“Only a trick to get Mary Lennox to smile at me.”
“Oh.” Jeremy blinked. “Mary, eh?”
“Yes, Mary, the most beautiful creature who graces the earth,” Malcolm said forcibly.
Jeremy looked doubtful again. “Mary? She’s all right. A grand girl to help us. You say you’re in love with her?”
“As much as you are with your Audrey.”
“Ah.” Jeremy’s face cleared. “Now I understand. Then we are a hopeless pair of smitten gentlemen.” He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “How about we leave this tower of despair and go get brutally drunk?”
Malcolm returned his grin, and agreed. But he made sure Jeremy left his dagger behind as they went down the back stairs, as silent as smoke, and out into the night.
Edinburgh was a city of contrasts. It was a place of learning, of thinkers, poets, and scientists, of ancient streets and spires, elegant and strong. It was also a city of narrow rookeries, jammed with buildings falling into one another, and people doing much the same.
The dark face of Edinburgh, in the old city, was where Mal and Jeremy headed now. It was late, gloomy, and cold, and the only people who noticed the tall Scotsman and equally tall Englishman at his side were those who scuttled off into warmth and kept out of their way.
The tavern Mal made for was squashed between two other shops, its upper stories sagging downward. Mal ducked under the door’s solid lintel ahead of Jeremy, assessing the lay of the land.
Jeremy couldn’t be mistaken for anything but upper-class English. In this place, it would generally not be a problem, but Mal knew there were a few patrons here so hotly Jacobite they’d find any excuse to cut anyone who didn’t speak broad Scots. Mal advised Jeremy to stay near, keep his mouth closed, and smile a lot.
Mal’s brother Alec lifted his tankard and sang out from the corner. Most of the clientele knew the Mackenzie brothers, and slurred greetings met Mal as he crossed the room.
“Didn’t take ye long,” Mal said, dropping onto the bench beside his brother.
Alec shrugged, one large, raw-boned hand on his tankard. “Ye went missing, and I soon had enough of posturing English shite.” He threw a glance at Jeremy. “Ah, no offense, Drake.”
“None taken,” Jeremy answered, keeping his voice quiet as Mal had advised. “My father postures with the best of them. I’m not much for politics.”
“The world is politics these days, lad,” Alec said. “Who you talk to, where you drink, what you drink, the clothes you wear—all say something.”
He looked Jeremy up and down, as though trying to interpret what a black frock coat with silver buttons and a lawn shirt meant.
Means he’s young, Mal wanted to say. And in love, and doesn’t care about the machinations of the world. Jeremy had already won a great deal of Mal’s sympathy.
Jeremy glanced pointedly at Alec’s tankard. “What does drinking ale say about you?”
Alec gave him a stony Scots look, worthy of their hard-faced father. No one could give a more brutal stare than the Duke of Kilmorgan, except for his sons.
In the next instant, Alec burst into raucous laughter. He thumped the table with his heavy hand, his head going back until he bumped the stone wall. “Your expression, lad. Too damn serious. Drink—if you’re a friend of Mal’s, you’re a friend of mine.”
Mal laughed out loud as well—Alec was as changeable as the wind, and Mal found it best to laugh and roll his eyes instead of taking him seriously.
A woman with thick blond hair trickling from a cap set down tankards in front of Mal and Jeremy. She looked into Jeremy’s face then sent a glance at Mal and Alec. Mal nodded at her, vouching for him. The barmaid then beamed Mal a smile, sending the message that she served more than ale.
Mal had taken her offer a time or two, and those of her comelier friends upstairs, but that had been before he’d fallen in love. The next lady he’d be with would be Mary, and he’d not want another woman after her.
“Out with it,” Alec said to Mal when the barmaid had retreated. “Did ye make your conquest?”
Jeremy looked interested. “Conquest?”
“Lady Mary,” Mal told him.
“Oh yes. Mary.” The young man could not seem to understand what a goddess Mary was. “She is betrothed, you know.”
“Aye. But one obstacle at a time, lad.” Mal drew his handkerchief from his pocket and opened it enough to show Alec the single lock of Mary’s red-touched blond hair. Just the sight of it made Mal’s body squeeze, and he quickly tucked the lock out of sight.
