The Pretender by Jaclyn Reding

him, priming himself for his next words. “So, in exchange for my daughter’s freedom, you seek my intervention with the king?”
    Douglas inclined his head. “You asked me to name my price, your grace. This is mine.”
    The duke sat back.
    Douglas simply waited.
    Finally, the duke spoke. “Mr. MacKinnon, I—”
    He paused, his attention suddenly focused on a rather large urn that stood in the far corner of the room. He gotup from his desk and crossed the carpet to it. Then he looked inside.
    “Caroline Henrietta Drayton! What do you think you are doing in there?”
    A tiny voice replied from inside the urn. “Please, Papa, don’t be cross. I just wanted to know what was happening. You never tell me anything . . .”
    The duke took a deep breath, then let it out. “Well, so now you do. Now get yourself out of there before I—”
    “But I can’t, Papa,” she sobbed. “I’m . . . I’m stuck!”
    In the next moment, the child began to wail, a plaintive sound that echoed inside the massive urn. The duke reached a hand inside to try to free her, but the more he struggled, the louder she wailed, no doubt squirming her way more thoroughly into a knot as she did.
    Soon, the duke was shouting. The child was screaming, and Douglas sat back and simply watched. The door across the room burst open and the rest of the family, alarmed by the clamor, came charging inside. In moments it was pandemonium.
    One of the daughters, Douglas couldn’t remember her name, went to the bell board and began tugging on them— ding, ding, ding —one after the other, jerking them all in hopes of summoning help.
    A small spaniel came scampering into the room and began to bark and prance and yowl about everyone’s feet.
    Someone shouted, “Agamemnon!”
    Another burst out, “She’s turning quite blue!”
    Unable to stand the chaos any longer, Douglas got up, took his pistol from his waistband, and strode across the room.
    “Father! That Scottish man is going to shoot Caro! Stop him!”
    They all turned and screamed as one. Douglas stood back, lifted his hand, and smashed the butt of his pistol against the side of the urn, cracking it open like an egg.
    The little girl tumbled out, her face nearly purple from crying. She ran straight into her mother’s waiting arms, collapsing against the duchess’s skirts in a sobbing, terrified ball of child.
    Everyone else fell silent, staring at Douglas in utter disbelief.
    Until the duke roared a moment later, “Are you out of your mind, man? That was a Ming. A one of a kind! And it cost me a bloody fortune!”
    “Actually, your grace,” Douglas said calmly, eying the broken pieces of the urn, “it was Japanese. Imari, I believe. A nice piece, aye, but not nearly as valuable as a Ming.”
    “Alaric,” said the duchess as she smoothed a hand over Caroline’s curls to calm her, “the man just saved your daughter’s life. I should think a show of gratitude would be more appropriate than screaming at him.”
    The duke was staring at Douglas, dumbfounded. Finally, he said, “Yes, right. My apologies, MacKinnon. Thank you for reacting so quickly.”
    Douglas ignored him. He turned instead toward the duchess and squatted down beside where she held Caroline tightly in her arms. “Are you all right now, lassie?”
    Caroline pulled her tear-streaked face away from her mother’s neck to look at him, sniffed, blinked twice, then nodded.
    He smiled at her and touched a fingertip under herchin. “What were you thinking then? Were you trying to become a marmalade in your da’s big jam jar there?”
    The lass smiled at him. A collective wave of relief passed over the room, and eight-year-old Caroline Henrietta Phillipa Drayton silently vowed that funny name or not, she would love the bloody Scot for the rest of her life.
     
    Douglas heard voices coming from inside the formal drawing room as he made his way down the hallway.
    It had been nearly two hours since his meeting with the duke and the