Questions for a Highlander Read online

  For the first time, Abby was glad for it.

  Part 2

  Chapter 8

  We bereaved are not alone.

  We belong to the largest company in all the world –

  the company of those who have known suffering.

  - Helen Keller

  The War Office

  Horse Guards Avenue

  Whitehall, London, England

  May 1887

  “Our brother is out there somewhere!” Captain Richard MacKintosh barked, furiously slamming his fist on the desk to gain the attention of the man he had come to see. “You need to order a search now!”

  “I hardly think you’re in a position to tell me what to do, Captain MacKintosh.”

  “Then perhaps I am,” Richard’s eldest brother, Francis, said mildly, though his voice was dark with restrained anger. As the Earl of Glenrothes, Francis had some pull in the House of Lords and a reputation as a stern, unforgiving foe. “Or perhaps, if my name is not enough to prompt your action, shall we invoke those of the Marquis of Landsdowne and the Earl of Seaforth as well. The heir to them both was a part of this same mission and is out there somewhere as well.”

  Lord Palmer, an undersecretary for the War Office, a sector of the government that dealt with legitimate military dealings domestically and overseas, as well as some more clandestine operations, leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his paunchy stomach and regarded the two angry men over his spectacles. “Naturally the Queen is concerned with the apprehension of one of her peers by rebels in Egypt, but given the nature of the mission, we can hardly launch a full-scale and public search for Lord Captain MacKenzie and Colonel MacKintosh despite their rank and importance.”

  “I’m afraid that such a response simply will not do,” the Earl of Glenrothes shot back, gripping his younger brother’s arm to restrain Richard from leaping over the desk to strangle Palmer. “Perhaps I should request an audience with the Queen myself to impress upon her the urgency of a rescue operation.”

  Palmer’s eyes widened and he sputtered, “Dash it all, old boy, there are protocols here, you know! A chain of command!”

  “And you’re at the bottom of it,” Glenrothes informed him shortly.

  Richard could see the panic in the secretary’s eyes. Satisfaction raced through him. Of course, he should have seen that Palmer was merely an underling testing the scope of his own power, but he was simply too angry and worried about his missing comrades to be able to see through the undersecretary’s brash façade. Glenrothes could. His brother had changed with the passing years as well and was no longer a young noble without influence. In the past ten years since gaining his title, Francis had built the Glenrothes earldom into one to be reckoned with.

  Time had changed his brother much as it had Richard. While the changes in Francis had been a result of personal responsibility to his clan, and an exceptionally bad marriage, Richard had been changed by a more harsh reality of bloodshed, battle and pain.

  Though his family had considered his commissioning into the Queen’s Scots Guard to be little more than a lark, Richard, though only just past a score of years at the time, had already begun to wonder whether days upon days of frivolous entertainment would be able to satisfy him for the remainder of his life. He didn’t need an occupation, he had fortune enough to live a comfortable life if he budgeted and invested widely. There was no challenge to it, however, no satisfaction.

  Vin and Jace had felt the same and so together they had joined the military, determined to serve their country with honor. Richard did not regret his service, but the horrors of war were enough to harden any man. Years of seeing men under his command injured and dead on the battlefields in Africa and Burma had often left Richard with a feeling of despair that few entertainments could banish.

  Then had come the secret mission that lead Richard MacKintosh, his brother Vincent and friend Jason MacKenzie along with three others in their covert unit, deep into the deserts of Egypt on the hunt for rebels left over from the insurgence their own battalion had helped suppress years before. Intelligence had indicated that supporters of that rebellion’s leader, Ahmed Urabi, were attempting to free their leader and resurrect their lost revolution. The rebels assumed Urabi a prisoner, when in fact, he’d been exiled from the country years before.

  Their unit had been captured by the fanatics, held – or so they thought – as hostages for Urabi’s release. For almost six months, Richard had been imprisoned with the others, questioned and sometimes tortured for information. They had tried to escape several times and, with the last, Richard and one other of his unit, Lieutenant Anthony Temple, had managed to escape while Vin, Jason, and two others had been dragged back into captivity.

  The local battalion, Temple told him, was starting a search for the others, but Richard knew there had to be more they could do. He had enlisted Francis’ help straight away to see that the War Office did everything in their power to find his brothers-in-arms and free them from the rebels.

  Rejection from the War Office was not an option for Richard. Imprisonment and desperation had changed him. Neither was it acceptable to Francis. His brother was right. Chain of command be damned. Richard was prepared to leap frog straight to the top.

  Taking advantage of the undersecretary’s stunned silence, Francis continued in a menacing tone, “We will expect to hear from Stanhope by the end of the week on this matter. Should the War Secretary be conveniently unavailable at that time, I should think that an appeal on my part to CB might hasten an interview.”

  It was a silence that grew thicker with Glenrothes’ casual use of the moniker for the previous War Secretary, Henry Campbell-Bannerman. Bannerman was a Scot as well and, though not currently in office under Salisbury’s conservative government, still held a considerable amount of power. “Or even Rosebery,” Francis added for effect the previous Foreign Secretary, another powerful, liberal figure in London politics. “I have many friends, Palmer, don’t force me to use them.”

