A Wicked Conceit by Anna Huber (e novels to read TXT) 📕

here tonight,” I suggested, not wanting him to take his anger and frustration out on her. I didn’t care if such an implication insulted Brock.

“Noo, see here. I’ve never laid a hand on my sister,” he protested.

I ignored his bluster, keeping my gaze locked with Maggie’s.

“He’s right. He’s never hurt me,” she replied, though her cowering posture seemed to belie her words. Perhaps he had never struck her, but clearly she was frightened and intimidated by him.

“The offer still stands,” I told her.

Her eyes flitted from me to her brother and back, and I could sense her hesitation.

And this, above everything else, seemed to have the power to subdue Brock. Although I wasn’t looking at him, I could sense the shift in his temperament, for it altered the atmosphere of the room. It was as if a piper had released the mouthpiece on his bagpipe, and suddenly the instrument had begun to deflate of all its air.

I peered over my shoulder, finding his eyes locked on his sister, stark with pain. I wanted to look away, for it seemed like something I shouldn’t witness. It was too intimate, too personal, and the sight of such vulnerability—especially coming from Bonnie Brock—tore at something inside me. Yet I continued to watch as he leaned across the table toward her.

“You ken I would never let harm come to ye, Magpie. No’ willingly.” He spread his hands in supplication. “Why, I woulda given my left and right arm if it woulda prevented Sore John from misusin’ ye like he did. And the bairn . . .” His voice ached at the word, and Maggie’s eyes flooded with tears. “If I coulda saved your bairn for ye, ye ken I woulda done anythin’. Anythin’.”

I felt Gage’s hand press warm against my back, not having noticed he’d moved closer. It was only when I looked up at him, seeing him through a wash of tears, that I realized I was also quietly weeping.

Brock’s brow furrowed. “So, aye, I may be angry wi’ ye noo for what you’ve done.” He lowered his hands to his sides. “But I’ll no’ raise my hand to ye.” His lip curled upward at one corner in self-deprecation. “Just maybe my voice.”

The corners of Maggie’s lips lifted in a watery smile.

“And I’m sorry I ever made ye think I would.”

I swiped at the wetness on my cheeks, and Gage passed me his handkerchief, for Maggie still had mine.

Brock held out his hand to her, even though his posture was uncertain. “Will ye come home wi’ me, lass? Wherever home may be tonight.”

Maggie sniffed and nodded, taking several steps to meet her brother halfway around the table. When she was near enough, he pulled her into his side and dropped a kiss on the matted hair of her forehead, murmuring something I could not hear but which seemed to settle her. Then he led her from the room toward the French doors, opening them to the chill night air. But not before directing a look of firm determination at me and Gage. One which seemed to say, Resolve this.

Thus, as soon as the doors closed behind them, I said to Gage. “Promise or no promise. We’d better visit Mr. Heron at first light.”

•   •   •

Knock again,” I told Gage. “He has to be here.”

This time my husband banged on the door, using more force than the times before. “Mr. Heron,” he called into the wood. “It’s important we speak with you. We’re not going away until we do.”

I turned as a door farther along the corridor opened and a woman peered out through the crack, clearly wondering who was making such a racket at this hour.

Gage scowled when Heron’s door remained shut.

“Do you think Bonnie Brock got to him first?” I whispered, tugging my fur collar higher around my chin. Had we made a mistake trusting him? Maybe we should have come at midnight.

Gage shook his head, pounding once more. “Mr. Heron, we aren’t the only ones who wish to speak to you, but I promise we’re the nicest.”

This at last seemed to achieve results, for I heard something scrape across the floor within and then a lock being turned. The door inched open to reveal one of Heron’s dark eyes. “What do you want?” he hissed in fright.

Gage pushed on the door, forcing Heron backward in astonishment, and then muscled his way inside. “Good morning, Mr. Heron.” He ushered me inside, past a ladder-back chair that I wondered whether Heron had propped beneath the latch. “I do believe you will prefer to have this discussion in your parlor rather than in your doorway where all of your neighbors can hear.” Once I had glided past, he closed the door firmly and positioned himself in front of it.

Not that I anticipated Heron trying to make an escape. Not when he was still dressed in his nightclothes with a dark brown cotton banyan draped over top. A nightcap even covered his prematurely silver-white tresses; however, when he caught the direction of my gaze he removed it.

“I’ve told ye everythin’ I ken,” he protested.

“Really?” Gage asked in a leading voice, one whose lightness seemed to confound Heron.

So much so that he actually answered in a question. “Aye?”

Gage tilted his head, studying the man before he continued. “Do you recall that we told you we met Miss Maggie Kincaid on the road outside your home the last time we called?”

He blinked and then forced a laugh. “Oh, aye. But I’m sure many people traverse the North Back o’ the Canongate. ’Tis well trod.”

“Yes, but more pointedly, she emerged from the lane leading to your door.”

He shrugged. “More than a dozen sets o’ rooms lead off the same lane. She mighta visited any one o’ ’em.” His words were nonchalant, but the manner in which he was wringing the life out of his hat certainly was not.

“She might have,” Gage conceded. “But we’ve already spoken to Miss Kincaid.”

“You have?”

He nodded, and Heron’s eyes widened with dismay.

“She told us everything,” I said,