Malcolm’s smile was so wide, so infectious, that Mary couldn’t help smiling too. She fought it—better to let this man think her austere—but she lost. Her mouth curved, and her face softened.
Mal ceased laughing. “Lass, ye are so very beautiful. I think you’ve just broken my heart.”
He leaned down, cupping her face, turning it up to his. He was going to kiss her. Touch his smooth lips to hers, burn her with the heat of his mouth.
Mary hastily stepped back. “No, really, sir, you cannot.”
Or she’d melt to him. She’d fall bonelessly to the floor, promise him anything, disgrace herself and her family, and run with him to his stone castle in the wild north. There she’d live, wrapped in plaids, surrounded by Highland children and a husband with laughter like sunshine.
“No?” Malcolm straightened. “Ye surely know how to plague a man, love. But I won’t give up. I’ll have your kiss. And you.” His voice darkened. “I will, ye know. When my mind’s set on a thing, I have it in the end. I promise ye.”
Mary shivered, but not with cold. “Nonsense, you’ll forget all about me when I’m gone. I leave for England as soon as the weather breaks.”
“Then I’ll pray for more bad weather. But for now, if I can’t have the kiss, I’ll settle for a lock of your lovely hair. To show my brother and not entirely lose the wager. Alec’s the very devil when he wins. Never lets me hear the end of it. As the youngest brother, I must labor against them all to survive.”
“I very much doubt that,” Mary said with conviction. “I imagine you charm them all senseless. Very well, if a small lock will suffice, you may have it.”
She regretted her compliance in the next instant, because his look of triumph nearly wiped her off her feet.
“Ah, Mary, you’re a fine woman. I knew it the instant I looked at ye.”
The way Mal spoke her name made Mary want to believe everything he said. “I have no scissors with me, so perhaps it is a moot point.”
She jumped in alarm as a knife flashed in the darkness, a blade wide as two fingers. Good heavens, a knife like that could kill in the work of a moment.
Mal lifted a curl that hung below her shoulder, tightening it between his fingers. One practiced flick of the knife had it severed from the rest of her hair, the lock now resting in his hand. The knife disappeared back into its sheath just as rapidly.
All gentlemen in Mary’s life wore swords and knew how to use them; indeed, many had been soldiers in the endless wars on the Continent and had fought duels of honor. But they never drew blades around her, and never moved with such quick, deadly efficiency.
This man was a killer, a warrior trained to answer the call of his clan chief and rush into battle for him. Anything elegant and civilized, he was not.
And yet, the knife had never touched her. Mary had not been in danger for a single second.
Mal lifted the lock to his lips. “I’ll carry it next to me heart,” he said, then reached out and touched her chin. “My English Rose.”
Mary couldn’t breathe. Malcolm touched the curl to his lips again, a sensual move.
She had been right not to let him kiss her. She’d be over his shoulder by now, as he carried her off with him to the place of heather and lochs under vast skies.
“Mary?” Aunt Danae’s voice thundered up the stairs. “Drat the girl, where has she got to?”
Mary’s breath poured back into her lungs. Her real life slammed into her, the cozy interlude with the dangerous Highlander fading like a dream.
She could be ruined if she were found up here alone with him. No unmarried young lady could be in the presence of a gentleman, especially one like this Highlander, without a chaperone, without tarnishing her character. She’d shame her father, Lord Halsey, her entire family. There were those who believed Danae no fit chaperone for the Lennox girls, with all her affaires d’amour. There would be talk, gossip, disapproval, knowing laughter. And Malcolm still had Audrey’s blasted letter.
Malcolm’s teasing look vanished, as though he understood her danger. “Best go on, lass. I’ll deliver the letter for ye. Which is the lad’s chamber?”
“No—good heavens, give it back to me. I’ll take it to him later.”
“Don’t be daft, woman. This is your best chance—your auntie will be climbing up here any second. Be found with me, and you’ll perish.”
“Mary! Where are you, girl?”
“Ye see? Go,” Mal urged. “The letter’s safe with me.” His smile returned, lighting those intriguing eyes. “Do ye trust me?”
