Will and Alec exchanged glances again, this time resigned. They knew exactly what happened when Mal took something into his head.
It warmed Mal that they ceased trying to stop him. They were making a silent pact to watch over him, and keep their little brother as safe as they possibly could, no matter what.
Mary knew exactly when Malcolm Mackenzie walked into the salon. She had her back to the door, her fingers plucking out an even tune on the harpsichord, but she knew.
The very air seemed to vibrate, to warm. The sound of his low voice confirmed his presence and sent a shiver down her spine.
Mary’s hands faltered. She missed a few notes, then more notes, which made Aunt Danae glance at her in concern.
Mary never made mistakes at the harpsichord. She learned every piece perfectly, note for note. Her music master despaired that she put absolutely no passion into the music, but Aunt Danae said that didn’t matter—most of the people Mary would play for had no emotional response to music anyway and would only hear her technique.
But now Aunt Danae blinked as Mary skipped an entire page and stumbled the piece to the end. Her audience applauded dutifully, then put their heads together to criticize her in whispers. The need of people to constantly critique others puzzled her, but it was part of her world.
Mary left the stool, saying she needed air.
Aunt Danae caught her elbow. “All you all right, my dear? I knew this crush was a mistake. Lady Bancroft always overdoes. Ah, here is Master Jeremy, come to make it all bearable. And his . . . friend?”
The last was directed at Malcolm, who was dressed as he’d been last night, in formal frock coat over kilt, his smile wide, his tawny eyes sparkling.
Jeremy was with him, as though they were old acquaintances. Jeremy introduced Malcolm, and Mal held out his gloved hand toward Mary.
Chapter 6
Mary did not, absolutely did not, want to take Mal’s hand, but everyone was looking. She touched her fingertips to his large palm, her knees automatically bending in a trained curtsy.
Mal closed his hand over hers, and everything sensible in her vanished. The immense strength of him came through his grip, leaving her breathless.
She ought to jerk away¸ chide him for being forward with his too-firm grasp. Though it wasn’t done for ladies to scold gentlemen in public, they could admonish them for taking liberties.
Malcolm had only clasped her hand. Why should this make her shake?
Ah, but the way he did it, with that sinful gleam in his eye, the knowing tilt of his lips, shot heat up her arm to her heart.
“May I present Lord Malcolm Mackenzie?” Jeremy was saying. “Lady Dutton . . .” He indicated Aunt Danae. “And her niece Lady Mary Lennox.”
“It’s me pleasure,” Malcolm said. He finally released Mary’s hand and bowed over Aunt Danae’s. He should have taken Aunt Danae’s first, since she was the older of the pair, but Mal had already proved he played by no rules but his own. “Meeting such beauty in the crowded city makes the journey through the wilds t’ get here worth it.”
His accent had deepened, becoming more broadly Scots. Mary slanted him a narrow glance, and Malcolm returned the look blandly. A naughty spark rested deep in his eyes, making Mary want to burst into laughter.
She almost missed Jeremy’s question as Malcolm stepped back.
“Lady Audrey does not attend today?”
Poor Jeremy. He tried to ask the question offhand, but his voice was choked, and Aunt Danae shot him a curious glance. Jeremy also didn’t look very good—his skin was pale, his eyes red-rimmed.
Suffering for love? Mary peered more closely and spied bloodshot lines in his eyes, noted the dryness of his lips. Mal had the same symptoms, though Mal hid his discomfort behind a ready smile.
Suffering from drink, more like. And why were Malcolm and the Honorable Jeremy Drake so chummy on a sudden?
“My sister had headache,” Mary said. Lord Wilfort, of course, had forbidden Audrey to go to the Bancroft house, where she might encounter Jeremy. “She sends her apologies but wished to remain quietly at home.”
Mal pressed a hand to his heart. “We are devastated. Th’ loss of another lovely lady to a gathering is pure distress. Give th’ lassie our very best wishes.”
Aunt Danae warmed to Mal’s eloquence, as overdone as it was. He was playing gallant gentleman for reasons of his own.
“I will,” Aunt Danae said. A handsome man could always soften her. “You are most kind, sir.”
