The Ice Captain's Daughter Read online

  “He’ll be a mite put out when he reads it.” Betsy’s giggle ended in a snort.

  “And I got a pretty penny for the brougham, too, though not as much as it’s worth. We won’t be needin’ it where we’re goin’.”

  Betsy hiccupped. “I’m not leavin’ England without Sam.”

  “Don’t fret. We’re not settin’ sail until we’ve had our share o’ the ransom.”

  “Ye were brilliant, by the way.” She giggled. “For a moment I thought ye really had been shot. When we get ter America, maybe ye should become an actor.”

  “Aye, I might fancy that.”

  “And if Sam won’t marry me, I’ll find somebody with money who will.”

  He snickered. “Ye’d best marry someone daft, then. Nobody else will mistake ye for a lady, despite your fine purloined feathers.”

  Betsy snatched the hat from her head and began whacking George with it. She chased him around the room until a banging came on the door. They stopped dead and exchanged a horrified look.

  “Coppers?” Betsy whispered.

  “Can’t be!”

  The banging continued, accompanied by the sound of a familiar voice.

  “Open up.”

  Wide-eyed, George threw the door open. An exasperated Sam strode into the room. “Did ye post the ransom note ter Sir William yet?”

  “Yeah, an hour ago,” George said.

  Sam cursed, grabbed the bottle of liquor from George, and drained it.

  “What’re ye doin’ here?” Betsy asked, aghast. “We didn’t expect to see ye till Liverpool.”

  “We said we’d meet up here if somethin’ went wrong. The girl got away.”

  “Ye dolt!” George exclaimed.

  Sam shoved him. “If ye hadn’t backed the carriage over my foot, she wouldn’t have done!”

  George returned the shove. “Nobody asked ye ter stand so close, ye fool!”

  “Stop!” Betsy pried the two men apart. “Tell us what happened, Sam.”

  “The she-devil ran off and when I grabbed her, she stabbed me with this.” Sam opened his jacket, where he’d woven the hatpin into the inside lining of his jacket. A spot of dried blood was visible on his shirt.

  Betsy gasped. “Are ye all right?”

  “Aye, but she saw my face. Then we run smack into a gent with a Purdy shotgun. I near got my backside ventilated.”

  Sam began to pace back and forth in the ensuing silence. Betsy pushed her fingertips against her temples as if to quell the onset of a headache. George folded his arms across his chest, drilled Sam with a level stare, and waited.

  “Nobody knows ye two are involved,” Sam said finally. “Ye can drive the brougham back to Gloucester and put this business all on me.”

  “That’s brilliant,” George snapped. “We can’t go back. I already done sold the brougham, like we planned.”

  “I should have done her in right off and dragged the body into the woods. The rain woulda washed away the blood in no time.”

  “What a minute…what’s this about doin’ Miss Roring in? I thought ye were holdin’ her fer ransom,” Betsy said, taken aback.

  “Don’t be daft. I never had any intention ter hand her over alive. As it is, she’s a loose end.”

  Sam passed a shaking hand over his face. Betsy squeezed his arm.

  “Don’t despair. That hatpin will fetch a few quid. Them is real diamonds. And I also have Miss Roring’s gold earbobs. Between the three of us, we might have money enough fer passage ter America.”

  “You reckon so?” As Sam peered at her, the pinched look on his face eased.

  “We can always roll a few swells in Liverpool,” George said.

  A smile lifted the corners of Sam’s mouth. “That we can, laddie.”

  “I’m a fair pickpocket, I am,” Betsy said.

  Sam chuckled. “All right. We’ll ride fer Swindon at dawn and take the train ter Liverpool. After that, we’ll buy tickets on the first ship sailin’ west.”

  Betsy threw her arms around Sam’s neck and planted a kiss on his mouth. “We’re ter be married when we get ter America, promise?”

  Sam disentangled himself.

  “Aye, sure. Right now I’m headed ter the tavern for a pint or three.”

  After Sam left, George blew out a long breath. Betsy peered at him.

  “Ye got that look on yer face, Georgie. What’re ye thinkin’?”