“Not a jot,” Mary said, but gave in. She didn’t have much choice—she’d never wrest the letter back from him by force. “It’s the last door on the right. Do not let anyone see you.”
“No one ever does, sweet lady.”
Mary looked him over one last time—likely she’d never see him again. Mal stood like a sentry in the darkness, his plaid unmoving.
These Highlanders were mad fighters, it was said, silent in the night until they struck with all their fury. Malcolm was like the dirk he kept sheathed beneath his coat, quiet for now, but potentially deadly.
“Go on,” Mal said as she lingered. “I’ll not betray ye, my English Rose.”
The words were spoken with promise. Mary shook herself, turned, and headed for the staircase, holding her swaying skirts. She went down them as rapidly as her high heels would let her, her heart thumping hard.
“Mary,” came a dark whisper behind her.
Mary paused on the landing and looked back. Malcolm leaned over the banister, his tail of hair falling beside his square, hard face. Even in the dark, his eyes burned her.
“Good night, lass,” he said softly. He kissed his fingers, and blew across his fingertips in her direction. Mary swore the kiss landed on her lips.
Without a word, she turned away, but felt his gaze burn her all the way down the stairs.
Mal watched Mary hurry to meet her aunt, her skirts rippling like water. She was beauty itself, and Mal wanted her.
Not simply in bed—though he definitely would have that—he wanted her nearness, her warmth, that silken voice that tried to be haughty, the sudden flash of her smile. Mal’s body tightened, goading him to pursue her and do all the good things he longed to.
He would. He’d see her again; he’d make certain of it.
Mal reflected as he moved down the passage on his errand that he’d already learned much about Lady Mary Lennox. She was passionate and romantic, beguilingly so, but tried to hide that nature under proper behavior. She’d wanted Malcolm to kiss her—he’d seen it in her heartrendingly blue eyes. Mary had stopped herself only at the last moment, and reluctantly.
She also had compassion, helping her sister communicate with a forbidden lover. If Mary truly believed in propriety, she’d never have condoned her sister writing such a heartfelt letter.
She also risked censure for being the go-between. This showed that Mary was fond enough of her sister to take risks for her. Brave then, as well.
Courage, passion, beauty, compassion, and something inside her that longed to be wicked—what a woman. One night in bed with her would be worth every step he took to get her there. Whatever errands Mal had to run for her, whatever billet doux he needed to carry, or drippy-nosed suitors to run through with his sword, he would do it all for his reward at the end.
Mary. Even her name was a joy to say. Mal spoke it out loud in the silence of the empty hall. He’d teach her to call him Mal, and she’d say it in her smooth voice when she was deep in passion.
She’d be reluctant at first, but Mal would coax her, like a bird to his hand, teaching her to trust, never breaking her. And then Mary would be his. Not having her now that Malcolm had seen her, spoken to her, breathed the air she did, was unthinkable.
The how of it, Mal thought he might know. The letter in his hand held the key. It was addressed to the Honorable Jeremy Drake, youngest of three brothers, a man who had little importance in the world. He wasn’t like
ly to inherit the Bancroft peerage, and he’d be living off whatever allowance was given to him by his family. Very likely Mary’s father, Wilfort, opposed the match on these grounds.
Malcolm was no stranger to life as a younger son. In England, if the son had no interest in politics, the military, or the church, he had very little to look forward to. Mal thanked the deity he was Scots, from a land with different inheritance rules.
Mal had turned his brains and the money from his deceased mother to build up a business, one that was doing very well. He had plenty now to support a wife like Mary, a woman who’d be used to the good things in life.
Mal reached the door at the end of the hall and rapped on the wood panels. He waited, hearing nothing from within.
Mal knocked again, again with the same response, but he’d not give up. Alec was probably looking for him, wanting to grow nice and drunk with him in a public house, leaving these cold English to their equally cold manor.
But Mal had to stay, at least until this task was finished. He was certain he’d found the way to Mary’s heart, and it was through this door to the young Englishman on the other side.
He rattled the door handle, discovered it moved easily, and he went inside.
