hoarding. She stowed her loot inside the wardrobe, then drew out a smaller package from her skirt pocket, tossing it to her. 'This came for you.'
Annalía caught it. From a jeweler but addressed to Court?
'The guard dogs downstairs opened it, of course. Well, go on. I want to see jewelry.'
Annalía pried open the velvet box and found her mother's stone inside, though without its ribbon choker. Instead, he'd had it set on a chain so delicate, so precious, it was like gossamer.
Olivia swiped it from her hand. She didn't cackle and abscond with it as Annalía expected, but whirled Annalía in front of the mirror, to fasten it around her neck. 'I remember this stone. I considered owning this stone. The necklace makes it more valuable. Good for you,' Olivia said, as if she'd earned it from MacCarrick.
Annalía stared in the mirror. He'd somehow figured out what it meant to her, what its significance was, and he'd turned something hurtful into something beautiful for her. The necklace was so exquisite it was like a caress over her neck and chest. God, she missed him!
Did he send this as a good-bye?
'You know that Gaelic phrase you were telling me about?' Olivia elbowed her from the mirror so she could try on the rings on the dressing table, modeling her wiggling fingers in the mirror. 'What would you give me if I told you what it means? Would you give me an antique ring once worn by a queen?'
'Right now, the best I'll offer is that I won't slap you if you tell me.'
Olivia raised her eyebrows, obviously impressed with the threat of violence. 'Very well, I will tell you.' She paused dramatically. 'It means, 'You are mine. I bind you to me always.' According to my sources, if MacCarrick told you that, then you're a breath away from being married.'
Annalía's eyes widened. 'You lie! How do you know that?'
'I asked the Scottish woman downstairs. I wouldn't have asked for you, but I truly did expect you to give me one of—'
'What Scottish woman?'
'A new one.'
'I don't believe you.'
Olivia caught Annalía's eyes in the mirror. 'I swear on all that is valuable that I own.'
Annalía rocked on her heels. It was true! Her thoughts came hectic. He had planned for them to be together! Why hadn't he told her? He should have. She supposed he did repeatedly, but not in any language Annalía could discern. She'd learn Gaelic! She'd dreamed he'd come to her that last morning and tenderly brushed her hair from her face. Maybe not a dream? She took a deep breath, wondering why her stomach felt so unsettled. Last night she'd mindlessly eaten something kippered or coddled or some dish sounding equally as foreign and unsolid, and she must be paying for it now—
'So you are Courtland's,' a voice said from behind them. 'The servants wrote telling me as much. But I scarcely believed them.'
Annalía whirled around, feeling dizzy. She'd stopped whirling, but her head seemed to delight in continuing. A tall, beautiful woman stood there. The woman in the portrait, Annalía realized with a gasp.
'I'm his mother, Lady Fiona.' She was very genteel as she offered her hand to Annalía, but her eyes were lifeless and dark. And suspicious. 'And you are Lady Annalía Llorente. I attempted to garner information about you from Olivia'—she cast Olivia a puzzled glance—'but after tea I realized I'd somehow divulged more than I'd learned.'
When Olivia gave her a convincingly innocent expression, Lady Fiona returned her attention to Annalía. She tilted her head and examined her as if she were a stray—not cruelly but with detachment. 'I never thought of Court falling for a tiny Castilian. Even one as pretty as you. But by all accounts—and even by his own words—he has.' The woman's expression grew stern. 'It matters naught. Lass, do you ken that you canna have him?'
Annalía, formerly the most gracious woman in social situations, the mistress of all decorum, promptly threw up all over the woman's skirts.
Chapter Thirty-five
When Court, Hugh, and Llorente rode up the plateaus to Llorente's home, they had to dodge villagers camping out, weaving around the clothes hanging on their lines, their children playing, and their goats grazing.
They'd learned that most of the deserters had been scattered and that small parties raided the valleys, forcing the villagers to come to the one place they could be safe.
Oddly enough, the place where the Highlanders were.
Court noted that at the first sight of plaid, Llorente's hands clenched so tightly on the reins they should've disintegrated.
'And I believe Court's crew is in residence,' Hugh muttered.
At the front door, Liam greeted them, graciously showing them into the home. He slapped the seething Llorente on the back and said, 'Any friend of Court's is a friend of ours. You look familiar. Do you like wine? Whisky? Just tell me whatever you need.'
Inside, Niall and still more men played cards, ate fruit, and snacked on river trout grilled on slate, delicacies that Vitale, of all people, ensured they had plenty of.
Court's men saw him and cheered, asking, 'Where's our bonny Andorran?'
This made Llorente's look of fury turn murderous. He yanked Vitale along to the other side of the room, and Court heard him demand, 'I understand about the villagers, but how could you let these Scots overrun us?'
Vitale appeared sorry but unbending, his only concern about Annalía.
Court jerked a chin at Niall, and he rose. 'Doona worry about old man Vitale,' Niall said as he joined them, slapping their backs. 'Prickly sort till you save his arse from deserters enough times.'
'We need to discuss some plans with you,' Hugh said, all business.
'Well, there's a salon in the front we can go to.' Niall pointed out the direction. 'By the dismal look on our Court's face, I think he'll be wantin' to avoid the study and the desk.'
Hugh raised his eyebrows, and Court scowled.
Niall again slapped Court hard on the back. This time in sympathy. 'Lass steal your heart?'
Court surprised himself by answering, 'I'll no' be gettin' it back.'
Hugh called for Llorente, who reluctantly followed them to the salon, looking dazed with anger. He sat silently and stiffly, appearing uncomfortable in his own home. Court knew no man had ever hated him as much as Llorente. He shrugged.
Once they'd all taken seats, Niall outlined the situation. 'Andorra was chaos with people fleeing to high peaks and the deserters battling to escape when the main route to Spain was blocked. We've cleaned the countryside of them, collecting the bounties, but there's a group of about two hundred huddled down around Pascal.'
'How many Rechazados are left?' Court asked.
'We took out six in the shootout at the border.' Niall looked up to the ceiling, remembering. 'Poor MacMungan, the younger one, lost an ear. MacTiernay got shot through his hand. A hole only as big as a beer stein, so it was no' too terrible—'
Hugh interrupted, 'Seven more down in addition to that. Niall, we're leaving today to assassinate Pascal and take out the remaining Rechazados for good.'
Niall nodded in understanding. 'And I suppose you rode here first because you want us to round up the remaining deserters? Make even more money?' He eyed him hard. 'Only 'cause you're family.' He glanced over at the silent Llorente, frowned, then turned back to Hugh and Court. 'So what's brought down the wrath of the MacCarricks?'
Hugh answered, because Court could not. 'One of the Rechazados shoved a gun to Annalía's temple and was seconds from killing her right before Court's eyes. Does things.'
Niall's face went cold in an instant. 'Why did you no' say so? The crew will be furious.' He slapped his hands and rubbed them together. 'It'll be a slaughter….'
'Well, I've never been greeted quite that way.'