  “I hear you’re already using every connection you have to force your divorce petition through the House, Glenrothes,” Palmer sneered with false bravado, an attempt to regain his faltering position. “Perhaps your favors are all used up.”

  Richard felt Francis stiffen at his side, felt the fury boiling up in his brother. Francis stood, tucking his walking stick under one arm as he pulled on his gloves. All the while, the earl pierced the undersecretary with a cold gaze full of hellish fury. “One week, Palmer, and we shall see whose connections reach higher.”

  The two brothers left the War Office with little promise to raise their hope from when they had entered. Their day had begun at the Foreign Office, which, along with the India Office, occupied the western end of the huge government building that dominated King Charles Street, where they had merely wasted time. There was no Foreign Secretary in office at the moment as the seat holder, Lord Iddesleigh, had recently departed this earth and not yet been replaced.

  More time was squandered in the eastern end of the building where the Home Office as well as the Colonial Office were housed. Richard and Francis had spent some time there as well, hoping to speak with the Home Secretary, Henry Matthews. Matthews was out of the office for the day, and no one would confess Edward Stanhope’s whereabouts. It had taken the better part of the day running to ground a single individual who would admit knowledge of the entire affair.

  With so much of the mission being based on little more than rumor and speculation, his unit, it seemed, had been virtually disavowed upon their capture by a sector of the War Office more eager to save their own positions than save men in dire straits.

  Richard couldn’t help but grind his teeth in frustration as he and Francis reached daylight and their waiting horses, donning their hats in unison. The sun was shining brightly in the clear sky. The glory of the spring day was at odds with the dark cloud that hung over their heads.

  There had been a time when he’d been certain he’d never see London again, ne
ver feel another mild spring. He was free in body but not in mind. The fate of the others, his closest friends and comrades… his own blood, ate at Richard.

  Who was to say whether any of the others still lived? They might have been killed in their escape attempt. The rebels had fired volley after volley of gunshot after them as they fled. Richard, himself, had taken a bullet in the back. He had been able to ride through to Cairo in Temple’s wake, but only just. By the time he’d regained his senses, he had been back on a ship bound for England. It was then that Temple informed him that their command in Cairo knew nothing of the capture. There had been no demands for ransom or the release of Urabi. Nothing.

  No word on his friends leaving more doubts regarding their survival.

  It did not matter. Dead or alive, he wasn’t about to leave them out in the middle of Egypt. He could not rest until someone – anyone – agreed to find them.

  “You think he’ll come through?” Richard asked, though his observations had already given him an answer.

  “Palmer is a weasel who abuses his position,” Glenrothes scoffed. “I doubt that Stanhope has heard two words of Jason and Vin’s capture, much less the Queen. Palmer is trying to bury the embarrassment of his mistake in sending you after the rebels in the first place. I’d wager he was hoping the entire incident might be swept quietly under the rug and was succeeding, until you returned.”

  “So what now?”

  “I have a session at the House the day after tomorrow,” his brother went on as they mounted and rode north toward Marylebone. “I will try to corner Stanhope then and see what I can do.”

  “We can’t just leave Vin and Jace to rot out there, Francis. It’s already been nearly a month since I escaped.”

  “I know. We’ll have to pursue CB, and probably Rosebery as well, to back us on this. Stanhope is overly conservative, besides he’s an Oxford man to boot,” Francis replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You should have let us know what was happening, Richard.”

  “It’s called a secret mission for a reason, you know.” Richard shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, drawing his brother’s concerned attention.

  “We should have brought the carriage. You shouldn’t be riding yet.”

  “I’m fine.” He wasn’t truly, but Richard wasn’t going to admit such to his brother. The bullet wound itself had not been life threatening. No, it had been infection, dehydration and the heat that had nearly taken his life. He often felt overtired, in body and spirit, with occasional pain that lanced through his midsection. This was one of those occasions. But it wasn’t of importance. Only one thing was. “I don’t know how long we can wait, Francis. If we can’t get any action out of the War Office soon, I’ll go back and look for them myself.”

  “And I’ll go with you,” Francis nodded grimly. They rode around the corner of the building and crossed the Horse Guards Road into St. James Park, where they might cut across the northeastern portion of the park on their way to the townhouse Francis had recently purchased in Cavendish Square in Marylebone.

  While it was not an exclusive address, it was still quite fashionable a neighborhood. Since his brother had little interest in Society and certainly preferred their Scottish homeland to London, Richard had wondered about the purchase, only to receive an amused explanation of resale values. Richard didn’t care. The house had kept him in comfort these last several weeks while he recovered his strength, and was in close proximity to the officials whose assistance he needed to search out his lost brothers-in-arms.

  “The powers must be looking after us, brother,” Francis said suddenly. “I see Stanhope’s secretary, Lancing, riding ahead. He must be on his way home for the evening. Let us just make our hellos and see if I can find a time with Stanhope tomorrow.”