A young man was stretched out on the carpet in front of the fireplace. He lay face-up, unmoving, at an awkward angle. Mal’s heart constricted, blackness dancing before his eyes.
There had been a sixth Mackenzie brother, Magnus, between the twins and the second oldest, Will. Magnus had never been a well lad, and they’d all striven to take care of him. Magnus been prone to illness, never failing to spend half the year in bed or wrapped in blankets in the great hall before the roaring fire.
One evening, Mal had entered Magnus’s chamber and found him thus, stretched out on the hearthrug, unmoving. Magnus had fallen, and his heart, weakened even more from that year’s illnesses, had given out.
Magnus had been all of eighteen, Mal fourteen.
Years fell away as Mal stared down at the young Englishman. Mal was a boy again, trying to rouse his gentle older brother, his heart shattering with grief when he couldn’t. Magnus, with his compassion and kindness, had been worth all the rest of them put together.
Mal drew a sharp breath, and the darkness cleared. By the light of the dancing candles, Mal saw that this young man was clearly not Magnus. He was Mal’s age, and robust, his face a good color, his limbs strong. He’d simply fallen asleep.
Malcolm leaned down and rocked his shoulder. “Wake up, man.”
The Honorable Jeremy Drake blinked open his eyes. He stared at Mal in astonishment for a few heartbeats, then seized Mal’s reaching arm, rolled to a stand, and swept his boot behind Mal’s legs, knocking him off his feet.
Chapter 4
Malcolm had been a fighter all his life. Had to be, with four brawny brothers and a large father always trying to catch him and pound him with their fists. He managed to avoid falling, but he staggered, fighting to keep upright.
He was regaining his balance, his hand automatically moving for the other man’s throat, when he found himself facing a drawn dagger.
“Who the devil are you?” Jeremy demanded. “Have the Jacobites marched on us already?”
Mal raised his hands. “Not a Jacobite, lad. Not me.” Charles Edward Stuart could remain pontificating to his followers in the western Highlands forever, as far as Malcolm cared. “And if they do march, are you going to defend your entire house with a little stabber like that?”
For answer, Jeremy came at him. Mal caught his arm, bending it behind the young man’s back and twisting the knife from his hand.
Jeremy was good, Mal had to admit. It was a struggle to hold him, and at last Mal had to release the twisting devil. Malcolm had the knife now, and brought it up between them.
Jeremy breathed hard, a dangerous light in his eyes. He had black hair pulled into a loose queue, a strong body filling out a finely tailored coat and breeches, blue eyes, and a fiery look. He might be a youngest son, but Mal had the feeling that if he were ever allowed any power . . . watch out.
“Answer me,” Jeremy said in a hard voice. “Who are you?”
“Lord Mal Mackenzie.” Mal dipped his free hand into his pocket and pulled out the letter. “Sent to deliver your post.”
Jeremy eyed it suspiciously. “What is that?”
“A love letter, ye ignorant Sassenach.” Mal waved the folded paper in front of Jeremy’s face. “From your paramour, young Audrey.”
“What?” Jeremy snatched the letter. “What are you doing with it?”
“Sent here by Lady Mary herself. Commanded in the name of love.”
Jeremy didn’t soften, not believing a word of it. He jerked open the letter and read the first few lines before he looked up again. “Yes, all right.”
Mal kept his grip on the knife but lowered his hand to his side. “I read the whole of it. She says some fine things about you.”
Jeremy went scarlet. “You read it?”
“By accident. She’s a skilled one with a pen, is Lady Audrey. Are ye very much in love with her?”
Jeremy kept his angry look in place a moment longer, then he groaned and dropped all pretense. “Good God, man. I adore her. But her father is determined to marry her to an old man to curry favor. The earl’s daughters are nothing but bargaining pieces to him. Cattle for breeding.”
“As it is with so many Englishmen.”
Jeremy’s glitter of anger returned. “My father is different. Well, slightly different—he cares bugger-all about what woman I marry as long as I don’t disgrace the family. Although one with bags full of money wouldn’t come amiss.”
