Page 26 of Lyon of Scotland
Then he remembered taking a carriage with some acquaintances, Dove with them, to a gambling establishment. Dare was not keen on such things and had gone with some purpose in mind. But what?
A gaming house, tables, laughter, drams of whisky. Talk of whisky—ah, with Frederic Dove. Tension, some kind of threat. He had too much to drink, though it was not his habit. He had been groggy, forgetful, sick. In fact, he had not felt like this since the war, when he had been dosed with laudanum.
Leaning elbows to knees now, he covered his eyes to soothe a pounding headache. He was thirsty, his stomach precarious. A bitter taste lingered on his tongue.
Laudanum indeed. That was the bitter taste—he knew it from the war, from doses he had been given for a painful injury. He knew its effect on others, too; while he recovered, he had assisted his friend Linhope, a doctor, with soldiers’ injuries. The terrible stuff was a blessing in some instances.
But he would never willingly swallow it.
He studied the girl—she was pale, limp, her breathing steady but shallow. Though he still felt groggy and dizzy, its terrible pull on his body and brain had lessened. Surely the girl had taken, or had been given, the same drug.
But if Dove had done that—why? He remembered more of their conversation last night. Dove resented, even hated the Scots, something to do with whisky production—and his father’s death, it seemed. But why go after him, and Hannah. It made no sense. This disaster definitely needed sorting. Turning back to Hannah, he brushed his fingers over her tumble of honey-colored curls. The scars along the back of his hand were faintly visible, burns from the war, reminding him again of the laudanum he hated.
She stirred, moaned, her eyes fluttering over blue irises with tiny pupils. That was the drug too, so he had learned from Linhope, and also from his brother-in-law Cameron, a surgeon who had sometimes worked with Linhope.
Good, he was remembering more. Another scene flickered past—a dingy tent, lamplight, freezing cold, men on cots, low groans; his arm and hand wrapped in thick bandages as he followed Linhope and Cameron from bed to bed with cloths, scissors, metal pans. Doing something to help took his mind from pain—the physical pain of searing burns along hand and forearm, and the pain in his heart then, too. A letter in his pockethad informed him that his fiancée had died of a fever during his absence.
Jerked back to the present, Dare felt determined suddenly. He would not let anything happen to Hannah Gordon. His promise to watch over her had gone deeper than her father’s request; protecting her had become essential to him. He would get her out of here, wherever this was, and get her home safely.
First he would meet with his hosts and find out what the devil was going on, as well as the reason he and the girl had been heavily dosed. He stood, tugging at his sleeves.
He knew something else. He needed to propose marriage to her. That late-night jaunt to a gambling house had somehow resulted in a bewildering catastrophe.
Crossing to the door, he paused to master a wave of nausea and dizziness. Then he straightened his shoulders and left the room.
“Lord Lyon ishere, madam.” The little maid poked her head into the study and backed away hastily. Dare entered a spacious room, where a bright crackling fire in the hearth dispelled the gloom of rain, dusk, and damp chill.
“Lord Lyon, welcome.” A woman sat behind a large desk, figure and furniture silhouetted against a tall window. She wore all black, even to the smoky-black veil that skimmed over her head and face. Despite his fuzzy brain and aching head, Dare recognized her as the woman he had seen last night surveying the gaming room.
The pieces were coming together slowly. This was not the Dove house, as he had thought at first, but the gaming house he had visited with the group last night. And because of the drug, he had slept here, more or less, beside Hannah Gordon.
A man stepped out of the shadows near the desk. Seeing Sir Frederic Dove, Dare narrowed his eyes. A shiver crossed the back of his neck in some instinctual warning.
“Sir, we are pleased to see you. Do sit down.” The woman indicated a chair.
He inclined his head and went to the chair, but declined to sit. Resting his hands on the wooden trim above the upholstery, he waited, wary.
“Lord Lyon,” Dove said, “allow me to introduce my cousin, Mrs. Elizabeth Dove-Lyon.” Dare frowned, hearing the curious name again.
“Lyon of Scotland, is it?” Her voice was low, calm. “A Scotsman, judging by your costume.”
“It is no costume where I come from.” The room spun. He tightened his hold on the chair.
“A Highland man? We rarely see them here. My cousin tells me that Lord Lyon is an important title in Scotland. I wonder if we could be related through my late husband.”
The woman’s neutral tone became eager. In the heraldry office, Dare had heard that same ripple of excitement—the hope of finding a family connection to a notable name.
“Lord Lyon, King of Arms, is an honorary title for the head of the heraldry office in Scotland, madam. Lyon, as a name, came to Britain with the Normans. Perhaps your husband descended from a French line.” The facts came to him almost without thought.
“Perhaps. Then why is a Scottish official called Lyon?”
“For the lion on the Scottish flag, madam. It is simply the ancient spelling. Many have held the title over the centuries. Otherwise, I am Sir Alasdair Drummond, Viscount Strathburn.”
“Viscount! Equally impressive. You brought me a notable gentleman, Freddie.”
“Brought me here? Please explain what is going on here. Now,” Dare said.
“Do sit, Lord Lyon.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon waved a hand.
