Chapter 3
Mal. Mary liked it. Simple, yet filled the mouth with its very shape. The word, in both Latin and French, meant badness.
“One kiss, Mary.” Malcolm was next to her again, the warmth of him enclosing her. “One, and your sister’s letter is back safe with you.”
Mary frowned at him. “How do you know she is my sister?”
“Because I asked me brother Alec, that font of knowledge, all about you.”
“Then why did you ask who I was betrothed to? It is no secret.”
Malcolm shrugged, the coat moving on his large shoulders. “I wanted to see how you’d tell me. With great pride? Embarrassment? Admiration? Your eyes glowing with love? Do you know what, Mary? You did none of that. You were as stiff as a clockwork automaton. Ye give me hope.”
Mary curled her fingers. “Hope for what?”
“Hope for meself. Can I win the beautiful Mary and take her off to my cold Highland castle? I need a wife t’ keep the winter nights warm.”
“Wife?” Her voice cracked. “Thunder and rainstorms, now you are talking nonsense. I thought Highlanders raided each other’s clans for wives, not English society soirees.”
Another laugh, so deep and warm she wanted to embrace it. How wonderful to have laughter like that surround her every day, and on into the night.
“True, lass, in the bad old days, clans fought clans to the bloody death, stealing women, cattle, lands, and anything else we could lay our hands on. Now we insult each other in the halls of universities. ’Tis a bit of a disappointment for ye, I know.”
Malcolm’s smile was so wide, so infectious, that Mary couldn’t help smiling too. She fought it—better to let this man think her austere—but she lost. Her mouth curved, and her face softened.
Mal ceased laughing. “Lass, ye are so very beautiful. I think you’ve just broken my heart.”
He leaned down, cupping her face, turning it up to his. He was going to kiss her. Touch his smooth lips to hers, burn her with the heat of his mouth.
Mary hastily stepped back. “No, really, sir, you cannot.”
Or she’d melt to him. She’d fall bonelessly to the floor, promise him anything, disgrace herself and her family, and run with him to his stone castle in the wild north. There she’d live, wrapped in plaids, surrounded by Highland children and a husband with laughter like sunshine.
“No?” Malcolm straightened. “Ye surely know how to plague a man, love. But I won’t give up. I’ll have your kiss. And you.” His voice darkened. “I will, ye know. When my mind’s set on a thing, I have it in the end. I promise ye.”
Mary shivered, but not with cold. “Nonsense, you’ll forget all about me when I’m gone. I leave for England as soon as the weather breaks.”
“Then I’ll pray for more bad weather. But for now, if I can’t have the kiss, I’ll settle for a lock of your lovely hair. To show my brother and not entirely lose the wager. Alec’s the very devil when he wins. Never lets me hear the end of it. As the youngest brother, I must labor against them all to survive.”
“I very much doubt that,” Mary said with conviction. “I imagine you charm them all senseless. Very well, if a small lock will suffice, you may have it.”
She regretted her compliance in the next instant, because his look of triumph nearly wiped her off her feet.
“Ah, Mary, you’re a fine woman. I knew it the instant I looked at ye.”
The way Mal spoke her name made Mary want to believe everything he said. “I have no scissors with me, so perhaps it is a moot point.”
She jumped in alarm as a knife flashed in the darkness, a blade wide as two fingers. Good heavens, a knife like that could kill in the work of a moment.
Mal lifted a curl that hung below her shoulder, tightening it between his fingers. One practiced flick of the knife had it severed from the rest of her hair, the lock now resting in his hand. The knife disappeared back into its sheath just as rapidly.
All gentlemen in Mary’s life wore swords and knew how to use them; indeed, many had been soldiers in the endless wars on the Continent and had fought duels of honor. But they never drew blades around her, and never moved with such quick, deadly efficiency.
This man was a killer, a warrior trained to answer the call of his clan chief and rush into battle for him. Anything elegant and civilized, he was not.
And yet, the knife had never touched her. Mary had not been in danger for a single second.
Mal lifted the lock to his lips. “I’ll carry it next to me heart,” he said, then reached out and touched her chin. “My English Rose.”
Mary couldn’t breathe. Malcolm touched the curl to his lips again, a sensual move.
She had been right not to let him kiss her. She’d be over his shoulder by now, as he carried her off with him to the place of heather and lochs under vast skies.
“Mary?” Aunt Danae’s voice thundered up the stairs. “Drat the girl, where has she got to?”
Mary’s breath poured back into her lungs. Her real life slammed into her, the cozy interlude with the dangerous Highlander fading like a dream.
She could be ruined if she were found up here alone with him. No unmarried young lady could be in the presence of a gentleman, especially one like this Highlander, without a chaperone, without tarnishing her character. She’d shame her father, Lord Halsey, her entire family. There were those who believed Danae no fit chaperone for the Lennox girls, with all her affaires d’amour. There would be talk, gossip, disapproval, knowing laughter. And Malcolm still had Audrey’s blasted letter.
Malcolm’s teasing look vanished, as though he understood her danger. “Best go on, lass. I’ll deliver the letter for ye. Which is the lad’s chamber?”
“No—good heavens, give it back to me. I’ll take it to him later.”
“Don’t be daft, woman. This is your best chance—your auntie will be climbing up here any second. Be found with me, and you’ll perish.”
“Mary! Where are you, girl?”
“Ye see? Go,” Mal urged. “The letter’s safe with me.” His smile returned, lighting those intriguing eyes. “Do ye trust me?”
