“Aye,” said Gregor. “A Scottish rose.”
“Your tender, delicate rose had me ambushed, knocked unconscious, and forced to wed,” Jack ground out. “Facts you all know, if you’ve spoken to Hamish.”
Dougal grinned, his teeth flashing whitely. “She has the devil’s own temper, our Fiona does.”
Jack was now cold sober. “However she feels about me, she was very angry with the lot of you.”
“Aye,” Alexander agreed. “She would not have been forced to such lengths had we been willing to listen to her.”
Dougal frowned. “Callum must be avenged.”
Jack crossed his arms. “The Kincaids are now bound to the MacLeans.”
Alexander scowled. “There is no child.”
“No?” Jack said. “Your sister and I were married yesterday. If she wasn’t with child before, she might be now.”
A shocked silence met this pronouncement.
Then, a sudden gust of wind blew, stirring dust and rattling leaves and branches. Thunder rumbled closer than before.
“You—you—” Gregor stomped forward, but Alexander halted him with a sharp “Hold!”
“Bloody hell.” Alexander’s face was as glum as a thundercloud. “Kincaid is right. There may be a child.”
“But Fiona—” Dougal began.
“Is married,” Alexander finished firmly. “We would not be doing her a favor if we pretended it was otherwise. It would just cause her and her child embarrassment, if there is one.” Alexander shot a black look at Jack, thunder rumbling close. “You have put us in an untenable position, Kincaid.”
“Aye,” Gregor said. “This does not end here.”
Jack pushed himself from the railing, cold fury burning the alcohol from his veins. “It all ends here. I am married to your sister. And we will have a child. I plan on making certain of it.”
“You bastard,” Alexander snarled.
“It’s what your sister wants—because of your behavior,” Jack reminded them. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
Gregor barred him from climbing the steps to the door. “It may be too late to stop this marriage,” the Scotsman returned, “but we can make certain our sister is happy.”
“Aye,” Hugh said from directly behind Jack. “One of us will always be watching.”
Alexander crossed his arms over his chest. “I have business out of town, and Hugh is needed at home for the next fortnight, but Gregor and Dougal will be here. They will keep a close eye on Fiona.”
“That is not necessary,” Jack snapped.
“It is to us.” Gregor squeezed Jack’s shoulder. His eyes gleamed. “She’s too precious to leave unprotected with the likes of Black Jack Kincaid.”
These men clearly didn’t understand Fiona’s strength; there was nothing fragile about her.
Gregor’s hand tightened on Jack’s shoulder. “Every frown that passes her lips, every sad look, will earn you one of these.” Gregor’s fist slammed into Jack’s stomach.
“Ooof!” Jack bent over, lights exploding behind his eyes. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t move, could only struggle to remain conscious.
“Aye,” Dougal said. He moved up to stand beside his brother. “We will be watching. And if Fiona ever looks anything but radiant—” He balled his fist, but Jack lunged forward, ramming his head into Dougal’s stomach.
The huge Scotsman went backward, hitting the railing and then flying over, feet over head.
Gregor started forward, fists raised, then stopped. “Damn it. She will see it if we mark him.”
Hugh rubbed his chin, eyeing Jack thoughtfully. “If we don’t hit his face, she’ll never know it.”
“They’re married, fool,” Gregor said. “She will see him without his shirt.”
Thunder rumbled directly overhead, the entire street cast in a dark light as a huge bank of clouds covered the sun.
Alexander’s dark gaze flickered to Jack, who stood leaning against the railing, one hand pressed to his side where Gregor had struck him. “I believe we have made our point.” He sighed. “Kincaid, make certain she’s happy. She deserves that since Callum—” After a moment’s struggle, he turned and walked away. The others followed.
Jack watched them go, his stomach afire from their altercation. Overhead, the trees swayed, an ominous threat in the air. He turned and grabbed the railing, reaching the portico just as the storm broke.
