Chapter fifty
It had been four days of tedious, non-stop. Four days of determined kicking and nudging of her horse, and four days of surfing speedily while the wind gushed past her sides.
And then…she was back in Anfield.
Monica had used every bit of her strength to guard the seal of Kilmarnock, ignore any likely source of distraction and endure the ugly sounds of hunger from her rumbling stomach.
Now, her horse half ran upon the cobbled walkway lined by poorly constructed small brick houses. It took her a few moments to recognize the wood held piece in which she lived.
The Scottish had already jumped down the animal before it had stopped and rushed to the wooden board pieced to be a door.
With regular stumps, she knocked upon the surface, panting excitedly while her chest rose and fell.
When the door flew open, Nathan Maitland's glare suddenly softened to a wide grin while he eyed the crazy knocker through to make sure it was his sister.
Before he could throw his hands around her and reclaim the lass in a relieved embrace, she pushed past him and stepped in through the doors.
"I have the seal! Let's head home," she shrieked while striding up and down the small spaced home.
While little by little, the occupants out of their supposed sleeping cribs, they gawked at the maniac looking Monica, rough haired and dusty.
She looked through the near dozen of her family…but frowned when her mother was absent. Nervously, panting, she narrowed her eyes into a glower, patiently waiting.
Slowly, Miriam stalked to the front of the clan, eyes down even while her daughter grinned at her.
"Kilmarnock is ours mother," the lass slipped out the seal and tipped her head towards it. When her mother took in some interest and glanced up at her, her smile increased, "Let's go home!"
***
It felt like months since he'd last felt at home. With the last couple of days spinning in a cycle of bloody massacres, trips, hunting, spicy romance…and betrayal, he could ask for no safer abode.
The rest of the house did not seem too aware of his presence at the doorway. With their gazes and attention rested upon Anna Forland, they formed a semi circle about her.
Philip still stood there for a while with no readable emotion on his face. As much as he couldn't see his sister, he heard her soft cries from behind the wall of people.
Couldn't the situation get any worse? At the thought of the brutality she must have gone through because of him, he was certain nobody would forgive him.
The realisation brought a jut to his neck he tried to cough away. The sound came out louder than he expected though.
His mother was the first to turn around, just before, soon after, the others did.
Philip's gaze dropped to the floor immediately, shameful and disturbed. While he wondered what they would say after that, his heartbeat quickened and a tinge of liquid had begun to fill his eyes.
Ever so gently, he looked up to his mother's face, searching for any expression of anger, regrets shame…anything.
But instead, she gave a small, relieved smile and parted her arms wide for him to step in.
He tried to register the situation, analyse it, confirm it was really happening. When he did, his position as Duke did not come to mind when he decided to let everything he'd been holding back come pouring down his cheeks.
Staggering, he approached the woman and placed a head upon her shoulder, vibrating while he cried. Her gentle clutch came around him, making him wonder how mothers thought.
Anna looked up at the scene with a smirk of satisfaction. Her brother seemed to shape out some voiceless words with his lips while he looked at her. Words he registered to mean, "Forgive me."
With a tiny, reassuring grin admist her tears, she nodded and gazed at him for a while, just before she tipped her head towards the doorway.
Philip raised his head from the Dowager Duchess's shoulder, turned around with a frown and searched for where Anna had notioned.
Elizabeth stood by the doorway with her usual prim innocence, with her golden coloured hair flickering in the sunlight of dusk. She forced a grin to the lad and glanced away nervously.
Philip did same. And at that point in time, he knew he had to get married to her.
***
Although the persistent noise from the shattering bricks were enough to make Monica kill those men, the result was quite satisfying.
With the seal in hand, she watched the brick fence around the enormous land mass as it came breaking down from all sides, revealing an overly deserted duchy.
She gasped in disbelief.
"We have a lot to do Nathan," she rasped to the lad by her side who was potentially and rightfully the Duke of Kilmarnock at the moment.
Nathan Maitland nodded with a frown while he sighed. Next, he turned to her and bared his teeth in a grin, "Thank you Monica." When she returned the smile, he nudged her to walk forward, "Follow me. We have a meeting with the old men."