  “Seems ter me, little sister, that yer boyfriend has become a liability. If Miss Roring saw his face, the coppers’ll be after him.”

  “What’re ye goin’ on about?”

  “Maybe he should meet with a little accident.”

  Betsy clutched her brother’s arm. “No, Georgie. I love him.”

  He leveled a cool stare at his sister. “Aye? That makes one of us.”

  When Logan woke, the cottage windows were glistening with the light of a clear morning. Miss Roring was leaning over the washbasin, splashing her face with water. He stretched to unwind the kinks in his neck and back.

  “Good morning. How are you feeling, Miss Roring?” he asked.

  Startled by the sound of his voice, she hastened to dab at her damp face with a cloth.

  “Good morning, Mr. Logan. I confess my wound hurts abominably.”

  “I should check your bandage.”

  A flush suffused her face and she shrank back. “I, er, I’m certain that isn’t necessary.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “No, really, it’s fine.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “The wound is in danger of infection. If said infection should take hold, you may lose your extremity and ultimately your life. Now sit down and let me have a look at it.”

  As she hobbled to the bed, he moved over to the washbasin to cleanse his hands. When he turned back to Miss Roring, she’d arranged her skirts to reveal as little of her anatomy as possible. While he unwrapped the bandage, he tried to take her mind off her obvious embarrassment.

  “When I was five, my parents gave a dinner party at Idunn Court. All sorts of important people were invited, including a few dukes, duchesses, and lords. The governess was busy, so I dressed myself in an old sailor suit and went outside to climb trees. When I was called inside to meet our illustrious company, I stood in the center of the room and bowed to everyone, not realizing my sailor suit had split up the seam in back and I’d failed to wear an undergarment.”

  Despite herself, Jillian burst into peals of laughter.

  “You might find it amusing, but the vicar’s wife did not. She fainted into the pudding and caused a dreadful uproar. The vicar thought I’d done it all on purpose, of course, and so never forgave me. Neither did the governess.” Logan rewrapped the bandage, sat back and smiled. “We are done.”

  Jillian promptly smoothed her petticoat and skirt into place. “Well?”

  “The healing process is progressing nicely, but you should stay off your feet to prevent bleeding. The ride to my home is relatively short. We’ll be there before breakfast and I will summon a surgeon to attend you.”

  “You’re very considerate.” She paused. “Was that story true?”

  “Every word. I’m going outside to ready your transportation, Miss Roring. Please don’t move around while I’m gone.”

  Although she was impatient to leave, Jillian forced herself to sit still. A sense of gratitude washed over her. Logan might be a bit wild in his appearance and somewhat melancholy, but he’d shown her a great deal of kindness…particularly with his bedside manner. Oh, this is such a big mess…and it’s my fault. If I hadn’t had my heart set on going to London, nobody would have been shot or inconvenienced. She took a moment to say a prayer for poor George and Betsy’s well-being. She knew Sam only in passing, but found it difficult to believe he’d acted in such a nefarious fashion. I hope he repents of his wickedness.

  Logan ducked his head as he stepped through the doorway, lest he strike the doorframe with his forehead.

  “If you are ready, Miss Rori
ng?”

  She stood in a wobbly fashion, but in the next moment she was lifted into the air by the Logan’s steely strong arms.

  “My heavens!” she gasped. “I believe I can walk a little.”

  “Doctor’s orders.”

  Logan ducked sideways through the door and set her gently down into the back of a cart lined with clean straw. She gaped at the glossy black stallion strapped into the leather harness in front. His long tail swished to and fro, and he pawed the ground with his forelimbs.

  “What a magnificent creature!”

  “That’s Tuxano. Excuse me a moment.”

  Logan disappeared into the cottage, reemerging moments later with his top hat in place. He locked the door, mounted Tuxano with athletic grace, and urged the horse into a fast walk. The initial discomfort Jillian experienced as she rode in the rickety cart fled as the gorgeous scenery mesmerized her. The sky was a cloudless masterpiece of blue, and a pleasant breeze meant spring was well underway. The surrounding trees were putting forth shoots, and wildflowers were beginning to wake from their winter slumber.

