Rogue of the Isles (2 page)

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.

Chapter Two

Jamie watched Mari’s face pale as she read the news. He sat down quickly beside her should she swoon, although he didn’t think she was really the type to give in to the vapors. But if it gave him an opportunity to hold her again…

Mari took a deep breath and raised her eyes to her aunt. “He’s been loose for two days. How could this have happened?”

Jamie tugged the paper from her clenched hands and skimmed it. “Apparently, the mon had an accomplice. It says here he had a French visitor the day before he made his escape.”

“Do not the guards check visitors for weapons?” Mari asked as she looked at Jamie.

“Aye, I’m sure they do. But the paper says he picked the lock to his cell. Such a slim piece of steel would nae be hard to hide.”

“Why was he allowed a visitor anyway? Wesley was being held for observation. If sane, he will be tried for treason.”

“I dinnae ken, lass. Mayhap a guard was bribed. A gold coin or two could feed a mon’s family for a verra long time.”

“Treason?” Aunt Agnes asked, her pale-blue eyes wide. “I thought he had tried forcing Jillian…well, to have his way with her.”

“He did try, Auntie,” Mari replied, her voice shaky, “but Ian returned in time to stop that.”

“I will be forever grateful that he did,” her aunt said, “but how does that relate to treason? I thought Wesley Alton professed to be a war hero.”

Jamie guffawed. “Aye, the miserable liar did say he helped Wellington secure the bridge at Vitoria, but Alton had been sent away to France by his father for—” He stopped and looked at Mari.

“For having relations with his stepmother,” Mari finished. “Jillian told me.”

Aunt Agnes gasped. “Mercy, child. You simply cannot go around talking about such things in such a bold fashion.”

“Well, that is what happened,” Mari said unapologetically. “Wesley thought Jillian looked like his stepmother too.”

Aunt Agnes reached for her smelling salts.

Jamie refrained from grinning. Mayhap proper London Society would be in for a wee surprise this fall. “Alton took the name Gerard Fontaine and offered to spy for the English, since he was well-accustomed to French ways.”

“And Jillian said—”

“I do not think I care to know any more of what Jillian said,” Aunt Agnes interrupted, managing a stern look at Mari.

“’Twas a wee bit of luck that Ian has two Frenchmen bordering his lands—exiles from the revolution—but with ties to former countrymen,” Jamie continued, “’Twas they who discovered Alton was working for Napoleon and had even helped him escape from Elba.”

“Oh, my.” Aunt Agnes fanned herself furiously. “I had no idea such intrigue was being played out.”

Mari looked at Jamie. “Jillian should know about Wesley escaping.”

“Aye. Chances are the mon caught the first vessel to France, but ’tis better to warn Ian.”

“With Napoleon defeated, would it be safe for Wesley to go back?”

Jamie shrugged. “Safer than to stay here, lass. In France, he’s not a wanted mon. I will speak to Givens about finding someone who can ride north. Snow sets in the passes early in Scotland. The sooner the message is relayed to Ian, the better.” He didn’t even want to think about the blistering he would get from his brother for not being on the estates with this happening, but what choice did he have?

“You are not planning to go yourself?” Mari asked, a little too brightly.

Jamie paused. Was that hope in Mari’s voice that he would go or that he would stay? He was hard-put to decide since her face, usually expressive, remained as impassive as a faro player’s. If she really wished him to go, then that was a direct challenge to convince her she wanted him to stay. He never turned down a challenge.

Jamie gave Mari an easy grin. “Dinnae fash, lass. I will nae leave. How else could I be by yer side, day and night?”

Mari stared at him. “Are you implying you’ll be sleeping in my bed, sirrah?”

His grin widened. “Nae, but if ye wish me to…”

Aunt Agnes made a strangled sound and reached for her salts again.

Whatever possessed me to blurt that out
, Mari thought as Jamie left the parlor in search of Givens. Her dear aunt’s face had turned an unlovely shade of near purple. It would not do to give her an apoplexy because Mari’s tongue ran ahead of her brain. How many times had her aunt—and Jillian—warned her the gentlemen of the
ton
expected charm and decorum from young ladies? Never mind the snippy, snide remarks married women were allowed to make.

She would simply have to stop being so outspoken.

Somehow, though, Jamie MacLeod managed to provoke her at every turn.

What in the world had he meant by staying at her side day and night? She should have realized Jamie had been baiting her—again. Not even a semi-wild rogue from some far north isle inhabited mostly by sheep would presume to bed a virginal innocent—would he? Not that Mari was exactly an innocent. She had allowed a distant cousin to kiss her at a house party last year. That kiss had landed somewhat clumsily only halfway on her lips. Truth be told though, it had left her wondering what all the excitement was about.