Chapter Nine
’Tis a pity about the MacLean temper. They are fierce in both anger and love. They are a close clan, and what affects one affects them all. Together they’ll sing in heaven, or together they’ll suffer in hell.
OLD WOMAN NORA OF LOCH LOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT
“There you are, my lord!” Devonsgate hurried forward as one footman took Jack’s coat while another waited for his hat. “I was beginning to wonder if you had been found.”
“I most certainly was!” Jack shook off the attention of the footmen, noting that two more stood beside the library doors. Good God, how many were there?
As he turned, his sore stomach protested the sudden move. He grimaced. Between Fiona and her brothers, he wasn’t going to have an unbruised muscle on his body.
Thunder rumbled outside, and with a shattering burst, the sound of rain turned into something more.
Devonsgate blinked. “Is that hail? In April?”
Jack glanced up at the darkened windows, where small balls of ice bounced off the windowpanes and danced along the sills. “Damn MacLeans,” he muttered.
“I beg your pardon, my lord?”
“Nothing. Where is her ladyship?”
“In your bedchamber.” The butler folded his hands and stared straight ahead. “You should be made aware that there was a bit of a situation this morning.”
The ominous note in his voice made Jack pause. “What happened?”
The butler sniffed primly. “You failed to inform us that you had married the lady you so informally—and, might I add, scandalously—carried into the house last night.”
It took Jack a full moment to realize the full implication of Devonsgate’s words. So when Fiona woke up…No wonder she’d sent the footman for him. “I am in trouble.”
“Indeed. I only hope her ladyship will forgive the staff for not reacting as we should have when she arose and requested breakfast.” Devonsgate eyed Jack steadily. “Mrs. Tarlington was initially of the opinion that ‘the imposter’ should be tossed out on her ear.”
He’d been such a fool. He’d never thought about the fact that the servants wouldn’t know Fiona. Hadn’t thought about her waking alone and hungry, looking for breakfast, and meeting hostility and disbelief. “I should have introduced her.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Jack rubbed his neck. “Is she upset?”
Devonsgate looked at the ceiling.
“Wonderful,” Jack muttered. He’d gone out this morning determined to prove that his life hadn’t changed merely because he was married, and all he’d succeeded in doing was upsetting everyone. Jack sighed. “I suppose I should go and see her.”
“She is waiting, my lord.” The butler offered in an undertone, “She also requested a breakfast tray for two. Perhaps a heartfelt apology will smooth things over.”
That was surprisingly heartening news. “Thank you, Devonsgate. I will indeed attempt that.” Jack looked about the foyer, his gaze falling on a vase of fresh flowers. He crossed to them, reached into the bouquet, and grabbed a handful. He pulled them out and shook them over the carpet.
“My lord!”
“Don’t worry, Devonsgate. It’s only water.” Jack held the bouquet at arm’s length. It was a bit bedraggled after being yanked from the vase, but it would serve. He would have picked some flowers from his own garden, but with the hail now raining down outside, he doubted there was so much as a blade of grass still left on the entire street.
Devonsgate glanced uneasily out the window before turning
his attention back to Jack. “I hope her ladyship was not too offended by my or Mrs. Tarlington’s disbelief this morning.”
“The blame is mine, not yours.” Jack made his way up the steps. He was beginning to think that perhaps he’d made an ass of himself last night. Damn it; all he’d wanted to do was to establish himself as master of his own life.
Jack’s jaw tightened. He would not give that up. Although he’d been wrong to leave Fiona without seeing to her comfort, he still had the right to go where he wanted and when.
He reached the bedchamber door, then looked down at his mussed coat. The least he could do was make himself more presentable for her. He placed the flowers on the floor by the door and straightened his cravat and coat. He used the edge of his sleeve to polish the toes of his boots, then reached for the flowers. His hand had just wrapped around the stems when the door was thrown open.
Jack found himself looking down at the toes of Fiona’s boots. The boots that had rested so tantalizingly on his ass just last night.
