Mackenzie.

Celia gaped at him. She knew that name, and not because half the clan had risen to fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Her mother had her finger on every title and family tree of every peerage in England, Scotland, and Ireland. One never knew when such a person might be useful to her.

There was a Mackenzie that had long ago been awarded the title of Duke of Kilmorgan. The current duke had been one of the handful of Scots selected to attend Parliament in England, after the Act of Union thirty years ago had dissolved the Scots’ own parliament.

That duke had been killed, and all his sons with him at Culloden. Served them right, her mother had declared with a sniff. Fools, the whole lot of them.

The bishop called Alec my lord. Not because he was confused about Scottish titles but because Alec, as the son of a duke, would be Lord Alec Mackenzie.

Alec gazed down at her, his tawny eyes glittering. He waited, as though expecting her to shriek, flee the room, or perhaps fall over in a dead swoon.

Celia swallowed hard. The bishop, his eyes on his book, serenely continued, “I, Alec William Mackenzie, take thee …”

Alec’s voice filled the room. “ … Take thee, Celia, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse … according to God’s holy ordinance. And therefore I plight thee my troth.”

Troth, the old word for truth. It stood for loyalty and honor, binding them with its simple power.

“Now, my lady—erm.” The bishop patted his pocket as though ready to consult the license for her name. Would her correct one be there? She’d never told it to Alec.

“Celia Margaret Elizabeth.” Her voice was scratched and cracking, nowhere near Alec’s firm tones.

“I, Celia Margaret Elizabeth,” the bishop went on. “Take thee, Alec, to have and to hold …”

The bishop carried on, but Celia barely heard him. She was seeing Alec for the first time, every arrogant line of him, the son of a Highland duke, emerging from the shell of the man he’d pretended to be.

But no, he’d never fit as Mr. Finn, poor but talented artist. He was as wrong for that part as he would have been in the costume of Pierrot Lady Flora had expected him to wear tonight. This was what Alec was, a Highlander of ancient lineage, the same sort of man as those who’d launched themselves at the British lines at Prestonpans and sent English soldiers fleeing in terror.

Celia realized the bishop had ceased speaking and was looking at her expectantly.

Alec’s lips twitched, the hard arrogance softening. He was also the man she’d found protectively holding his child as he slept, his bare and vulnerable foot protruding from his nightshirt.

Celia gulped. “I, Celia Margaret Elizabeth, take thee, Alec …” Her voice grew stronger as the words tumbled out. “And therefore I plight thee my troth.”

“And now the ring.” The bishop, laid Alec’s ring on his book to say the blessing over it, quietly continuing the ceremony he must have read dozens of times in his life.

The band was large and gold, with a square-cut diamond in its center. Celia had never seen Alec wear it before. Her fingers trembled as he lifted it then took her hand, his fingertips brushing the inside of her wrist.

“With this ring, I thee wed.” Alec’s voice went soft, a bare touch of sound. “With my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow.”

He eased the ring onto her middle finger, the only one it would fit. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” Alec finished. “Amen.”

“Amen,” Celia murmured, and heard the final word echoed by the footman’s whisper and Padruig’s growl.

Amen. So be it.

Celia was married.

* * *

Alec wondered what it would be like to wed in the usual way, with church and family, a large meal afterward, and then days alone with his bride. He reasoned he would never find out, because this was the last time he intended to be married.

The carriage he’d hired waited outside, the coachman hunkered near the horses for warmth. He drank brandy for even more warmth, which didn’t reassure Alec, but they weren’t going far.

“All done?” he asked Padruig.

“Aye.” Padruig said nothing more, only climbed to the back of the coach.

Alec had given Padruig two sets of instructions, only one to be followed depending on how events unfolded. He knew Padruig would have chosen the correct one once Alec sent him off. The man was no fool, and besides, he liked to be paid.

