Chapter 19
Mary heard Naughton speaking. “My lady, if you will wait here, I will bring refreshment and ready a chamber for you.” She ignored him to lift her woolen skirts and rush up the stairs after Malcolm.
Houses were tall in Edinburgh, the city building upward when it could expand no more into the marshes. Mary climbed three flights before she heard Mal in a room at the end of the landing, his voice raised in fury.
At any other time, she’d never dream of hurrying to personal chambers and interfering in a family quarrel. But rules had been overturned in the last days, and her father and aunt had been dragged off to prison. Customary manners had fled.
Mary pushed open the door that was ajar to find the duke, fully dressed despite the early hour, his graying red hair hanging loose.
Mary had faced him in the stairwell the other day, when shadows had made him a looming bulk. Today, in the sunlight burning through the mist, she saw him more clearly.
Malcolm looked much like him, as did his brother Will. They had the same hard faces and eyes in some shade of amber, though the duke’s forehead was wider and more prominent than his sons’. The older man’s hair was as thick as the younger’s, his brows drawn together as firmly, his mouth set in a stubborn line.
He and Mal had given up on English, and were shouting in Erse, the Scots language that Mary didn’t know. She heard many consonants run together and fluid vowels, all of it window-rattlingly loud.
Naughton came breathlessly behind her, distressed, but Mary paid no attention. Ewan also joined them, watching and listening, mouth agape.
“The duke is saying he got your da arrested,” Ewan said, explaining, “because he thinks they’re English spies. Lord Malcolm is very angry at him.”
So Mary gathered. The duke, seeing Mary, switched to English. “Wilfort and Halsey are two of the most dangerous men in Edinburgh,” he said fiercely. “Wilfort wouldn’t stop at throwing you in prison, runt, if he knew ye had your hands on his daughter.”
“So ye threw him in first?” Mal shouted. “Are ye mad? I’m going t’ marry this woman, whether ye bless me for it or not. I’d rather not have me father-in-law-to-be angry at me for landing him in prison!”
“He’s a bloody spy, lad,” the duke returned. “He and his boot-licking toady, Halsey, are stirring up the Lowlanders to murder us in our beds. To join the English in cutting down the Highland clans. Lowlanders have always sided with the English, the bleeding traitors.”
A polite cough turned attention to the doorway, where Will Mackenzie leaned, clad in a shirt, kilt, and woolen socks, his arms folded. His rumpled hair indicated he’d just crawled from his bed, as did his puffy, bloodshot eyes.
“Afraid he isn’t wrong, Mal,” Will said. “Lord Wilfort has agents in Glasgow, and a network throughout the Lowlands. He came to Edinburgh when there was a fairly clear danger Charles would sail from France, sent here to stir up the Scots against the Scots.” Will looked mildly embarrassed. “Sorry, Lady Mary.”
Mary wished she could be shocked and outraged at the accusation, but she was not. She knew her father always had some schemes in the works, and she’d heard the words he’d exchanged with Halsey in his study.
“The fool,” she said in resignation. Wilfort was a hard man, possessing intelligence with a razor-sharp edge, but he was still her father. Mary blinked back tears. “What will happen to him?”
“They’ll hang him,” the duke grunted.
Malcolm launched himself at his father. Will moved faster than a man who’d been lounging with a hangover ought to be able to, got himself between them, and pried them apart.
“Your Grace.” Mary put force into her words. The duke turned his head and looked her over, taking in her shabby garments, his disgust plain. “He is my father,” Mary said. “If you made certain he was arrested, then you can get him free again.”
The duke’s look turned incredulous. “Why would I do that? Ye heard Will. I wasn’t wrong about Wilfort being a spy. I have no love for the Jacobites, but nor do I want gobshite Englishmen mucking up my life.”
“Send him to London, then,” Mary said. “From that distance, it will be more difficult for him to communicate with this network, and I wager he’ll lose interest. My father has plenty of plots against his fellow Englishmen to pursue.”
Will snorted a laugh. The duke only looked belligerent, and so did Malcolm.
“’Tis out of my hands, in any case,” the duke said. “They are spies, and they’ve been caught. It’s up to the child prince to decide what to do with them.”
