Chapter Five
Jamie pushed his plate of half-eaten eggs and ham away.
Normally he had a healthy appetite, but something was not right.
He’d encountered Mrs. Stokely as he came into the breakfast room, but she told him she had business to attend and that Mari had a terrible headache and would be resting in her room for most of the day.
He didn’t think Mari was the type to succumb to lying abed, even if she did have a headache.
Something must have happened last night.
He wished he knew what it was. By the time he was able to get away from those blethering silly girls—thank Christ Miss Winslow had intervened—Mari was nowhere to be found.
Neither was her aunt. When he’d asked Lady Tindale, she told him Mari had suddenly felt ill and called for their carriage to take her home.
Jamie had walked the few blocks back rather than wait for the carriage to return, but when he got to the townhouse, Givens told him Mari and her aunt had already retired.
What possibly could have happened?
The question still troubled him when he returned from Gentleman Jack’s pugilism school shortly after noon.
Not that Jamie needed to be taught to fight.
Every Highland lad learned to use his fists before he lost his baby teeth.
For truth, that was how many lads did lose their small teeth.
It made a man feel good to go a few rounds.
It kept him from getting soft. For some reason, two of the men who’d eyed him sourly last night were particularly eager to square off with him this morning.
He just hoped he hadn’t left either of them with a concussion.
Dobbs appeared in the foyer as Givens took his coat, even though Jamie was perfectly capable of putting his coat on the rack himself. Mari had explained it was insulting not to allow the butler to do his job. How it was an insult Jamie didn’t understand, but then many English rules made no sense.
“Will you be taking lunch, sir?” Dobbs asked. “It will be just you so I can set a place in the breakfast room or the dining hall.”
“Are Miss Barclay and Mrs. Stokely not home?” By the Saints. If the lass had left the house again—
“Mrs. Stokely has not returned, and Miss Barclay is still abed.”
“Still? What ails the lass?”
“I do not know, sir.”
Jamie started to scowl at him and then thought better of it. The man probably didn’t have an idea. “Send Mrs. Fields up with bowls of soup and bread for two,” Jamie said as he started toward the stairs.
Dobbs’s eyes widened. “You…you cannot go up there.”
“I am going to find out what is wrong.”
“But…but…” The footman shrank back as Jamie glared at him. “It…it is not proper, sir.”
To hell with what was proper. The English had far too many rules. If the lass needed a physician, he would send for one. Otherwise, Mari was going to tell him what was wrong.
He took the steps two at a time and knocked on her door. No one answered. He knocked again. “’Tis Jamie. Open the door.”
“Go away.”
“I willna.” He put his hand to the knob, half expecting it to be locked, but the door opened easily.
Jamie stopped just inside the door. Mari’s bedchamber was not as he had pictured it—although he probably should not have been picturing it at all.
A dressing table with a gilded mirror graced one wall, but with a practical, straight-backed chair in front of it.
The wardrobe and chest of drawers were of oak, the golden sheen of the wood reflecting the muted honey tone of the scroll-design wallpaper and the darker velvet russet of the drapes and coverlet on the bed—a bed definitely big enough for two, he could not help but notice.
Mari sat on the cushioned alcove window seat, knees to her chin, her wrapper covering the night rail she still wore. She didn’t turn around from staring down at the small courtyard.
“Do you not understand English?”
“Aye, lass, I do.” Jamie strode over to her, leaving the door open for propriety’s sake.
He reached down and put his hand under her chin.
She resisted, but he managed to turn her face to him.
Her eyes were swollen from weeping, and her face had splotches of red—although he didn’t know if that was from anger or crying.
Nudging her feet closer to the window, he sat down beside her. “What is it, lass? What happened?”
Mari sniffled, tears brimming in her eyes again. Jamie handed her the square of linen he still had tucked in his breeches from the bouts earlier. It wasn’t exactly a handkerchief, but it was all he had at the moment. She dabbed her nose and drew a shaky breath.
“I was cut last night. It was excruciatingly painful.”
“You were stabbed?” Jamie took her arms, pushing the sleeves up, looking for a wound. Her arms were soft, white and without blemish. “Did the cur cut your legs? I swear I will pummel the mon within an inch of his miserable life—”
“No, no. Not cut with a knife.” Mari hiccupped. “Cut. No one would speak to me.”