Alec had ceased laughing, and now watched Mal from his tawny eyes. Alec’s hair and that of his twin, Angus, were the darkest of the brothers, containing only a hint of red. Their oldest brother, Duncan—his name was Daniel Duncannon Mackenzie, but everyone called him Duncan to distinguish him from their father—had hair of flame red. Duncan took the most after their mother—in looks, not temperament. Allison Mackenzie had been lively and laughing, a contrast to her stony husband, before she’d passed, scarred by smallpox.
Duncan took life far too seriously and could rage and storm even better than their father. Duncan was a staunch Jacobite and, given the chance, would singlehandedly dispatch King Geordie from the throne and throw James onto it. Never mind he’d kill himself in the doing of it. To Duncan, the sacrifice would be worth it.
God save us from fanatics. The Mackenzie men could grow obsessed at the drop of a hanky, but Duncan had made an art of it.
Alec was watching Mal now as though thinking Mal as mad as Duncan. Mal gazed stubbornly back at him.
When Alec wanted a woman, he went through fire to get her, didn’t matter whether she was married and guarded by a burly husband and five equally burly brothers. Alec had barely escaped with his life during that incident, and only because Mal and Will had hauled him away in the dead of night.
Alec hadn’t let obstacles stop him the last time he’d wanted a woman either. The consequences of that were yet to be felt.
“Here’s to beautiful women,” Mal said, lifting his tankard.
“Aye,” Alec said fervently. “May they warm our beds for many years to come.”
“Aye,” Jeremy echoed, sounding wistful.
“And here’s to getting them into those beds.” Mal lifted his tankard again. “You and me, Master Jeremy, have our work cut out for us.”
“That we do,” Jeremy said. He tried to sound Scots and failed miserably. Mal and Alec collapsed into laughter, and Jeremy joined them after a moment. Then they proceeded to become heartily drunk.
“My lords.” The barmaid was before them again. Some time had passed—Mal had no idea how much, but a few hours at least.
Jeremy was slumped against the wall, snoring softly. Alec was staring at the empty tankard in his hands, singing to it under his breath. He had somewhere gotten his hands on a charcoal stick, and he’d drawn pictures all over the table with it, as he liked to do. Alec was skilled at drawing, but the tavern keepers weren’t always happy with him.
“Aye?” Mal looked up at the woman, who wore a harassed expression.
“It’s your brother, my lords,” she said, urgent. “I just heard. He’s sure to be arrested. You must go quickly.”
Chapter 5
The cold dampness of Edinburgh woke Mal out of his stupor as they moved down the narrow street to another equally narrow passage.
A discreet bawdy house was tucked here. Its proprietor had sent a boy running to the tavern in search of Will Mackenzie’s brothers.
Mal understood why when they reached the place, Jeremy in tow. Shouting came from the upper reaches of the house, the rooms accessed by a rickety staircase that led to a leaning wooden gallery.
A deep voice was carrying on in Highland Scots, admonishing, demanding, then lapsing into cajoling, laughter, and singing. The songs were the same as Alec’s but much, much louder.
The proprietress of the house, a thin woman with an angular face, was from Glasgow. Mal could usually understand only a
bout two words in six she said, but tonight she was very clear.
“Get him out.” She glared at Mal and Alec. “He’ll bring the constables down on us if he does no’ shut up and go away.”
“Easy, love,” Mal said. “We’ll take him. Alec, pay the good lady for her trouble.”
Alec shot an annoyed look at Mal, but his pouch of coins came out and silver found its way into the proprietress’s hand.
The woman looked less unhappy but remained planted by the foot of the staircase, as though ready to shove them out at a moment’s notice.
Mal tipped her a wink as he followed Alec up the stairs, Jeremy trailing behind. The tall lad looked around with much interest, indicating louder than words that he’d never been in a whorehouse before. The English whelp was too innocent to be believed.
“She were a fiiiiine lassie,” came the booming baritone. “With a bosom so sweet, and bum so large, and between her legs a . . . laaaaaad.”
“Is that a song?” Jeremy asked, his face red but his eyes sparkling with humor.
