A few ladies jumped, but her aunt Danae, used to Mary’s epithets, turned to her calmly. “What is it, my dear?”
“My fan,” Mary said, making a show of patting the folds of her skirts. “I’ve left the aggravating thing in the withdrawing room.”
Aunt Danae, a plump partridge in a too-tight gown, put a soothing hand on Mary’s. “Never mind, dear. Call for Whitman, and have her fetch it for you.”
Their hostess, Lady Bancroft, who stood near, began to signal for one of her many footmen. Mary, who’d hidden the fan for the express purpose of going after it, said, “No need. Won’t be a moment,” and ran off before anyone could object.
Mary’s fan was safely in a pocket under her skirt, so she quickly passed the withdrawing room and made for the stairs that led to the upper reaches of the house. Lady Bancroft was not spendthrift enough to waste candles lighting staircases, and Mary groped her way upward in the dark, only the moonlight through undraped windows to light her way.
Jeremy hadn’t been in the vast drawing room below, nor had he been in any of the anterooms, so he must be waiting in his chambers above. Likely languishing there, distraught that Lord Wilfort had forbidden the match between him and Audrey. No matter, Mary would soon cheer him with Audrey’s letter.
She made it to the upper landing, out of breath, and turned the corner for the wing that would take her to Jeremy.
A tall man stepped out of the shadows and into her path. Moonlight fell on a light-colored frock coat that topped a kilt of blue plaid.
He was one of the Highlanders from below, the younger one, who’d caught and held her with the heat in his eyes.
Primal fear brushed her. To be confronted by this man, a Highlander, in the dark, in this deserted part of the house was . . . exhilarating.
Mary also was touched with curiosity, wonder that such a being existed and was standing less than a foot from her. A warmth began in Mary’s breastbone, spreading downward to her fingertips, and up into her face.
The man did not move. He was a hunter, motionless in the dark, sizing up his prey. At the moment, that prey was Mary.
Fanciful nonsense, Mary tried to tell herself. Likely he was staying in the house, perhaps on his way to his bedchamber.
Where he’d pull off his coat, unlace his shirt, lie back before the fire in casual undress . . .
Mary’s throat went dry. She’d been listening too hard to Aunt Danae’s tales of her conquests when she’d been a young woman. Aunt Danae had lived on passion and desire, but Mary was far too practical to want such things for herself. Wasn’t she?
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “My destination lies beyond you.”
She spoke with the right note of haughtiness—after all, the Scots were a lesser people, drawn into civilization by the English. Or so her father claimed. Not that Mary truly believed in the natural superiority of Englishmen; she’d met too many Englishmen who were decidedly inferior.
The man said nothing, only stood in place, caught by moonlight.
The touch of fear began to rise. Mary was alone and unprotected, and he was a creature of the uncivilized Highlands. The clansmen raided one another’s lands, it was said, stealing cattle, women . . .
“No matter,” Mary said when he did not speak. “I will simply go ’round the other way.” The house was built in four wings that surrounded a courtyard below. “Good evening, sir.”
She swung away but had taken only a step before the Scotsman pushed past her and stood in front of her once more.
Her heart beating rapidly now, Mary swung around again, ready to make a dash for Jeremy’s chamber. Jeremy was not a small man—he could clout this Highlander about the head for frightening the woman he hoped would become his sister-in-law.
Mary stumbled and nearly fell as the Scotsman put himself in front of her again. A large hand on her shoulder pushed her back onto her feet.
“Steady, lass.” His voice was a deep rumble, starting from somewhere in his belly and emerging as a warm vibration.
The hand on Mary’s shoulder remained. No gentleman should touch a lady thus. He could grip her hand, but only when meeting her, dancing with her, or assisting her. The Highlander had stopped her from falling, yes, but he should withdraw now that she was upright again. Instead, he kept his hand on her, the appendage so large she was surprised his gloves fit him.
He stood close enough that Mary got a good look into his eyes. They were unusual, to say the least. Not blue or green as a red-haired man’s might be—they were tawny, like a lion’s. The sensible side of her told her they must be hazel, but the gleam of gold held her in place as securely as the hand on her shoulder.
