The Stolen Mackenzie Bride

by Jennifer Ashley

  He had the satisfaction of seeing Wilfort look startled. Duncan hid a grin as he left the room. Mal wouldn’t like what was planned either, but his wee brother would have to live with it.

  Duncan had never been close to Malcolm, didn’t really understand him. Mal frightened Duncan a little sometimes, with his unwavering determination. When Mal Mackenzie chose to do a thing, he’d not let God and all his angels stop him.

  But if Mal wanted to tie himself to an Englishwoman—the Lord knew why—then Duncan would help him do it. Let the little runt be happy if he could.

  When Naughton and two lads answered Malcolm’s summons to his bedchamber, and came lugging a bath and cans of steaming water, Mary excused herself.

  She knew that if she didn’t, she’d stand with her mouth open and watch Malcolm remove every stitch of clothing before plunging into the bath. She tried to follow Naughton and the footmen out, but Malcolm caught her hand and stopped her.

  “But you’re bathing,” Mary spluttered as Naughton closed the door, shutting her in with Malcolm.

  “Aye, that I am. I’d like the company. If ye’re modest, ye can turn your back.”

  Before she could answer, Mal released her and stripped off his coat, then his fine linen shirt. He peeled off the leather shoes he’d tramped through the city in, as well as the woolen socks that hugged his legs. Finally he started unwinding the plaid.

  Mary should look away now—turn her back, sit down in a chair facing the wall, and let him get on with it.

  She couldn’t move. Mal said nothing as he pulled the plaid all the way off and dropped it to the floor.

  Since Mary had met him, she’d moved from innocence to curiosity to circumstances that were downright scandalous. Now, standing in this room while Mal let his tartan fall, Mary knew she was utterly ruined.

  She stood very still while she let her gaze drift over Malcolm’s body, from his tousled hair, to his tight shoulders, to his chest with its sharp, flat planes. Down his torso, while he spread his arms, unashamed and inviting her to look.

  A dusting of bronze-colored hair, slightly darker than that on his chest, gathered at the base of his phallus. He certainly didn’t look like the nude statuary in this regard, because the sculpted men had either had their most intimate part hidden by the pose, or their part was so small as to be nonexistent.

  Malcolm’s would never be nonexistent. He hung thick and long, and was already lifting under her gaze.

  “Ah, Mary, you’ll embarrass me.”

  Mary glanced up to find his cheekbones red, his smile almost shy. She looked back down at the fascinating thing between his legs, wondering how heavy it was, what it felt like. She found her teeth at her lower lip, her hands twining together.

  Malcolm growled. “Ye have no way of knowing what ye do to me, lass.”

  He swung away from her to the tub—and that view was fine as well. His backside was pale compared to his tanned lower legs and torso, the one part of him that never saw the sun.

  Malcolm climbed into the bathtub and sat down with a splash. Mary was hot inside, the sensations chasing through her new and bewildering.

  Whenever Malcolm kissed her, Mary flushed with shaky warmth, but this was different. She hungered to touch him, to feel the firmness of his flesh, to nuzzle him, then lick where she touched. The sudden and burning need made her walk to the side of the tub before she realized.

  Mal flicked her a glance and a half smile. “Come to wash me back?”

  Mary took all of him in, her hands clenching, her nails pressing her palms. Her heart beat thick and hard. Mal met her gaze, his face flushed from the hot water. Mary read challenge in his eyes, and also hope, and a touch of fear.

  She drew a breath and turned away, but only to pull a padded stool from the end of the bed to the side of the tub. She seated herself and reached for the large cloth he’d dunked into the water.

  Malcolm watched her, his amber eyes taking in her every move. “Did ye know that there’s a whole book on the health of bathing?” he asked as Mary squeezed out the cloth, soapy water running over her hands. “Though its author is fond of cold water. I prefer hot.”

  Mary drew the cloth over Malcolm’s arm that rested on the side of the tub. His skin was slick with water, his muscles moving under her touch.

  “The Romans liked their baths both hot and cold,” Malcolm went on, his voice going softer. “One after the other. They had whole buildings devoted to bathing. I’ve seen the ruins. Mosaics so exquisite ye scarce believe a human being made them, and that two thousand years ago.”