His body reacted instantly, flaming to awareness. He hurried to stand. “Oof!” His forehead bumped into something hard, the flowers flying.
“Ow!” Fiona staggered back, one hand over her forehead above her eye.
Jack grabbed her just as her knees buckled. “Fiona! I’m sorry! I just—oh, for the love of—”
He lifted her into his arms and carried her inside, kicking the door closed. He absently noted the large brass tub off to one side while a breakfast tray sat on the small table before a newly stoked fire.
He carried her across the room and gently placed her on the settee, then lifted her chin and examined her forehead. An angry red mark marred her smooth skin. Without thought, he pressed his lips to the spot.
Fiona closed her eyes at his touch. It was a simple gesture, almost chaste, but it flooded her with a warm feeling of comfort. She leaned into his embrace, refusing to think about anything else.
She’d spent the morning fuming at Jack’s absence. That had given way to a seething determination to let him know how she felt about his failure to inform the servants of her position. Then she’d spent a considerable amount of time practicing a pithy, well-thought-out speech that would let Mr. Jack Kincaid know in no uncertain terms what was what. She’d even planned which chair he’d sit in while she astonished him with her calm logic: the red chair received direct light, so she could see every expression on his face.
She’d planned to establish herself as the epitome of dignity and grace, of reasonable discourse and womanly pride. And now this! He hadn’t even crossed the threshold, and they’d banged heads like a comedy act at Vauxhall.
Life was not fair.
Jack sighed, his gaze meeting hers. He looked tired, deep lines tracing from the corners of his mouth to his chin. Her fingers itched to soothe those lines, to touch his stubbled chin, to press a kiss to the corner of his lips and perhaps more—
Blast it! She was angry with him, and rightly so. She could not just forget that. Fiona curled her fingers into her palms and jerked her gaze away. What was it about him that had her craving his touch, even when she was fuming mad?
“I am sorry we had an accident,” she said now, struggling to remain calm. “I thought perhaps you’d lost something, so I was bending down to see what it was.”
“I was polishing my shoe with my sleeve.” He looked down at his wrinkled clothing. “I was just trying to look more presentable.” He glanced behind him, where a broken flower stuck out from beneath the door. “I even brought you some flowers.”
She bit her lip, looking at the flower smashed beneath the door’s edge, a quiver of laughter tickling her lips. What a horrid muddle. “Why did you bring me flowers?”
“Because I’m an ass. I am very sorry I did not introduce you to the servants. I should have, but—” His expression hardened. “I was busy proving my life has not changed.”
“Both of our lives have changed.”
“Some,” he said shortly.
She shrugged, turning her face away. There was no mistaking the challenge in his gaze. “I see.”
He brushed his fingers over her forehead. “Had this been a bit lower, you would have had a black eye. It’s going to make a hell of a bruise as it is.”
“Perhaps some ice would keep it from turning colors.”
He immediately rose and crossed to the fireplace, reached over the mantel, and tugged twice on a long gold cord tucked beside the picture frame.
“So that’s where the bellpull was.”
Jack looked surprised. “Didn’t you use it when you called for the servants?”
“No,” she said tightly. “When I wished for the servants to do something, I walked down the stairs and told them.”
He looked at the breakfast tray, the bath, and the robe laid upon the bed, a flicker of regret crossing his face. “Fiona, I’m sorry.”
“Yes, you are.” She bit her lip. Control. Grace. Composure. “I think we—”
A soft knock sounded on the door, followed by Devonsgate’s entry. “My lord?”
“We need ice,” Jack said in a terse tone. “Her ladyship’s head came into contact with my own, and you know how hard that is.”
“Yes, my lord.” The butler turned to go, then hesitated. “My lady?”
Fiona forced herself to look away from Jack. “Yes?”
“I apologize if my previous demeanor lacked the respect due your position as mistress of this establishment. I did not know—”
“Please,” Fiona said, throwing up a hand. “The circumstances were awkward for us all. Shall we begin again?”