“Not a jot,” Mary said, but gave in. She didn’t have much choice—she’d never wrest the letter back from him by force. “It’s the last door on the right. Do not let anyone see you.”
“No one ever does, sweet lady.”
Mary looked him over one last time—likely she’d never see him again. Mal stood like a sentry in the darkness, his plaid unmoving.
These Highlanders were mad fighters, it was said, silent in the night until they struck with all their fury. Malcolm was like the dirk he kept sheathed beneath his coat, quiet for now, but potentially deadly.
“Go on,” Mal said as she lingered. “I’ll not betray ye, my English Rose.”
The words were spoken with promise. Mary shook herself, turned, and headed for the staircase, holding her swaying skirts. She went down them as rapidly as her high heels would let her, her heart thumping hard.
“Mary,” came a dark whisper behind her.
Mary paused on the landing and looked back. Malcolm leaned over the banister, his tail of hair falling beside his square, hard face. Even in the dark, his eyes burned her.
“Good night, lass,” he said softly. He kissed his fingers, and blew across his fingertips in her direction. Mary swore the kiss landed on her lips.
Without a word, she turned away, but felt his gaze burn her all the way down the stairs.
Mal watched Mary hurry to meet her aunt, her skirts rippling like water. She was beauty itself, and Mal wanted her.
Not simply in bed—though he definitely would have that—he wanted her nearness, her warmth, that silken voice that tried to be haughty, the sudden flash of her smile. Mal’s body tightened, goading him to pursue her and do all the good things he longed to.
He would. He’d see her again; he’d make certain of it.
Mal reflected as he moved down the passage on his errand that he’d already learned much about Lady Mary Lennox. She was passionate and romantic, beguilingly so, but tried to hide that nature under proper behavior. She’d wanted Malcolm to kiss her—he’d seen it in her heartrendingly blue eyes. Mary had stopped herself only at the last moment, and reluctantly.
She also had compassion, helping her sister communicate with a forbidden lover. If Mary truly believed in propriety, she’d never have condoned her sister writing such a heartfelt letter.
She also risked censure for being the go-between. This showed that Mary was fond enough of her sister to take risks for her. Brave then, as well.
Courage, passion, beauty, compassion, and something inside her that longed to be wicked—what a woman. One night in bed with her would be worth every step he took to get her there. Whatever errands Mal had to run for her, whatever billet doux he needed to carry, or drippy-nosed suitors to run through with his sword, he would do it all for his reward at the end.
Mary. Even her name was a joy to say. Mal spoke it out loud in the silence of the empty hall. He’d teach her to call him Mal, and she’d say it in her smooth voice when she was deep in passion.
She’d be reluctant at first, but Mal would coax her, like a bird to his hand, teaching her to trust, never breaking her. And then Mary would be his. Not having her now that Malcolm had seen her, spoken to her, breathed the air she did, was unthinkable.
The how of it, Mal thought he might know. The letter in his hand held the key. It was addressed to the Honorable Jeremy Drake, youngest of three brothers, a man who had little importance in the world. He wasn’t likely to inherit the Bancroft peerage, and he’d be living off whatever allowance was given to him by his family. Very likely Mary’s father, Wilfort, opposed the match on these grounds.
Malcolm was no stranger to life as a younger son. In England, if the son had no interest in politics, the military, or the church, he had very little to look forward to. Mal thanked the deity he was Scots, from a land with different inheritance rules.
Mal had turned his brains and the money from his deceased mother to build up a business, one that was doing very well. He had plenty now to support a wife like Mary, a woman who’d be used to the good things in life.
Mal reached the door at the end of the hall and rapped on the wood panels. He waited, hearing nothing from within.
Mal knocked again, again with the same response, but he’d not give up. Alec was probably looking for him, wanting to grow nice and drunk with him in a public house, leaving these cold English to their equally cold manor.
But Mal had to stay, at least until this task was finished. He was certain he’d found the way to Mary’s heart, and it was through this door to the young Englishman on the other side.
He rattled the door handle, discovered it moved easily, and he went inside.
A young man was stretched out on the carpet in front of the fireplace. He lay face-up, unmoving, at an awkward angle. Mal’s heart constricted, blackness dancing before his eyes.
There had been a sixth Mackenzie brother, Magnus, between the twins and the second oldest, Will. Magnus had never been a well lad, and they’d all striven to take care of him. Magnus been prone to illness, never failing to spend half the year in bed or wrapped in blankets in the great hall before the roaring fire.
One evening, Mal had entered Magnus’s chamber and found him thus, stretched out on the hearthrug, unmoving. Magnus had fallen, and his heart, weakened even more from that year’s illnesses, had given out.
Magnus had been all of eighteen, Mal fourteen.
Years fell away as Mal stared down at the young Englishman. Mal was a boy again, trying to rouse his gentle older brother, his heart shattering with grief when he couldn’t. Magnus, with his compassion and kindness, had been worth all the rest of them put together.
Mal drew a sharp breath, and the darkness cleared. By the light of the dancing candles, Mal saw that this young man was clearly not Magnus. He was Mal’s age, and robust, his face a good color, his limbs strong. He’d simply fallen asleep.
Malcolm leaned down and rocked his shoulder. “Wake up, man.”
The Honorable Jeremy Drake blinked open his eyes. He stared at Mal in astonishment for a few heartbeats, then seized Mal’s reaching arm, rolled to a stand, and swept his boot behind Mal’s legs, knocking him off his feet.