Chapter 15
Malcolm felt Mary start. He woke to find Will curving over both of them, studying Mary with rapt interest.
“Good morning, runt,” Will said with good humor. “Why are ye sleeping with a fully clothed woman on a couch, and where’s Alec?”
“Hell.” The blanket had slipped down Mal’s chest, but he hadn’t noticed, because Mary had been on him, cutting the cold. Damn and blast Will for the interfering bastard he was.
Malcolm carefully released Mary and levered himself to sit upright. “Alec is on a ship to France to find his daughter. His wife passed in childbed, poor lass. This is Lady Mary Lennox. Mary, m’ brother, Will.”
Will kept his gaze on Mary, but he straightened up, blinking. “Did you just say Alec’s wife? And daughter?”
Mal gave him a nod. “Aye. He married her last year, when we were in Paris. A pretty little lass, called Genevieve. A dancer with the opera. They wed, and she soon became quick with child. No surprise, really, the way they were at it, day and night.”
“Alec.” Will spoke slowly and deliberately. “Married.”
“Aye, that’s what I’m tellin’ ye.”
Will stood all the way up to his full height, his face awash with confusion. “And I didn’t know?”
“We kept it a deep, dark secret between us,” Mal said. “Don’t blame yourself. It’s Dad we were keeping it quiet from. An opera dancer, from Paris? He’d go apoplectic. We were going to break it to him gently, after the wee one came along.”
“But I know everything,” Will said. “Whether you want me to or not.”
“You had other things on your mind.” Mal resisted the urge to pat his brother’s giant clenched fist in comfort. “The Jacobite uprising, Duncan running off . . .” He shrugged, not adding the movements of the English troops, the state of politics in France and Ireland.
“But she died?” Will went on, trying to take in the full story. He ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Ah, poor Alec. Poor, poor Alec. No wonder he’s been so unhappy of late. She had the child, you say? It is well?”
“That’s what Alec’s gone to find out,” Mal said. “He had a letter, I had a ship standing ready, and off he went.”
Will blinked again. “You had a . . . Mal, why did you have a ship standing ready? What ship?”
“Gair’s. I had other cargo to send out. Sent Alec with it.”
Will made another pass of his hand through his hair, the thick strands of it standing straight up. “Let that be a lesson to me. I cast my gaze to the wider world, and miss everything at home.” He shot his gaze back to Mary. “Lady Mary Lennox?” When Mary nodded, Will looked accusingly at Malcolm. “She’s the Earl of Halsey’s betrothed. She can’t be here.”
Mary stood up, shaking out her skirts. “You are quite right, Lord William. I must be at home before full light, or the scandal will be all over town.” She gave Mal a stately nod. “Thank you, Lord Malcolm, for all your help.”
As Mal and Will watched, nonplussed, Mary moved to a gilt-framed mirror to briefly smooth her hair, then headed for the door. So caught up was Mal by her feminine movements that she was gone from the room before he realized.
He was up, snatching a shirt and a plaid as the door clicked shut behind her. He yanked it open and rushed out, throwing the clothes onto his body as he went. Will, understanding his alarm, came after him.
Downstairs already, Mary was taking her cloak from Naughton, expressing her thanks at finding it cleaned and dried. Mal charged down the stairs, but too late.
The bearlike figure of his father came out of a chamber into the lower hall. He saw Mary and headed straight for her.
“Who the devil are you?” he shouted. The man was hungover again, his bloodshot eyes glistening in the light from the open front door. His shirt was unlaced, his coat barely shrugged on, his plaids in disarrayed folds.
Mary gave him a calm curtsy then went back to fastening her cloak. “Good morning, Your Grace. I am Lady Mary Lennox. Very sorry to have disturbed you, sir, but my errand is finished, and I am just going.”
“Lennox?” The roar in the duke’s voice died a little as he puzzled this out. “You’re Wilfort’s daughter.”
“Yes,” Mary said, sliding on the gloves Naughton handed her. “Lord Wilfort is my father. Again, I am so sorry to have disturbed you. Good day, Your Grace.”
“Wilfort,” the duke repeated, then he swung his head around and looked up the stairs. “What the hell is the daughter of that bloody Sassenach doing in this house? Will! Damn ye, what have ye—”
Malcolm made it the rest of the way to the ground floor and pushed himself in front of the duke.
“Lady Mary is a guest,” he said. “A guest, if ye please. Keep a civil tongue, Dad.”
The double surprise of finding Mary in his stairwell and Malcolm telling him to be quiet actually silenced the duke for a second or two. By the time he opened his mouth to shout again, Mary had walked out into the morning.
A carriage waited there, summoned by the ever-efficient Naughton. Mal gave an exasperated growl and rushed out after Mary.
He caught her hand before a footman could help her into the coach. Malcolm squeezed her fingers. “Good-bye for now, lass. But not for long. I’ll settle Dad, and then I’ll come for ye. All right? After that, we won’t ever be apart.”
Mary started to speak, but Mal shook his head, glancing back at the house. Mary seemed to understand. She gripped Malcolm’s hand serenely as he assisted her into the coach.
“Good-bye, Mal,” Mary said as he withdrew. “And thank you.”
Mal only gave her a nod, then signaled the coachman to drive on. Malcolm knew he’d stopped her speaking, not for fear of his father, but because he’d not wanted to hear Mary say No.
The duke staggered out of the house. He was in a bad way, his face red, his breathing uneven. “What the devil was she doing here? Is she your doxy now? Are ye mad, runt?”
Will had also emerged, and together he and Mal got the duke back into the safety of the house. Naughton shut the door before curious passersby could look in.
