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Ian wondered. Why is he asking Shannon all these personal questions?

  “You are kind, sir, to say such nice things about my family. And my mother is very handsome.” She smiled briefly. “My father thinks so, too.”

  For an instant Gabeau’s dark eyes burned hot with what Ian deemed rage. Then his forehead wrinkled, and he looked away.

  Ian had no idea what might have caused the Frenchman’s emotional reaction to Shannon’s statement.

  Gabeau turned back and smiled again. But Ian thought his smile looked as if an artist had painted it on to cover a rather grim facial expression.

  “Forgive me for staring, Miss Aimee,” the Frenchman said. “But you remind me of someone who was once most dear to me.”

  Shannon blushed.

  “I have no wish to embarrass you. But the similarity is too great to ignore. See for yourself.” He reached over and handed the wooden frame to Shannon.

  Shannon glanced down casually. All at once, her eyes widened. “Oh, my. The portrait does look like me. But how could that be?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  STRANGER THINGS HAVE happened, I suppose,” the Frenchman said.

  “Ian,” Shannon called, “come here and look at this portrait.”

  Ian didn’t have to be invited to take a look. He’d already emerged from his chair and was halfway across the pine floor. He moved behind the settee, and, leaning over Shannon’s shoulder, he gazed at the young woman in the small painting.

  She wore a brown and yellow plaid dress, and she held a long-stemmed yellow flower in both hands. Her thick mass of long auburn hair fell across one shoulder. Yet the artist managed to capture the essence of the woman as if he knew her well.

  Ian wondered if the Frenchman was a portrait painter. If so, he was very skilled.

  The eyes of the girl in the painting were closed. Yet long black lashes edged her lowered lids. Was she perhaps in prayer? Somehow Ian knew that if her eyes opened, they would be sea green and sparkle like emeralds. No wonder Monsieur Gabeau kept the painting at his side at all times.

  “Well, does the woman in the portrait look like me or not?” Shannon asked Ian.

  “I think she looks a lot like you.” Slowly, Ian nodded his head. “I am amazed.”

  Ian suddenly realized that the cook and a young woman he didn’t know stood in the doorway leading to another part of the house. Cook motioned for Monsieur Gabeau to come forward.

  The Frenchman grabbed his cane. Then he reached over, snatching the portrait from Shannon’s hands without uttering so much as one word of explanation. The women were no longer standing in the doorway. Monsieur Gabeau stormed across the room on crippled legs, through that doorway and out of sight.

  “Ian,” Shannon said. “Do you think something is wrong?”

  “Who knows with that man.” He studied Shannon carefully. “Is there anything I can get you?”

  “My throat is dry. I wish I’d asked the cook to bring me a cup of water.”

  “You wait right here. I will go and fetch it.”

  A pitcher of water and cups for drinking were always kept in the small dining room. Ian went down the hall, heading in that direction.

  He was pouring water into a cup when he heard loud voices coming from the room next to the dining room. The door was slightly ajar. He couldn’t help hearing what was being said.

  A woman was sobbing, and he heard what sounded like a child say, “Papa! Don’t hit my mama.”

  “I’m not your papa,” the Frenchman shouted back. “At least in public, I’m not.”

  “But he’s sick,” one of the women said. “He needs to see the healer.”

  “Get him out of here!”

  Ian tensed as anger and indignation boiled inside him. A woman and perhaps her child were being abused in that room. Maybe the cook was being harmed, too. He heard more screams and furniture being smashed around.

  He couldn’t hold his emotions in check a moment longer. He dropped the white cup, allowing the expensive-looking china object to crash to the floor, and moved to the connecting door. He yanked it open all the way. The door banged back against the paneled wall.

  An exterior door was open in the main dining room. A young woman and a boy of six or seven raced through it and out into the yard. He didn’t see the Frenchman’s cook, but Mrs. Woodhouse must have exited too since she wasn’t in the room. Maybe the young woman and the boy were related to Mrs. Woodhouse.

  Only the Frenchman was in the main dining room. He stood in the middle of the floor with his skinny arms over his chest.

