Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) (6 page)

Which was made worse by the fact that Strathcairn seemed rather genuinely contrite. “Lady Quince, please accept my most abject apology.”

“Aye. All right.” She nodded herself, and took the moment to pull a lungful of air into her tight chest as they stood there restoring themselves to a pale, wary approximation of their former equanimity.

He shook his head again, as if his brain were still not clear. “I can’t believe I just put my hand upon your wee bre—”
 

“Do not say it.” She crossed her arms over said breasts. “Do not. Or I’ll be tempted to skelp you again. I must not have hit you hard enough the first time.”

“Oh, you did hit me hard enough.” He reached up to test his jaw. “Cracking good skelpit. Knocked some sense into me, you did. And again, I apologize. I’m sorry I thought you capable of such deception.”

There was nothing she could say that would not make her feel the veriest blackguard. The truth was that she had secretly practiced her pugilism, as well as her swordplay, almost as assiduously as she had her deception. They were all necessary skills to the strange, larcenous life she had made for herself.

And the sincerity in his voice placated her more than she liked. She was safer being angry with Strathcairn. Anger might keep her from playing any more stupid tricks on him.
 

Because he was not stupid. Far from it. He was a more than a worthy opponent. If she were not very careful indeed, he could become her nemesis, and then she would be most sorely sorry.
 

She had baited the bull more than enough for one evening.

Quince made her tone more purposefully light and mocking. “If this is what comes of having an excess of scruples, then I am glad to say I haven’t any. At least
I’ve
never assaulted anyone.” She was far more backhanded than that.

Strathcairn continued to weather her scorn like a gentleman—that is to say, with sincere remorse. “I’m heartily ashamed of myself. And which is worse, I know my suspicions are like to cost me your friendship.”

It wasn’t the suspicions, but his way of handling them. “Aye,” she agreed. “Which is really too bad. For I did like you, Strathcairn, in spite of your wretched scruples. But now—” There was really nothing else she could say. Quince took a deep breath to push the nervy tension out of her lungs. It really was tiresome business, this anger. “I liked it so much better when we were sparring along so amicably. It was
fun
.” She had felt alive and happy and thrilled in a way that she only ever felt when she was stealing something, and getting away with it.
 

But that was the crux of it all—their evening and her conflicted feeling toward him—she
had
stolen from him. Strathcairn’s reasons for suspecting her were sound—she would do well to be warier of his cleverness in the future—even if his actions were not. “But even if it was fun, and I did like you, that was not an invitation to put your hand down my bodice.”

He chafed that same hand across his face and into his hair, disrupting the sleek white queue. “Nay. You may be assured that I shan’t do so again.” He took another step backward to emphasize his intentions to keep well away from her.

“I should hope not. Or next time I might not be content to only skelp ye.”

“Nay.” The faintest trace of a smile cobwebbed up the corners of his eyes. “Next time I expect you’ll try to put a bullet in me.”

“I expect I’ll do more than try if you ever try to get handsy with me again.”

“
Handsy
,” he instructed, not unkindly, “is not even a proper word.”

“It is a properly useful, made-up word. Which is why I made it up.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him. “You really are the most extraordinary lass, Quince Winthrop.”

She would not give in to the pleasure of his admiration. She would not. “Oh, don’t you dare pour the butter boat over me now, you dreadful man. I am still properly cross with you.”
 

But it was a lovely feeling—warm and slippery. And dangerous.

Quince had to remind herself she could never be wholly candid, wholly herself, with him. Because she lied and stole just as well, and just as easily, as she danced. And deception of any kind was abhorrent to him.

“More than cross,” she added for emphasis. More to convince herself than him.

He continued to be everything contrite. “As well you should be. You’ve every right.” He heaved a sigh out of his chest. “But no more cross than I am with myself. And I am no closer to finding out who has been stealing people’s valuables.” He looked up at the coffered ceiling for a moment, as if seeking divine guidance. “Do you really think it could be one of the dowagers or maiden aunties?”

“Oh, no. Don’t think just because your suspicions are no longer pointed at me, that I’ll fall in to help you. I am no gossip.” Of her many faults, rumormongering was not one—which was rather unfortunate, since an affinity for gossip was the one fault society favored.

“Nay. I don’t suppose you are. You’re too straightforward.” His smile warmed his eyes to a lovely shade of green that made her think rather absurdly of arbors and quiet, peaceful gardens. “But this kind of opportunistic theft is called the dowager’s vice for a reason. The old ladies, especially those in some financial distress or hardship, are the logical place to look.”

Nay, nay, nay. She spoke before she could think to her own advantage. “I don’t think it would be any of the maiden aunties, honestly.”
 

Oh, holy iced lemonade. Why could she not just shut her mouth and let him chase his tail about the chaperones and companions? Why could she not just let angry tomcats howl? Because.
 

Because it would not have been fair to those poor old ladies. Life was hard enough for them without letting Strathcairn prowl his intimidating way around the poor old tabbies. It would be truly upsetting to ladies like querulous old Miss MacDonald, who worried enough about where her next shillings were coming from without Strathcairn looking over her shoulder counting up her coins.

