Page 55

“Aye, weel, dinna sit up frettin’. Anderley and Mr. St. Mawr willna let anythin’ happen tae Mr. Gage. Worryin’ will only give ye boils.”

I wondered if this was another dubious piece of folklore she’d picked up from her family in Kirkcudbright, but then she paused in the doorway to cast a teasing smile over her shoulder, telling me it was all in jest.

· · ·

When Gage returned with the others about half an hour later, he found me seated sideways on the robin’s-egg blue settee before the hearth, gazing up at the portrait I’d painted of him before we wed.

The one which had, in many ways, prompted his proposal.

Or at least given him the courage to make it.

A portrait of infant Emma hung on the adjoining wall.

“Apologies for the delay, darling,” he declared as he came bustling in, bending over to press a kiss to my brow.

He plopped down into the chair opposite, tugging at his cravat as he toed off his shoes.

“It took longer than anticipated to convince Sullivan to talk, but once he understood the seriousness of the potential charges being leveled against him, he was happy to point the finger of blame at someone else.”

After hearing what Bonnie Brock had uncovered about Fletcher, I could only turn to Gage in bewilderment. Unless he was going to tell me Sullivan acted as his accomplice.

He tossed the cravat aside and began shrugging out of his frock coat. “He claims he was paid to look the other way. That the third day of the auction, once the bidding started, he was supposed to stand near the doorway leading to the rear drawing room with his back to the room.”

He was speaking of the theft then, not the collapse.

“Who paid him?” I asked, adjusting the indigo dressing gown over my lace-trimmed nightdress.

“He wasn’t given the man’s name, or the reason why he was to look the other way…”

I scoffed. “Though he must have guessed it.”

Gage nodded, draping his coat over the back of his chair as he began to unbutton his slate gray waistcoat. “But he followed the man. Said he wanted some leverage in case the police came looking for him.”

“Smart man.” I tilted my head. “And where did this man he followed go?”

He arched his eyebrows. “George Square.”

And we knew exactly who lived there. “Reverend Jamieson.” I wondered for a moment if he or Sullivan had been behind me being pushed in front of the carriage.

If Bonnie Brock had been wrong about that part of it.

After all, the incident had occurred after we’d just spoken to the reverend.

But surely Gage had questioned Sullivan about it.

“That’s why we were delayed,” Gage continued to explain. “We went to question Jamieson again, but he wasn’t home. In fact, he’s left the city.”

“How convenient.”

The twist of his lips told me he’d caught the wry tone of my voice. “Maclean is having his men keep watch in case he returns, but for the moment, he’s beyond our reach.”

“Then Brade Cranston, the rival auctioneer, isn’t involved?” I asked for clarification as Gage tossed his waistcoat over his frock coat. It slid to the floor.

“Not that Sullivan admitted to.”

I thought back to the nasty comments Mr. Cranston had made, almost wishing we had a reason to see him locked up. “And the floor collapse?”

“He swears he knew nothing about that. Though he voiced his suspicions that one of Mr. Winstanley’s assistants was involved.”

“It was Fletcher,” I pronounced gravely.

“Is that your intuition speaking, or has Kincaid swayed you?” he teased with a grin as he finished unbuttoning his cuffs and then looked down to start on the buttons running down the front of his shirt.

“That’s based on what Bonnie Brock told me tonight.”

Gage’s head jerked upright, his golden hair falling in his eyes. “Kincaid was here?”

I explained about Bonnie Brock’s visit and what he’d told me about Fletcher while Gage listened raptly.

Gage’s stormy expression lightened as he became caught up in what the maid at the White Horse had revealed.

Though I was certain it would change in an instant if I told him about Bonnie Brock’s attempt to kiss me.

“Then it must be Fletcher,” Gage declared, rising to his feet to pace the small space behind his chair. He scraped a hand through his hair, pushing it from his face, though it did little good, for it flopped back over his brow. “But why?”

“That’s the same thing I asked. And Bonnie Brock reminded me that’s for us to find out.”

Gage paused to glower at me, though I knew it was really directed at the infamous rogue. “And how much more quickly might Anderley have uncovered this if we’d not listened to Kincaid’s warning to steer clear of the White Horse.”

I scowled, thinking of the conversation I’d just had with Bree. “Unless he was right, and Anderley continuing to venture there would have placed him in danger. Would you really have wanted to take such a risk?”

He looked as if he was about to argue, but then sighed, shaking his head. “No. No, I wouldn’t.” He sank into the chair again. “But the man is a menace, Kiera!” he growled.

It was obvious he was speaking about Bonnie Brock.

“He has absolutely no regard for boundaries!”

I bit my lip, lest I give away how accurate this accusation was. Revealing so would only endanger Gage’s life, for I knew he would feel honor bound to do something about Bonnie Brock’s behavior toward me.

“Could you not have turned him away?”

It was my turn to scowl.

“No, I suppose not,” he conceded. “After all, Kincaid does what Kincaid wants. And he did provide us with some invaluable information,” he admitted begrudgingly before fuming silently for a few seconds.

“Then what’s our next step? Obviously, Maclean needs to be told.

” He grimaced. “Though he’s not going to like the source. ”

I shrugged, pulling my knees up toward my chest and wrapping my arms around them. “So don’t tell him who we learned it from. Or let him believe it was Anderley. I’m sure it won’t be difficult for him to locate this barmaid at the White Horse and have her corroborate it.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” He began to reach for his shoes. “I suppose I’ll have to…”

“Not tonight,” I snapped.

He halted, turning to me in surprise.

I tightened my arms, lest he notice their trembling. “The sergeant will, no doubt, already be home with his family.” I swallowed. “Tomorrow morning is soon enough. Before Emma’s party.”

