Chapter Seven
Jillian sensed something was wrong as soon as she set foot in the great hall where everyone broke the morning fast. She had overslept again. Ian was royally spoiling her because of the bairn. Although another part of the reason was his leaving her totally satiated with his leisurely lovemaking each morning.
Even though a fire burned in the large hearth closest to the dais and some sunlight trickled in through the narrow slitted windows, the room had a chill to it that had nothing to do with stone floors or stone walls. Her husband looked anything but satiated at the moment. Due to the lateness of the hour, the massive room was empty except for Ian, Duncan and Broc—two of her least favorite people. Their glowering faces did not portend well.
Ian looked up from the parchment he held and forced a smile as she approached the table. “Would ye like something to eat?”
Jillian shook her head. Although she was well into her pregnancy, she still did not care to eat as soon as she got up. The pungent smell of herring—a breakfast dish she still had not become accustomed to—made her stomach slightly queasy. “I can get something later. What is wrong?”
He didn’t mince words. “Wesley has escaped from Bedlam.”
The air left her lungs. Feeling lightheaded suddenly, she reached for the table’s edge. Ian leapt up to steady her and pulled out a chair. “Och, what aneejitI am for telling ye like this.”
“You are not an idiot. I…I am fine. It was just a bit of a shock.”
“One ye didnae need in yer condition.”
She managed a faint smile. “I think the bairn will survive.” Ian frowned, and she squeezed his hand. “Really. I am fine. Tell me what the letter says.”
“’Tis from Jamie. The devil escaped a little more than a fortnight ago.”
“If Wesley has not been seen, perhaps he caught a ship to the Continent.”
“I dinnae ken. It took the messenger a sennight to get here.”
“You do not think Wesley would attempt to come here, do you?”
“If he did, he would be shot on sight.”
“But you cannot—”
“This is the Highlands,” Duncan interrupted. “We have our own way of taking care o’ things.”
“Nae like yer mad King George or that fat-ass prince who prances around in fancy clothes,” Broc added with a sneer.
Jillian didn’t bother to remind them Scotland and England had been united since the 1600s or that themadking was also their liege. To Duncan and Broc, the battle at Culloden was still a fresh insult, even though the battle had taken place seventy years ago.
“Dinnae fash, lass. I dinnae think the mon would be stupid enough to venture here,” Ian said.
“You are still upset, though. Surely, since Jamie is aware of the situation, he will have everyone at Newburn and Cantford be on the alert.”
Duncan snorted and Broc glared at her. Jillian frowned. “What is it?”
Ian laid the letter down. “Jamie is not at the estates. He is in London.”
“Whatever for? We left all the paperwork in order. There should be no need of a solicitor or—”
“’Tis yer sister’s fault,” Duncan interrupted again. “She hied off.”
Ian sent him a stern look. “Enough.”
Jillian’s gaze returned to Ian. “Why would Mari be in London?”
“Jamie says she wanted to do something called the Little Season. Do ye ken what that is?”
Jillian groaned. Mari was flighty and headstrong, partially through Jillian’s own fault. She had been eight when their mother died birthing Mari and their father had taken to drinking and gambling. Until he committed suicide several years later and Aunt Agnes took them in, Jillian tried to be a mother to Mari as much as a sister. Unfortunately, she let her little sister have her way far too many times.
“A number of parties and balls take place in October and November while Parliament is still in session and thetonis in Town. I have no idea why Mari decided she needed to attend. I promised her I would return in the spring to chaperone her.”