“Please let me pass, sir,” Mary said, trying to sound severe, but she sounded about as severe as a kitten. In his opinion as well, because he smiled.
The smile transformed him. From a forbidding, terrifying giant, the Highlander became nearly human. The warmth in the smile reached all the way to his eyes, crinkling them at the corners.
“I will,” he said in a voice that wrapped her in heat. “As soon as ye tell me where you’re going, and who ye intend to meet.”
Chapter 2
“Bolts and bodkins,” Mary muttered.
“What?” the Scotsman asked, eyes widening in amusement. “What the devil does that mean?”
“Nothing,” Mary said quickly. “My business here is hardly a concern of yours, sir. May I ask what you are doing up here?”
“Aye, well ye might.” His fingers moved on her shoulder, the faint caress pouring fire into her bones. “You’re up here alone, away from your chaperone. I saw you slip away, lass—it was cleverly done. You can nae be up to any good. So, I followed ye.”
Naturally. Mary wasn’t up to any good, as a matter of fact. She didn’t truly believe this man would rush to her father and tell of Mary carrying a letter from Audrey to Jeremy, but he might tell someone, and the tale would circulate.
“I have an errand.” Why Mary answered at all, she did not know. She should turn, retreat down the stairs, wait for a better moment. This was no business of a Scotsman’s, no matter how tall, how heart-melting his touch.
“Errand, eh? Whatever it is, it has ye blushing rosy red. A yellow rose, I thought you when I first saw ye. Now I’d say you were pink.”
It was not an easy task to meet his gaze, but Mary made herself do it. “If you will not let me pass, then I will return to the drawing room. Good evening once again.” She attempted a curtsy, but her knees were shaking so hard she could only dip the barest inch.
The chuckle that left his mouth was hotter than his touch. “I dinnae believe you’re all stiffness and cold, lass. Ye have fine eyes, do ye know? The sea near Castle Kilmorgan is just that blue. ’Tis a beautiful sight.”
Mary had a flash of it—blue-gray sea stretching from below sheer cliffs, a crumbling castle perched on a hill. The pair of them standing side by side while the Scottish wind blew cold around them and pressed them together. His arm would come around her, holding her, protecting . . .
Mary cleared her throat. “You have obviously rehearsed how to be flattering, sir. But not courteous.”
Another chuckle, which vibrated through his fingers into her. “I’ll let you by, lass. For a price.”
The dark note in his voice made her shiver. “Of course,” she said tightly. “Not because you are a gentleman with honor, courtesy, or discretion, but to gain something for yourself.”
“Ah, ye try to be so frosty, lass, but you’re nae good at it. One smile from your mouth, one flash of those eyes, and I wager men are puddles at your feet.”
Mary had never noticed any gentlemen in puddles. They paid very little attention to her at all, but then, most were stopped by her formidable father before they could even speak to her.
“You are very forward, sir. But perhaps you cannot help it, being raised a Highlander.”
The Scotsman laughed a sudden, true laugh, the sound filling the hall. Mary
wanted to laugh with him, to throw off her troubles and sink against him, feeling his laughter with her entire body. The power of it loosened things inside her, opening what she never knew had been closed.
The Scotsman wiped his eyes. “You’re nae good at insults either, my girl. Of course I’ve been raised a Highlander, which means I’m forward, stubborn, and know what I want when I see it. Ye have the same stubbornness, lass.”
His laughter died as he leaned to her, fixing her with his amber-colored gaze, his hard warrior’s face an inch from hers. “Run away with me, love, and marry me.”
The things opening inside Mary gave a sudden wrench. Run away—from the tightness of her life, the path of duty before her, the walls of stone closing in on her. Leave with this beautiful barbarian for the open spaces of the Highlands, to the crags of mountains that marched to the sea, and the sky that stretched to forever.
Absolute nonsense, of course. This man did not want to marry her. He was flirting, teasing, delighted he’d found a young English miss wandering the house in the dark.
