Page 11

I wasn’t concerned at first when Bonnie Brock didn’t pay us a call the following morning as he’d threatened to.

After all, the scoundrel did prefer to keep us off guard, usually appearing when we least expected him.

I even wondered if he might be attending service somewhere, as we would normally be doing on a Sunday morning.

Instead, we slept late and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast in bed with Emma.

It was true, she didn’t seem to appreciate our bruises and scrapes, but Gage and I were both more than willing to endure the discomfort her feet and elbows and head caused us just to hear her laughter and absorb her snuggles.

Our coughing upon first rising had been horrible, as our lungs seemed to seek to expel everything that had settled in them overnight, but once the worst was over, my chest felt less tight.

Even so, I allowed Bree to dose us with the tincture Dr. Graham had left for us, much to her relief.

Anderley also cleaned the area around the sutures in Gage’s arm and changed the dressing.

Any sign of angry redness and we were supposed to send for the surgeon, but thus far it was healing nicely.

Though when Gage finally confessed how sore the entire appendage was—for, indeed, he was doing a dreadful job of concealing it—we convinced him to at least wear a sling to cradle it and ease some of the discomfort.

Around midday, we rose to dress and prepare ourselves for the day, correctly guessing we were going to be inundated with callers.

Some we genuinely welcomed, for they were friends and acquaintances we trusted were sincerely anxious for our well-being.

Others were little more than curious gawkers, feigning concern in order to collect the latest gossip.

If I’d had a choice, I would have barred entrance to them.

I’d been subjected to enough captious interlopers and malicious scandalmongering earlier in my life.

I had no desire to face it now. But sometimes one had to endure the presence of others in order to avoid the appearance of slighting them and risking greater scrutiny and criticism later.

Such were the social constructs of polite society, and the irony of the term, for in my experience, it was anything but polite.

There were always people eager to find fault with others, and my awkwardness and “unnatural” tendencies had made me an easy target.

Of course, it was also those same “unnatural” tendencies that made me a fascination to others, and a highly sought-after portrait artist. In the months following my first inquiry with Gage, my paintings had suddenly become desirable, and I’d been offered numerous commissions to capture various members of society and the wealthier merchant class on canvas.

However, a year ago I’d decided to decline them all, instead focusing on the paintings for my upcoming exhibition.

Contrarily, this only seemed to make people even more impatient to commission me to paint a portrait for them.

That day alone, I was pressed no less than three times.

A fact that did not please me but irritated me and made me even more anxious about what was to come.

For I was certain these same people would not appreciate the collection I intended to show.

In truth, they would very likely be offended.

Feeling unequal to the task of receiving yet another round of well-wishers, I pleaded fatigue and retreated from the drawing room, leaving Gage to contend with them.

But rather than climbing the stairs to our bedchamber, I slipped into the servants’ staircase and descended to the morning room.

I’d noted through the windows that the sun was shining this afternoon, and I’d decided that what I needed most was to feel its warm rays upon my face.

Pushing open the French doors, I stepped out onto the raised terrace, closing the doors softly behind me.

Inhaling deeply, I welcomed the scents of freshly turned earth and green things returning to life.

The gardeners had been at work out here the previous week, readying the beds for spring.

Here and there, small green shoots could be seen peeking from the soil.

In a few weeks, the daffodils, irises, and hyacinths would bloom in brilliant yellows, blues, and purples, and in another two months the white trellises would be covered with pastel roses.

For now, there was only the tantalizing promise of what was to come.

I lifted my gaze to the robin’s-egg blue sky, its expanse swept with mare’s tail clouds.

It all somehow seemed more vivid to me today, more brilliant than I could recall.

This undoubtedly had something to do with my brush with death, but I didn’t want to think of that now.

I merely wanted to enjoy the simple beauty all around me, even in the intricate wearing of the pale stone of the walls and buildings and the glint of the black railings.

