The Pleasure of the Rose Read online

  His grimy valise raised a cloud of dust as it landed at his feet.

  Geddes coughed and waved away the parched soil that rose from the dirt-packed street, brought out his handkerchief, and coughed again. Sweat popped out on his forehead and quickly trickled through his eyebrows into his eyes. His body, laden with wool, seemed to scream for air. He squinted up at the sky. The sun beat down relentlessly.

  Merciful God, how did people live in this oven? No lochs to be seen, no glens, no snow-covered hills. Nothing was green. Everything around was coated with a dry, dull film of dust that probably never went away. The only shade came from the slant of an overhang on the adobe station building. There wasn’t a tree in sight, just scrubby brush and gray bramble without roots that seemed to have the good sense to tumble away from this hellhole.

  A cluster of enormous, dark, ugly birds circled in the distance. Buzzards, the whip master had called them, carrion crows that fed on the flesh of the dead. Geddes brought his handkerchief to his nose once again.

  A gangly youth in a dusty, dark blue uniform ran out from the side of the station, his limbs loose and his sleeves so short his bony wrists protruded like bleached and dried animal bones. His trousers stopped at his boots, both grimy with dirt. His grin exposed big, horsy teeth. His shaggy dark hair stuck out in all directions. “You that Scottish fella who wired ahead? The lawyer?”

  Geddes gave him a little bow. “Geddes Gordon, solicitor tae the MacNeil.”

  The lad chuckled, as if Geddes had said something more amusing than merely his name and station. “I’m here to take ya to the fort.”

  “Well, dinna keep me waitin’, ’tis anxious I am to meet the new MacNeil.”

  The lad gawked at him. “Say, what?”

  Geddes sighed. “Take me to the fort, laddie.”

  • • •

  Fletcher, Maker of Arrows, dropped to the dirty floor and did fifteen rapid push-ups, focusing on one of the many tiny holes in the adobe where thin rays of light shone through. Barely winded, he stood, avoiding the window and the sight of the scaffold barely twenty feet away. It was less than forty-eight hours until his death.

  For the hundredth time he thought about his two younger brothers and his sister. Although his grandfather was looking after them, Duncan, Gavin, and Kerry had been Fletcher’s responsibility for three years now, ever since the deaths of his father and stepmother. At fifteen, fourteen, and twelve, they were still too young to fend for themselves. The letters he received were usually from Kerry and occasionally from Gavin. Duncan, it seemed, was not interested in writing his older brother. But the other two assured Fletcher that everything was well, that he should not worry about them.

  Fletcher couldn’t stop blaming himself for the mess he had made of things. What he feared was that there had been trouble. Perhaps Grandfather had died; he had been an old man when Fletcher was young. But why, then, hadn’t one of them written? It wasn’t like Kerry, especially, to ignore him. The possibilities of what could be wrong gave him nightmares.

  He placed his hands on the jail wall and stared down at the floor. He was a selfish ass, and felt a rush of self-loathing. Once he was hanged, they would be abandoned. What would happen to them when the money quit coming was anyone’s guess. He had made a promise to always care for them, and now he felt a deep sense of shame. He had lived his life with too many bad decisions. The trial was over. He was a convicted murderer and rapist. No one believed a half-breed over an army captain.

  As he stared at the floor he asked himself if his life could have been any different. Could he ever have found a woman and settled down to raise a family as his father had? He didn’t know; he had never tried, nor had he ever met a woman with whom he desired to spend his earthly eternity. Hell, he was anxious to be rid of most of them after just one night.

  A shout made Fletcher look outside. His gaze swept over the garrison, stopping briefly at the stables. He loved everything about horses—their power, their beauty, their lusty aroma, especially after a long, hard ride. He didn’t even mind the manure. From his cell he could smell them. He inhaled deeply, bringing the scent into his lungs and holding it there as long as he could.

  He wondered if there were horses in hell. Probably not; they didn’t deserve to be there.

  He caught the familiar stout figure of Captain John Bannerman exiting the infirmary with his arm in a sling from a knife wound. Anger and hatred welled up in Fletcher’s throat when he looked at the man. Wife killer.