  “I heard noises,” Ian said. “Is everything all right?”

  “But of course.”

  “Who was the young woman and the child I saw just now?”

  “The young woman is Lela Woodhouse, the cook’s daughter. She works for me now and again. There was no child here.”

  “I heard a child say ‘Mama.’”

  “You are mistaken. Cook is a widow. Lela has never married.” Monsieur Gabeau produced what Ian called a sardonic smile, filled with deception and every kind of hate. “I see you dropped a cup. I will have Cook clean up the mess when she comes back inside.

  “The physician should be arriving soon. Let us go back and see how Miss Aimee is getting along. Shall we?”

  Ian glanced out the window nearest to him. The woman, the cook, and the child were walking toward a small cabin beyond the kitchen house. He could only hope that they would be all right.

  Maybe the physician would see about the child without letting the Frenchman know about it. Ian would certainly tell him what he saw, if he got the chance.

  Shannon bit down on a piece of wood. The pain devoured her. She wanted to scream. At least with wood in her mouth, she couldn’t.

  “Easy, lass,” Ian said in a comforting tone. “The doctor will have your leg right and ready very soon.”

  The physician was a small, thin little man with a bald head, squinty gray eyes and long, nimble fingers. Monsieur Gabeau had introduced the physician as Healer Grimes.

  “This is going to hurt, miss.” The doctor’s voice sounded gentle. “Push my hands away should I cause you more pain than you can stand, and I will stop.”

  Shannon nodded. With the wood in her mouth, it was impossible for her to reply.

  Despite his unattractive physical appearance, Shannon thought the doctor seemed to go out of his way to keep from hurting her. Perhaps he was trustworthy as well.

  The physician pressed two slats against her ankle, one on each side, and he wrapped a white cloth around the whole thing. Shannon stiffened and groaned.

  “Try to calm yourself, miss. I have almost finished.”

  The wooden slats would make it difficult for her to walk. However, her ankle hurt too much to walk in any case.

  “I think Miss Aimee should stay the night here at my estate,” Monsieur Gabeau insisted. “It is clear to me that she is in too much pain to be moved.”

  “I disagree,” Ian retorted. “It would be unseemly for Miss Aimee to spend the night away from her chaperone. We must return her to Gatehaven at once.”

  Shannon wanted to protest. She didn’t want to be under Miss Foster’s care any longer. The woman scared her, and never more than when she spoke in a man’s voice. But with the wood still in her mouth, she couldn’t say a word.

  She pressed her tongue against the wood. Then she opened her mouth and pushed the stick with her tongue. The wood shot out. Ian dodged. If he hadn’t, it might have landed in his face.

  “Shannon!” Ian glared at her. “You could have hurt somebody when you spat out that piece of wood.”

  “Forgive me. But I would like to stay the night here, Ian. As Monsieur Gabeau said, I am in too much pain to return to Gatehaven tonight.”

  Ian shook his head. “Your will is as strong as a man’s, Shannon Aimee.”

  “McGregor.” The Frenchman motioned for his driver to step forward. “Tell Cook to come and assist Miss Aimee. The young lady will be staying in the blue room tonig
ht.”

  “Very good, sir.” The driver started to walk off.

  “Where is the blue bedroom?” Ian reached down as if he expected to carry Shannon somewhere. “I will take Miss Aimee to her bed.”

  “McGregor will do it, Mr. Colquhoun.” Gabeau turned to his driver. “McGregor. Carry Miss Aimee to her room. When she is safely in bed, fetch Cook so she can attend to the needs of this young woman and act as her chaperone while she is here.”

  McGregor turned and glared at Ian. “Out of my way, Colquhoun.” McGregor poked Ian with his left elbow. “A McGregor will handle this task better than a Colquhoun ever could.”

  The portly carriage driver still glared at Ian; his jaw tightened. McGregor scooped Shannon up into his arms. She thought all his hostility was aimed at Ian. For an instant, she wondered why.

  Ian smiled, shrugging his shoulders.