“Then I’ll go,” Mal said. “Will, look after Mary—make sure Dad leaves her be. Naughton, give her the finest chamber we have and offer her a meal. I want her settled and in comfort by the time I get back.”
Mary had learned about Mal even in this short time that once he decided to act, his deeds followed swiftly upon his words. He swung around and was out the door, making for the stairs before she could open her mouth.
She ran after him. “I do not need to stay here,” she called down as Malcolm made his descent. “Your coachman can take me to the Bancrofts’. I’ll be safe with them.”
Malcolm gave her an upward look of amazement. “No, ye won’t. Stay put, lass. Ignore my father and have Naughton bring ye anything ye need.”
Will joined Mary at the head of the stairs. Behind him, in his chamber, the duke was now raging at the hapless Naughton. Ewan, who’d followed Mary out, lingered by her side.
“Ye can’t go on your own,” Will said to his brother. “Let me come and smooth the way for ye. I know people.”
“So do I.” Mal balled his fists. “God’s balls, I need ye here with Mary. I can’t take care of all of ye at the same time—”
He cut off his speech abruptly, and plummeted on down the stairs.
Mary watched him all the way down, her arguments fading. When Mal had let out his last burst of temper, there had been something in his eyes, a distress that ran deep.
I can’t take care of all of ye . . .
Mary sensed that the words hadn’t been idle ones, but had come straight from something that struck him to the heart.
Mary didn’t know what to make of this distress—or of Malcolm himself—but she then and there intended to find out.
The prisoners Mal sought were not being held with the captured soldiers in the camps. Lords Wilfort and Halsey had been taken to Holyrood, locked into rooms in the lower cellars.
Lady Dutton—Mary’s Aunt Danae—Duncan informed Malcolm when he arrived, had been taken to Lord Bancroft’s home. Bancroft and his family were under house arrest, so Aunt Danae would sit there until she was either charged with something or sent back to England.
No one Mal spoke to at Holyrood, including Duncan, mentioned Lady Mary. Either they did not remember that Wilfort had daughters or didn’t realize that at least one of them remained in Scotland.
Wilfort and Halsey were being kept in separate rooms—so they wouldn’t plot, Duncan explained. Mal went to see Wilfort first.
Lord Wilfort looked up blankly when Mal entered the tiny room. The Englishman was seated at a small wooden table in the middle, and Mal sat down on the stool opposite him, studying him across the boards.
Wilfort had a thin, rather sharp face, but a regularity of features that told Mal he’d been handsome as a lad. Mary had the same clarity of face, the cheekbones that spoke of a Nordic ancestor long ago. They’d not let Wilfort don a wig, and his shaved head bore a uniform dusting of gray hair. He looked more formidable without the wig, in Mal’s opinion, the man’s hard face and eyes prominent.
Wilfort’s frown deepened as Mal continued to gaze at him. “Are you here to interrogate me?” Wilfort asked in a voice filled with ennui. “Get on with it, if you please. I’m promised the filth you call food in a few minutes.”
“Is the cut on Mary’s face your work?” Mal asked. “Or Halsey’s?”
Wilfort started, then his expression cleared. “Ah, you must be the conspirator she refused to name.” A scowl settled on his fine-boned face. “I should have you arrested for abduction, sir. If anything happens to Audrey, I will have your balls on a platter.”
Mal rested his arms on the table, pretending to relax. “I said the same thing to the captain who sailed the boat to France. Your daughter should be there by now, in the house of a friend of mine. My brother is there to see they want for nothing.”
Wilfort’s nostrils pinched. “And I should take the word of a Jacobite and a traitor?”
“I am neither of those, and you should take my word,” Mal said. “I want to marry your daughter, I’ll have ye know. Your other daughter, I mean. Mary.”
The earl’s brows quirked, but he masked his surprise well. “You can’t. She is spoken for—not that I would let you marry her if she were not.”
“Mary is betrothed to a man who will break her spirit. I promise ye, I’ll never do that to her. Tear up the agreement with Halsey, and make one with me.”
Wilfort contrived to look amused. “Is that why I am here? Arrested so the first ruffian in a plaid can marry my eldest daughter? I don’t even know who you are, sir.”