“You’re right.” His eyes were soft as he searched my face, looking for something.

I wanted to ask if he’d forgotten what had happened on this date.

How one year ago we would have already been huddled together in the vaults, counting the minutes until the light from our only lantern went out, terrified as my labor pains increased.

But then he asked a rather astute question.

One that let me know he wasn’t quite so oblivious.

“Have you looked in on her?”

I inhaled past the tightness in my chest. “Not in the last hour,” I confessed.

He rose to his stockinged feet, holding his hand out to me. Taking it automatically, I allowed him to pull me up. Then hand in hand we stole upstairs to the nursery. There was no light showing underneath Mrs. Mackay’s adjoining chamber door, so we moved stealthily so as not to wake her or Emma.

Our daughter lay on her back, her hands resting on either side of her head, palms open.

Her face was turned slightly toward us, resting in sweet repose.

She had contrived to remove her cap, as she often did at night, and her golden curls lay rumpled against the white sheets.

It was much the same position I’d found her in an hour earlier, and my heart constricted and flooded with warmth, as it always did at the sight of her.

It took everything within me to restrain myself from bending closer to smell her sweet baby scent or reaching out to touch the tender curve of her cheek.

I had to content myself with the sight of her slumbering, with the soft sigh of her exhale.

It was the last that caused tears to overflow my eyes and a sob to gather in my throat.

I must have made some sound of distress, for Gage pulled me away from her cradle and out of the nursery, closing the door quietly behind us.

Then he gathered me close as I finally gave way to the tears that had been threatening all evening. He guided me back to our bedchamber.

“How…how can something so wonderful also make me so…so sad?” I blubbered into his shirt once we had returned to the warmth of our room.

“The memory of Emma’s birthday?”

“Yes. No.” I hiccupped, swiping at my cheeks. “That, and the fact that soon she’ll no longer be a baby, and she won’t need me. And before we can even blink, she’ll be grown and married and living with her husband and having her own babies.”

Gage passed me his handkerchief, his eyes lit with gentle amusement. “Slow down, Kiera. I think you might be rushing things just a little.”

“Don’t laugh at me,” I protested, pushing away from him.

But he gathered me close again. “I’m not. Well, yes, I am. But only because you’re being a tad ridiculous.”

I glared up at him.

He grimaced. “I’m not making this any better, am I?”

I let my huff answer for me.

“The thing is.” He brushed the wisps of hair that had already escaped my braid back from my face. “Our daughter is always going to need you. Even when she’s grown and has her own babies. She’ll just need you in a different way.”

I sniffed, searching his pale blue eyes for reassurance. “How can you be sure?”

“Well, don’t you still need your mother? Don’t you wish she was here?”

I dabbed at my eyes, thinking of all the times in the past year and more when I’d wished—sometimes desperately—that my mother had been there. To give me advice. To console me. To coo over her newest granddaughter.

“Do you miss your mother?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

His expression dimmed. “Every day.”

I offered him a watery smile of commiseration.

“But even though I will never stop wishing she was with me, in most instances, I already know what she would say.”

“Like what?” I asked.

He cupped the side of my jaw with one hand. “That I married the right woman. That she’s glad I’ve reconciled with Father. That she adores her little namesake.”

I blinked as more tears threatened.

“Just as I imagine you know what your mother would say.” He gazed intently at me. “That she loves you. That you’re a wonderful mother.” His eyes twinkled. “That surely you must have married the most perfect specimen of all mankind.”

I made a noise between a giggle and a sob. “Is that so?”

“You shouldn’t argue with your mother.”

I laughed more genuinely and then leaned forward to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “I suppose not.”

“And you know what else she would say.” He pulled back, lowering his chin so that I looked him in the eye. “That you should exhibit your art, and any naysayers be damned.”

The nerves I’d been suppressing fluttered in my stomach. “She would never use such coarse language.”

His expression turned mildly chastising. “Don’t try to divert from the point, Kiera.” He raised his hands to grasp my shoulders. “It’s time.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, but I still couldn’t speak. Not in the face of his earnestness, his belief in me.

“Maybe others will never see the world as you do. Not exactly. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to show them. At the very least, it will open a few of their eyes, just like you’ve opened mine. And isn’t that what you said you want? For us all to no longer turn away blindly?”

It was no more than I’d already been thinking.

Especially after giving Bonnie Brock the portrait I’d painted of him and his sister, and after seeing his reaction to it.

It was then that I’d finally accepted that the gift I’d been given was meant to be shared.

That if I believed that art was about the beauty found in truth, then hiding it away was not only selfish, but a form of repression, of dishonesty, of lies.

To leave those paintings I’d worked so hard on gathering dust in the corner of my art studio, to never bring them into the light of day, was too nauseating to contemplate.

It was like denying all the people I’d depicted the right to have their truth known and told.

It was being complicit in society’s determination to look away.

However, the acceptance of what I must do did not remove the fear. The words stuck in my throat so that all I could do was nod and whisper. “Yes. Let’s do it.”

He seemed surprised at first that I’d agreed so easily, but then he smiled. “Truly?”

“Yes.”

His lips captured mine. “Then you must let us all help. And if we can’t find a suitable exhibition space, we’ll host it ourselves.”

“Yes.” I arched up on my toes to kiss him again. “But there’s nothing to be done about it tonight.”

A reprieve, albeit temporary, before I had to screw up my courage entirely.

My mouth met his again, longer this time, as I towed him toward the bed. “And if we must pass this night, I would prefer it be in your arms in the warmth of our bed rather than continuing to remember last year.”

He followed me down onto the mattress, his hard body covering me as his lips trailed over my cheek to my earlobe and then down my neck. His voice was a deep caress. “Then let’s make a far more pleasurable memory to replace it.”

And we did.