  At that moment, she remembered. Ian had said that apparently Mr.McGregor didn’t yet know of Ian’s Scottish clan roots. Obviously, he knew now. How could she have forgotten that for generations the clan Colquhoun and the clan McGregnor were enemies?

  Ian followed McGregor into the blue bedroom. The Frenchman limped behind them. He heard the tap, tap of the crippled man’s cane.

  He’d planned to sneak into the Frenchman’s library while the man slept to search for a book on the meaning of words. Now those plans must die; Ian had more important things to do. Once Monsieur’s cook arrived and went inside, he would stay the night in the hallway outside, guarding Shannon’s door.

  The cook finally came into Shannon’s bedroom, and Ian and the doctor stepped out into the hallway. However, Monsieur Gabeau stayed in her room, insisting that he wanted to talk to Cook about Shannon’s condition before leaving her for the night. After hearing what he heard in the dining room earlier with the boy and the young woman, Ian wasn’t about to budge from that hallway until the Frenchman came out.

  Monsieur Gabeau had called the physician Healer Grimes. Ian preferred to call him doctor. Ian told him what happened in the dining room without going into much detail.

  “I was hoping you would be so good as to pay a visit to the cabin to see how the boy and his mother are doing,” Ian whispered. “I will be happy to pay all the costs of their care.”

  The doctor smiled. “There is no need. I have been looking out for Lela Woodhouse and Stephen for a long time.”

  “Stephen. Is that the boy’s name?”

  “Yes. Etienne is Stephen in some foreign language—French, I believe. I could be wrong about that. Regardless, the boy goes by the name of Stephen Woodhouse.”

  Ian nodded. “I see what you mean.”

  He glanced down to give himself time to think. The young woman and the boy needed to be rescued before they simply disappeared as others had before them. But what should be done?

  “You’re wondering what else you can do to help them, are you not, Mr.Colquhoun?”

  “Your wit is powerful, doctor. You caught my thoughts without me having to express them. Is there a way to help them leave here forever?”

  “Yes.” The doctor smiled. “Plans have already been made. Later this day, I will pick up Lela and Stephen and take them to my home in Fairs. My wife is waiting for them now. On the morrow, trusted friends will take them safely to Ireland. They will never have to see the Monsieur Gabeau again.”

  “Thank you, doctor. Godspeedn.”

  By midnight, Ian felt his eyes close of their own accord. He opened them. But they closed again. He was seated with his back against the door and his legs stretched out in front of him. He got up and stood. In a standing position, it would be easier to stay awake.

  Ian still felt sleepy. He grabbed the handle on the door for support. His eyes closed again.

  He heard something—a noise. He squinted into the near darkness but didn’t see anybody. He heard a soft thump. Instantly alerted, his hands became fists. He heard another thump on the wooden floor.

  Ian’s body stiffened. Is Monsieur Gabeau planning to go into Shannon’s room in the dead of night? Surely not. The sounds I heard must have come from elsewhere.

  A shadow crossed in front of a window, blocking its dim light from view.

  “Who goes there?” Ian shouted.

  “Mr. Colquhoun?”

  Ian heard a soft jingling sound like metal against metal.

  “Is that you?” the Frenchman asked.

  “Indeed.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  WHAT ARE YOU doing in front of Miss Aimee’s door in the middle of the night?” the Frenchman demanded.

  “I might ask you the same question,” Ian snapped back.

  “I was on my way to the kitchen for a spot of tea, and I thought I heard sounds coming from the young lady’s room. I came to investigate.”

  “I heard no such sounds,” Ian countered, “other than your footsteps coming here.”

  The Frenchman chuckled in the darkness. “Then I must be mistaken.”

  The door bumped against Ian’s back. He took a step forward. The door opened a crack.

  “What is going on out here in the middle of the night?” the cook demanded. “Poor Miss Aimee is trying to sleep.”

  “Forgive us for the intrusion.” The Frenchman moved into the light coming from the bedroom. “I heard a noise. Mr. Colquhoun and I came to investigate. Do go back to sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door closed. Ian heard the lock click from the inside.