I couldn’t exactly say that I was surprised when I lowered my gaze and discovered I was no longer alone.

Truthfully, somewhere deep inside me I thought I’d almost anticipated his arrival, but I didn’t say so, deciding a somewhat predictable Bonnie Brock was better than an erratic one. In fact, I didn’t say anything at all.

He was lurking in the doorway to the carriage house and stables, and I waited until he realized I was not going to come to him.

Gage would already be vexed when he discovered the rogue had approached me on his own.

There was no need to make it worse by speaking to him at a distance from the house.

At least here, my husband could believe that a member of our staff would hear me if I called for help.

Bonnie Brock detached himself from where he’d been leaning cross-armed and cross-legged against the doorframe to swagger across the stone walk which led from the carriage house to where I stood on the terrace.

As usual, he was dressed finely but informally, his greatcoat open to reveal the silver-and-blue brocade of his waistcoat and the fine linen of his shirt, which gaped at the throat, for he rarely wore a cravat.

The streaks of red woven through his tawny hair glinted in the sunlight.

I noted it was cut shorter than usual, though it still hung longer than was fashionable about his face, concealing the wicked scar that I knew ran from his hairline down across his temple to his left ear.

It and the ridge of scar tissue along his crooked nose stood out sharply white against the flush of his skin when he was angry.

There was no doubt he was bristling with weapons, though I couldn’t spot any.

At least, not until a gust of chill wind blew aside the left placket of his coat to reveal the hilt of some sort of dagger. Perhaps a Highland dirk.

“Quite the display o’ concerned friends,” he drawled in his deep brogue as he drew nearer, revealing his annoyance at my failure to come to him, no doubt.

I pulled the ends of my Indian silk shawl tighter around me, wishing I’d thought to grab a pelisse. While fashionable, the short, puffed sleeves of my smoke blue gown were not warm. But then again, I hadn’t expected to be outside for more than a few minutes.

“You know better than that,” I told him softly, refusing to be baited.

He climbed the two steps of the terrace to my level, and while he was not overly tall, I still had to look up to meet his gaze.

“Aye,” he acceded, briefly turning his head to survey our surroundings.

As the leader of Edinburgh’s largest gang, he always had to be vigilant.

Much of the city might view him as a Robin Hood–like hero, but there was always someone eager to see him dead or imprisoned, be it the city police or a rival criminal.

I had read that most of the members of his chief rival gang had been detained several months ago, including the leader, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others eager to take their place and Bonnie Brock’s.

His shoulders were as broad as ever, and his waist as trim, but his complexion seemed somewhat pale, and I sensed an underlying weariness to his movements. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d recently been ill or if there was another reason for his pallor.

“How is Maggie?” I asked, having anticipated he might bring his sister with him.

I had helped the girl out of a number of patches of trouble in the past, and I knew Bonnie Brock held a soft spot for her.

She was perhaps his most dangerous vulnerability, and so he often kept her close. But today she was nowhere to be seen.

“As stubborn as always,” he groused, and I couldn’t withhold a flicker of a smile. One that he saw. “Aye. I blame ye.”

“Me?” I retorted, pressing a hand to my chest.

“Aye. Ye’ve been a terrible influence on her. Ye bloodthirsty wench.” This last had become somewhat of a term of endearment, though it had not begun that way.

“Oh, no. I can’t take credit. Maggie was already stubborn long before she met me. She comes by that honestly.”

“Even so.”

Considering his gruff demeanor, I wondered if Maggie was still stepping out with the young man she’d begun to fancy the previous spring, however I elected not to ask. Not when my last memory of the fellow was not a good one.

“How’s the wee bairn?” Bonnie Brock murmured as he shifted from one foot to the other, looking more uncertain than I was accustomed to seeing him.

“Emma is doing well.” I smiled at the thought of my daughter. “She’s turning one in less than a fortnight, if you can believe it.”

“Aye.”