“I asked ye to keep a civil tongue,” Mal said in a hard voice. “Lady Mary is no doxy. She’s a respectable lady, and the woman I intend t’ marry.”
The duke stared at Malcolm for a second or two, then his fist swung out. “Over my dead body will ye marry the daughter of a bloody English earl!”
Mal, adroit by now in dodging his father’s blows, caught his fist and turned it aside. “I’m of age, and can marry whatever woman I damn well please. Go ahead and disown me, if ye have a mind. I have plenty of money, and ye have four other sons to inherit your title before me. God knows I don’t ever want to be duke.”
Mal’s father was unused to being defied. His sons had learned a long time ago how to let him bellow and then do what they wanted on the quiet. Except for Duncan, they rarely told him plainly what they thought.
The duke’s momentary shock let Mal push past him and climb the stairs to his chamber. Not until Mal had shut his bedchamber door did the duke begin shouting again.
Mal stood for a time in the middle of the room, unmoving. His shirt and plaid hung askew, but he made no move to right them and make himself ready for the day.
The chamber was forlorn and empty without the vibrancy of Mary in it. Her scent lingered, as did the remembered sensation of the warm weight of her body against his in the night. Waking up with Mary in his arms had been the best moment of Malcolm’s life.
Mal needed many more moments like that. He’d do anything necessary to bring Mary permanently into his life, notwithstanding his father and hers, and the enmity of two nations. None of that mattered. Only waking to breathe the fragrance of Mary’s hair, seeing her flushed and disheveled and brushed by morning light, had any importance to Malcolm. Which, to his mind, was as things should be.
Mary’s cloak had been dried, brushed, and mended, and now was cleaner than her own maids had ever rendered it. She took a small comfort in the cloak’s warmth, which she fancied carried a hint of Malcolm’s spice, as she descended at the front door of her father’s house.
The carriage stopped so close to the front door that Mary had to take only a few steps to be inside. The coach shielded her from view of the rest of the street. More gratitude for the Mackenzie servants, though she supposed they’d become very good at discretion on behalf of their masters.
Whitman came hurrying from the direction of the back stairs as Mary entered. “Oh, my lady.” She seized Mary’s arm with both hands, squeezing as though reassuring herself that Mary was real. “My lady, I was so worried for you. I thought for certain the mad Scotsmen had taken you.”
The Scots footman, who’d shut the front door behind Mary, looked as concerned as Whitman. “The streets ain’t safe, me lady,” he said, bolting the door to emphasize his point.
“I am well.” Mary took Whitman’s hand, remorse touching her at the sight of the woman’s tears. “Truly, I am. I’d like to retire now, though. I am quite weary.”
Falling asleep propped against Malcolm after a cold flight to the wharves and then drinking the strange uisge was taking its toll. Mary’s limbs were stiff, her head aching.
“Of course, my lady,” Whitman said, solicitous. “Go on, lad. Make certain her ladyship has hot water and a good fire.”
Whitman put her arm around Mary’s shoulders and guided her up the dark stairway. In Whitman’s fear for Mary, she’d not asked after Audrey, but any moment, she would realize . . .
Aunt Danae’s chamber door flew open as they reached the landing two floors up. Aunt Danae, in a wrapper, her hair tucked under a large white cap, rushed out, her eyes wide and red-rimmed. Without a word, she took Mary’s arm and hurried with her and Whitman into Mary’s chamber.
As soon as the door closed, Aunt Danae crushed Mary in a breath-stealing hug. “Oh, my sweet gel, I thought for certain you were dead and gone. What on earth happened to you?”
“Auntie, I am so sorry.” Mary broke from the hug and rubbed her aunt’s arms. “I never meant to be gone this long. Is Papa very upset?”
“No, because I did not tell him I’d lost you.” Aunt Danae took Mary’s hands, her grip crushing. “I put it about that you were staying with friends, you and Audrey. I hoped that was what you had done. If you didn’t return today, I knew I would have to . . . would have to . . .” Aunt Danae shook her head, fighting down a sob. “But here you are, safe and whole. I will scold you soundly later, but for now, I am only happy you are home.” She looked suddenly uncertain, and peered behind Mary. “Where is your sister? Whitman, Audrey came in with Mary, did she not?”
Whitman turned from the bed. “No, my lady.” The brick with which she’d been warming Mary’s nightclothes froze in her grip, the cloth around it dangling. “I never saw Lady Audrey.”
“Then where is she?” Aunt Danae hastened to the window and looked down at the street as though she’d see Audrey below, running for the house. “Where is she, Mary?”
“She is safe.” Mary’s heart beat faster, knowing she could put off the news no longer. “Come here, Auntie. Sit with me.” She plumped herself on a sofa and patted the cushion next to her. Aunt Danae eyed her warily, but sat, the tapes on her cap trembling.
“Audrey is safe and happy,” Mary said, trying to keep her voice gentle. “She is with Jeremy Drake. They are married.”
Aunt Danae was silent for a full ten seconds, then she gave a strangled cry. “Married? What the devil do you mean? She can’t be married!”
“She is,” Mary said. She strove to remain soothing, but her head pounded and her voice rasped. “She’s very happy, and on her way to France.”
Aunt Danae stared for a few more moments, then she fell back against the sofa’s cushions. “Good gracious. Dear God, help me.”
“The marriage is a legal one,” Mary said quickly. “Done by clergy, registered and witnessed. Jeremy is a good man, Auntie. He’ll take care of her.”
“I have never thought otherwise. But, my dear . . .” Aunt Danae looked at her limply. “How are we ever going to tell your father? You should have fetched me last night, and we’d all have fled to France together. It is the only way any of us will escape his wrath.”