Mia Marlowe (8 page)

He finally did, but he wasn’t happy about it.

She was dancing around a shaggy-looking fellow with deep auburn hair and a beard and mustache to match. Then she threw herself into his arms and he twirled her about, her skirts billowing.

When they stopped, she palmed his cheeks and kissed him right on the mouth.

“Let me down,” Alex demanded.

The fellows carrying him reluctantly allowed him to clamber down and then lifted the man who’d bowled out the final English batsman for a celebratory lap around the field.

Alex sprinted toward Lucinda and the hairy, unwashed brute who had her complete attention.

Of all the men she might choose to kiss, why this one?

“How long have ye been here at Dalkeith?” she was asking as Alex came alongside her.

“Since a few weeks after Michaelmas,” the man said. “Word came that the English were set on coming to Dalkeith and the steward hired an army of folk to spruce up the place. Been working on the grounds and in the stable ever since.”

“Oh, I’m so glad, Dougal—”

“Wait a moment,” Alex said, positioning himself between Lucinda and the broad-shouldered man. “You know this person?”

Lucinda smiled up at him with deceptive sweetness. “This is my land, Englishman. I know lots of people.”

He grasped her elbow and led her away. “And out of all of them,
this
is the one you choose to squander a kiss on?”

“Is this Sassenach bothering ye, Lucy?” The Scotsman had crowded up behind them and stood with his ham-sized fists at his waist.

“No, Dougal. He’s no’ bothering me. No’ the now, at any rate. I expect that’ll change,” she said with a saucy tilt of her head as she turned back to Alexander. “And that kiss didna really count.”

Irritation stiffened Alex’s spine. The kiss may have been lacking in passion, but it more than made up for it in exuberance. It definitely counted.

The bell in the palace chapel began to chime the hour. “It’s time we were getting in,” he said, determined to spirit Lucinda away from the big Scot. “Dinner is always served at eight. You’ll be expected to dress.”

The Scotsman laughed. “Dinna worry, English. We’re no’ the savages ye think us. No need to tell her to dress for dinner. Me sister willna come to the table in naught but her skin.”

“Sister?” Alex said.

“Aye, Dougal’s my brother.”

Lucinda bade her brother farewell and promised to meet him in the stable on the morrow so they could catch up on each other’s doings properly. Then she turned away without introducing Alexander to him. At the very least, he would have expected she’d tell her brother about their betrothal, but she merely hugged herself against the wind and headed for the grand entrance to Dalkeith Palace.

When Alex fell into step beside her, she lifted a brow at him. “Surely ye didna think I’d throw myself into just anyone’s arms, did ye?”

“Given our brief history, yes.” She’d certainly flung herself into his.

“Careful, milord. If I didna know better, I’d swear ye were a bit jealous.”

“Of your brother?” Alexander snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But ye didna know he was my brother. I saw the red haze in your eyes when ye joined us.”

“I’d just finished a wicked cricket match,” Alex protested. “What you saw was fatigue.”

“Are ye certain sure?”

They passed through the broad doorway into the grand entrance hall that was fitted with enough pale marble to do justice to an emperor’s residence. If the Duke of Buccleuch who owned the place wasn’t careful, George IV would wangle Dalkeith away from him once he saw it next August. The bare alcove at the base of the grand curving staircase was begging for a statue of the English king.

But Alex shoved the king’s visit to the back of his mind for the moment.

“Hang it all, Lucinda, all right. I’ll confess it if you like. I’m frankly surprised that you’d kiss a man, even a relative, in such a public fashion.”

“Oh, is that all?” She laid a slim hand on the smooth railing and perched on the first step so she could look him squarely in the eye. “Then just to put your mind at ease, let me assure ye I’ll no’ be kissing the next two men like that.”

Surprisingly enough, relief swirled in his gut. “That’s good to hear.”

“Since public kissing isna at all the done thing”—she flashed him an impish grin—“I’ll be sure to wait till I’m completely alone with the fellow. Next time.”

Lucinda turned and fairly sprinted up the curving staircase. The look of dumbfounded surprise on Alexander Mallory’s face was so priceless; staying a moment longer would have spoiled the effect.

He
is
jealous.

She hugged the knowledge to her chest as if it were more precious than pearls. If Alexander was jealous of her kisses it meant he had to feel
something
for her. Lucinda was beginning to hope that when she joined her bridegroom at the altar on Christmas morning, he wouldn’t have to be dragged there kicking and screaming.

She hurried back to the room she’d been assigned. It was on the smallish side, almost an alcove off the larger one her two sisters had claimed, but at least she didn’t have to share the space with Great-Aunt Hester. That worthy matron had demanded—and received!—a chamber fit for a dowager empress complete with its own sitting room and separate wardrobe.

Lucinda slipped through her sisters’ room, not at all surprised to find it vacant. Mary had probably gone in search of the renowned library of Dalkeith and Aileen was no doubt in search of any available men with whom she could practice flirting.