Alec settled Celia in the coach before he swung in and took the seat opposite hers. Celia held on her lap a parcel the bishop had given her—cakes and bread, which had been left for his supper, but he claimed he had more than he could eat. He’d always been a thoughtful old duffer, not as absentminded as he let on. He’d keep the secret of their marriage, Alec had no doubt.

Celia regarded Alec calmly as the carriage pulled forward, her brown-green eyes assessing. She looked him over as though seeing him for the first time, only now he was her lawful husband, before God and in the eyes of the laws of Great Britain.

“Your father is the Duke of Kilmorgan,” she said.

Her voice was steady, but she fidgeted with the ring, her hand resting on the parcel.

“Not my fault.” Alec said, trying to sound indifferent. “My dad sired six sons, God rest my poor, dear mum. I happen to be one of them, one above the youngest.”

“You told me you were a ghost.” Her gaze pinned him. “Now I know what you meant. The Duke of Kilmorgan was killed at Culloden. My father regretted that, as he said we needed good Scots peers, and your father was well respected, even if he turned Jacobite. All his sons were on the roll of the dead as well. The duke and his family are no more.”

“Aye, well.” Alec rubbed his chin. “It’s a bit difficult to tell one dead Scot from the other on a field of battle. One name was true—Duncan, my eldest brother. He died all right. The rest of us legged it. We have Mal to thank for that, and Padruig, and Will …”

He trailed off, his heart heavy. Six sons and only three left. Magnus had died before he’d been twenty, his heart weak. Angus, shot while helping Duncan chase Lord Loudon across the northern Highlands. And then Duncan at Culloden.

There was a rustle of velvet, and Celia was next to him, leaving the parcel behind. “Your family is alive.” Her soft voice brushed him. “You should be rejoicing.”

“I am, lass. I am. But …”

If Alec could live his life over again, he’d have persuaded his father and brothers to travel to France with him and Malcolm long before Prince Teàrlach set sail for Scotland. There they could have waited to see what happened with the Jacobite factions, staying well out of it.

They’d be all together now, Duncan and his father raging at each other, Angus trying to keep the peace, Alec and Mal roaming the streets of Paris, and Will …

Aye, well, so Will would have fallen into some sort of trouble, no matter what. The man loved intrigues and kept putting himself into the thick of them.

Why the devil Will had sprung up and pretended to be Prince Charles Stuart, Alec still didn’t understand. Will must have been plotting something, or he might have done it to save others, distracting the soldiers so hidden Scotsmen could get away. Both, most like.

Damn ye, Will. If not for you, I could give over all my thoughts to wooing my bride.

“My bloody brothers will drive me mad.” Alec took Celia’s hands, bringing himself back to the present. He was in London, the wind was turning cold, and he’d just married a beautiful young woman. “I can take care of ye, lass. I have plenty of money salted away, so ye don’t have to worry about touching your legacy. I have a house in Paris, nothing so grand as Lady Flora’s or your father’s, but it does well enough. Except my whole family lives there at the moment, including my da’. But he’ll like you.”

Mal’s wife, Mary, had softened the old duke in the last year, and the loss of his favorite sons had also taken away some of his bluster. Daniel William Mackenzie, the Duke of Kilmorgan, would never be considered a gentle man, but he would be good to Celia—once he got over his apoplexy that Alec had married again, in secret, to the daughter of a man who’d raised an army to fight the Scots.

But one thing at a time.

“Are we off to France now?” Celia asked, eyes shining in the light cast by the punched tin lanterns at their feet. “What about your daughter?”

“I thought Jenny would come with us,” Alec said. “Gair might set her to manning the sails. He always needs extra hands.”

Celia’s laugh was tinged with hysteria. “I meant, will we hurry to Lady Flora’s and fetch her?”

“I’ve already arranged for Sally to bring her to us at the boat. That’s where I sent Padruig rushing off to, to tell her the trip to France was going forward.”

“I’m glad. Can you trust Sally not to blab to Lady Flora?”