Devonsgate looked relieved. “Yes, please, my lady. I will fetch some ice for your forehead.” With another respectful bow, he disappeared, the door closing softly.
Fiona got up and walked to the window, her hands clasped before her. How did one begin a conversation like this? Could she demand that he alter his actions? She’d abducted him and forced him into this marriage. Could she now demand that he be more…devoted?
But that wasn’t what she really wanted. She deserved respect, if nothing else, and—
An odd ticking sound came from the window. Frowning, she pushed open the thick velvet curtains. Hail clacked against the glass, standing in small mounds upon the sill. She sent an amazed gaze toward Jack. “My brothers arrived?”
Jack nodded.
“Where are they? In the sitting room? Why didn’t you tell me—”
“They left. But they will return.” He gave a humorless smile. “They promised.”
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know, though I believe two of them plan an extended stay in town.”
“Oh, dear. Which two?”
“Dougal and Hugh.” Jack frowned. “Or perhaps it was Hugh and Gregor. I don’t remember. You will find out soon enough, as they have promised to be quite visible.”
She raised her brows. “What does that mean?”
“You may ask them when they come to visit. I don’t feel qualified to speak for them.” Jack quirked a brow. “I don’t suppose you know which one of them can cause hail?”
“Gregor. He has a cold temper. The rest of us just make rain.”
“Like the cloud that’s been hanging over my carriage since last night.”
Once again, her blasted temper had gotten her into trouble. Her gaze fell on the breakfast table, and she moved toward it with obvious relief. “We should eat.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back in his chair. “By all means.”
She spread jam on two pieces of toast and placed them on plates, along with thin slices of ham and a poached egg.
Another knock sounded on the door, and Devonsgate appeared with a small chunk of ice wrapped in a square of linen. He handed the ice to Fiona, filled Fiona’s teacup, and poured some ale into a cup for Jack, then left.
Fiona pressed the ice to her forehead, watching Jack. When he took a deep drink of his ale, his coat pulled tight over his muscled
arm. Fiona’s stomach tightened at the sight. He was so handsome, so attractive. “Where were you this morning?”
Blast it! I wasn’t going to ask that! What happened to my prepared speech?
He replaced his ale on the table, his expression shuttered. “If you must know, I was at a gaming hell.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. She cleared her throat. “Jack, I did not like being left alone last night. The next time you go out, I would like to go with you.”
That didn’t sound unreasonable. It sounded calm, well reasoned, and—
“No.”
“What?”
“You heard me. A gaming hell is not a proper place for a gently bred lady.”
“Nor for a gently bred man,” she returned stiffly.
Jack’s mouth hardened. “Are you asking that I give up my amusements?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean—oh, blast it, I don’t know what I mean—except that you should not be carousing.”
“I was not ‘carousing.’ If I had been, I do not see what business it would be of yours.”
She clenched her hands into fists. “Everything you do is my business. We are married.”
“In name only.” He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. “I agreed to get you with a child, but I will not give up my freedom in the process. If I wish to go to a gaming hell, I will do so. You cannot stop me.”
A flicker of irritation rose. Fine, then. If he thought she would sit tamely home while he flitted about town, ogling women and doing God knew what else, he had another think coming. “Fine. But anything you can do, I can do also.”
“Fiona, this is not a race.”
She shrugged. “If you wish your freedom, take it. As I will take mine.”
“Damn it, Fiona, you cannot—”
A soft knock sounded on the door, and Devonsgate entered the room, followed by a line of footmen carrying buckets of steaming water. They poured it into the large tub one by one, and then left.
Devonsgate folded a towel neatly over the lip of the tub and poured bathing salts into the steaming water. The room filled with the rich scent of sandalwood.
Devonsgate gathered their dishes, then turned to Fiona. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”
How to Abduct a Highland Lord Page 10