“He makes up his own,” Mal said. “Young Master Jeremy, meet my brother, the rakehell himself, William Ferdinand Mackenzie.”
Alec had crashed through the bolted door at the top of the stairs to reveal Will, clad in nothing but a plaid wrapped around his hips, standing on strong feet, serenading two tired-looking women who lounged on the bed. It was evident that they’d had enough of him.
Will turned blearily as they burst in. “Mal!” he shouted. “How fine to see ye, runt!” He spread his muscled arms and rushed at Mal, crushing him into a hug.
Will was the tallest of the Mackenzies, the biggest and broadest, a giant of a man with dark red hair. Being embraced by him was like being squashed by a bear. Will was as warm as a bear too, and about as hairy and smelly in his unkempt state. He must have been there for days.
Will lifted his head and looked past Mal at Alec. “Angus!” He shouted. “Won’t hug you. You’re a bastard. I only love the runt.”
“I’m Alec,” Alec said, sounding less drunk. “Angus is at home.”
“Good!” Will pounded Mal on the back then released him. “He’s not here to spoil our fun. Who is that?” Will scrubbed both massive hands through his unruly hair, which made it stand straight up, and pinned Jeremy with a tawny stare. “Are you a Mackenzie, lad?”
“’Fraid not,” Jeremy returned. He only looked slightly alarmed, which meant the boy had mettle. Will Mackenzie undressed and roaring drunk was not an easy thing to take.
“The Honorable Jeremy Drake, sir,” Jeremy said. He executed a practiced though wobbly bow.
“He’s a bloody Englishman!” Will rubbed his eyes and stared at him again. “What are ye doing with a bloody Sassenach, Mal? Did he arrest you?”
“He’s a friend,” Mal said. “My friend. Dress yourself, man. We’re going.”
“So soon?” Will looked confused. “But I’ve only just started the singing.”
Alec took a comfortable seat on the bed, giving the ladies there a smile and also a few coins for putting up with his brother. “And you’re in good voice,” Alec said, soothing him. “We’ll be off, and you can sing to us.”
Will gave him a doubtful look. “Well, all right, but you’re nae so pretty.”
“I’m glad of it,” Alec said. “Mal, get him decently clad . . . Och, man, I did nae need to see that!”
Will had stripped off the plaid and let it fall, revealing his hard-muscled thighs and the large thing dangling between his legs.
Alec covered his face and moaned. Mal ignored him while he fished up Will’s clothes from all over the room and helped the big man put them on. Jeremy watched, still flushed with drink, but enjoying the comedy.
Will got stuck inside his shirt, his arms flailing, unable to find the holes. Mal helped him, got the shirt settled and the plaid wrapped about his waist again. Waistcoat, stockings, boots, frock coat—all went on—then Will had to spend at least fifteen minutes looking for his hat.
They discovered that the proprietress had it. When Mal and Alec finally shoved Will out of the bedroom and to the staircase, Jeremy trailing, the proprietress held up a battered Scots bonnet. Will had to be helped down the stairs—his legs kept bending every which way.
Will reached the bottom at last and grabbed the hat from the woman’s thin hand. “Thank you very much,” he slurred. “Ye have a fine establishment. Until next time.”
He tried to bow and fell into Mal’s arms. Mal pushed him to his feet, hearing the clink of more coins as Alec placated the woman once again. Jeremy grabbed Will’s other arm and assisted Mal in squeezing his brother through the narrow door and out into the cold cobbles.
Will threw off their holds as chill night air poured over them. “I’m fine. I can walk meself.”
He couldn’t, very well. The four of them stumbled down the passage and to a larger street.
“Where are we going?” Will asked at his usual bellow. “Another nice house?”
“Home,” Alec said sternly. He looked at Jeremy. “Best you nip off to your own digs, lad. If Will gets us arrested, ye don’t want to be with us.”
Jeremy glanced at Mal, and Mal gave a reluctant nod. He liked Jeremy, but it was time to part ways for the night.
“Aye, go on.” He locked his fingers around Jeremy’s sleeve and pulled him aside. “I can call on you tomorrow, eh? So we can begin. I’ll help you win the hand of young Audrey, and in return, you slip me in to see Mary. Right?”