“She’s a good lass. She has a brother in France she’s been longing to see, so I persuaded her to come with us and look after Jenny.” And Sally had no love for Lady Flora. Lady Flora wasn’t parsimonious, which was why her servants stayed with her, plus there was a certain cachet that went with working for her. But most of the servants, save for Rivers, stepped delicately around her.

“Good.” Celia studied him, her serene face out of keeping with her costume with its old-fashioned ruff and black pompons. “Why don’t you look happier, Alec? We’ve thwarted the scheming queens and will run from the chessboard with Jenny. My father will discover where we’ve gone soon enough—he has plenty of connections and friends in France, never mind we’re technically at war with that country. Wars come and go, but business prevails, is what my brother says. But if I am married, my mother cannot command me any longer. And I don’t have to call you Mr. Finn, which pleases me enormously. It was entirely the wrong name for you.” Her words ran down as concern entered her eyes. “So why are you not rejoicing?”

Alec lifted her hand that bore his ring and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Because I’ll not be going to France with you. And this makes me sad.”

“What?” Celia’s eyes widened, but she didn’t jerk away. “What are you talking about? Of course we both must go, with Jenny.”

Alec shook his head. He hadn’t wanted to face a choice like this. On the chilly Paris morning when he’d declared he’d find Will, packed a small bag, and rushed to a boat, he’d somehow thought he’d easily track down his brother, grab him by the ear, and drag him home.

He hadn’t expected Will’s disappearance to be complicated, that the plans he’d laid with Lady Flora would be even more so. He hadn’t expected Celia to be beautiful, intelligent, talented, and a damsel in distress. She was correct when she’d declared Alec was a knight, as in the romances of old, a champion who took on all comers in defense of his lady.

But the world had changed from those faraway days, no matter how many costumes people wore at masked balls, and how much they professed to uphold honor and glory.

Alec had seen, only a few months ago, that all the glory, which was mostly men swanning about proclaiming they were restoring the rightful king, had been brutal and ugly, full of pain, sorrow, rage, and death.

“I can’t leave England, lass. Not yet.”

“Why not?” Celia pinned him with a gaze that was too discerning. “Please tell me, Alec.”

Without lying, she meant. The other day she’d been incensed at his evasion, taking offense that he would be other than open with her.

“I lied to you, because the truth is dangerous,” Alec said. “I barely know ye. And you don’t know me at all.”

“But now we are married.” Celia withdrew her hand and touched the ring, the movement equal parts wonder and trepidation. “I admit I have not seen many good examples of marriages, where husband and wife trust each other and confide all to each other. Perhaps such a marriage only exists in stories—I don’t know. But I would like to try for such a thing.”

“Then you will love Malcolm and Mary,” Alec said. “They have complete trust and devotion. Will do anything for each other. It will make ye ill.”

“Then we will be like Malcolm and Mary.” Celia gave him a small smile. “Alec, please. I can help—I would like to help you. You’ve already done so much for me, more than you’ve had to.”

“Of course I had to. My fault you’re caught in my mess.” Alec drew a breath and threw all his planning and caution to the wind. He wasn’t one for machinations like Will was—Alec only ever wanted to paint and love beautiful women. This beautiful woman. “I leapt at the chance to have the daughter of the bloody Duke of Crenshaw in my power.”

“I see.” Celia watched him calmly. “I’d say you succeeded. You’ve married me.” She did not appear unduly alarmed by this fact. “And yet, you are nothing like the wicked villains from the plays in Drury Lane. You don’t rub your hands and glower nearly enough. Nor are you very happy that you’ve succeeded in trapping me.”

“Because the game changed,” Alec growled. “You changed it. Which is why I want you out of it.”

The carriage listed as they rounded a corner to the Strand, heading for the river. The momentum pushed Celia into Alec, but instead of rising once the coach straightened, she remained against him.

“Tell me why,” she said softly. “I shall be a termagant wife, and demand to know all.”

To hell with it. Alec sent up a prayer, and cast the dice.

“Because your father knows where my brother is,” he said in a hard voice. “He’s the most likely person to know. Will’s been missing for a long time, and I’m not going back to my family without him.”