Page 89 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
He turned to look. The pretty lad who Temperance said had been stolen from one of the other theaters, Clive Montrose—which sounded like another made-up name to him. “I’m nae willing to risk it,” he said.
“You’re a good man, my lord.”
“I’m a cautious one.”
“Speaking of which,” Montrose went on, “I happened to notice someone carrying a heavy-looking sack a momentago. I don’t recall a sack that heavy being needed for anything, especially up in the scaffolding.”
“Where?” Coll hissed, straightening. The damned riggings remained dark, though he could see men moving up in them, as they would be for the remainder of the play.
“Here,” Montrose whispered, and something heavy came down on the back of Coll’s head.
A sharp ringing sounded in his ears, as though someone was clanging a pot incessantly with a spoon. Coll opened his eyes to see… nothing. Frowning, he put his hands behind him and pushed—and smacked his head on something before he could sit upright.
Trying to twist, he hit another wall, and another.Christ. All around him, walls and blackness. His breath came in gasps, and he struck out over and over, unable to get enough force behind the blows to budge anything.
A small space in the dark—his worst damned nightmare. And he… He was supposed to be doing something. Something important.
Forcing his eyes shut, he stopped moving. The theater.Macbeth. Temperance. God, he was supposed to be watching over Temperance. Holding his breath, he listened. Faintly, he could hear Malcolm delivering the news to Macduff that his wife and children had been slain. It had only been a moment, then, that he’d been in here.
Lady Macbeth’s final scene, the one she’d performed at the masked ball last night, would be next. Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he reached out again. Wood. Planks. A crate, then—probably one of the ones they used to house the wooden swords, which would all be in the actors’ hands now, because those boxes latched shut.
Turning over, he put his hands beneath him and pushed himself up. Before his arms entirely straightened, his back hit the top of the crate. He gathered his legs beneath him,crouched on all fours, and then shoved upward with all his strength. The wood cracked, but the crate remained closed.
Cursing but keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn’t see how very small the space was, he lowered himself and then pushed again. The third time, the crate lid flew open and then came down again, nearly striking him in the back of the head. Catching it with one arm, he vaulted out of the box.
Montrose had left him in a tangle of unused sets and furniture. By the time he found his feet again, Temperance was onstage, wringing her hands.Thank God. He moved forward, wiping the blood dripping from his scalp.
Temperance paused in her speech, and the doctor and then the female attendant began their conversation—except the female attendant didn’t sound like Jenny Rogers. Nor did she know her lines. Coll’s blood froze.
Abruptly, the doctor stepped aside, and the attendant ran at Temperance. With a roar, Coll charged onto the stage, shoving the doctor—damned Clive Montrose—aside to get to her before she reached Temperance.
“Stop him!” he bellowed, jabbing a finger at Clive Montrose as he reached the black-clothed attendant and bodily lifted her off her feet.
Dimly, he thought he heard Aden answer him, and then blinked as the woman kicked him in the gut, swearing. When she swung a dagger at his face, he dropped her. “Get back, lass!” he ordered Temperance, ducking another swing.
He’d been raised not to strike a woman ever, and while he could have tackled her to the floor, he hesitated. When she turned back with a scream to face Temperance again, though, he grabbed her around the legs, tripping her.
Abruptly, the woman froze, and he looked up to see Temperance. Her severe black and purple skirts hiked onone side, she stood like a goddess of vengeance, the dagger he’d given her clutched in one hand and but an inch away from Caroline Rilence’s face.
“You will stop,” she commanded. “I am not some petty thing for you to toss aside like refuse in order to suit your own ambitions. I have dreams and desires of my own, and they do not include putting up with your jealousy.”
“I’ll tell them!” Caroline shrieked. “I’ll tell them all!”
Temperance didn’t budge. “No, I will tell them,” she said coolly. “I am Persephone Jones. I am also Lady Temperance Hartwood, and you are on my stage. Get off. Now.”
For an instant, everything became so silent that Coll could swear he heard his own pocket watch ticking. Then—the theater erupted.
In the chaos, Niall appeared beside him, grabbing hold of a squirming Caroline while Coll climbed to his feet.
The stage swarmed with people, some from backstage and still others from the audience. Wincing, Coll strode forward, flinging people aside until he reached Temperance. “Did she hurt ye?” he demanded.
Slowly, she lowered the dagger and handed it to him. “No. She hurt you, though.” Reaching up, she touched his head, and her fingers came away bloody. “That’s it. I’m killing her.” Temperance reached for the dagger again.
He held it away from her. “Ye willnae. It was Clive Montrose who clubbed me over the head. I thought I’d nae get to ye in time. The—”
“Got him!” Aden and their father dragged Montrose onto the stage, his wardrobe torn and his face dirty and bruised.
“What is going on here?” Charlie Huddle demanded, his face white. “Persephone, I—who—what—”
