Lyssa leaned toward Madame. “What does it mean?”
“It is Lust,” Madame answered.
The way the woman in the card sat on the manlion’s back took on a new significance. Lyssa’s mouth went dry.
Madame tapped Death. “Change is now. Here. Soon. What was will be no more.” Her pointed finger moved to the Hanged Man. “You are to meet your destiny. You must have courage, Viveka.”
“And Lust?” What was its meaning? Lyssa had to know.
“You must use your powers,” Madame said. “You must take hold of the moment and find strength. Joyously accept what is to come.”
Lyssa tightened her grasp on the card in her hand—her future. “What is to come?”
“Show me,” Madame said with a grave sincerity as if she accepted all possibilities.
She held out her hand but Lyssa did not want to surrender the card to her. Instead, she looked first. The picture was that of a galloping horse, its eyes wide. A runaway.
On its back rode a knight holding a sword high over his head as if ready to attack.
“What is it?” Madame demanded, her eyes angry.
Lyssa turned the card face around to show the others.
“The Knight of Swords,” Madame whispered and then repeated the words as if she did not quite believe what she said. “This does not bode good. He is a dangerous man, one who is intelligent and yet clever and subtle. You will not know his true intentions until he reveals them to you.”
“You are saying I will meet this man?” Lyssa questioned.
“Yes. The sword in his hand will enable him to cut to the heart of a thing and sometimes, Viveka, you will not be comfortable with what he reveals. Beware the darkest qualities of this card. This man can be ruthless. He is an angry man who, for his own reasons, searches for truth. Be careful…for he is a man who sees everything.”
“How do I protect myself, Madame?”
The seer’s gaze met hers. “You can’t.”
“Then what am I to do?”
“Accept.” Madame’s features softened in understanding. She lifted the card of the woman riding the man creature. “Lust will give you strength. You face danger. Do not shy away. Use the Knight, Viveka. Use your woman-power to make him your protector. But treat him with caution.”
For a moment, Lyssa couldn’t speak. There was a tightness in her chest, a sense of looming misfortune…and after she’d prided herself on everything going so smoothly. “Will I see Amleth Hall?”
“The cards do not say.”
Smoke rose from the green wood in the fire. The wind blew it in Lyssa’s direction. “I almost wish I had never asked for a reading,” she confessed.
Madame leaned forward and lightly touched Lyssa’s cheek. “You can’t escape your fate, Viveka. Trust the Knight, but beware his sword.”
Lyssa nodded, rubbing her thumb along the gilt edge of the card.
It was Abrams who broke the somberness of the moment. “Let us not be too grim, eh?” he said. He rose, offering his wife a hand up as he did so. “The future can wait until the morrow. Tonight, I need my sleep.”
Madame nodded. “You are right, my son, and very wise. Come, Viveka. You will dream tonight and, in the morning, tell me every detail. Then perhaps we shall know more.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep,” Lyssa answered.
“Keep the card close,” Duci advised. “Your Knight will protect you.”
She said the words in earnest and yet they sounded strange, because, for a moment, it had been the Knight that had frightened Lyssa. Her uncertainties dissipating, Lyssa laughed at her own gullibility. Neither Reverend Billows nor her father would be pleased.
Madame rose. Duci gathered the cards while her husband put away the folding chair and the reading table. No one seemed to notice that Lyssa still had the Knight of Swords. She stole a look at it and then turned to secretly tuck it into her bodice—
And that is when he appeared.
He stepped out of the darkness into the waning firelight, as if appearing out of nowhere.
For a second, Lyssa thought her eyes deceived her. No man could be so tall, so broad of shoulders. Smoke from the fire swirled around his hard-muscled legs. His dark hair was overlong and he wore a coat the color of cobalt with a scarf wrapped around his neck in a careless fashion that would have done any dandy proud. His leather breeches had seen better days and molded themselves to his thighs like gloves. A pistol was stuck in his belt and his eyes beneath the brim of his hat were those of a man who had seen too much.
Here was her Knight come to life.
He spoke. “Miss Harrell?” His voice rumbled from a source deep within. It was the voice of command.
Lyssa lifted her chin, all too aware that her knees were shaking. “What do you want?”
The stranger smiled, the expression one of grim satisfaction. “I’m from your father. He wants you home.”
Chapter Three
IAN was well pleased with himself. His entrance had been perfect—especially his waiting until after the card-reading mumbo jumbo. At the sight of him, the self-named “Gypsies” turned tail and scattered off into the woods. They knew the game was over. But best of all, the headstrong Miss Harrell stared up at him as if he were the devil incarnate.
Good.
This task was turning out to be easier than he’d anticipated.
With a coin slipped here and there in the dark corners of London, he’d learned of a wealthy young woman who had hired some “Gypsies” to transport her to Scotland. Supposedly, the heiress was to stay hidden in the wagon, but after time, she had felt safe enough to show herself along the road and thus became very easy to track. More than one person, upon seeing the miniature, told Ian that the young lady’s red hair was a hard thing to forget—especially among dark-haired gypsies.
And her clothing would catch anyone’s eye. It was as if she were an opera dancer dressed for the role of “Gypsy”…except the cut and cloth of her costume was of the finest stuff. The green superfine wool of her full gypsy skirt swayed with her every movement. Her fashionably low white muslin blouse was cinched at the waist with a black laced belt and served to emphasize the full swell of her breasts. She must have had some sense of modesty, because she demurely topped off the outfit with shawl of plaid that she wore proudly over one shoulder.
He was surprised she didn’t have hoops in her ears.
Her awestruck silence was short-lived. She tossed back her curls, ignored his hand, and announced, “I’m not going with you.”
“Yes, you are,” Ian countered reasonably. “Your father is paying me a great deal of money to see you home safe, and see you home safe I will. Now come along. Your maid is waiting at an inn down the road with decent clothes for you to wear.”
Her straight brows, so much like her father’s, snapped together in angry suspicion. “You’re Irish.”
Ian’s insides tightened. Bloody little snob. But he kept his patience. “Aye, I am,” he said, letting the brogue he usually took pains to avoid grow heavier. “One of them and proud of it.”
She straightened to her full height. She was taller than he had anticipated and regal in her bearing. Pride radiated from every pore. A fitting daughter to Pirate Harrell. “I don’t believe you are from my father. He would never hire an Irishman.”
“Well, he hired me,” Ian replied flatly, dropping the exaggerated brogue. He rested a hand on the strap of the knapsack flung over one shoulder. “The others couldn’t find you. I have. Now, are you going to cooperate with me, Miss Harrell, or shall we do this the hard way? In case you are wondering, your father wants you home by any means I deem necessary.”