Kind, my foot. Malcolm was a duplicitous knave. Though why he was being duplicitous, and what he was up to, Mary had no idea.
“We’re happy to see you,” Aunt Danae went on to Jeremy. “The rest of the gathering is crashing tiresome. The same tunes pounded out on the harpsichord, the same lines recited, weak tea all around. Not a scrap of interesting gossip, though the world outside is full of it.”
“Aye, all are speculating that Charles Stuart is on his way,” Mal said easily. “I don’t set any store by it, meself.”
Aunt Danae gave him a startled glance, gaze falling to his kilt. As Mary had observed the previous night, Mal did not at all blend in with the English aristocracy and Scottish upper crust. He was a fighting man, and would never look like anything else.
“But you’d take up his banner, wouldn’t you?” Aunt Danae said with her usual frankness. “And murder us all in our beds?”
“Nae, not me.” Mal shook his head. “No one’s starving and unhappy at Kilmorgan. We’ve no need for a crusade. Teàrlach Stiùbhart can take his white rose and his banner and go back to France. We’re doing fine without him.”
He spoke with conviction, and Aunt Danae relaxed, but something in Mal’s eyes told Mary another story. His declaration that his family was doing well without backing Charles rang true. Not all Highlanders were for him. But the flicker of uneasiness Mary spied told her Mal’s situation was more complex.
She was well aware of shifting loyalties of the Highland clans—her father spoke about them all the time. They’d declare for King George then turn around and hold secret meetings on how to support the Jacobites, or persuade the leaders of France and Spain to send arms against England.
“Crafty devils, the lot of them,” Lord Wilfort had said. Thinking over Malcolm’s behavior of the night before, Mary was beginning to agree with him.
Malcolm at the moment said nothing untoward, did nothing to embarrass Mary, didn’t so much as give her a wink or a smile. But even his neutral expression made her remember the touch of his hand, the whisper of the knife as he cut her lock of hair.
His lips had softened as he’d kissed it. Mary’s breath caught, remembering that.
As Aunt Danae and Jeremy continued the conversation, Malcolm very quietly put his fingers over his left breastbone and caught Mary’s gaze. His coat would have a pocket there, on the inside. She knew her lock of hair was resting in it.
Mary flushed hotter. Would Malcolm show it to anyone? And what if he did? Mary hadn’t bound it in a ribbon embroidered with her name. Who would rush about the room holding up the lock to find out whose head it matched?
Malcolm’s lips tilted upward at the corners. He might.
No, no. She could not worry. Malcolm was a rake—she understood this. She’d met others like him, though they’d never dared try to seduce her. No, perhaps they’d not been quite like Malcolm.
Even so, Mal would finish enjoying himself here, then move on to the next woman he’d set afire with his smiles, his touch . . .
“Ah, Lady Dutton, Lady Mary.” The voice was thin, though deep and male. Mary closed her eyes briefly as her intended, George Markham, Lord Halsey, joined the little huddle.
Mary smiled politely. Halsey stopped before her, and she curtsied to him. “My lord.”
Never had her knees felt stiffer, the my lord so reluctant to come from her throat. All because Malcolm Mackenzie stood behind Halsey, the amusement in his eyes vast.
Halsey stepped to Mary’s side. She tried
to look everywhere but at him or Malcolm, lest either man see what was in her eyes.
“I came to rescue you,” Halsey said. “Far too many Highlanders about for my taste, wouldn’t you say, Mackenzie?”
So Halsey knew who Malcolm was. Of course he did—he had his eye on everyone in Scotland, very sure of who was loyal and who was not. In his own way, Lord Halsey was a dangerous man.
“For mine too,” Malcolm answered. “Too many Scots in a room, and the place begins to smell. I have to start opening windows.”
Halsey looked startled, then chuckled. Malcolm gave him a little smile in response, which only reminded Mary that Mal carried a thick-bladed dagger inside his coat and wielded it with dexterity.
Lord Halsey was not unattractive. His face was somewhat narrow, but his nose was thin and well formed, his square chin keeping his features from running to the effeminate. He had brown eyes, not too large, not too small, his brows dark. He wore a wig with one tail held by a black ribbon. Nothing ostentatious, just quietly elegant.
