Chapter Seventeen #2
“As every romance should,” Madded added. “I wish we knew who wrote the stories.”
“She probably keeps her identity secret to avoid embarrassment,” Mari said. “Can you imagine being at a soiree and having everyone know it was you who wrote such intimate details?”
“I agree,” Abigail answered. “I certainly would not want people knowing I look at pictures of naked men.”
Mari and Maddie both gaped at her in silence.
Abigail’s face pinkened. “In art books. The Greek and Roman statues are great works of art.”
Mari remembered the book Abigail had dropped on the floor at Wittnower’s. Who would have thought—?
Maddie quickly picked up a copy of La Belle Assemblée from the table and changed the subject. “These are the latest fashions. We shall decide on the perfect gown for you for the Almack’s ball.”
“Yes.” Mari took the magazine and flicked some pages and then held a page up. “Maybe something like this.”
Abigail’s eyes widened. “I do not think Papa would approve of such a low neckline.”
“Madam DuBois can modify it.”
“I do not think Papa would approve of red either. That was Mama’s favorite color.”
Mari felt her face turn the color of the dress in question.
How stupid of her to pick that gown out.
Abigail’s mother had questionable virtues at best, and rumor among the ton had spread like fire when Wesley Alton had found her dead at Newburn.
Most of the gossips let it slip the Earl of Sherrington’s wife had been Wesley’s mistress, and they had had a lover’s quarrel.
Still, she had been Abigail’s mother. “It does not have to be red,” Mari said quickly.
“I think maybe a pale golden silk would set off the auburn in your hair.”
“Which, of course, you will wear down with lots of curls,” Maddie added.
“Papa prefers I wear it pulled back.”
Mari almost threw up her hands in frustration.
She understood—sort of—that based on Abigail’s mother’s behavior, the earl probably did not want his daughter looking like a hoyden, but how did Abigail ever expect to attract a husband if she insisted on looking like a matron?
The girl was already two-and-twenty and close to being a spinster.
Mari held in that thought, remembering Jillian’s admonishment to temper her tongue and think before she spoke.
Too bad that never worked when Jamie was around. Mari recalled all too vividly telling Jamie yesterday he would not dare to tickle her. Goodness gracious. What if he actually had put her down on the bed… Her body heated, and she quickly turned her thoughts back to the present.
“Does your father not want you to find a husband?” she asked Abigail.
Before Abigail could answer, Givens appeared in the doorway. “I beg your pardon, but Mr. MacLeod requires an audience.”
Mari frowned. “Since when does either Jamie or Ian ask to come in?”
Givens cleared his throat. “This would be Mr. Shane MacLeod.”
“Lord have mercy. Is there a third MacLeod in London?”
“It would seem so.”
“Very well, show him in then,” Mari said but could have saved her breath. The man was already filling the doorway with his presence.
She heard Abigail draw in a sharp breath and glanced at her, only to find Abigail’s brown eyes round and wide. Well, she couldn’t really blame the girl for being frightened. Shane—she recalled now that he was a cousin—was even bigger than Ian or Jamie, and neither of them was by any means small.
Even though he wore the heavy, cable-knit sweater of a seaman and had a musket strapped to his leg instead of a claymore jutting across his back, there was no mistaking him for anyone but a MacLeod.
His hair was black, not as inky as Ian’s, but darker than Jamie’s, and he had it tied back in a queue with a strip of leather.
His eyes were grey, the color of a stormy sea, and the look he gave each of them was direct.
Mari had a feeling he didn’t miss anything, and if she hadn’t already been accustomed to Ian and Jamie’s formidable countenances she might have been intimidated. No wonder poor Abigail was frightened.
Mari glanced at her again. Strange, though—Abigail did not look scared.
Instead, she looked…fascinated. Her eyes were still wide, but she seemed to be studying Shane as though he were some strange specimen.
Which, in a way, he probably was. Mari just hoped Abigail was not visualizing him as part of Greek art.
“Please have a seat,” Mari said. “Was either Ian or Jamie expecting you? They left no word this morning.”
“Nae,” he said and stayed standing, “but do ye ken when they will return?”
“Very soon, I would think.” Mari smiled. “It is almost tea time, and both of them are quite fond of the cook’s special pastries.”
Shane didn’t return the smile. In fact, he looked quite grim. Mari tried to remember what Jillian had told her about this cousin. Something about owning a shipping line. Maybe having to control unruly sailors—or fight pirates–was what made him look so serious.
“You are welcome to wait,” she said. “If you prefer, Givens can take you to the library.”
“Which of ye is Jillian’s sister?”
“I am. Why?”
His stormy gaze settled on her, and for a moment Mari thought she saw something softer flicker in his eyes and then it was gone. “Ye had best pack a bag, lass. Yer sister had a bad fall—”
Mari jumped up, her hand flying to her mouth. “Is the baby all right?”
“I dinnae ken. The bairn had nae come when I left, but Jillian cut herself on something rusted and lies abed with fever and infection. I have come to fetch ye and Ian.”
“Oh, dear God! Dear God! I—”
“It will be all right,” Maddie soothed as she came to put her arm around Mari. “Come on, I will help you pack.” She turned to Abigail. “Could you show Mr. MacLeod to the library, please?”
“Of course,” Abigail replied, but they were already gone.
Libraries were always a sanctuary for Shane, and the one in the Barclay townhouse was no different.
The mahogany-paneled walls smelled faintly of lemon polish, the gold and deep red of the wood highlighted by the glow of a banked fire in the hearth.
Leather-bound books filled one bookcase, the pleasant scent drifting toward him.
Two comfortable-looking wingback chairs were placed near the fire for light to read by and warmth as well.
Just the kind of place a man could relax with a dram of good Scots whisky.
Only today, that dram would have to wait until he saw Ian.
Shane wanted nothing more than to pace the small space, but the lass with the big, brown eyes and spectacles was still standing in the middle of the room staring at him. For a moment, he wondered if his cloth codpiece was properly buttoned.
“Thank ye for showing me here,” he said. “I will just choose a book and read until Ian returns.”
She didn’t move, but her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Do you like to read?”
Her voice was surprisingly low and melodious.
From her severely pulled-back hair and the drab dress she wore with its high neck and long sleeves, he would have thought her voice to be sharp as an old biddy’s.
“Aye,” Shane said when she showed no signs of leaving.
“I had tutors in Latin and French since my family had hopes I would join the church.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly higher. “The church?”
“Aye,” he said again. “My mother had hopes I would not want to take up arms.” Shane wondered why the lass didn’t laugh or at least smile.
Given his size, most people found it amusing to find he had an education.
But the lass only moved past him toward the shelves of books.
She ran a slender hand across the titles and then pulled one down.
“You might enjoy this then,” she said and handed it to him.
He glanced at it. The Canterbury Tales. Thirty pilgrims making the journey from Southwark to Canterbury, each with a story to tell. Whatever would a London Society lass know of such? “Are ye familiar with Chaucer?”
She blushed. “I like to read.”
“I—” he started to say when he heard heavy boots coming down the hall. Ian and Jamie had returned. He laid the book down as the door burst open.
“We just saw Mari in the hall—” Jamie said, but Ian interrupted.
“How soon can we leave?”
“The tide goes out at dusk. We should be on it.”
“We will be,” Ian answered in a voice that brooked no argument.
With the ensuing turmoil, it was not until later that Shane wondered when Abigail had slipped quietly away.