Chapter One #2
“Sounds like you are repeating yourself, Miss.” Effie gave her a sly look. “But maybe those are attributes you admire?”
“I certainly do not. The man is nearly insufferable and much too sure of himself. He thinks because he’s good-looking and has all those muscles women should swoon at his feet.
Remember how he practiced sword play without his shirt—” Mari snapped her mouth shut.
Lud! She didn’t need to recall the rippling muscles of his arms and back or his broad chest with the light dusting of dark hair turning into a tantalizing line down the hard ridges of his belly…
It was suddenly quite warm in the carriage, even for an autumn day.
“Um-hmm,” Effie said wisely.
Mari Barclay had to be the most vexing lass he’d ever encountered. And one of the most winsome as well.
Jamie grinned to himself as he held the Andalusian stallion at a steady jog to stay abreast of the carriage.
Over the past few weeks, he’d caught Mari watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking—like the time she’d shooed the housemaids inside while they watched him train in the courtyard.
He’d even admit he flexed a little extra muscle for her benefit, although, of course, she hadn’t acknowledged it.
Instead, she’d tossed her bonnie head, making the blonde sausage curls dance, and lifted her wee nose in the air.
Faugh! The English had strange ways. What was wrong with admitting an attraction between a man and a woman?
Mari might shoot blue fire from her eyes when he teased her—which he did on purpose to savor her spirited reaction—but he’d also seen those eyes deepen to the color of a Highland loch when he stood close.
Not that he would boast of such things, but he did have a wee bit of experience with lasses.
Well, perhaps more than a wee bit, given that Ian and he spent many a night carousing with wenches.
Jamie always made sure the lass took her pleasure as well, and he was careful no bairn would result. What more could a lass want?
Jamie had given his oath he would protect Mari.
At his home on Raasay Isle, a lass would take that as a great compliment.
Women expected the men to protect them. He sobered.
He had not finished training the men at either Cantford or Newburn.
Not that house servants or outdoor ghillies barely old enough to be called men qualified as real fortifications, but it had been a start.
Ian would not be pleased that he’d left the estates to follow Mari to London, but what choice did he have?
The wee vixen was as headstrong as their older sister Bridget.
Jamie suspected Mari had a nose for adventure and trouble as much as his little sister, Fiona, did.
How many times had Ian and he rescued that one from ill-fated escapades?
Mayhap those experiences would serve him well in keeping Mari in his sights while they were in London. She wouldn’t be going far without him.
Cold rain pelted the carriage the next morning as they left Windsor Inn, the sodden skies turning already brown fields into hapless slabs of mud.
Mari invited the two footmen to ride inside instead of on the rear bumper seat even though Effie scolded that the ton would certainly consider such behavior completely unacceptable.
Mari knew that was true since Aunt Agnes had spent countless hours schooling her on what was proper and what was not in London’s haute ton Society.
Still, they weren’t in London yet, and Mari saw no reason why the young men should sit in the drenching downpour.
Even now, they both wore broad, appreciative smiles on their faces.
Or maybe that was because of the situation they were facing across from them.
What Mari hadn’t considered was Jamie tying his horse behind the carriage and riding inside also.
He planted himself firmly between her and Effie, ignoring the maid’s protests that such closeness was improper.
With every jolt of the landau, Jamie managed to brush his thigh against hers—and the road was becoming quite rutted with rain forming rivulets everywhere.
At least the man was wearing doeskin breeches and not the kilt that left his calves and part of his thighs bare.
Mari sucked in a breath. Lud. Why was she thinking about his naked legs?
Thank goodness, she was wearing a heavy, wool traveling dress and a solid cotton chemise under that.
But how would… She pushed the thought firmly aside.
A lady did not think about how a man’s skin would feel pressed up against her own flesh.
She had no more than folded her hands primly in her lap when the carriage lurched again, sending her sprawling forward.
Jamie wrapped strong arms around her waist as he caught and placed her back on the seat.
To her chagrin, he looped an arm over her shoulder and tucked her against his side.
Cocooned in his warmth, Mari inhaled his clean, soapy scent mingled with a hint of leather.
Suddenly, she became aware that her breast was pressed against the hardness of Jamie’s chest, her nipple tingling at the strange feeling.
“Let go of me at once,” she said, struggling to sit up.
He loosened his hold, allowing her to sit up, although he didn’t remove his hand from her shoulder. When she looked up at him, his eyes had gone that dark-whisky color again. “Your hand also, if you please, sirrah.”
A corner of his mouth lifted, the dimple just beginning to show. “’Tis for yer own safety I will leave my hand where it is. Unless ye have a wish to land in the laps of young Robin and Joseph there.”
The footmen started to grin and Effie glared at them. “Mind your stations else you will find yourselves back in the rain,” she said.
Both young men blanched and stammered apologies, suddenly finding the landscape on either side of the landau fascinating.
“This is far too intimate,” Mari protested, keeping her voice to a whisper.