***
Jeremy Button's drawing room was seldom quiet, that Monica knew. But maybe she had excessively underestimated the height of noise to expect.
Right at the center of the chamber, a ten-meter long oak table, specifically carved to withstand whatever banging and hitting the occupants around it usually gave it.
Right at the head of it, the damsel leaned back in her seat with both legs crossed upon the oak piece of furniture. At some point, she almost pitied the table which constantly received fists from the angry, round, old men seated around it.
Bored of the drama, she crossed her arms over her chest and turned to Nathan just by her right.
Scottish curses flew from one side to the other, along with complementing saliva. Fingers pointed offensively, insults blared and bustled, so much Monica grabbed a few.
"Aye! Your father should have fought his libido and kept his crotch zipped in his breeches! You weren't worth the urge!"
"Have you ever look Inna mirror? I could lend you my rug for your hair!"
And many more blatant, perverted swearing she was sure she'd use later.
The men went on cursing, pointing, exchanging mouth liquid and forgetting her presence. With a sigh, she slipped out a pistol and raised its aim to the heavens.
As she pulled the trigger, the entire drawing room quieted unbelievably, a state it had never been in since it was turned to a meeting ground. At the Moment, Monica could hear her own breathing.
As all eyes turned to her, she took a moment to relish the new found peace. Heaving a sigh of pleasure, she said, "This certainly sounds much better than your noise doesn't it. One more curse and you'll eat your own words."
Given the energy expended, the men tried to catch their breaths and decided to use their eyes to do the talking. The glares exchanged were as sharp and focused as literal daggers while they slowly descended to their seats.
Monica still had her gun in her clutch while a smile replaced her glower, "Now that you scumbags are quiet, I ask to beg your cause on the matter at hand."
The man at the opposite end of the table reached out to clutch his goblet of wine, making Monica frown when she remembered the exchange of saliva across the table.
"I believe I speak for all when I say you've done us proud," Jeremy Button continued. As he flipped a whole mouth of the liquid, he smiled, "For a lass, we are impressed…"
"That is not the matter I am here for," she rasped in return, her gun wagging about rather carelessly, "I have given myself enough credit already."
Breckenridge Martin, Earl of Glancrea, spoke up from her right of the table, the Scottish accent impinged in his bark of a voice, "So we suppose this is about England. Tell us," he leaned forward with his elbows braced, "What do you plan to do with them?"
A frown crossed the damsel's face; she'd almost pulled the trigger. But then, her fingers settled limply upon the weapon while she searched her mind, "I have nothing against England. We have Kilmarnock and that is a capital notion."
It was difficult to know all the names and titles of the nearly thirty men in her presence. However, she was sure the next one to speak was the Baron of Inverness, "So you do not wish to pick up from where your father left off."
Her frown deepened. At the disturbing sound of that news, she dropped her legs from where they were crossed upon the table and leaned in so close the men felt her gaze pinning them, "Fill me in. I do not seem to comprehend where you stand."
Jeremy had a disappointed glower while he studied her. As he took her words as an offensive joke, he thought some more, painfully finding out this was no mere joke.
Now he dropped his cup and sunk his back to the chair's support. It was not long after his scrutiny that he sighed and narrated the famous tale of the intended war over fifteen years ago, one instigated by Maitland himself.
Quietly and attentively, she listened with utter interest, not aware of when her grip around her gun began shaking…or when her mood took one drastic shift. The thought she was supposed to be a pawn to initiate her father's deeds was disturbing enough to increase her breathing.
By the time Jeremy had finished and leaned back to hear from her, she turned to Nathan. Her brother nodded to her reassuringly and urged her to stay calm.
Well she did.
With one go, she abruptly raised her legs to the table again and crossed one above the other, arms over her chest. "So my father was the villain…" she whispered so quietly the question died off before it got to any ear.
"With mutual agreement," Breckenridge continued, "We shall go on with it. And as your father's wish, you will lead the notion."
All eyes fell on her intently, waiting, expecting…anything.
With eyes down, she frowned painfully, angered and greatly disappointed, "If this war goes on, it will be over my dead body."
With that said, she lifted herself as her legs dropped from the table. Without reactions or any further ado, she left the drawing room, her brother stalking behind her supportively.