“Aye, me father’s much the same. Leave off with your whores, Malcolm, and find a woman who’ll bear me strong grandsons.” Mal shrugged. “Only so he’ll have more lads t’ help with the work.”
Jeremy studied Malcolm with more interest. “Are you such a man for the ladies?”
“Oh, aye. I’m all the time swayed by the flash of an ankle, the soft flesh of a shoulder. One wink of an eye, and I’m off.” Although now that Mal had seen Mary, those days were at an end. “Me da says I’ve got unbalanced humors, which I inherited from me mum’s side, he claims, wild men all. Me da, on the other hand, is dour. When men speak of dour Scotsmen, they mean my father, Daniel William Mackenzie, Duke of Kilmorgan. The dourest of them all.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened. “Good Lord, you’re that Mackenzie? His son, I mean.”
Malcolm bowed. “I have that misfortune.”
“He’s a slippery fish, so they say. Begging your pardon. My father and the Earl of Wilfort are watching him closely, you ought to know. No offense?”
The young man so ready to stab Malcolm a few moments ago was now apologizing for telling the truth about Malcolm’s own father. Strange the effect that women and love had on crazed fighting men.
“Me da is slippery and can be a nasty bugger. You’re not offending me there. And he’s aware of Englishmen watching him—he’s watching back. If you want to know what the devil he’s up to, do not ask me. I don’t know. I pay no attention. I sleep easier that way.”
Jeremy sighed, looking miserable again. “Well, none of it matters. I love Audrey, she loves me, and her father has forbidden us to see each other. Here we are, lovers in a farce, unable to break free.”
“You might just,” Mal said.
“Hmm?” Jeremy shot him a puzzled look. “Why? What do you mean?”
Mal paused a dramatic moment before he spoke . . . which gave him time to think of what to say.
Mal had discovered how to win Mary. All he had to do was find a way for Jeremy and Audrey to marry, to ensure it happened without impediment, and to keep their families from tearing them apart. Once he did all this, Mary would smile upon him in gratitude. Mal had friends and connections to get Jeremy and Audrey to France, where the lovebirds could remain in safety while their families became used to the situation. Mary would kiss him for it.
Jeremy was a
bright lad, of good family, not a charlatan from the gutter. Once Audrey and he were bound in marriage, and no man could put them asunder, the families would likely come around to forgiving them.
Even if Lord Wilfort never forgave them, Mary would be happy, and that was all that mattered to Mal.
Mary would be much more inclined to throw off the chains of obligation and run away with Malcolm if he did her this favor. They’d go to France, marry, and enjoy themselves. And when Mal returned to Kilmorgan with the beautiful Mary and several strong and squalling bairns, the Duke of Dourness would come ’round and at least be civil. What could go wrong?
Mal set Jeremy’s dagger on the table with a click. “Are ye willing to be guided by me? And by Mary, of course.”
“You can help us?” Jeremy regarded Mal with evident doubt. “How?”
“Well, ye have to be willing to be brave. And to keep your mouth shut. How much money do you have?”
Jeremy went from hopeful to morose so quickly it was comical. “There’s the rub. Not much. I’d have absconded with the girl months ago if I’d had the blunt.”
“And that’s the difference between Englishmen and Highlanders. We don’t beggar our sons—well, all right, some do. But my father never did. Me mum left us all a wagonload of money, and I’ve made me own. Ye marry your lass, settle down to a profession, and pay me back when ye have a mind to.”
“A profession.” Jeremy gave Malcolm a glum look. “I haven’t trained for much. I might tutor other gentlemen’s sons, but I don’t have the good conscience for the clergy, or the money for the army.”
Malcolm hid his impatience. He was already liking Jeremy for his restless energy and determination, but the lad was giving up on life before he’d even started it.
“I have a going concern ye can be a part of. Help me sell my fine whisky to Englishmen such as yourself, and you’ll be swimming in riches in no time. You’ll keep young Audrey in satin slippers and lacy caps for the rest of her life.”
Jeremy looked bewildered. “Why would you promise to do so much for me? You’ve only just met me. Is this some sort of Scottish trick?”
The Stolen Mackenzie Bride Page 3