Chapter Seven #2
“Were you in the coach with your parents?” he asked instead, bending his head to listen to her reply. The feather in her bonnet tickled his nose and he tried not to sneeze.
“No. They were visiting friends, and my brother and I were at home. Mortimer was eight years old, so I took over his care.”
Her voice wobbled a little, and suddenly he longed to wrap his arms about her and hold her fast. To comfort her. But she recovered herself quickly, and he knew better than to persist with questions that she found distressing.
“Perhaps we should speak about your stay in London,” she said briskly in her teaching voice. “I want you to wax lyrical about the sights, MacKenzie. Pretend I am a possible wife and impress me.”
Callum smiled, but the trouble was he did not have to pretend. He wasn’t such a fool as to tell her so, but knowing how he felt confused him and worried him a little.
Wax lyrical . . .?
He did his best. As yet, he had not seen many of the popular sights, but he spoke of the ones he would like to see. He was in the middle of a possible visit to the Tower of London, when a shout interrupted him.
“Damn it,” Penelope murmured irritably.
Selina, who had been trailing behind with Angus, came to stand beside her to form a battle line. “What is he doing here?” she said. Then, “He doesn’t look happy.”
Penelope’s fingers tightened on Callum’s arm and he covered her hand with his. Her gaze was fixed on the young man who was approaching them. A portly older gentleman was some steps behind, red-faced as he hurried to keep up with his companion.
“You are about to meet my brother Mortimer,” Penelope said reluctantly. “And my Uncle Bertie.”
Callum could see the resemblance between the younger man and his sister—they both had the same fair hair and slight stature—although Mortimer’s face wore an angry scowl.
Bertie was in a checked coat, and his grey hair looked as if it had been caught in a gale.
His cravat was crooked and his boots too big.
Compared to Mortimer’s neat outfit, Bertie could have dressed in the dark.
Was that how some people thought of him? He could comfort himself that at least today he was well turned out.
Without greeting his sister, Mortimer burst into furious recriminations. “Did you really think we would leave things as they were yesterday? If you refuse to help, then how can Uncle Bertie and I carry on with our work? We are at a crucial point! Surely you can see how selfish you are being, Pen?”
“Mortimer,” Penelope sounded weary. She glanced about her and lowered her voice. “I beg you will not do this here. We can speak later.” She glanced up at Callum. “At the moment, I have a guest with me.”
Mortimer seemed to see Callum for the first time. Angus glared at the boy, attempting to intimidate him, and Callum gave him a warning nudge with his elbow.
“Good God, are you taking on barbarians as clients now?” Mortimer burst out, and then he gave a sneering sort of snigger.
Callum wondered whether he was hearing things. Apart from the insult to himself, he knew if he spoke to his sister like that, she would hit him over the head with one of the medieval shields that hung in the banqueting hall at Bonnyrigg. And he would deserve it.
“Are you casting aspersions on the Marquess of Morven, you wee numbskull?” Angus growled at his side, sounding like a dog about to slip its leash.
Mortimer seemed to hesitate, as well he might, then chose to ignore Angus and turned back to his sister.
“Uncle Bertie and I need to finish our work. What are we supposed to do now?” He sighed as if the world was against him.
“I do wish you would stop this nonsense, Pen. It is degrading. At least when you were with Lord Muir, we were guaranteed financial security. He looked after you! Us! I really wish you would reconsider your future before it is too late and you are too old to attract another protector.”
Callum momentarily froze. He heard Selina give a gasp, and Angus another growl. Penelope had lost all the color from her face, and when she finally answered, her voice was low and shaky.
“Enough, Mortimer. I said what I had to say yesterday. I cannot help you any further with your ridiculous schemes and you should not ask it of me. As for the rest . . . if I thought you meant what you said, offering me to the highest bidder, I would no longer want you for my brother.”
In contrast to his sister, Mortimer’s face flushed red.
With embarrassment or rage? Callum thought it might be a combination of both.
“I am only speaking the truth. Everything was so much better before you decided to pretend to be respectable. No one cares, Pen! You will never be invited back to those proper houses, and why would you want to be? Boring dinner parties and balls with boring people!”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she began, and Callum could feel her shaking through the hand that still grasped his arm.
This appalling scene had to stop. He could see they had attracted a great deal of attention already. “Go away,” he said, seething but still trying to be the polite gentleman Penelope wanted him to be. “You have said more than enough, you wee gowk.”
Mortimer shot him a savage look, although Callum suspected his bravery was a facade to hide his fear. “Let her go, you damned brute!” he said with gritted teeth and tried to release Penelope’s hand from Callum’s arm. “Leave my sister alone!”
It was too much.
Callum struck the boy square on his chin and Mortimer went down.