Unlike Lucinda’s life at present, everything in her sisters’ chamber was neat and tidy. One of the upstairs maids had unpacked all Aileen and Mary’s belongings and stowed them in the great trunk, capacious wardrobe, and a set of drawers in the tallest chest Lucinda had ever seen.

Lucinda’s small cell was a different story entirely. Several of her gowns were splayed across the foot of the bed, hopelessly rumpled. Every drawer was open, stockings and stays and chemises draping from them. She was certain no lady’s maid had a hand in this mess.

“Brodie MacIver!” she hissed. “Ye’re petulant as a spoiled child. What do ye think ye’ve been doing?”

The ghost appeared hovering over, but not quite resting upon, the striped chintz cushion on the window seat.

Brodie had taken plenty of risks to accompany her to Edinburgh and Dalkeith. His relief at being safe inside the stone edifice where he couldn’t be blown away was palpable. But he didn’t relish being alone in a strange place.

“I canna stay inside with ye all the time,” Lucinda said as she picked up one kid-soled slipper and knelt to peer under the bed in search of its mate. “Unlike some parties to this conversation, I have a life to live.”

“No need to drag me unfortunate deceased state into it, but since ye’ve brought it up, those of us who dinna have a life have precious little to occupy ourselves with. The truth is if ye didna want me to meddle with yer things, ye ought to have stayed inside,”
he said tetchily.
“Bad enough I’ve been dragged hither and yon in a bouncing carriage—and let me tell ye I had no easy time of it crammed in next to yer fulsome auntie—but then once we finally arrive in a civilized location, ye leave me in the palace alone whilst ye trip blithely away to moon over that blasted Englishman and his cricket bat.”

“Lord Bonniebroch is not a blasted Englishman. He’s my betrothed.” Lucinda stowed her reunited slippers in the wardrobe and began to refold her stockings and place them in the lilac sachet-scented drawers. “’Tis no’ considered mooning to admire a man I’ll be marrit to in only a few days.” Remembering the feel of the hard hot length of him sent a delicious tingle to her nether parts. “Besides, ye’d have approved of the way he handled his bat, I’m sure. The lad played for the Scottish team and they won.”

“Hmph.”
Brodie floated up to the heavily beamed ceiling and did a leisurely backstroke across the room.

“Dougal is here,” Lucinda said, trying to change the subject.

“Is he, now?”
Brodie floated down and smoothed out the wrinkles he’d made in her gowns with a blast of his cold, ghostly breath. It was the closest thing to an apology Lucinda was likely to get, but since the pink taffeta was hopelessly rumpled, she’d take it.
“I like yer brother. There’s a young man with a head on his shoulders.”

“And I’d like to see it stay where it is. There’s still a price on Dougal’s head, though I doubt there’s a Scotsman alive who’d turn him in,” she said. “But havin’ to look o’er his shoulder every little whipstitch is no way to live. My brother needs a pardon. My marriage to Lord Bonniebroch will help Dougal.”

Brodie frowned.
“I take yer point. An English brother-in-law might go a long way toward turning the eye of the law aside from any
MacOwen.”

Dougal had been living rough in the Highlands since he’d been outlawed after the failed rebellion. Lucinda almost hadn’t recognized him under that thick mat of hair and full beard. Even so, it was wonderful to finally be with him again, but she worried her lip as another thought struck her.

“There are other places where a wanted man might find work, places where he’d be less likely to run afoul of the authorities,” she said. “Why do ye think Dougal is here at Dalkeith?”

Brodie was uncharacteristically silent for the space of several heartbeats.

Her heart sank to her toes. “Surely Dougal isna so stupid. He wouldna dare try such a thing.”

“That’s no receipt for freedom for anyone.” Lucinda wadded up the rest of her stockings and shoved them into the drawer. “’Tis a fool’s errand. The English king will be guarded constantly.”

“That’s true.”
Brodie settled on the canopy above the bed, but since his incorporeal form had no weight, the damask didn’t bow so much as an inch.
“But a trusted groundskeeper or handy groom stands a better chance than most of getting close to His Royal Majesty.”

“’Tis madness.” She forgot all about righting her disheveled room and paced furiously instead. “No weapons are allowed in Dalkeith. Even my baggage was searched when we arrived.”

Lucinda stopped her ears with both hands. “No. He canna be plotting any such thing. Besides, even if Dougal were able to get close enough to strike down George IV, he’d never live to tell the tale.”

“Living to tell it might not be Dougal’s plan. There’d be plenty o’ others who’d tell it though. Yer brother would be famous from one end of Scotland to the other,”
Brodie mused.
“Besides, take it from one who knows. There’s worse things than dyin’.”

Lucinda looked up sharply at that, but Brodie had floated over to the window. The ghost complained often enough about being trapped between this world and the next, but he’d never shared why he’d been unable to find his eternal rest. All she knew was that it was someone named Cormag MacGregor’s fault.

“Let’s no’ borrow trouble before there’s need,”
Brodie said.
“Yer brother may have no such ill-conceived thoughts in his head. And I’ll no’ fret ye any more about yer confounded marriage since it seems there’s no help for it. But if that cursed Englishman gives ye a moment’s grief—”

“He won’t,” Lucinda said, thankful that the subject had been changed from regicide. “In fact, Lord Alexander has been a most amiable and liberal fiancé. He’s even agreed that I may kiss three men before our wedding.”

