The Untamed MacKenzie

“Yes, I might have done any of those things. But I did not. It’s ridiculous.”

“Just show me,” Fellows said.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Show me what you have in your pockets, Louisa. Believe me, if you are arrested and searched, you’ll be treated far less gently at a police station than you will here by me. So show me.”

Louisa’s frock had one pocket, in the skirt, its opening hidden by the peplum of her bodice. She jammed her hand inside and pulled out a handkerchief, a pencil on a ribbon, and a tiny notebook.

“There. That is all.”

Fellows came to her swiftly. He gave her a measuring gaze and then pushed aside her hand and slid his own into her pocket.

Louisa’s breath hitched. The corset cut into her again, and spots danced before her eyes.

Fellows didn’t touch her. She felt the warmth of his hand between skirt and petticoat, the strength of his fingers as they moved in the pocket. She looked up at him and found his hazel eyes focused directly on her.

The look in their depths made her dizzy. This man should be nothing to her—a member of the family her sister had married into, that was all. He was not of her world. He’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket, raised in working-class London, and had taken up the common profession of policeman.

But he’d compelled her from the first time she’d laid eyes on him, at a family gathering at Kilmorgan Castle. Louisa had seen how uncomfortable Fellows had been in a home that might have been his, how silent he’d been, how haunted he’d looked. She’d wanted to cheer him up, to show him that the past didn’t have to mean a thing to the present.

She’d learned Fellows had a biting, deprecating sense of humor, often directed at himself, but he was also happy to direct it at those around him. He had the powerful personality of the Mackenzie men, but one turned in a different direction from theirs. While the brothers had been raised with money and power, Fellows had faced the world in all its ugliness. He’d had no protection but himself.

Now Fellows stood very close to her, and Louisa wanted to kiss him again. The first time she’d done so, she’d told herself she felt sorry for him. But she knew it had been more than that.

It was more than that now. The need to kiss him rose like an uncontrolled fire. It sent Louisa up on her tiptoes in her high-heeled boots, making her lean into him, wanting to feel his strength and his warmth.

Fellows’ eyes started to close, his body coming down to meet hers. The hunger she saw, before his lids hid his eyes, sparked an answering hunger deep inside her.

Louisa drifted into him, welcoming his heat. She felt the touch of his breath, which would be followed by his lips . . .

Then wasn’t. Fellows jerked back, eyes opening, a hard light entering them.

He lifted his hand out of her pocket. Between his broad fingers was a small bottle of cut glass with a little stopper, a tiny amount of liquid inside it.

Chapter Six

Louisa, still ensnared by the kiss that hadn’t happened, stared at the bottle uncomprehendingly. “What is that?”

“That is what I am asking you.” Fellows’ voice was harsh.

“I don’t know.” Louisa held up her hands. “It isn’t mine.”

“It was in your pocket.” His gaze grew even colder.

“You must have put it there then. I certainly didn’t.”

“Louisa.” Fellows lifted the small bottle in front of her face. “I need you to explain this to me.”

“I didn’t put it there,” Louisa repeated in desperation. “I cannot help it if you don’t believe me. I don’t even know what it is.”

“It’s a perfume bottle,” Fellows said. “But this is not perfume.”

“I can see that it’s a perfume bottle. How do you know it’s not perfume inside it?”

“Wrong consistency.”

Hysterical laughter tried to bubble up again. “And you’re an expert at what ladies carry in their perfume bottles?”

“I am an expert in the many ways people kill other people and try to cover it up.”

Louisa’s eyes widened. “I’ve told you. I didn’t kill him.”

“Someone is going to a lot of trouble to make it look as though you did. Why?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Louisa nearly shouted. “Perhaps someone did not want Hargate to marry me. Perhaps the poison was meant for me, or it was in the teapot, for us both. Only I didn’t drink it.”

Fellows’ eyes flickered, but he went on remorselessly. “Bit of a gamble, wasn’t it, to pour the poison into the correct cup of tea then put the bottle into your pocket? Who did you see when you went into the tea tent?”

“No one. It was empty. Hargate was already inside by the time I arrived, but no one else. I noticed no one leave—the rest of the guests were outside waiting for the croquet match.”

Fellows shoved the perfume bottle into his pocket. He gazed down at Louisa a moment longer, his brows coming together, then he turned abruptly and walked away from her. He made his way to the window and looked out, every line of his body tight.

His broad back, covered in black, showed his strength. If life had been different, if Fellows’ father had married his mother and the birth had been legitimate, this man would now be a duke.

Fellows turned back. When he spoke, his voice was stern and solid, worthy of any duke’s. “You entered the tea tent and saw someone crawling out the other side.”