Halsey always appeared like this—subdued in dress and ornamentation, a man not prone to showing off. He held a lot of power, but didn’t need to flaunt it. Everyone simply knew. Halsey and Mary’s father hadn’t so much been invited to Viscount Bancroft’s home, as they’d instigated the visit. Bancroft—Jeremy’s father—who held a high social position in Edinburgh, had felt the need to obey.
That was the sort of game Halsey played, and the ones Mary had to smile at and endorse.
Malcolm watched Halsey. He didn’t appear to, but he watched. He’d already known who Halsey was when Mary had announced he was her betrothed. Mary wondered how much Malcolm knew about him, and whether it would be worth it to find out.
Then again, Mary had no wish to dive into those waters. What her father and Halsey got up to, she mostly did not want to know. They had power, and she was there to make certain Halsey looked well while he manipulated and ruined others. Something sour bit her stomach.
Halsey had continued speaking in his smooth way with Jeremy—a bit patronizing to the lad, but polite. In the middle of his speech, he gave a sniff, calmly pulled out a handkerchief, and delicately dabbed the end of his nose.
Malcolm, behind his back, pointed to him, brows raised. Ye see? he mouthed.
Mary wanted to laugh. She strove to check herself, her lips twitching dangerously. Malcolm’s slow smile spread across his face, and Mary couldn’t hold it in.
She clamped her hand to her stomacher as a sound between a cough and a screech popped from her mouth.
“Are you sure you are all right, my dear?” Aunt Danae asked. “Perhaps you ought to lie down. I’m sure Lady Bancroft could find a comfortable chamber—”
“No,” Mary said, her voice a croak. “Something made me cough, is all.”
“Are you certain?” Aunt Danae peered at her. “You’ve been peaky since last night. I think this northern weather doesn’t suit you.”
“Aye, the weather this far south can be a bit hard to take,” Malcolm said. “Edinburgh’s air is liquid most of the time.”
Halsey dabbed his nose again, but the look he shot Malcolm over his handkerchief was speculative. “You do not come to the city often, Mackenzie?”
Mal shook his head. “I like the open, me. Where I can stride from crag to crag and sleep among the sheep dung.”
As Malcolm spoke, he tipped a wink to Aunt Danae, who tittered. “Now, then, young Highlander,” she said. “I believe you’re having fun with us ignorant Sassenach.”
“Och, aye,” Malcolm answered, straight-faced. “I admit t’ teasing you a wee bit. Highland humor.”
Aunt Danae tapped his arm with her fan. “Well, if they are all as personable as you, young man, we will have nothing to fear.”
Halsey remained unmoved. He paid absolutely no attention to Mary, although her fingers rested on his arm. His focus was on Malcolm, as though he wondered how to arrest him, imprison him, and put him to the question on the spot.
Malcolm seemed in no way worried about this. He continued to converse with Aunt Danae as she asked him questions about life in the remote Highlands.
No one paid Mary much mind, in fact, which was a mercy. If any gazes had turned to her, they’d find her hot, flushed, and ready to bolt.
Malcolm’s rumbling voice was a cushion of velvet, while Halsey spoke in his thin tone, a whisper of air. Mary knew that Halsey truly could have Malcolm arrested on any pretense, locked away while a confession—to anything—was beaten out of him. Not strictly legal, but the law did not look kindly upon perceived traitors.
Mal wasn’t a traitor. He’d already made his views clear, hadn’t he?
But he wore his kilt proudly and exaggerated his Highland lilt. Malcolm was far more intelligent than he was letting himself appear to be, a sign of a very dangerous man. He played with his audience, assessing them while keeping them from understanding him.
Mary stood rigidly, barely able to focus on the conversation. Finally, Halsey tugged her arm.
“Come, Mary, Lady Templeton wishes to speak to you. You will see much of her after we are married. Will you excuse us, Lady Dutton? I must steal your niece away.”
Aunt Danae was not happy about this, but she gave Halsey a gracious nod. The young men were not consulted at all. Jeremy made an elegant bow to Mary, leg extended, perfectly executed.
Malcolm observed him with amusement, then he bowed deeply from the waist, his legs straight. The sweep of his torso down and back up was breathtaking—a large man moving with flexible grace.