Brodie’s feet levitated and he stretched out, head propped on his palm, as if he were reclining on the fainting couch in the corner, except that he was floating about four feet above it.

Lucinda hadn’t considered that. There were any number of women at Dalkeith who’d jump at the chance to let Alexander Mallory kiss them.

And probably a good bit more.

Lucinda’s chest ached at the thought.

Brodie shot up in a sudden burst of white light and disappeared through the ceiling before she could order him not to tail Alexander.

Actually, she wasn’t sure she’d give that order if it meant Brodie might keep her intended from dallying with other women.

But faithfulness that’s forced wasn’t really faithfulness, was it?

Lucinda breathed a sigh. It was the ghost, she decided, who had her all jumbled up inside. Brodie was not a restful spirit to have hovering about all the time. But just when she was ready to relax into truly being alone, he poked only his head back through the ceiling near one of the thick, blackened beams.

“I forgot to tell ye, lass. I felt another presence in Dalkeith Palace before ye returned to yer chamber. Seems I’m no’ the only soul here who doesna have a life to live. Consider yerself forewarned. I didna wish ye to be surprised should the poor blighter
try
to speak to ye.”

Then Brodie’s disembodied head popped back through the ceiling. Lucinda sank onto the foot of the bed.

“Isn’t that just what I need?” she said ruefully. “Another ghost!”

 

 

Alex waited until Lucinda disappeared around the curve of the staircase before he stomped up behind her. Who’d have guessed the girl was such an incorrigible flirt?

“Outstanding, Mallory,” he muttered to himself. “Not only do you have a fiancée you didn’t want in the first place, you’re likely to be cuckolded before you’re dragged to the altar.”

The guests at Dalkeith had all been assigned rooms along a corridor that ran straight as a plumb line for more than the length of a cricket pitch. Since each door was marked with a placard indicating the occupant, he strode along the hallway looking for his name. Finally he found one whose small card beside the door had “Lord Alexander Mallory” worked in beautiful script on it. This designation had been crossed out and “Lord Bonniebroch” was scrawled under it in a much coarser hand.

He pushed open the door and entered a surprisingly well-appointed chamber. The walls were paneled in dark oak and the six-point buck mounted over the stone fireplace lent a distinctly masculine air to the space. The bed curtains and linens had been freshly aired and the multi-paned windows looked out onto the broad lawn where Alex had lately led his cricket team to victory.

His foul temper improved slightly.

The valet who’d been assigned to him had already laid out his evening clothes in a neat row across the end of the bed. His trousers and jacket had been freshly brushed. His cravat was crisp and white and looked to have just the right amount of starch in it.

Water had been drawn in a great copper hip bath and when he tested it with his hand, it was still warm. A full kettle rested on the fireplace hearth so he’d have plenty more hot water when he needed it.

Alex crossed over to the pitcher and basin that rested on a walnut commode beneath a large mirror. He frowned at the dark beard shadow on his cheeks, splashed water on his face, and wondered if he had time for a shave before he dressed for dinner. The valet had laid out his shaving accoutrements on the commode.

“At least the Scots have servants who seem to know their business,” he grumbled.

“Indeed, milord, we know a good deal more than that, which a body might learn if any took the trouble to listen to us.”

A light flashed in the corner of his eye and Alex looked up sharply at his reflection in the mirror. There was an elderly gentleman standing behind him.

The fellow’s beard and mustache were neatly trimmed, but the gold earring in the flange of one ear gave him the aspect of an old pirate. Brows like a pair of runaway scrub brushes hung above dark, piercing eyes. The man doffed a tam that was hopelessly out of fashion. The scant hair on his head had been scraped back into a neat queue. He was a little bird of a man, small-boned and sharp-featured, but he carried himself with exaggerated dignity that made him seem more substantial. The fellow flipped his hat with a flourish, and sketched an elaborate bow that belonged to another century entirely.

In fact everything about the man harked back to an older time, from the frilly lace at his cuffs to the vibrant plaid of his outlawed kilt.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Alex asked. The fellow was soft-footed as a cat. He hadn’t heard a single footfall.

“Callum Farquhar, Esquire, at yer service, milord.” His low Scottish burr was just on the edge of sound.

One of the Dalkeith servants.
If this was the valet who’d laid out Alexander’s things, he’d come in handy indeed. “Very well, Mr. Farquhar, you’re just in time to give me a shave.”

Farquhar drew himself up to his full, if unimpressive, height.

“Oh, no, milord. T’wouldn’t be seemly. Ye see, word reached us that the new laird of Bonniebroch was come to Dalkeith so I took the liberty of hieing meself here to present meself to ye before ye take possession of yer estate.” He puffed out his chest like a wren fluffing its feathers against the cold. “I am not attached to Dalkeith, ye see. I have the honor of being the steward of Bonniebroch and have been for many, many years.”