I’ve Grown Accustomed to My Scot (The Mackenzies Take London #2)

Chapter One

The clash of steel rang out in the misty gloom.

Rory felt his sweaty hand slip on the hilt of his sword and tightened his grip.

His evening wear felt incongruous in the situation, but his opponent had refused to wait for his satisfaction.

There was enough moonlight for him to see the fellow’s furious face, eyes glaring, as he made another attempt to skewer Rory.

How the hell had he gotten into this situation?

He’d only been in London for a month, and here he was, fighting for his life for reasons he didn’t even fully understand. His father would be livid with him. But the Duke of Bonnyrigg could not be livid if he was dead, so it was in both their interests for Rory to stay alive.

Lord Ramsgate thrust wildly but Rory blocked him, the blades of their swords momentarily scraping together, until Rory was pushed back by the other man.

The fellow grinned at him, believing he now had the upper hand, and Rory let him think that.

He had always been good with a sword but it had been a while since he’d fought in earnest. Usually it was him and his brothers playing about, although it being a game did not stop each of them from wanting to win, and Rory usually did.

Whether it was because he was the second son, he wasn’t sure, but he had always had the sort of hunger that made him want to be the best.

And he needed to be the best tonight or that angry face in front of him would be the last thing he ever saw.

The fight went on, both men testing each other. Ramsgate’s play became wilder, almost desperate, as if he were intent on throwing away his life. But this was no time to be distracted by errant thoughts, and Rory could not risk underestimating the man.

Ramsgate lunged forward again, but this time Rory was ready for him. He lunged too, the point of his sword sliding under the other man’s weapon and into his body. Ramsgate cried out and dropped his weapon, clutching at himself as he fell to his knees.

The fellow’s companion also cried out in dismay and went to his aid. Rory stood, trying to catch his breath, wondering whether he should turn and run. But he was not the sort to run from anything.

“Where’s the physician?” someone shouted.

“Is he dead?” another asked.

“Not yet,” was the grim pronouncement.

Rory wasn’t afraid of much, but now he felt his heart sink. Dueling was not against the law but it was frowned upon. He might be arrested, especially if Ramsgate died, and if Rory were clever, he would set off for Bonnyrigg immediately.

“Ormsby will not be happy,” the conversation went on. “Ramsgate was set to marry his daughter. He’ll have a reason to cry off now.”

Rory didn’t know what that meant. He had drunk rather a lot before the argument broke out in the gaming hell, before he insulted his opponent—although he did not remember doing it—and the challenge was issued.

A gentleman did not refuse such a challenge, so he hadn’t.

A stranger had stepped forward from the room of interested bystanders and offered to be his second, and the next thing Rory knew, he was being driven out into the country.

At that point he had begun to sober up, helped along by the combination of the chill air and the gravity of the situation. When a sword had been placed in his hand, any lingering effects of the drink quickly dissipated and he had found himself fighting for his life.

The injured man lifted his head, bleary eyes seeking Rory.

“You’ve done me a favor,” he croaked, and gave a shaky laugh.

“I am in no fit state to marry anyone now, but you are.” He waved to his friend and bade him to “Call on Ormsby and tell him that Rory MacKenzie will marry his daughter in my stead!”

There was subdued laughter at that. Then Ramsgate’s friends carried him toward a coach and Rory stood, bewildered and confused, but glad to be alive.

Although what his Aunt Jennie would say to all of this he hated to think.

Rory was not afraid of many people, and he wasn’t exactly afraid of the Countess of Strathmore, but he did desire her good opinion.

A voice interrupted his thoughts. “I do not mean to disparage your skill with the sword, but did you notice Ramsgate appeared to be rather more careless than usual?”

Rory recognized the gentleman from the hell who had agreed to second him. He tried to remember his name. The fellow seemed to notice his dilemma and said, with a bow, “Lord Kilsyth, at your service.”

Rory heard the faint Scottish burr in Kilsyth’s voice and found it a comfort. He realized that tonight he was missing his home a great deal. “MacKenzie, at yours,” he said. “Why do you think Ramsgate wanted to lose?”

Kilsyth considered him. “Gossip has it that his forthcoming marriage to Lady Grace Snowden was not to his liking. The Earl of Ormsby, her father, was holding some gambling debt over his head to ensure the ceremony went ahead.”

That sounded . . . Well, Rory wasn’t sure what to make of it. He tried to arrange his thoughts into some semblance of order. “And is this Lady Grace . . .?” He paused, considering how to phrase his question without being too insulting.

Kilsyth gave him a wry grin. “If you mean to ask if she is a gargoyle, then no, she is not. I do not know the details of their arrangement, but my advice would be that you find out before it is too late.”

Kilsyth had set off walking toward a second coach and Rory followed him, still struggling to understand what the man meant. “How do you mean ‘too late’?”

“Ormsby has a way of getting what he wants, and he wants Grace married as swiftly as possible.” He sounded grim.

Rory made an impatient sound. “Why does he want his daughter married as swiftly as possible?”

Kilsyth turned and looked at him, his brows raised.

He was older than Rory by probably twenty years, and there were deep lines in his face, as if his life had not been easy.

“You really are a babe in the woods, MacKenzie,” he said.

“Lady Grace Snowden is ruined. She is more commonly called Disgrace. Ormsby wants her off his hands so that he can concentrate on his other daughters, the ones he actually cares about.”

It sounded heartless to Rory, who came from a family where everyone was loved equally. Except perhaps his sister Cat, who was everybody’s favorite.

“I still don’t understand,” he muttered. “What has any of this to do with me?”

Kilsyth climbed aboard the coach and gestured for Rory to follow him. “How long have you been in London, MacKenzie?”

“A month.”

“What have you been doing all this time?”

Rory didn’t like to admit he had been drinking and carousing, but that was what he had been doing. “Enjoying myself,” he said.

“Obviously you have not been listening to the gossip.”

The coach began to move, and Rory wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and pretend this wasn’t happening, but he knew he needed to pay attention.

“What gossip?”

“By now everyone knows the story—apart from you, MacKenzie. Grace is not Ormsby’s daughter.

She is the result of an affair his wife had with a most disreputable man.

Ormsby dislikes the girl for that reason alone, but now that she is ruined and appears to be turning out like her mother, he is on the hunt for a husband to take her off his hands.

He chose Ramsgate, but now that gentleman cannot fulfill his role because of you .

. .” He shrugged. “I would be very careful, MacKenzie. Ormsby is known as a bully, and he usually gets what he wants.”

Poor Grace. But it was just a passing thought.

Rory did not expect that her troubles would affect him, and nor did he believe Ormsby could possibly force him to marry against his will.

The duel was over, he had won, and now he would go about his business.

Which up to this point seemed to consist of drinking and frequenting brothels and gambling hells.

He closed his eyes. “Drop me off at the Countess of Strathmore’s place, would you, Kilsyth?” he said, already drifting into sleep.