Chapter 12
Fans fluttered and breaths quickened as Charles made his grand entrance. Ladies curtsied in a ripple of skirts, and the gentlemen bowed. The depth of the bows indicated the feelings of each man—those with Jacobite tendencies extended a leg and bent low, while the bows of those loyal to George of England were cursory and soon over.
Mary, conscious of Malcolm standing not five yards from her, could not help contrasting the prince with him. Charles was five-and-twenty, the same as Malcolm. The prince wore a modest but well-styled wig with a tail tied with a black ribbon. The wig sat well back on his forehead, as was the fashion—he likely shaved his own hair off to accommodate.
Malcolm’s red-brown hair was nowhere near as sleek. It was combed but already unkempt, the ribbon tying it limp and loose.
Charles wore a suit of fine watered silk, as elegant as anything Mary’s father owned. The long coat with many buttons flowed over breeches that hugged every curve of his thighs. Silk stockings outlined his muscular legs, and many a lady’s gaze slid to rest there. Charles’s concession to Scottish dress was a swath of plaid pinned to one shoulder.
Mal wore the short jacket of a Scots gentleman, plaids wrapping his waist, thick socks, and leather shoes. As always, he lounged easily in them, as though he could come to the palace or go marching through the heather—it was all the same to him.
Charles seemed pleased with everyone, though he must know that half of Edinburgh didn’t want him there. He moved from group to group, informally, while fiddlers began their lively music.
Malcolm drifted unobtrusively out of Charles’s path, Mary noticed. Wherever the prince turned, Malcolm contrived not to be there.
One of Malcolm’s brothers was here, she saw, though not the one who’d been with Mal the first evening at Lady Bancroft’s soiree. He was much like Malcolm and yet different at the same time, very tall, ready with a smile. Mary saw that whenever he or Malcolm joined a conversation, people pulled their attention to them, leaning to catch every word.
Masters of getting others to do their bidding, Mary thought. The taller Mackenzie was actually engaging Lord Halsey, speaking to him in an animated way. Halsey took the bait and entered the discussion, drawing Mary’s father in as well.
At the same moment, Malcolm vanished out a door.
Aunt Danae’s attention, and that of every woman present, was on the prince. Mary faded back from them then moved through the crowd, sidestepping to keep her wide skirts from brushing those she passed. Heart beating rapidly, she quietly slipped through the door Malcolm had exited.
She found herself in a long stone corridor, empty and barren of decoration. A passage for servants, she concluded. But where was Malcolm?
As soon as the thought formed in her head, a firm, gloved hand landed on her arm. Mary was turned around, her back pressed against the hard stone, and found herself facing Malcolm Mackenzie, who smiled at her. Already she was familiar with his touch and the scent of wild outdoors that clung to him.
“Here you are, then,” Mal said.
His smile was as wicked as ever, but there was something new in his eyes, the sadness she’d noted in the ballroom. He was hiding it from her, pushing it aside. That was worrying. Mary wanted to reach out to him, to know . . .
Malcolm leaned into her, one lock of his hair falling to graze his cheek. “Mary, lass, I’m hungry for ye.”
He slid his thumb across the line of her hair.
Mary subsided against the wall, her hands locking around the lapels of his coat. She managed a nod, her voice a strangled rasp. “I thought you were going home to Kilmorgan. That your father had summoned you.”
“Mm, change of plan there. My father decided t’ come here and plague us instead. But that does nae need to worry ye. We go forward as I said.”
Mary studied his face, still searching for what had upset him. “It will be tonight, then?”
“Aye. I have made safe passage for the pair, and a minister ready to do the service before they go. He’s a Calvinist, but the wedding will be Protestant enough for ye. Your father might never come ’round if they’re married in France by a Catholic priest, will he?”
Malcolm had been wise enough to think of that. Mary nodded again, her legs weak, though at the same time she felt strong with excitement. “Yes. Thank you.”