Jamie dropped his hands as Mrs. Fields appeared in the doorway. She frowned at him. She set the soup and bread on the small table near the window seat and then returned to the door where she stood and folded her arms.
“Thank ye,” Jamie said. “Ye may go now.”
Mrs. Fields planted her feet more firmly. “I’ll not be having my head removed by Mrs. Stokely when she finds out you came to Miss Barclay’s bedroom—and her in her night rail at that. You had best eat before the soup gets cold.”
More rules. Could the woman not see there was nothing unseemly happening? He was not a brute to take advantage of a lass who was nae feeling well.
“I am not hungry,” Mari said, using the linen to dab at her nose again.
“Ye must keep up yer strength. Ye will eat, lass. Come.”
“I do not want to.”
Jamie raised a brow. “Do ye wish for me to pick ye up again and carry ye to the table?”
Mari knit her brows. For a moment, he thought maybe she would be stubborn enough to have him do just that—not that he’d mind—but she lifted her chin and moved to the table of her own accord and sat down, folding her hands in her lap.
“Now eat.”
Her frown deepened. “No.”
With a sigh, Jamie pulled his chair close to hers. Picking up her spoon, he dipped it in the bowl and held it to her lips. “Eat.”
Mari clamped her mouth shut.
“Lass, I can force ye to open.”
She shook her head mulishly.
Jamie sighed again, resisting the urge to rub his temples.
Mari was as stubborn as a bairn, but he hadn’t been around Shane’s younger sisters for nothing.
He grasped her jaw with his free hand, holding it lightly in place with his palm, putting his thumb beneath an ear lobe and his ring finger beneath the other one. Very gently, he pressed.
Mari’s jaw dropped, probably more in surprise than by his effort, but Jamie took the opportunity to empty the spoon into her mouth. Some of the broth dribbled, and he used his thumb pad to wipe it away. Dipping the spoon back in the soup, he held it up.
“Again.”
She glared at him and took the spoon. “I can feed myself.”
“I am glad to hear it. I will be eating my own soup then.”
Mari continued to glower at him, but she scraped her bowl clean. “There. Are you satisfied?”
“’Tis a start. Now will ye please get dressed and come downstairs? I have a wish to discuss this cutting business.”
“There is nothing you can do.”
“I will see about that,” Jamie said as he moved toward the door. If Mari was treated badly last night because of his behavior in that shop, then it was up to him to make things right—even if he had to obey stupid rules and act like a damn Englishmon to do it.
“Mr. MacLeod actually fed you?” Maddie asked incredulously later that afternoon as she curled up on the window seat with Mari.
“Like a child,” Mari answered with as much indignation as she could muster.
Niggling at the back of her mind was the thought that maybe she had acted rather childishly.
Still. Jamie had threatened to pick her up again.
Did he have no respect for her person? Hanging halfway across his back with unmentionable parts of her body in full contact with his was the reason she’d been cut at Lady Tindale’s party.
The other thing stuck in her head was how gentle those big, calloused hands had felt cradling her face.
Jamie had leaned so close she could actually see tiny flecks of brown in his golden eyes.
They had darkened to a brandy color when he’d used his thumb to wipe the droplets from her mouth.
That mere brush had coursed straight to her belly, causing her newly discovered pet butterflies to flutter again.
“I think it was rather romantic,” Maddie said with a sigh.
“What has gotten into you lately?” Mari asked. “How can you think someone who just does as he pleases without thought to convention romantic? I am beginning to wonder if all Highlanders are half barbarians.”
Maddie giggled. “You exaggerate.”
“You think so? Then look. He’s down there in the yard making poor Dobbs attempt to wield a sword.
A household footman. I am sure the stable boys are sniggering at Dobbs’s expense, but it does not matter to Jamie.
He thinks all men should know how to fight.
What can be more barbaric than that?” She watched as Jamie lunged and thrust, forcing a white-faced Dobbs to attempt a parry.
At least Jamie kept his shirt on for these practices, unlike at Newburn.
Maddie leaned on the sill, looking down. “Mr. MacLeod makes it look so easy. Almost graceful. I wonder if he dances as well?”
“I have no idea. Jillian provided lessons for his brother.”
“You could teach him.”
“I—” Mari stopped, pushing away the thought of Jamie’s strong arms around her in a waltz. The butterflies took wing again. What was wrong with her? “I cannot see him hopping about to a quadrille. Can you?”