Beguiled Read Free Page A

recalled every word of their conversation, for at the time the casual exchange had been a welcome respite from the troubles that had plagued him of late.
    â€œAre you done?” demanded the duke of Ross.
    â€œI doubt he’ll ravish me, Papa.”
    Edward summoned patience. Most men in the duke’s position would have forbidden another man—even a physician—to touch a female relative. No matter how unskilled, a female healer was the preferable choice in the circumstances. Necessity had forced MacKenzie’s hand, and now that Edward had ministered to her, the duke reverted to propriety.
    To spare his wife and his other daughters, MacKenzie had barred them from the room. Under the father’s watchful eyes, Edward had cleansed and stitched the star-shaped wound. The arrowhead had missed her clavicle. No bones were broken, but she’d have a powerful array of bruises on the morrow.
    If the arrow tip had been poisoned, as she believed, the poison was weak. That or the act of traveling first through the wooden bindings of the heavy book and the layers of thick vellum had somehow worn away the potion. Yes, that theory had merit.
    â€œWell, Cathcart? You’ve seen enough of my firstborn. She’s half naked, for God’s sake.”
    She was half naked for her own sake, but Edward didn’t point that out to the worried duke. Instead he counted to ten and gave her a reassuring smile.
    â€œDid you hear me?” roared the duke.
    â€œI’ll be done as soon as the bandages arrive,”
    The door opened. Edward looked up and blinked in confusion at the sight of the unusual woman entering the room. She wore a fashionable if plain gown, and her thick black hair was upswept and coiled at the crown of her head. In bearing and fashion she typified the style of Scotswomen of the day. In heritage and complexion she bore the striking features of the Orientals.
    She bowed from the waist. In one hand she held the blood-stained quarrel, in the other she carried a valise. In perfect English she said, “I am Auntie Loo. I’ve brought the bandages you requested and a gown for Lady Agnes.”
    His patient tried to rise. “Come quickly,” she said.
    With the heel of his hand, Edward held her. “Stay where you are or you’ll rip those stitches.”
    She grunted, and the distressed sound again roused her overprotective father. “Stop yelling at my daughter, and take your hand off her breast.”
    Edward took no offense. He hadn’t noticed her breasts. Well, he had noticed, but not in a disrespectful or lustful way. She was injured. He was helping her.
    A basic truth dragged at his conscience. The assassin had been sent for him. Had he remained at home in Glasgow, the bowman would have sought him there. Agnes MacKenzie would be unharmed and making merry at the wedding feast. But strong reasons had compelled Edward to make the journey. The groom, Michael Elliot, was Edward’s friend, and he had wanted to share in the joyous occasion. Christopher and Hannah deserved a holiday, and until moments ago, the excursion to Edinburgh had been good for Edward’s family.
    Reluctantly, he stepped back as the woman named Auntie Loo examined the wound. Satisfied, she waved the arrow before Agnes. “There wasn’t enough poison on the barbs to kill you.”
    â€œâ€Šâ€™Twas monkshood.” His patient huffed. “Tell me that when my limbs turn to useless stumps and my tongue rots in my mouth.”
    The duke cursed. The women paid him no mind.
    From within the folds of her dress Auntie Loo produced a small stone bottle. “The ache in your heart will hurt you more than this latest wound.”
    Stubbornness lent the Lady Agnes a queenly air. “So you say. What do you know about it?”
    The woman tisked, but her eyes twinkled with mischief. In broken, affected English, she said, “Golden One too strong for Englishman’s death powder. But