  Waving for him to lead on, Richard followed Francis as his brother hailed the secretary. The two men spoke briefly but Richard couldn’t focus his attention on them. His mind was already drifting back to Egypt as it did so often, wondering. Always wondering… and hoping. There was a chance, he told himself once more. Always a chance.

  “Stanhope is in Brighton now,” Francis told him when they finally rode away. “However, he is expected back tomorrow night to attend the Countess of Rosebery’s ball as is CB. Good luck for us to have them all there under one roof. We should be able to corner them and have them hear us out.”

  Richard’s lips twisted wryly. “Well, I hope you have an extra set of evening clothes, brother, if you expect me to attend.”

  “I have something better.”

  Chapter 9

  When one door of happiness closes, another opens;

  But often we look so long at the closed door

  that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.

  - Helen Keller

  The home of the Earl of Rosebery

  40 Piccadilly Street, London

  The following evening

  “Mr. MacKintosh!” a female voice caught Richard’s attention and he stopped tugging at the high collar of his red regimental coat and turned to find a young women approaching with a wide, friendly smile. She was a lovely, sparkling blond but she couldn’t have been more than a debutante in her first or perhaps second year. Since he’d been gone from London for the better part of the past five years, Richard couldn’t imagine how he might be acquainted with her.

  It seemed she knew him, however, as she continued with cheery familiarity, “I just knew it was you! I said to my sister, why that simply must be Mr. Richard MacKintosh and it is!” She looked back over her shoulder and called in a more taunting tone, “I told you so!”

  Richard’s gaze shifted to the other young woman who approached more reluctantly behind the first. Though both ladies were beautiful, the second of the pair was possessed of such an ethereal loveliness that Richard found he couldn’t looked away. She was a vision of feminine perfection. Extremely petite, yet curvaceous. Her icy pink ball gown clung tightly to every curve, cut low enough to tempt a man’s imagination without giving away too much. The neckline dripped with lace intermixed with threaded beads that looped and dangled among the lace. The same lace gathered at her shoulders to hang down over her upper arms, covering her to the elbow where her matching gloves began. The swing and sway of the beads over her breasts as she walked was almost arousing enough to dot a man’s forehead with beads of sweat. She was that tempting, even though she was more modestly covered than most of the ladies present.

  Her brocaded overskirt was drawn tightly around her hips before gathering up into a bustle behind, highlighting the contrast between the flare of her hips and her tiny waist. More lace and beads on the fabric’s edge created a fringe across the underskirt, catching the light as she walked. The pale color of the gown complimented her light blond hair and pale coloring, and provided even more reason for a comparison to the angels.

  She also looked very familiar to him yet he could not place how he might know her. As lovely as she was, she appeared no older than her companion, which would have made her no more than thirteen when he’d last been in London. He couldn’t imagine where or when they might have met. Nevertheless, he bowed neatly and greeted them. While her companion chatted animatedly, the angel merely stared off at the dancers circling the floor.

  So detached, almost as if she were not a part of this world.

  Fey.

  Richard felt a maddening urge to do something, anything to rouse in her the same awareness she incited in him. It was not recognition of her identity or of her celestial attributes that stirred him. It was desire, pure and simple, and he wanted her to feel the same.

  He imagined any number of men felt that same way in her company. Driven to passion while she remained aloof, wanting to compel her to feel the same. He wanted nothing more than to coerce her into a dark corner and try his luck.

  The thought surprised him. He’d had his fair share of experience seducing lovely ladies, both before joining the military but with more luck in the dress uniform of the Scots
Guard. Since his return, however, women and sex had been the farthest thing from his mind. Richard was focused on his brother and friends, on freeing them from their imprisonment. Nothing else had mattered.

  Suddenly women and sex, particularly this woman and the thoughts of making love to her, were at the forefront of his mind. They pushed everything else away, reminding him how long it had been since he’d seen a woman so lovely, much less touched one.

  He wanted to touch this one… everywhere.

  “How are you this evening?” he addressed her directly when her companion stopped to take a breath, his voice surprisingly husky. She cast him a sidelong glance from beneath her lashes and the controlled perfection of her face softened the tiniest bit. He could have sworn that a smile touched the corner of her lips though she still seemed like a marble goddess.

  A young marble goddess. A debutante, no doubt. Innocent. Not a woman to take lightly. The admonition echoed through his mind but faded away when the angel spoke in a husky tone that slid sensuously down his spine.

  “I’m very well, Mr. MacKintosh, or shall I say Captain? I must say, I am surprised to see you in London. Last we heard, you were to have been in Burma, I believe.”

  Dash it all, he should know who they were if they were so familiar with his movements. He knew it, yet he could not place her or her companion. Surely, he would have remembered such a low, melodic voice. “I was injured and forced to return home,” he offered not wanting to get into the details.

  Her cool façade slipped for a moment as she studied him from head to toe. Her eyes widened in alarm, searching, he assumed, for his injury. “You were not seriously hurt, were you?”