  “There are old Roman baths in England too,” Mary said, her voice breathy. “It’s said the waters in Bath are good for the health, but they look murky to me.”

  “Aye, well, I prefer what Naughton’s boiled up for me from the pump. Or to dive headfirst into the clear springs near Kilmorgan. Hot ones and ice-cold ones.”

  “You could build your own Roman baths.” Mary drew the dripping cloth along his shoulders. Mal obligingly leaned forward, and Mary rubbed the cloth all the way across his back, her bodice growing damp where she leaned against his arm.

  “I could.” Mal glanced back at her, his amber eyes warm. “I’m going to build a grand, fine house, where all my family and everyone I know can stay and never have to worry about the cold winters again. I’ll have a bathhouse, with water piped from the hot springs. Then they’ll never leave.” He gave a mock-aggrieved sigh.

  “You don’t want them to,” Mary said. “You want everyone around you, where you can watch over them, don’t you? That’s why you brought me here.”

  Mal drew his bare knees to his chest, wrapping his strong arms around them. “I’ve wanted ye here since the moment I first saw ye. But it’s true. I wasn’t going to let ye go to Holyrood or to Lord Bancroft’s to be guarded by randy Highland soldiers a long way from home. I’d have t’kill every last man of them.”

  Mary put her hand on his water-streaked knee. Mal’s body fascinated her, from the freckles on his cheekbones to the wiry hair on his chest, to the large strength of his arms and legs. Mal watched her, chin resting on his arm, as she ran her hand from his knee down his thigh.

  More wiry hair curled there, dissipating as she reached his hip. Mal’s eyes half closed as she explored, his chest rising with his breath.

  “What are ye doing t’ me, Mary?” he asked in a near-whisper.

  “I don’t know.” Mary explored the crease between his leg and torso. “I can’t seem to stop.”

  “Well, I’m not going to stop ye.”

  The newfound hunger in her was intense. Mary wanted to put her mouth to his skin and lick.

  This chamber high above the street and the quiet house beneath them seemed to be outside of the world. Perhaps Mal had lured her to an enchanted place, like in the fairy lands of A Midsummer Night’s Dream or the faraway countries in tales by Mr. Swift or Mr. Defoe.

  What Mary did here had no connection to the real world, the thought took hold in her mind. Or perhaps she was befuddled by lack of proper sleep. Whatever the cause, Mary let her hand slide between Mal’s legs at the same time she bit the round of his shoulder.

  Mal jumped, water sloshing, then a smile spread across his face. “Sweet Mary, ye know how to welcome a man home.”

  Mary licked where she’d bitten, at the same time she moved her fingertips to the shaft between his legs. Malcolm opened his knees, one arm coming to rest on the side of the tub, forehead on his hand. Mal’s breathing sped, his rising and falling chest making little ripples in the water.

  Mal’s phallus was wider than Mary thought it would be, her fingers just able to close around it. Why she wanted to hold it, she didn’t know, but in this other-land, she could do what she pleased.

  Mary squeezed, finding him firm and giving at the same time. Malcolm let out a groan, and Mary froze.

  “Am I hurting you?” she asked, worried.

  Malcolm raised his head, his face more relaxed that she’d ever seen it, even in sleep. “I�
��m fine, lass.” He closed his large hand around her small one where she gripped him. “You keep doing that. Doesn’t bother me at all.”

  The fact that he reacted to what Mary did pleased her. A warm throb began between Mary’s legs, beating in exact time with her heart.

  She squeezed him again, liking his smooth, taut skin.

  She’d have gone on simply gripping him, but he moved her hand gently with his, showing her how to draw it to the tip and then back down to the base. Another soft groan escaped Mal’s lips, and then he pulled his hand away, letting her play with him on her own.

  Mary licked Mal’s shoulder again as she copied the movements he’d showed her, taking her hand to the blunt tip and then back down the shaft. Her fingertips brushed tight ball-like projections, and Mary explored those too.

  Malcolm went back to supporting his forehead with his hand, his hips moving a little as Mary touched him.

  The warm quiet rendered what Mary did even more exhilarating. Malcolm made little noise, except the occasional soft moan, punctuated by ripples of water.