  Beyond the trees, an expanse of pasture rolled gently as far as she could see. In the distance, a herd of deer grazed in the field. The graceful animals suddenly stood stock-still and stared in her direction, as if they could feel her eyes upon them. Tuxano trotted along without pause, however, and the deer resumed their meal. The next pasture was dotted with sheep, their fat, white coats begging to be shorn. Despite her worries and the continuing ache in her leg, Jillian smiled with pleasure.

  Tuxano kept a good pace, and they arrived at Logan’s home within the half hour. Jillian gasped with delight at her first glimpse of Idunn Court, which radiated charm and warmth. The house itself was three stories, and much of the warm yellow stonework was covered with ivy. The main dwelling was situated on a large courtyard, next to a gurgling stream. Several outlying buildings formed a square. Logan rode Tuxano into the courtyard through the gatehouse.

  As the horse and cart came to a halt, servants surged from the structure. Logan reeled off orders to an older woman Jillian assumed was the housekeeper.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Lyman. Call Mr. Jones immediately, and then prepare a guest room for Miss Roring.”

  “Right away, Mr. Logan.”

  As the woman bustled off, Logan lifted Jillian from the cart.

  “Before you take me to my room, may I first use your telephone?” she asked. “My family will be frantic.”

  “Of course.”

  From the privacy of Logan’s study, Jillian first called Aunt Letty. Since the connection was scratchy and her aunt was excited, she had to repeat her story several times.

  “Mr. Mackenzie Logan, did you say?” Aunt Letty asked.

  “Yes. I’m at his home outside Cirencester. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Only by reputation, child. This is horrible news, I’m afraid, on top of everything else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s not important right now. I’ll catch the train to Cirencester this afternoon. My brother will meet me there with a carriage.”

  “Uncle William must be terribly worried.”

  “He’s been calling every two hours, hoping for good news. I’m going to ring him now and tell him you’re safe.”

  Her aunt severed the connection and Jillian was left to wonder if she’d misunderstood her. What horrible news could Aunt Letty be referring to?

  Logan was standing by when she emerged from the study.

  “Did you manage to reach your family?” he asked.

  “My aunt, Mrs. Marsh, is taking the afternoon train from London to fetch me, and my uncle, Sir William Monroe, will pick her up at the station.”

  “I look forward to meeting them. Now, let me see you to your room so you can rest.”

  He carried Jillian up the stairs to the second level, where the housekeeper was airing out a room. Logan deposited Jillian gently on the four-poster bed.

  “Find something fresh for our guest to wear, Mrs. Lyman, while you clean her gown. And bring breakfast on a tray,” he said, oblivious to the housekeeper’s scowl of disapproval.

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “If you will excuse me, Miss Roring,” he said. “Mrs. Lyman here will see to your needs.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Logan. I’m quite grateful for your assistance,” Jillian said.

  He made her a bow and swept past Mrs. Lyman on his way from the room. Jillian assumed the woman’s sour expression had something to do with the mud flaking off her skirt and boots.

  “I’m awfully sorry about the dirt,” Jillian said. “I had a bit of a scrape on the road yesterday in the storm, and Mr. Logan came to my rescue.”

  “It’s certainly none of my nevermind, miss. I’ll send Mary to clean up after you.”

  With a contemptuous glare, the housekeeper turned on her heel and left without another word. Astonished at the woman’s rudeness, Jillian could only stare at her retreating back. Granted, her appearance was in disarray, but it was hardly intentional. Jillian tried to shrug off the slight. Perhaps Mrs. Lyman was disagreeable to everyone.

  Despite the pain in her leg, she hobbled to the window. The stream flowing past the house was flanked by lush, grassy banks and spreading trees. A charming stone bridge was situated off to one side. The serene view brought a smile to her face. How could anyone be melancholy or dour for long in a place such as this?

  A few minutes later, a young servant came to the door with a dressing gown over her arm. The girl, who spoke with an Irish accent, helped Jillian remove her soiled clothes.

  “My name is Mary. I’ll be taking yer things downstairs to be sponged and pressed now, but I’ll be back with yer breakfast in a jiffy. You’re welcome ter use the late Mrs. Logan’s dressing gown until yer clothes are clean.”