  Fletcher was guilty of stabbing him, in self-defense, but Lindsay Bannerman had died from a gunshot meant for him. He had bedded her, but Bannerman had murdered her, and then blamed him. There was one brief moment when he’d held the dying Lindsay in his arms, blood spreading in an ever-widening circle from the hole in her chest, and he had wondered what demon had brought him to this point in his life, when his selfish actions had been the reason this woman died.

  He slumped onto the hard wooden slab with the dirty blanket that served as a bed. He heard voices, and then the heavy door between the jail and the cells creaked open. The sound of keys jangled from a chain. The sergeant in charge appeared. An oily man with bad teeth and a nasty, swaggering manner, he wore a look of mean superiority. “Breed!”

  Fletcher looked up.

  “You got a visitor.”

  A big man wearing a dark coat and woolen trousers stepped up to the cell. He carried a leather case in one hand and a black top hat in the other. His thick, pale blond hair, heavy with sweat, lay flat against his scalp. Moisture glinted off his forehead like beads of water sizzling on a hot skillet. The man smelled of perspiration and damp wool.

  With one mocking eyebrow raised, he studied Fletcher from his head to his boots, his expression less than pleased. He wore small wire-rimmed glasses that did nothing to hide the disapproval in his light blue eyes. He considered Fletcher, as if wondering how to proceed, then glanced at the sergeant and spoke. “Open the cell door and be gone.”

  Fletcher hadn’t heard that lilting burr since he’d broken his father’s heart and ridden away. He never saw his father alive again. Another twinge of shame—if his father were alive, he would be so disappointed in him.

  The sergeant muttered an oath under his breath, opened the cell door, and locked the man inside, giving them a scurrilous look as he left.

  The Scotsman stared after him briefly, and then once again looked at Fletcher over the rims of his glasses, his expression drenched with disapproval.

  “Who in the hell are you?” Fletcher asked.

  “I’m Geddes Gordon, solicitor—”

  “A lawyer? You’re a goddamned lawyer? Wasn’t one of you enough? They’ve already tried me. Look outside at those gallows.” He nodded toward the window, where the scaffold stood waiting. “How many lawyers does it take to hang a man?”

  “You didna let me finish. I am representing the MacNeil, your late grandfather. I’m not here to hang you, Your Grace; I’m here to set you free.”

  “‘Your Grace’?” Fletcher snorted with derision. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

  “I don’t think so. You are the Duke of Kintyre.”

  “Sure,” Fletcher said with a sarcastic smirk. “And some days I’m Napoleon Bonaparte, and yesterday I was President Buchanan, and, why, just last week I was your bonnie Prince Albert, but not today. Today, I’m just a half-breed who’s going to hang by a rope for a murder I didn’t commit.”

  “I understand your confusion, Your Grace, but I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”

  “You don’t understand a damned thing if you think I’m going to get out of this hellhole.”

  “I’m hoping that to be the case, Your Grace.”

  The words began to sink in. “Who are you?” he asked again.

  The lawyer fished into his pocket, brought out a card, and handed it to him.

  Fletcher stared at it.

  “Can you read?”

  Fletcher gave him a scathing look and then read the card aloud. “Geddes Gordo
n, Solicitor to the Duke of Kintyre, Erskine MacNeil. Of the Clan MacNeil, Isle of Hedabarr, Scotland.” Once again he looked at the man before him.

  “Your late grandfather.”

  It had been many years since Fletcher had given any thought to his father’s name and what it stood for. When Fletcher had fled his home at fifteen, he had claimed his Indian name, Fletcher, Maker of Arrows, leaving the MacNeil surname far behind. “Explain why you’re here.”

  “Your grandfather, the MacNeil Himself, died. You are his heir, since your da, Shamus, is dead.”

  “But my father wasn’t the heir. He told me so years ago. His brother Jamie was, then Munro. He joked about how his father had an heir and a spare, so he knew where he stood.”

  “Aye, until Jamie was struck with influenza and died, then about six months ago Munro broke his neck racing his horse. Shortly thereafter, the MacNeil, God rest his soul, passed on. Shamus MacNeil, your father, became the next Duke of Kintyre.”