  In that brief instant when the cook stood near the door with a candle in her hand, Ian heard a metallic ping. It was like small pieces of metal no bigger than a door key hitting together—the same sound he’d heard earlier.

  Door keys.

  Had the Frenchman brought a key to Shannon’s room with the intention of invading her privacy while she slept? Or was his imagination playing games with his mind?

  “Miss Aimee is in capable hands,” the Frenchman said after a short pause. “Shall we go out back to the kitchen-house, Mr. Colquhoun, and have a cup of tea? I am an expert at warming tea.”

  “Go if you wish, Monsieur. I plan to stand guard in front of Miss Aimee’s door ’till morning comes.”

  “Do as you will. I am going to go out and have my tea.”

  Ian sat on the floor with his back against Shannon’s door for the rest of the night. He must have drifted off. He awoke the next morning when someone called his name.

  “Mr. Colquhoun.”

  The male voice sounded even louder the second time he heard it. Perhaps the man was getting closer.

  Ian looked up. McGregor’s gray eyes blazed into his. Some might wonder why the Frenchman’s driver disliked him so much. But when Ian learned that the driver’s name was McGregor, the reason was clear.

  As a Christian, Ian had no hard feelings against either the McGregor or the McFarland clan, but others felt differently about their ancient enemies. Clearly, the Monsieur’s carriage driver was one McGregor who hated Colquhouns merely for being Colquhouns.

  “I was sent to tell you that Monsieur Gabeau will spend the day at Gatehaven.” The carriage driver leaned forward, putting his hand on his legs just above the knees. “He is waiting in the carriage. We plan to leave at once.”

  Ian nodded. “I am grateful that you told me.”

  “I was ordered to tell you,” McGregor corrected hotly. “And don’t think I do not know that you are a Colquhoun. I can smell a Colquhoun a mile away.”

  “We are a long way from Scotland now, sir.” Ian released a deep breath of air. “I hope we can become friends.”

  “Friends?” The stout McGregor straightened to his full height, and standing, he put his arms over his chest. “A Colquhoun will never be a friend of mine.”

  “If not friends, then maybe the two of us could decide not to be enemies.”

  “My family have been enemies of the Colquhoun Clan forever.” He turned and started to walk off. “That will never change.”

  “Perhaps it will.”

  McG
regor stopped and looked back. “Perhaps it will what?”

  “Change.” Ian paused before saying more to let his words sink in. “God willing, we will one day be friends.”

  “Friends we will never be, Mr. Colquhoun. I can promise you that.”

  Ian didn’t reply.

  The Bible said to pray for one’s enemies. It was time to pray for the salvation of Monsieur Gabeau’s driver as well as the earl and the Frenchman himself. Then he would pray for Shannon and others that he loved.

  In a while, Shannon would wake up, and he would go in to see how she fared during the night. Seeing Shannon always encouraged him, even when she wasn’t feeling her best.

  Peter Aimee had never wanted water more than at that moment, and he felt better physically than he had the last time he woke up. His head didn’t hurt as much, and his other aches and pains bothered him less than they once had. He sat up and looked around.

  His bed was covered with a dark blue cloth edged with fancy stitching that could only had been done by a woman, and flowers in wooden pots had been placed on a shelf under the two windows in the small but tidy bedroom. He breathed in the scent of flowers he couldn’t identify, and a sense of warmth and welcoming engulfed him.

  Peter had no idea how he got there, but during the short periods when he managed to keep his eyes and ears open, he learned that he was in a cottage and being cared for by strangers. He’d half-heard a woman and a man talking with heavy Scottish accents, and he saw them briefly just before he went back to sleep. The balding man had a big belly and looked much older than the woman. She seemed very capable of doing her household chores and was shapely enough to please any man. However, no woman— no matter how handsome—could compare with Kate Colquhoun.

  Clearly, the young Scottish woman had his best interest at heart. However, the uncle indicated that he would like Peter to move on as soon as the physician would allow it. Once when Peter came to himself for a short time, he learned that a physician was looking after him.

  And Peter agreed with the uncle. He wanted to leave the cottage at once, but he’d heard the physician say that he must stay in bed a little longer.