“My brother Alec will be going t’ Paris with them. Alec has . . . business . . . there. He’ll look after them, as will old Padruig. Padruig looks like a cutthroat pirate, but I’d trust him with me life.” Mal looked thoughtful. “Have trusted him with me life. I’d have died but for him and his rock-solid arm.”
Mary made herself open her fingers and release Malcolm’s coat. “They really will be all right? I want Audrey to be happy, but . . .”
“Dinnae worry, Mary,” Mal said. “She’ll be with her husband, who will have plenty of money, a house to stay in, and me brother to look in on them.”
Mary’s eyes stung, her gratitude for him swelling. “Thank you, Mal.”
The sad light left Malcolm’s face, his roguish twinkle returning. “Now, then, love. No need to cry. We’ll seal the bargain.” He cupped her face, fingers hot, hand strong, as he bent and kissed her lips.
The taste of his mouth was like raw spice and the night. The touch of him opened everything inside Mary that had been locked tight, places she’d shut away. She wanted to lean into his strength and let him banish every fear, every sleepless night she’d ever had.
“So hungry for ye,” Mal whispered. He drew one knuckle down her cheek. When Halsey had touched her thus, Mary had been repulsed. Mal’s touch was a line of fire—he touched her in wonder, not possession.
Well, maybe a little possession. His slow smile told her that if they hadn’t been in this back hall, which a servant could rush into at any time, he would be doing more than giving her kisses. Sinful, fiery, forbidden kisses.
Mary dragged in a breath. She was pinned against him, and she did not want, for the life of her, to pull away. “That was hardly a kiss for sealing a bargain,” she managed to say.
Malcolm’s smile turned wickeder still. “Oh, aye?”
“No.” Mary tried to sound firm. “Much too intimate.”
“Ah. How are these kisses supposed to go, then? Why don’t ye show me, lass?”
Mary had no strength, but she rose on tiptoe, balancing herself against him. The wool of his coat was warm beneath her fingers, the weave smooth, buttons cool. “The best kiss of thanks between friends is perfunctory but sincere.” Feeling hot, bold, sinful, Mary pressed a kiss to his cheek, his sandpaper whiskers under her lips.
“I see.” Mal’s amber eyes twinkled. “And if ye are lovers?”
Mary’s face warmed. “That one I do not know.” She heard the regret in her voice. “But I do know how to kiss good-bye.” She pressed another kiss to his cheek then stood flat on the floor again.
“I know how that one goes.” Malcolm drew closer again, his breath on her mouth. “But we won’t say good-bye, Mary. You and I will never be apart for long. I promise ye this.”
“We can’t know what will happen,” Mary said. Even now events were turning, changing with the wind. The cold stones of this deserted passage sent a chill into her bones.
“Aye, but we can,” Mal said. “I’m staying in Edinburgh as long as you are. Whenever ye leave the city, I leave it. To wherever you go.”
He made it sound so simple. “Is that wise?” Mary asked, her heart beating too fast.
“To hell with wise, love. It’s you and me now. That is all. Do ye understand?”
“Not really,” Mary said softly. A man like Malcolm was new to her, an experience that both stirred her longing and terrified her of her own feelings.
Malcolm let out a breath. “Well, ye will in time. Go gather up your sister. Take her out through the passage to the abbey in one hour—if I’m not there, trust the man who comes to guide ye. There’ll be so much going on with all the dancing and everyone watching his princliness that no one will notice ye slipping away.”
It was madness, but Mary would do it. This was Audrey’s chance, and Mary would not destroy it because she was too timid at the last.
She tried a laugh. “I did not notice you dancing in there,” she remarked for something to say. “Do you not care for it?”
Malcolm lost his dark look. “Can ye see me capering about in a minuet?” He spun away from Mary, spread his arms, pointed his toe, and hopped in mimicry of the stately dance.
Mary didn’t smile—watching his leg tightening as his kilt bared his thigh was a treat she could not look away from.