  Mary nibbled his shoulder, enjoying his salty taste. Her nibbles turned to little bites, which made him make a raw noise in his throat.

  Mary lifted her head, observed the small red mark she’d left on his skin, then closed her mouth over it and sucked.

  Malcolm rose out of the tub like a whale coming to the surface, water sloshing everywhere.

  Mary found herself being rolled backward, but Malcolm caught her in his strong arms. Mary’s laughter grew muffled as he kissed her, then they landed on the floor on the soft and now soggy oriental carpet.

  Mal’s hair dripped water to her face like tears, which he wiped away. “Mary.” He nuzzled her then kissed where he’d nuzzled. “Ye don’t understand how passionate ye are, do you?”

  “Is this passion?” Mary asked, her mind happily hazy in this not-world. “I believe I like it.”

  Malcolm’s laughter was low. “Ye warm me heart, lass. I’ll never tire of it.”

  Mary lay back under the satisfying weight of him, her bodice soaked through, and she did not care. “What am I to do with you, Malcolm Mackenzie?”

  “And ye shouldn’t let my imagination run with questions like that.” Mal’s smile was breathtaking. “One day, I won’t stop ye. Me brothers won’t be below—it will be just you and me, and we’ll love each other the rest of the day and on into the night.”

  Mary smiled shyly. “Yes, please.”

  “Ye sore tempt me.” Malcolm traced the edge of her bodice. “I’ll have this off ye, one night soon. I’ll open ye like parting petals on a rose, to find the woman inside.”

  Mary moved her hips, liking the feel of Mal pressed against her skirts. He was naked, wet, his backside smooth when she ran her fingertips over it.

  He caught her wrist and carefully moved her hand from him, then kept hold of it as he pressed her wrist into the carpet. The wool prickled her skin.

  “If we start now, lass, I’ll never want to stop. But soon.” Mal gently kissed her lips. “What we’re going to do is get your da and auntie free, and then we’ll go t’ France. Paris. You’ll reunite with Audrey, and I w’ Alec. Would you like that?”

  To see Audrey again, make certain she was well? “Yes.” Mary touched Malcolm’s face with her free hand. “Yes, I would like that—very much.”

  Mal was offering this gift to her as though nothing could be simpler. Her heart squeezed.

  “Then we’ll go.” Malcolm kissed her lips again. “I’ll take care of ye, Mary. In all ways. Ye never need worry about that.”

  For the moment, Mary was too stunned by the events of the day, too far from anything familiar, to ask more questions. For now, it was enough to have this braw Highlander embracing her, lending her his strength.

  She’d heard the maids use that term—braw—meaning good or brave, Jinty had explained. But much more than that, Mary sensed, was expressed in the one syllable. It meant all that was best in a man—his strength, fineness of limb, how he carried himself. Malcolm was certainly braw.

  And in the middle of all this madness, Mary was falling in love with him.

  Mal’s intense golden gaze softened. He stroked her hair with a damp hand, his touch so tender Mary wanted to cry.

  “Ye are for me, Mary,” he said in a quiet voice. “And I for you. And this always will be.”

  In the breath of the moment, there was no other truth.

  The moment broke when a roar came up the stairs. Not the duke—this shout held rough good humor and the timbre was different.

  “Hell, it’s Duncan.” Malcolm climbed off Mary, giving her a satisfying view of his entire damp body as he took his time reaching for a clean plaid and wrapping it around him. “What’s he so cheery about?”

  “Runt!” Duncan was bellowing. “Come out here, Mal.”

  Malcolm helped Mary to her feet, then signaled her to stay put as he opened the door. “What d’ye want?” Mal yelled back, his voice no less wall-shaking. “I’m bathing.”

  “Hurry up and finish,” Duncan said. There was a heavy tread on the stairs, followed by a quicker one—Will possibly. Malcolm stepped out into the hall, blocking his brothers from reaching the bedchamber door.

  “Why?” Malcolm growled.

  “Because I’ve got Murray to agree to let Lord Wilfort go.”

  Mary gave a cry of relief and started for the door, but Malcolm again motioned her to stay put.

  “And this has you smiling?” Mal asked Duncan. “’Tis not like you t’ be glad an English lord gets to go home unscathed.”

