shoulder. A weak smile eased his permanent scowl lines. “Well said, me love. I miss our. . . dallying.”
She took his hand. “ You have only to touch me, and all is well.” She kissed his brow and relinquished his hand to seek out her new son-in-law.
Simon Murdock waited for her in the Chinese Room. The salon ’s various shades of green were a foil for his black-figured silk coat and gold baroque satin vest. Froths of creamy lace dripped from his Mariner’s cuffs. His black greatcoat was draped over the back of a jade-lacquered, latticework chair, his cocked hat on its chartreuse padded seat. A gold knobbed cane was tilted against the chair’s arm.
“ G’day, Lord Murdock.”
He gestured languidly at the carved mirror framed with gilt gesso. "A lovely piece, Lady Afton.”
She disliked him at once. She could have said it was because of the parsimonious mouth, the nose that was just a wee too pointed, the eyes that were set too close. But they were less than authentic reasons. "Thank you."
"I took the liberty of ordering my mount watered.”
"Of course.” It was said the man prized his white stallion above his own mother. And, Kathryn wondered, his wife, also?
“ You have word of my daughter?" she asked crisply, going to stand at the hearth. Its cheerful fire eased the chill in her heart that had been there since the moment she had been informed that her daughter and her retinue had vanished en route to Fort William, two weeks ago to the day.
Murdock withdrew a pinch of snuff, not from any ornate box but from a rather curiously made pouch of wrinkled hide or something similar. Instead of placing the snuff in one nostril, he crumbled the tobacco between th e beringed fingers of his left hand.
The action took a maddeningly long moment. "Well?" she prompted.
With that disarmingly boyish smile, he looked up at her. "My wife, according to army dispatches, is the hostage of one of the Highland rebels."
Her heart sank, but she reminded herself that, at least, her daughter was still alive. “What does this rebel want in exchange?"
"My head, most likely.”
"Tell him he can have it.” She regretted at once her reply. The glitter in those gray eyes told her he would not forget it.
His fingers sifted the crumbled tobacco into the opened tea poy. "I ’ll have his head, madam. You may count on that."
Her teeth gritted. "I don ’t want his head, I want my daughter safe!"
"My wife is my personal property, and I protect what is mine. For that reason, if not because it is my sworn duty, I shall take great delight in exterminating another clan from the face of Scotland."
His utterly boyish smile was chilling. Actually, Simon Murdock was deemed handsome by many. A trim physique, short-lashed gray eyes, hair as black as hers once had been, which he wore unpowdered and fully curled—these physical qualities attested to some of the reasons the man was celebrated in London’s salons.
It was that other quality, eliciting warranted regard in London ’s political circles, that bothered her. The quality of the man was one she sensed as a negative aura rather than identified through any specific deed, though Simon Murdock was legendary for his absolute political and military conquests.
Two years earlier he had led troops of the East India Company in defeating the more numerous Indian forces, whose religion forbade them to eat pork. To illustrate the fate of those wh o opposed the English, he had ordered the blood of pigs poured into the mouths of all Indian soldiers taken alive. Their drownings had been made all the more effective by the manner.
His political victories were equally absolute. Returning home, he had cam paigned for a seat in parliament and won by default of the incumbent. The man had chosen suicide by hanging rather than face exposure of his unsavory lifestyle. The source of the incriminating evidence leaked to the London newspapers was attributed to Simon Murdock. His reply had made even the
She took his hand. “ You have only to touch me, and all is well.” She kissed his brow and relinquished his hand to seek out her new son-in-law.
Simon Murdock waited for her in the Chinese Room. The salon ’s various shades of green were a foil for his black-figured silk coat and gold baroque satin vest. Froths of creamy lace dripped from his Mariner’s cuffs. His black greatcoat was draped over the back of a jade-lacquered, latticework chair, his cocked hat on its chartreuse padded seat. A gold knobbed cane was tilted against the chair’s arm.
“ G’day, Lord Murdock.”
He gestured languidly at the carved mirror framed with gilt gesso. "A lovely piece, Lady Afton.”
She disliked him at once. She could have said it was because of the parsimonious mouth, the nose that was just a wee too pointed, the eyes that were set too close. But they were less than authentic reasons. "Thank you."
"I took the liberty of ordering my mount watered.”
"Of course.” It was said the man prized his white stallion above his own mother. And, Kathryn wondered, his wife, also?
“ You have word of my daughter?" she asked crisply, going to stand at the hearth. Its cheerful fire eased the chill in her heart that had been there since the moment she had been informed that her daughter and her retinue had vanished en route to Fort William, two weeks ago to the day.
Murdock withdrew a pinch of snuff, not from any ornate box but from a rather curiously made pouch of wrinkled hide or something similar. Instead of placing the snuff in one nostril, he crumbled the tobacco between th e beringed fingers of his left hand.
The action took a maddeningly long moment. "Well?" she prompted.
With that disarmingly boyish smile, he looked up at her. "My wife, according to army dispatches, is the hostage of one of the Highland rebels."
Her heart sank, but she reminded herself that, at least, her daughter was still alive. “What does this rebel want in exchange?"
"My head, most likely.”
"Tell him he can have it.” She regretted at once her reply. The glitter in those gray eyes told her he would not forget it.
His fingers sifted the crumbled tobacco into the opened tea poy. "I ’ll have his head, madam. You may count on that."
Her teeth gritted. "I don ’t want his head, I want my daughter safe!"
"My wife is my personal property, and I protect what is mine. For that reason, if not because it is my sworn duty, I shall take great delight in exterminating another clan from the face of Scotland."
His utterly boyish smile was chilling. Actually, Simon Murdock was deemed handsome by many. A trim physique, short-lashed gray eyes, hair as black as hers once had been, which he wore unpowdered and fully curled—these physical qualities attested to some of the reasons the man was celebrated in London’s salons.
It was that other quality, eliciting warranted regard in London ’s political circles, that bothered her. The quality of the man was one she sensed as a negative aura rather than identified through any specific deed, though Simon Murdock was legendary for his absolute political and military conquests.
Two years earlier he had led troops of the East India Company in defeating the more numerous Indian forces, whose religion forbade them to eat pork. To illustrate the fate of those wh o opposed the English, he had ordered the blood of pigs poured into the mouths of all Indian soldiers taken alive. Their drownings had been made all the more effective by the manner.
His political victories were equally absolute. Returning home, he had cam paigned for a seat in parliament and won by default of the incumbent. The man had chosen suicide by hanging rather than face exposure of his unsavory lifestyle. The source of the incriminating evidence leaked to the London newspapers was attributed to Simon Murdock. His reply had made even the
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