“Malcolm Mackenzie. My father is Duke of Kilmorgan.”
“Ah.” The earl’s gaze sharpened. “Yes, I know him. But I have never heard of you, which means you’re a younger son and inconsequential.”
Malcolm shrugged. “I’ve been called worse. I am the youngest of six—five, I mean. At one time we were six.” He never could seem to remember that Magnus was no longer with them.
“Then you are nothing.” Wilfort made a dismissing gesture with his fingers. Mal heard a rattle as he did so—they’d chained him to his chair.
“I’d be nothing if I were English,” Malcolm pointed out. “I’m Scots, I inherited a large sum from me mum, and I have a good share of the Mackenzie money too. That means Mary will be well provided for, respected, and wealthy.”
Wilfort sent him a withering glance. “Living in a hovel in the bleak Highlands, grubbing for food. Go away, bonny wee Scotsman.”
Mal shoved himself from the table and to his feet, barely keeping his anger in check. “I’ll marry her, with your blessing or without it. At least, with me, she’ll be well out of range of your fists. A cut like that will never come from my hand. For Mary’s sake, I’ll see ye sent back to England with your head intact—with your blessing or without it. Tell Halsey he’s out of luck where Mary is concerned.” Mal paused at the door. “No, wait, I’ll do it meself. Good day to ye, father-in-law.”
Wilfort half rose, but the chains dragged him back to the chair. “Be damned to you!” he shouted, the ring of it fading as Malcolm slammed the cell door.
Halsey was more inclined than the earl to bargain. He faced Mal across a similar table, dabbing his nose with the handkerchief he’d been granted, as he sullenly listened to Malcolm explain that the man should step aside and give him Mary.
Halsey too had a sharp face, but it was more like that of a weasel, his eyes alight and looking for a way to gain the most for himself.
“What will allying yourself with Wilfort and his family win you?” Halsey asked when Mal finished. “You’re Scots, and you’re a rebel. If you believe making Wilfort your father-in-law will keep you from being executed as a traitor, you’re wrong.”
“I’m not interested in Wilfort. I’m interested in his daughter.” Malcolm studied the man across from him, his symmetrical face, the dark buzz of hair on his shaved head, his compact form. Mal contrasted his own large body, which had hung on him awkwardly in his youth, his hard face that could not be called handsome by the standards of the day, his nose which had been broken more than once.
Halsey might be considered attractive to Englishwomen, despite his current disheveled appearance and unshaven chin, which must be hell for a man who liked to be fastidious. Halsey was young enough to be handsome, old enough to understand how to handle himself.
And he was cruel. Mal found nothing in the man’s blue eyes but self-interest. Even his present situation didn’t seem to bother him much. Likely he had many schemes already in the works that could get him free.
Mal rested one large, scarred hand on the table. “You don’t understand what ye have in her, do ye?”
“Lady Mary?” Halsey sniffed and wiped his nose. “I understand that she brings a substantial dowry with her. More than you’ll ever find working in the mud on your farm, Highlander. No wonder you seek to bring her home.”
“Oh, is that what I am? The proud Highlander dressed in rags, eking out a living, stealing from his neighbors, uncaring about the world outside his clan’s lands. A neat picture, painted by an Englishman.”
“A picture that is more or less true,” Halsey said.
“Mebbe in me grandfather’s time. Things are changing now, even on the remotest hills. But this is how you English choose a bride? How much she’s worth in pounds and shillings? I’m surprised the lot of ye have survived.”
“You’re young,” Halsey said coolly. “A man who marries for passion is a fool. Even in your world, you pick a bride from the best families, the one with the most cattle, say.”
He wasn’t entirely wrong, which was irritating. Mal’s fingers curled on the table. “I’d say Mary is worth more than a few shaggy black coos.”
Halsey curled his lip. “That you speak of her by her given name tells me she’s already ruined for me. Which means you have cheated me out of ten thousand pounds.” Halsey took a breath, deliberately calming himself. “However, I am not an unreasonable man. I’ll keep Lady Mary on for the sake of her dowry, even if you’ve rutted her. And if the first child comes too early, I’ll send it up to you in your tumbledown castle.”