  “And my father is dead.”

  “Aye, so that leads me to you.” The lawyer looked around him, once again lifting one mocking eyebrow. “Here in prison.”

  Fletcher just stared at him.

  “I was hoping that you’d be an honorable army man. I didna think you’d be a bloody redskin…or a murderer.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  The lawyer offered him a wry smile as his gaze swept the cell. “Aye, right. You’re just sitting in here for the pleasure of it. I can see how you might enjoy the place—the splendid accommodations and all.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” Fletcher repeated.

  “No? Then why are you here?”

  “Because this,” he said, his voice heavy with disdain, “is United States Army justice.”

  “In a bit of a pickle, then, aren’t you?” The lawyer gave him a wry look.

  Fletcher barked another short, wicked laugh. “To put it mildly, yes, I’m in a bit of a pickle,” he answered, mimicking the burr of his visitor.

  They studied one another for a long, quiet moment, and then Fletcher asked, “So, now that you’ve found me, what are you going to do? Use your clever lawyer double-talk to get me out of here?”

  “You’re the heir,” Geddes answered simply. “You have money and title and a castle.”

  “And I’m sitting in this stinkhole of a jail, sentenced to hang.”

  “Yet you say you’re innocent.”

  “I am,” Fletcher shot back.

  The lawyer took a step back. “Well now, don’t go apoplectic on me, Your Grace. Open your mind to other possibilities.”

  I’m here to set you free. Fletcher wanted everything the Scotsman said to be true; God, how he wanted that. He began to pace. Bits and pieces of memory filtered back to him, like the stories his father had told of Scotland, the castle, the land. But could any of it be real?

  The Scotsman seemed to read his mind. “You’re a rich man now.”

  “Here, even a rich half-breed can’t buy justice.”

  “It wasn’t justice I was thinking of buying.”

  Fletcher crossed his arms over his chest and digested this. Money. A title. Land. “If this is some kind of cruel, monumental joke you’re pulling just two days before I’m to die, then I’m sorry if I don’t find it one damned bit funny.”

  “’Tis no joke, Your Grace.”

  Fletcher sobered. It sounded very, very appealing, like some kind of tale right out of a child’s book, one where no one died in the end. Resisting the urge to fully believe something that was clearly a miracle, he snorted a humorless laugh. “How do you propose to get me out of here?”

  The lawyer gave him a sly look. “Don’t you worry, I have the means and I have a plan. Soon you will be out of here and on your way to Scotland, Your Grace.”

  Your Grace. It beat the hell out of breed. Fletcher’s brain buzzed as he continued to think. “There is something you must do for me. I have two younger brothers and a sister.” He gave the solicitor their names and then added, “I want you to find them and arrange for them to come and live with me.”

  “Three more bairns of the MacNeil?” The lawyer frowned, scrubbed his chin, then nodded. “Aye, that can be done.” He gave Fletcher a skeptical glance. “Find them, you said. You don’t know where they are?”

  “I did. They’ve been living with their grandfather. I’ve been mailing money to a bank in Abilene for their care, but I haven’t heard from any of them in two months. No letters, nothing. I can’t find them from this cell. I’m worried that something has happened.”

  The lawyer’s visage was grim. “And armed with this meager bit of information, I’m to find them?”

  “You found me, didn’t you? I can tell you where they were last living. If you won’t give me your word, I won’t go with you.” Perhaps a hollow threat—if he didn’t get out of this cell, he was a dead man. Not quite the scenario he’d pictured for the remainder of his life. “And didn’t you say you work for me? Consider it your first job.”

  “Getting you out of here is my first job. But…” The solicitor sat on the bed and opened his satchel. He leafed through the contents and apparently found what he was looking for. He handed Fletcher another card, this one with the name of a detective agency out of Galveston emblazoned on the front. “’Tis how I found you. I’ll wire them immediately. Give me all the information you have.”

  Fletcher gave him the material he needed, then said, “You have two days before I’m out there swinging from a rope.” He wondered if he could really believe any of this, and every time he looked at the scaffold, he was afraid to let himself hope.

  • • •

  It was almost dawn when the night guard woke Fletcher.