“I can hardly marry a man I’ve just met on an upstairs landing,” Mary said. “I know nothing of you—not your name, your family, and most importantly, your character. Besides, I am betrothed.”
“So I have heard. Who is this fortunate gentleman? Is it he you’re rushing to meet for a bit of pre-wedding tryst?”
Now Mary wanted to laugh. “Certainly not.” She couldn’t imagine George Markham, Lord Halsey, doing anything so rash as having a pre-wedding tryst. Halsey was not a man who did anything rash, and he definitely was not moved by passion. “I am betrothed to the Earl of Halsey.”
The Scotsman straightened with an abruptness that unnerved her. His hand left her shoulder, taking all the beautiful warmth with it.
“Dear God, ye can’t, lass. You’re a vibrant and beautiful woman. Don’t throw it away on that whey-faced English bastard.”
Mary blinked. She was no stranger to strong language—her father’s cronies could burn the air when they’d had plenty to drink—but rarely were the words directed at her. “Goodness, what is there to object to about Lord Halsey? He is well respected, a gentleman, honorable, well spoken . . .”
“. . . has a perpetual drip at the end of his nose.” The Scotsman flipped his finger under the tip of his own appendage.
“He does not . . .” Mary trailed off. It was true that Halsey spent many conversations dabbing his nose with a handkerchief. “That is neither here nor there.”
“Not something t’ face on your wedding night.” The Scotsman moved a step closer, his voice going soft. “Your wedding night, lass, should be a thing of beauty.”
Mary had never thought about it. She knew exactly how a woman went about providing her husband an heir—Aunt Danae had gone through every detail from start to finish, very thoroughly.
Some men, Aunt Danae said, made the experience quite enjoyable, while others were oafish pigs. Unfortunately, a lady never knew which her husband would turn out to be until she was climbing into the marriage bed with him.
Aunt Danae spoke from the experience of having three husbands as well as a number of lovers. In any case, the gentleman always believed his pleasure of tantamount importance, no matter what the woman thought.
Mary couldn’t help wondering what this Scotsman would be like. He had big hands, wide shoulders, a strong body. His arms would hold his lady, the large hands would caress her, and he’d speak intimacies to her in his deep rumbling voice.
He took another step toward her. “A bride should be properly handled,” he said. “Her husband gentle with her, guiding her every moment.”
Mary moved back, but falteringly, worried she’d find the open stairwell behind her. Her Highlander caught her, gliding her around until her back was to a wall. Safe.
But not safe from him.
“If ye were my bride, Mary, I’d be so very tender with ye.” One thumb brushed the skin of her shoulder, bared by the bodice’s neckline. “Taking care with you, as though you were delicate porcelain.”
His heat, the largeness of him, made her breath stop. And yet, where he touched her, the tiniest contact, was gentle, as though this brutish man truly could cradle and protect a fragile object.
“I’m not porcelain,” Mary said, her voice strangled.
“Aye, that you are. Porcelain is breakable but strong at the same time. And beautiful.”
His finger moved on her neckline, sliding slowly downward, the barest brush, to her bosom.
Mary had no business standing here letting this Highlander touch her. She was betrothed to a very important gentleman, a close friend of her father’s, both fiancé and father in high favor at court and in government.
Mary would cement the friendship between the two, and her sons would be the culmination of the bargain. Mary was to provide the heirs and raise them to be as powerful and important as their father and grandfather, to take the two families into the next generation of greatness.
Nowhere in this grand scheme was Mary to stand in the upper reaches of a house and enjoy the caress of a mad Highlander, one of those Jacobites whose treachery simmered beneath the surface year after year.
She was not to oblige any gentleman until she had an heir and a spare in the nursery. Then, Aunt Danae had instructed, Mary might enjoy herself, but discreetly, and certainly not with a man who posed any danger whatsoever to her husband or father.
Careful planning and thought crumpled to nothing under the gloved fingertips at her breast, the heat that spread from his hand to consume the rest of her body.