Mary’s body warmed as Mal caught her eye, his hair disheveled from his swift bow. Mary had always thought of herself as cool and devoid of longing, but perhaps she’d simply never found anything that made her feel desire before.
She certainly felt it now, watching Mal casually brush back his hair, unworried that he wasn’t as pristine as the Englishmen around him. Why did she have to feel her first true longing for a handsome Highlander with a wicked light in his eye, while she was betrothed to another?
Mary turned away, her thoughts in jangling confusion, as Halsey led her onward.
She could not stop herself from glancing behind her as she went. Jeremy and Aunt Danae had continued their conversation, comfortable with each other.
Malcolm watched Mary. His twinkling amusement, his teasing, had gone. His gaze was quiet but powerful, determination in every line of him. Again she likened him to the hidden blade he carried, quiet and resting for the moment, but at any time, he could cut with deadly force.
Mal caught and held Mary’s gaze, his straight mouth telling her more than words that he was ready for battle. And he intended to win.
“Jeremy, lad, arrange for me to see Mary in private.”
Jeremy gave Malcolm a startled look. They were alone again, Aunt Danae moving off to speak to those in her circle, the two young men left to their own devices.
“In private?” Jeremy raised his brows. “You want to ruin the girl?”
“How else am I to pass on messages from you to young Audrey? Think, lad. You want to marry Audrey, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Jeremy flushed. “I adore her. I want to make her the happiest woman in the world . . .”
“Yes, yes,” Malcolm said. “Don’t tell me all that. Tell Lady Audrey. Write that in a flowery letter—a short one, please—and give it to me. And for God’s sake, don’t put any names on it.”
“No. I mean . . . yes. Let me find . . . Come on.”
Jeremy led Malcolm out of the drawing room and up a flight of stairs to a private study. There Jeremy sat down at a desk, pulled out paper and pen, ink, and sander, and started painstakingly writing words. He scratched out most of them.
“For heaven’s sake, man,” Mal said impatiently. “She’s the lady ye want to spend your life with. Tell her this—”
He snatched up a clean sheet of paper and thrust it under Jeremy’s hand. Jeremy sighed, rubbed his eyes, and dipped the pen in ink once more.
 
; “I can’t sleep o’ nights, thinking of you,” Malcolm dictated. “Your hair, your eyes, your soft lips fill my mind and my heart. Your kisses bring me joy. I long for the softness of your bosom under my hand—aye, go on and write that—ye spell it b-o-s-o-m. If she were a different sort of woman, ye could be more blunt.”
Jeremy raised his head, his cheekbones pink. “Is this the kind of thing you want to write to Mary?”
“No, with Mary, I’d be a bit more direct, because she’s seen something of the world already. I imagine your Audrey is kept fairly cloistered.”
“Yes, damn it all.”
“Then this letter should be so eloquent that Lady Audrey will break her chains and run into your arms. Now, to continue. I crave a token, one small thing only—a ribbon, a lock of your hair, a handkerchief that I might wear about my person.”
Jeremy nodded as he wrote. “Cheeky.”
“Ye have to be bold, lad. We’re told that ladies want cringing politeness from a gentleman, but what they really want is a bit of forwardness, even carnality. It’s exciting for them.”
“You know much about young Englishwomen, do you?” Jeremy paused to dip his pen again. “You who live in the Highlands with four brothers?”
“Women are much the same everywhere. Scottish, English, French. They like a rake, no matter how prudishly they say they do not. Keep writing. I would treasure such a token from you, care for it, kiss it, my heart breaking because I would rather it be you in my arms, against my heart.”
“Heady stuff.” Jeremy’s pen scratched. “. . . against my heart. Anything else?”
“Send it quickly, my love, with my messenger, to ease my aching sorrow. Signed, your devoted servant in love. If she has a pet name for ye that no one else knows, use that.”
Jeremy flushed and grinned, the pen moving. He finished, shook sand over the sheet, tapped off the excess, and waved the paper until the ink dried.
Then Jeremy frowned. “Hang on. If I can contrive to pull Mary aside, why don’t I give her the letter for Audrey instead of arranging a secret meeting for the two of you?”