“Yes.” Jeremy’s eyes warmed with his smile. He clasped Mal’s hand with a firm grip of his own. “You’re a gentleman, Mackenzie, even if you’re a Highlander.”
“Aye, don’t I know it.” Mal clapped him on the shoulder and shoved him away.
Jeremy tipped his hat to Alec and Will, and turned and walked away into the darkness. His footsteps were uneven, his gait slightly swaying, but he’d be all right.
“Now, then, Mal, help me.” Alec scowled and bent to the task of getting Will indoors.
By the time they reached the house the Mackenzies lived in during their excursions to Edinburgh, Will was walking better on his own. A footman opened the front door of the house and assisted them inside; a second footman scurried down the back stairs to alert the rest of the staff that the Mackenzie brothers were home.
Will had lost most of his drunkenness by the time they reached his large bedchamber upstairs. Will let the rail-thin, red-haired valet who’d appeared—Naughton, who looked after them all when they were in the city—pull off his boots, then Will collapsed full-length onto the bed.
Naughton took the soiled boots away, as well as the frock coat Will had thrown off, frowning in disapproval at the mud on both. As soon as the door closed, Will sat up, the disoriented light leaving his eyes.
“Well, lads,” he said.
Mal found a stool by the fire and stretched his feet to it. He hated being cold.
Only a few candles were lit in the chamber, and the dim and wavering light cast weird shadows. Alec’s straggling hair was thrown into huge silhouette against the fireplace.
“Well?” Alec prompted.
“I heard quite a lot to tell Father,” Will said. He looked pleased with himself. “A few of Cope’s men were in that house.” Sir John Cope was the English general unlucky enough to command the British troops in Scotland. He was expected to deal with Charles Stuart—Teàrlach Stiùbhart—and his Highlanders if they made their way toward Edinburgh. “They tried to ply me with questions, find out who was with Teàrlach and who wasn’t, but alas for them, I could barely think, let alone speak, eh? Won’t be able to go back there if it’s full of loyalists, though, I’m thinking. Pity. It was a good house.”
“You mean the ladies there would put up with ye,” Alec said with good humor. “As long as ye paid them well.”
“Enough from you, whelp. What have you got to say?”
“Plenty,” Alec said. “But not about the Jacobites. Mal thinks he’s smitten with an English lass. Daughter
of Wilfort, no less.”
Will pinned Mal with a fierce gaze. “Are ye mad, runt? Wilfort is at King Geordie’s elbow.”
“Not his daughter’s fault,” Mal said. “Mary’s a lovely lass, and better company than you lot.”
“Watch it, lad.” Will sat all the way up, his laughter gone. “I’ve seen what happens to you when you want a woman. When ye want anything, actually. You pursue it beyond reason.”
“Only when it’s worth it.” Mal folded his arms, looking back into the fire. Mary’s hair was the color of the hottest part of flame.
Alec’s shadow moved as he and Will exchanged a glance.
“This time ’tis dangerous,” Alec said quietly. “What with Duncan hot to drag Charles Stuart to the throne and Da denying that with every breath, this is nae a good time to be near anything English. Ye deflower the daughter of the Earl of Wilfort, he’ll come after ye with half the army and have your head on a spit. Leave her be, Mal.”
The part of Mal that was his common sense told him his brothers were right. Mary wasn’t a barmaid or a young Scottish lass he could woo without compunction.
Mary’s father had power, wealth, and influence—he could destroy Mal and all the Mackenzies with him. Mal had no doubt that his own father, to keep his standing as Duke of Kilmorgan, would happily throw Mal to the wolves in order to placate the English bastards.
The other part of Mal—the part of him that let nothing stand in the way of what he wanted—knew he couldn’t let Mary go.
Something had happened when he’d seen her, like a sudden completion of himself. As though he’d been walking alone most his life, and all at once knew he’d never be alone again.
This knowledge had intensified when Malcolm had touched her, had closed his fingers over the warm lock of her hair. Two parts of a single whole had met, briefly contacted, and had been pulled apart again.
Mal would spend the rest of his life if necessary to put those two halves together again.
He realized his brothers were watching him, waiting for him to reassure them. He couldn’t. Mal could only look at them, willing them to understand.