This man was life, while Mary’s path was existence. He was warmth, vivacity, freedom, while she was duty, obligation, sacrifice.
He drew his fingers along her bosom, a river of fire trailing to her heart. He dipped two fingers inside her bodice, and Mary closed her eyes.
She jerked them open a second later when his questing fingers found and withdrew Audrey’s letter.
“Ah, now, what’s this?”
Mary snatched at it. “Give me that.”
The Highlander grinned with boyish mischief and swung away, holding the paper out of her reach. Mary chased him, but he evaded her, unfolding the letter and reading as he sidestepped away.
“Billet doux,” he said. “Of the secret kind. The best.” He skimmed the text quickly. “Oh, but this is beautiful.”
Mary had been told that Highlanders lived most of their lives tending farm animals and couldn’t read a word, but apparently this was not true. The letter was in French, which Audrey and Jeremy considered the language of the heart, and the savage Highlander was reading every word.
“She’s very much in love, this lady,” he said. “With a man with beautiful blue eyes. I wager not your Lord Halsey of the runny nose.”
“I didn’t write it,” Mary said quickly. Why she cared whether this man believed she’d penned the letter or not, she couldn’t fathom.
“I know you didn’t. Unless your name is Audrey.”
“Good heavens, she signed it?” Mary made to snatch the paper again, which he lifted out of her reach.
“She did indeed. Not the most discreet lady, is she? She should have written, your best beloved, or your adoring lover, or signed as some lady of Greek myth, as instructed in the manuals of love-letter writing.”
“There are no manuals of—” Mary broke off and waved her hands. “You are a rogue, sir, and a tease. Give me back the letter. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Now, that is not necessarily true.” The Highlander folded the paper. “I had a wager with me brother, ye see, when I saw you evade your elders and run off alone. I wagered I would pry a kiss out of you. I can nae go back and tell him I failed, now, can I? So, English Rose, ye give me one small kiss, and I return t’ ye this sad and indiscreet letter.”
“One small kiss . . .” Mary said. The lips that would perform the kiss were stiff, barely to move. “Is that all?”
She wanted to bite out her tongue as the Highlander gav
e a shout of laughter. “Oh, no, Mary, I want more. So much more. I’m being kind t’ ye, lass.”
“And you should not use my given name. It’s forward. Intimate, even.” Mary’s chest was tight, her words breathless.
“Aye, that’s why I do it.”
“Besides, I don’t even know your name.” Again, not what she meant to say.
He stopped laughing and put one hand on his chest. “Malcolm Daniel Mackenzie, at your service, lass. Youngest son of that tricky bloody bastard, the Duke of Kilmorgan. But me friends call me Mal.”
Chapter 3
Mal. Mary liked it. Simple, yet filled the mouth with its very shape. The word, in both Latin and French, meant badness.
“One kiss, Mary.” Malcolm was next to her again, the warmth of him enclosing her. “One, and your sister’s letter is back safe with you.”
Mary frowned at him. “How do you know she is my sister?”
“Because I asked me brother Alec, that font of knowledge, all about you.”
“Then why did you ask who I was betrothed to? It is no secret.”
Malcolm shrugged, the coat moving on his large shoulders. “I wanted to see how you’d tell me. With great pride? Embarrassment? Admiration? Your eyes glowing with love? Do you know what, Mary? You did none of that. You were as stiff as a clockwork automaton. Ye give me hope.”
Mary curled her fingers. “Hope for what?”
“Hope for meself. Can I win the beautiful Mary and take her off to my cold Highland castle? I need a wife t’ keep the winter nights warm.”
“Wife?” Her voice cracked. “Thunder and rainstorms, now you are talking nonsense. I thought Highlanders raided each other’s clans for wives, not English society soirees.”
Another laugh, so deep and warm she wanted to embrace it. How wonderful to have laughter like that surround her every day, and on into the night.
“True, lass, in the bad old days, clans fought clans to the bloody death, stealing women, cattle, lands, and anything else we could lay our hands on. Now we insult each other in the halls of universities. ’Tis a bit of a disappointment for ye, I know.”