  After a brief curtsy, Mary left with the mud-streaked traveling suit. Jillian climbed onto the bed and tried to rest, but her wound made it difficult to relax. At least she finally knew the reason for Logan’s air of mourning.

  He must have loved his wife very much.

  Chapter Three

  That Woman

  THE SURGEON, MR. JONES, arrived at Idunn Court midmorning, and was shown to Jillian’s room. Since the surgeon was an elderly man, Jillian was not as mortified to have him tend her wound as she had been with Logan.

  “I’ve never treated a bullet wound on a female before,” he said, swabbing the injury with carbolic acid. “Fortunately, it’s little more than a deep scratch. Keep it clean and dry, and you’ll be right as rain very soon.”

  “May I walk or will it start bleeding again?”

  “If you lie still today, I see no reason you can’t move around a bit tomorrow. No footraces, though.”

  The frighteningly red gouge in her skin made her shudder.

  “Will I have a scar?”

  “Most likely.” He chuckled at her crestfallen expression. “Don’t be overly concerned, Miss Roring. ’Tis nothing that won’t be concealed until the wedding night, eh?”

  She felt her cheekbones burn. “I suppose so.”

  He gave her a drop of laudanum for the pain, wrapped her leg with a fresh bandage and left extra gauze and carbolic acid at her bedside so she could tend the wound herself. Slightly dizzy from the effects of the laudanum, Jillian lay back. She drifted off to sleep finally, and dreamed of a tea party with lambs, fawns, and talking bears.

  When Logan emerged from his bath, the full-length mirror revealed how unkempt his appearance had become. His curly hair was far too long and his beard was bushy. No wonder Miss Roring had attempted to flee his company the day before. She would rather have braved the lightning storm than spend one more minute in the company of a brooding hermit.

  As his manservant gave him a shave and a haircut, Logan’s thoughts wandered to his guest. The young woman had piqued his curiosity, and he wanted to learn more about her background. Her forthright manner, bravery, and resourcefulness were rarities among th
e women he’d known—and a refreshing change.

  The sensation of clean fine linen felt good against his skin. He’d lost quite a bit of weight during his self-imposed exile, so his manservant had to adjust the waistband of his striped trousers. Logan left his bedchamber just as the surgeon emerged from Jillian’s room.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Jones. How is Miss Roring?”

  “Let me assure you, Mr. Logan, she will suffer no lasting ill effects from her injury.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it. The highwayman who attacked her also shot the carriage driver. The driver’s gone missing, I’m afraid. Did you happen to treat him?”

  “Can’t say I did. The last gunshot wound I saw in Cirencester was two years ago, when Lord Lansing’s gamekeeper accidentally discharged a hunting rifle at a large boulder. The ricocheting buckshot pierced his right buttock.” The surgeon shook his head and chuckled. “His wife never let him forget that.”

  Logan was puzzled. The road past his estate led directly through Cirencester. Wouldn’t Miss Roring’s driver have sought medical assistance there—if indeed he’d been shot?

  Logan escorted Mr. Jones to his gig parked in the courtyard, and then headed inside to ring the constable. Mrs. Lyman waylaid him en route to his study.

  “If I might have a word with you, sir?”

  “Why, of course.”

  Although the housekeeper had never been an effervescent soul, Logan noticed her tone was more clipped than usual. He followed her into his study and shut the door. Never one to mince words, Mrs. Lyman unbridled her tongue immediately.

  “I cannot countenance your bringing a trollop into this house.”

  Logan’s mouth fell open in shock, but Mrs. Lyman scarcely drew breath.

  “Your mother and father would roll over in their graves if they knew Idunn Court had been so besmirched.”

  “A trollop? Surely you cannot be referring to Miss Roring!”

  The housekeeper’s nostrils flared. “Indeed I am.”

  Logan had difficulty keeping his countenance.

  “Mrs. Lyman, let me set your mind at ease. Miss Roring is a gentlewoman of good breeding and the highest morals. She was traveling to the train station yesterday afternoon when a highwayman accosted her very near my hunting cottage. A bullet grazed her leg and I rendered her assistance.”