  “Come here,” the guard whispered.

  Cautious, Fletcher rose and went to the bars. The stink of liquor was heavy in the air.

  The man glanced toward the door and then quickly unlocked the cell. “I’ve unlocked both doors. Don’t go nowhere ’til you get the message,” he said under his reeking breath. “I’m turning my back and leaving town with the wad of money that Scotsman paid me. Run, breed, run like me.” With that, the guard stumbled away.

  Moments later a rock came in through the barred window and landed on the floor. Fletcher picked it up and opened the note attached. It read:

  Detective agency on board; the search has begun. A horse is tied behind the jail house. Meet me in Galveston, my lord, onboard The Bonnie Lass.

  It crossed Fletcher’s mind that this could be a trap, but he was going to die tomorrow, so what did it matter if they shot him tonight? He crammed the note into a pocket inside his shirt, walked over to the cell, and pulled open the door. He glanced around him and listened, hearing nothing but the strong drumming of his heart as it slammed his ribs. He stepped into the dark walkway and moved quietly toward the heavy wooden door that led from the cells, grateful there were no other prisoners locked up.

  So this was how Fletcher, Maker of Arrows, MacNeil, with the help of a wily Scotsman, escaped his death sentence and disappeared into the mist on The Bonnie Lass, which ferried him to his new home—and freedom.

  Chapter Two

  Sheiling Castle, Isle of Hedabarr, Scotland, January 1858

  Rosalyn tugged the shawl close around her and paced the cobbled drive. Sima, the pregnant wolfhound, followed close behind.

  “Aye, Sima lass,” Rosalyn crooned, reaching down to stroke the hound’s furry ears. “Walking might jar those pups loose.” The dog’s belly was huge; Rosalyn didn’t envy the delivery.

  A burst of biting wind whipped around the castle, gusting through the trees and riffling the grass. Rosalyn shivered.

  Geddes had sent a messenger from the ferry with the news that he and the new duke would arrive within the hour.

  Rosalyn felt skittish, rather like a new colt. Why she was nervous she couldn’t explain; she and the maids had scoured and swept and cleaned until their hands and knees were raw. She herself had scrubbed the larder and replaced the
gauze over the windows. Why, even the Turkish carpet in the foyer had been cleaned with damp tea leaves to absorb the sand and dirt from outside while the others were taken outdoors and beaten upon by the stable boy. The whole place was scrupulous. She glanced down at her reddened hands, inhaling a sigh at the dreadful sight of them. She just wanted everything to be in order when the new duke arrived. She had been in the old laird’s employ since the disaster that took away her lovely daughter two years before. As the old laird’s new solicitor, Geddes had been in charge of finding a housekeeper to replace the one who had recently left to nurse an ailing sister. He had immediately thought of Rosalyn, and she was very grateful.

  Now her curiosity was piqued because the old laird had been a bawdy and stingy old sot. Heaven only knew what type of man Geddes had found in Texas. Geddes had wired her that Shamus was dead but that his son was alive and well. So, it would be a younger man who would arrive with her brother. Perhaps that was why she was nervous—a younger man might want sweeping changes of the estate, changes that didn’t include her.

  The house was ready, the rooms cleaned and sparkling. She vowed to make herself indispensable. As solicitor, Geddes was already a crucial part of the duke’s staff. Although Rosalyn knew she had done an excellent job with the household help, she also realized that the new duke might want a housekeeper of his own choosing.

  Sima’s bark heralded the carriage as it clattered over the cobblestones, sending Rosalyn’s heart into her throat. He was here. She hurried inside and checked her reflection in the mirror. With shaky fingers she smoothed back the hair that had been blown loose from her carefully tucked chignon.

  The door opened, banging against the wall, the noise startling her. Her brother entered, looking frazzled.

  Rosalyn’s stomach dropped. “Geddes? What’s amiss?”

  “The duke is ill.” Geddes motioned to the footmen behind him. “Take him up to the old laird’s room. Come, Rosalyn. You have to help.”

  Alarmed, Rosalyn followed as four footmen carried the blanket-covered form up the wide, winding staircase, Sima close behind.