Nay. Quince needed a plausible alternative—a better form of misdirection. “Why is it called the Dowager’s Vice? Why not the Bachelor’s Vice? Or the Dandy’s Vice? Why must such thefts be motivated by feminine poverty instead of something far more compellingly masculine, like jealousy or greed—which is what leads to most of that feminine poverty in the first place, if you ask me, which you don’t. Why is it less plausible that someone coveted Mr. McElmore’s snuffbox for their own collection? Or was so jealous they wanted to mar the perfection of your absolutely stunning velvet suit?”

“Stunning, is it?”

“Oh, don’t come coy with
me
, Strathcairn. I shan’t give you a polite lie. You’ve both a mirror and valet—you ken you look very well indeed, you great vain popinjay.”

“I think I preferred it when you were politely lying.”

“I don’t lie when the plain truth will do.” Truth was fine, only if it was accompanied by misdirection. “Though I am not so averse to the necessity of lying as you seem to be, poor sad politician that you must be.”

He made a warm sound of amusement, a lovely low rumble from deep in his chest. Which would have been wonderfully gratifying had she not remembered that his amusement was just as perilous, if not more so, than his anger.

“As much as I have enjoyed
some
moments of becoming reacquainted with you, Strathcairn, I do not want to be found locked up in a room with you.”
 

Which was almost a lie. In any other circumstance, he was just the sort of man—the
only
sort of man—she would consider being locked up with. A smart, amusing, attractive, experienced man.

Who spoke before she could go. “I should like to make it up to you—my terrible lapse in judgment.”

Oh, here was the real danger—the rush of pleasure that flowed through her like a floodwater, sweeping all other concerns aside. Especially the concern that she
was
, in fact, a thief. She
had
stolen from him.
 

“Best not, Strathcairn.” She firmed her voice. “Best to go our own separate ways.”

“Which may prove difficult. Edinburgh is not like London—its society is not so large that we’ll be able to avoid each other entirely.”

She would find a way. “Nay. But—”

“It were better if we were allies instead of enemies. And I could very much use a friend.” He took the time to warm the butter boat of his smile for her. “In fact, I could use your help.”

“Help?” This temptation was the most dangerous of all. “I couldn’t possibly help you.”

“Certainly you could. You’re clever, and quick, and you see things others don’t—like Fergus McElmore’s snuffbox hidden on a side table. And you know Edinburgh society in a way that I don’t, having been in London these past five years. You could help me.”

Oh, holy blasted gunpowder. She had never been so torn, so pulled in two entirely different directions. If only he had come home three years ago, before all this—all the stealing and lying and
bamboozling
—had started. If only
she
wasn’t the one he was searching for. If only it wasn’t utterly and hopelessly impossible.

Too impossible for her to resist.

Because she was who she was. And he was here, now, and
interested
. And he was a man, the likes of which she was not like to meet again.

This was the time to take the chance fate had been kind enough to give her.
 

“All right, Strathcairn. I’ll make you a deal.”

Chapter Four

Alasdair was intrigued and tempted, if only for the naughty note of mischief that had crept back into the lass’s voice. But his hard-won habit of prudence warned him to be wary of any proposals, especially when the mercurial Lady Quince was involved.
 

After all, she had just slapped him—skept him damned hard.
 

Not that he hadn’t deserved it. “What sort of deal do you have in mind?”

“Not a deal, per se,” she amended, “but more of a…proposition.”

“Oh, aye?” The fine hair on the back of his nape prickled in awareness. Every instinct he possessed told him the lass might
not
have taken his buttons, but she knew
something
—everything about the lass shouted
knowledge
.

“As you’ve noted, I am clever, and bored. And very, very curious.”

That prickling awareness changed, and spread under his skin like warm honey. “What in particular are you curious about, wee Quince?”

“About…things.” She tipped her head to one side, as if she were just thinking out loud, deciding as she went along. “Life. Courtship. Gentlemen. The reason your face went an alarming shade of red after you put your hand down my bodice.”

Hell. She could not have surprised him any more if she had skelpt him again.

Alasdair gave his cravat a tug to loosen it, and hoped his face wasn’t turning the same alarming shade of red now—steam was all but seeping out from under his collar. But with the mischievous wee Lady Quince, there was no profit in being coy or disingenuous. “Well, as you seem to want to be candid, I’ll tell you the reason my face went such a telling shade of red was that your breasts were magnificent.”

Wee Quince Winthrop’s mouth dropped open in a silent “o” of astonishment. Or pleasure.
 
He could not quite tell.

“Magnificent?” She treated the word with skepticism, as she looked down at the breasts in question. “No one else thinks so.”

Alasdair passed a hand over his eyes, as if the thought pained him. Which it did. “Pray do not tell me their names, or I will be obliged to kill them on the spot. And that would surely ruin my coat.”

She pleated her lips together to subdue her smile. “I know I oughtn’t say so, but it would be lovely if you would kill them, Strathcairn. Run them straight through. I doubt the blood would even show with
that
coat.”

“What a remarkably bloodthirsty lass you are.” He pretended to be aghast. “You oughtn’t know about such things as sword fights and blood stains.”
 

But the truth was that she was
exactly
the sort of lass who would know about swords and dueling and blood stains. He could see her in his mind’s eye, experimenting with cutlasses and rapiers. Attired in alarmingly tight-fitting white breeches.