Malcolm stopped, made a bow—the same graceful sweep he’d done in Lady Bancroft’s drawing room—and held out his hand. When Mary put hers in his, he swung her in a quick circle, closing his arms around her from behind. Mal enfolded her in his warmth, shielding her from all the bad things.
“Is this Scottish dancing?” Mary asked, knowing it couldn’t be. “I’ve never seen any.”
Malcolm’s body shook agreeably with his laugh. “And you living in Scotland? Ought to be ashamed. No, this is me careening about.” Mal moved her to stand beside him, one arm around her waist, his other hand holding hers across their bodies. “This is Scottish dancing—ye can hear the fiddle and the drum, aye? All right, then here we go.”
Malcolm pulled Mary sideways, nearly off her feet, rapidly around a large, imaginary circle. Then he linked arms with her and spun first one way with her, then the other, until she was dizzy.
Mary didn’t worry that she didn’t know the steps. Malcolm’s feet were sure, his strong touch guiding her wherever she needed to go. All the while he smiled at her as though she were the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
The world rushed away from her in a wash of pure joy, the dance obliterating all else. In this space and time, nothing mattered but herself and Malcolm—not the uprising and its dangers, not her father and his wishes, not Lord Halsey and her betrothal, not the worry of spiriting Audrey away with the man she loved.
Only Mary and Malcolm existed, the two of them in this dance. It was as though they stood motionlessly in a place where nothing could touch them, while the stone passage whirled around and around them. For one rapturous moment, Mary let herself be happy.
Outside, in the ballroom, the fiddler wound down to the end of the piece, the drummer striking one last beat. Malcolm slowed, pulling Mary close as the dance finished.
He said nothing. Mary expected him to continue the flirtation, to kiss her, to tease and smile. Malcolm only looked at her, something flickering in his eyes she didn’t understand. His body against hers hummed with the dance, Mal’s vibrancy going on even when he’d stopped moving.
Mal raised her hand to his lips, his breath scalding, even though her gloves. “At the side door,” he said. “In one hour.” He pressed another kiss to her fingers then carefully released her and stepped back. “À bientôt, my love.” His voice was grave, his look quiet.
Mary’s breath poured back into her. “À bientôt,” she said shakily, and made herself turn away to the door she’d come through.
She paused inside the passage until she heard the fiddles begin again, then she pulled open the door. Dancers in plaids and in English dress swung by her, catching the beat of the drums.
Mary glanced back before she slipped into the ballroom, but the passage behind her was empty. Malcolm was gone, as though he’d never been there at all.
“They won’t come,” Jeremy said glumly.
He’d declared this about twenty times already, and Malcolm growled under his breath. “Have a little faith, lad. This is the lady you’re going t’ marry.”
“Her father will never let it happen,” Jeremy continued. His young face was morose. “He’s locked her in the cellar, I’ll wager.”
“No, lad. She’s at the ball with Mary. I saw her there.”
The declaration had Mal thinking through every moment of Mary at the ball, every second burned into his brain. Mary walking with her aunt, head erect, her swift glance that deliberately did not acknowledge him. Her indifferent assessment of the prince, while all the ladies around her were eager to catch Charles’s eye. The calm way Mary had slipped from the ballroom to meet him, the laughter in her eyes when Mal had pulled her into a spontaneous dance.
Mary was a woman with a capacity for exultation, but Mal realized she’d buried that part of her deep. But no matter. He would reach inside her and yank it out.
Jeremy softened for a moment, then he balled his fists, hunched his shoulders, and paced. “It will never work.”
Mal let out an exasperated breath. “Dear God, man. I’m about to knock ye across the head and carry ye to the minister over my shoulder. Lady Audrey loves you. She’ll come.”
“But her father is a martinet. If he’s caught wind of this . . .”
“No one knows but me and Mary,” Mal said. He considered. “And the men I’ve hired. And my brother, and our footman. None of whom are going to blab to a bloody Englishman. Trust me on— Ah, there they are.”