  Duncan’s rumbling laugh filled the staircase. Through it, Will said, in a warning tone, “Wait until ye hear the rest.”

  “Well?” Mal asked impatiently.

  Duncan answered, sounding gleeful. “He’s being released into your custody, Mal. You’re to have the keeping of him. You’re to take him and your captured English dragoon to Kilmorgan, until their ultimate fate is decided.”

  Chapter 22

  Malcolm’s fury could match his father’s, and rage bubbled high inside him. He told Duncan what he thought of orders from a prince he didn’t recognize, and Duncan, in better spirits than Mal had seen him in an age, only laughed again.

  “Ye could leave Wilfort for the chop if ye want. Or ye can look out for him while they decide whether to ransom him or hang him,” Duncan said. “Your dragoon captain too. He’s proving dangerous, and they want him out of the way. A long way out of the way. Most wanted to kill him, but I saved him for ye, runt. He’s yours, and ye say what to do with him.”

  Duncan loved the old ways of justice and war, where the fate of captured prisoners was up to the clan. He was enjoying dispensing this news, and also Mal’s irritation.

  “And if I choose t’ send the pair of them back to England?” Mal asked. “Washing me hands of them?”

  Duncan shrugged. “If they’re caught going, they’ll be killed. Better keep them at Kilmorgan, Mal, if you’re so keen to save the father of the woman whose skirts ye want to lift.”

  “What about her poor old auntie?” Mal asked, restraining himself pummeling Duncan with his fists. “Is she in me custody too?”

  Will answered before Duncan could. “No, she’ll be going back to England with Lady Bancroft. Best thing for her.”

  At least the woman would be safe, which would relieve Mary. The situation wasn’t ideal, and Mal didn’t like the thought of Wilfort as a houseguest, but if he could save the man for Mary’s sake, he would.

  “Wait,” Mal said, a thought striking him. “What about Halsey? Ye didn’t mention him.”

  “Huh,” Duncan grunted. “That’s because he does nae want to go home. Halsey’s turned his coat inside out, is giving Charles and Murray every scrap of information he has about anyone against the Jacobites. He’s talking, talking, talking, spewing forth all his secrets. And he has many.”

  “Crockery and cobwebs!” The furious exclamation exploded from within Mal’s chamber, followed by Mary
in her water-splotched gown. “That absolutely traitorous, slimy, two-faced . . . Oh, I can’t think of a word bad enough to call him.”

  Will’s eyes widened, and Duncan looked shocked. Duncan had always been a bit of a prude about the proper behavior of women—respectable women, that is, not the ladies in brothels he was happy to tumble.

  “Duplicitous bastard?” Will suggested.

  Mary gave him a nod. “Yes, I think that will do very nicely.”

  Will burst out laughing, while Duncan continued to look stern.

  Will, Mal could see, approved. “I like her, Mal,” Will said. “I see ye didn’t waste any time with her either. Good lad. I’m going to enjoy this.”

  Mary wasn’t even able to say good-bye to Aunt Danae, but small Ewan was recruited so Mary could at least send a farewell message. So far, the Jacobite contingent remained unaware or uncaring of Mary’s existence, and Mal said he wanted to keep it that way. Mary understood, but it was a wrench to not take leave of the woman who’d been the same as a mother to her for many years.

  But someday this would be over. Mary and her aunt would be reunited, and all would be well.

  Mary firmly suppressed the fear she’d never see her aunt and sister again as she made ready to leave Edinburgh for parts unknown. She would have to take things as they came and not succumb to worry. That way lay madness.

  Her father would not be brought to them until they were on their way out apparently. That night, while Charles Stuart hosted another grand ball in his ongoing celebration, Mary packed.

  The Mackenzie house was in chaos. All of them were leaving for the Highlands, including the duke. The servants swarmed to answer the duke’s shouts, ignoring the irritated curses of Will, Mal, and Angus. Even Duncan was coming with them, though why, Mary was not sure. He was the only true Jacobite among them, and she wondered why he wasn’t remaining with the armies.

  In the morning, very early, Mary climbed into a carriage pulled by four strong horses. Naughton had just shut the door for her when Ewan began to wail. He’d been told he had to stay behind and help the staff in the Edinburgh house.