Scandal in Scotland by Karen Hawkins Page A

that all of this was somehow connected to her. It was beginning to appear that the onyx box carried far more importance than she’d thought, and not just to William.
    From beginning to end, the entire situation had been a departure for her blackmailer. Why does my blackmailer want that particular artifact? she wondered as she stepped around two burly seamen carrying a large trunk to shore.
    Something mysterious was going on. The box had to be wildly valuable. Perhaps she shouldn’t hand it over to her blackmailer unless he promised to leave her and her sisters alone forever more. Or perhaps she should keep it until all of her sisters were settled, and then hand it over.
    She paused, thinking of William’s kipnapped brother. From what she’d read of Michael’s adventures, chronicled every month in The Morning Post , he was quite capable of gaining his own release. He was an adventurer, after all. Dangerous situations were a daily occurrence for him … weren’t they?
    Perhaps and perhaps not. William must think his brother is in some danger, for he chased me all of the way here to regain the box. The artifact must belong to Michael. William was too certain of that for her to believe otherwise .
    Which placed her in an intolerable situation. If the box belonged to Michael and he really needed it to win his freedom from his captors, then she couldn’t keep it, no matter how much her blackmailer demanded that she should.
    The thought made her sigh, which was a mistake as she gulped in a smoky plume of air that burned her throat and made her cough. She covered her mouth with her arm and pushed her way through the crowds, feeling as low as she’d ever felt. She’d lied to herself when she’d tamely accepted Miss Challoner’s statement that the artifact didn’t belong to William. Marcail should have known better.
    After all, Miss Challoner was an instrument of a very evil man, one who was willing to harm Marcail’s family without a flicker of remorse.
    Why did I believe her? Yet Marcail knew. Because it made it easier to do what I was asked . She’d already sacrificed so much for her family that she hadn’t hesitated when she was asked to sacrifice her honor. Grandmamma would be ashamed—as Marcail was herself.
    She neared the gangplank, scanning anxiously for William, though she could barely see the figures on the ship through the smoke. Nearby, a line of men and women had formed a bucket brigade and were passing buckets of water to the ship. While there were plenty of people in line, the buckets weren’t getting to them fast enough. Perhaps this was a small way she could redeem herself. Marcail dropped her cloak out of the way on the edge of the quay, grabbed an empty bucket, and carried it to the pump where two fresh-faced youths were pumping the water as fast as they could. One immediately set her bucket under the cold stream.
    When it was full, she grasped the handle with both hands and hefted it. The large wooden bucket was amazingly heavy, and the rope handle hung upon her hands and squeezed them painfully together. Worse, water began seeping out of the bucket the instant it was filled.
    Walking as quickly as she dared in her wet stockinged feet, she carried the water to the line, the bucket banging painfully against her shins. She gave the bucket to the end man, who quickly handed it off, then turned and handed her an empty bucket.
    Marcail caught it and hurried back to the pumps, where two full buckets were waiting. She gave the boys the empty bucket and hefted a full one, this one larger and made of skin stretched over a frame. She staggered under the weight, gasping for air, which was heavy with smoke and the acrid scent of burning wood and tar.
    Back and forth she went, carrying bucket after bucket, while the flames disappeared beneath billows of white smoke. The roiling smoke made her cough and stung her eyes; her shins ached from the painful bruises. Worse, her hands had been rubbed raw from the rope