Jamie remained unfazed. “Ye have a strange idea of intimacy, lass. A kiss would be intimate.” The dimple deepened. “I will be verra happy to show ye the difference.”
Her breath hitched. Did he really mean to…right here? In front of servants?
Jamie leaned toward her, so close his warm breath fanned her cheek. Her nipples started tingling again. Merciful Heavens. She closed her eyes.
Nothing happened.
Mari opened her eyes slowly. Robin and Joseph were still surveying the passing fields intensely. She could hear Effie muttering. When she looked at Jamie though, he was studying her with an odd expression on his face.
“I think ye want to be kissed, lass.”
“I…I…no. Of course not.” Why did she feel so flustered? “You are quite rude to even suggest it. Do you think me a lightskirt?”
Jamie frowned. “Nae. I dinnae think ye such. ’Tis that I see no harm in a mon and a lass enjoying a wee bit of sport.”
“A wee bit of sport?” Mari managed not to squeak. Really. The man was insufferable. “I will have you know the ton considers a young lady compromised for such behavior.”
His eyes widened. “For a kiss?”
“Indeed.”
Jamie shook his head. “With such notions, ’tis a wonder England has bred enough lads to supply the Army.”
“That, sirrah, is indelicate talk.”
“Is it now? Does yer London ton have some proper explanation for bairns then?”
“I am not going to discuss childbearing with you.” Mari heard a collective gasp from both the footmen and Effie.
Her cheeks warmed. The arrogant Highlander brought up the most improper subjects.
And, somehow, she couldn’t seem to refrain herself from answering him. “Do you enjoy embarrassing me, sirrah?”
“Nae. ’Tis not my intention.” He leaned close again and whispered, “When I do kiss ye, embarrassment is nae what ye will be feeling. Ye have my oath on that.”
By the time the carriage clattered over the cobblestones of Mayfair’s streets, the rain had slowed to a mere drizzle.
Robin and Joseph were situated on the bumper seat again, and Jamie had—thankfully—taken the bench opposite Effie and her.
Mari wasn’t quite sure how much more of his closeness—or his insinuations—she could have taken.
The inside of the carriage had grown unbearably stuffy and hot.
Her skin felt on fire and she longed to open the buttons of her pelisse, but the friction of fabric rubbing over breasts that felt oddly heavy and tender made her stop short.
Thankfully, the butler, Givens, hurried down the steps of the townhouse to greet the carriage, keeping Jamie from putting those strong hands on her waist again to lift her down.
Mari briefly wondered where Dobbs was that Givens would come out in the damp weather to meet them, but she was too glad to be out of the confined space of the carriage to care.
“Welcome home, my lady,” Givens said.
My lady. Mari smiled. It was a courtesy title since her dear papa hadn’t been nobility and had died nearly penniless due to gambling debts accrued after Mama’s passing.
Jillian, through an unusual act of Parliament, had been awarded the title of marchioness in her own right to Newburn once Wesley Alton had been arrested.
“I am glad to be back in Town,” she replied. “Is Aunt Agnes in?”
“I believe Mrs. Stokely is waiting for you in the drawing room,” Givens answered and then raised an eyebrow as Jamie emerged from the carriage.
Before she could introduce him, Jamie held out his hand to Givens. “Jamie MacLeod, the Earl of Cantford’s brother,” he said, “and Mari’s guardian.”
Mari groaned, not sure if the shock washing over the butler’s face was from Jamie extending his hand so informally or the announcement—the incorrect announcement—that he was her guardian. She would have to deal with that later.
The entrance door opened as she proceeded up the steps and Mrs. Fields, the housekeeper, gave her a small smile and a nod.
Mari frowned. The housekeeper had always been friendly.
Surely all this business of Jillian inheriting the title and marrying an earl didn’t make any difference.
Did it? She gave Mrs. Fields a hug and was glad when the older woman hugged her back.
“Is everything all right?” she asked and then felt a sudden chill as the housekeeper stopped smiling.
“You had best see your aunt,” she said.
Mari rushed to the drawing room, praying that her aunt was not in ill health or had fallen. She sighed in relief as she saw Aunt Agnes, steel-grey hair in place, sipping tea, and apparently quite well.
Giving her a hug, Mari sank onto the horsehair sofa beside her. “I hope you did not worry that we were late.”
“With the roads awash, I am rather surprised you arrived so soon,” Aunt Agnes said and set her teacup down, then looked up as Jamie entered the room.
Mari made the introductions, careful to avoid any mention of guardianship. “I hope there is room at your boarding house for Mr. MacLeod,” she finished.
“There is,” her aunt replied, “but he might wish to stay here.”
Mari almost recoiled in shock. Her very proper, middle-aged aunt was suggesting they house a bachelor under their roof? During the Little Season, no less? The chill stole over her again. “Is something wrong?”
For an answer, her aunt picked up yesterday’s post and handed it to her. “Wesley Alton has escaped from Bedlam,” she said.