Rogue of the Isles (3 page)

Mari felt her face heat as she recalled how her body had reacted to Jamie’s touch in the carriage. And when he’d mentioned kissing her, why had her insides gone all soft, mushy and warm?

Pushing the thought from her mind, Mari refocused on what Jamie had just said. Did he intend to be her escort to every invitation she received? That would not do. Mari’s intent was to find a suitable husband—someone genteel and sophisticated who could smoothly host a
soiree
in Town or a weekend house party in the country. Someone not given to solving problems with his fists or other violence. Certainly not someone who carried a knife in his boot and another on his belt and preferred to have a huge claymore strapped to his back. Would the man sleep with those weapons on his wedding night?

Good heavens. Where had that thought come from? Jamie MacLeod was the most unsuitable man she could ever consider—unpredictable, opinionated, obstinate—

“Your houseguest seems to be somewhat presumptive,” Aunt Agnes said, interrupting Mari’s thoughts.

An understatement if she’d ever heard one. “Auntie, I do not think it wise to allow Mr. MacLeod to stay under our roof. I would not want to create a scandal.”

“Ordinarily, I would agree with you, Marissa. However, we do not know the whereabouts of Mr. Alton nor the state of his mind. Given the circumstances, it would be better to be safe than sorry. I doubt either Givens or Dobbs has ever handled a gun, let alone used one.”

Just give Jamie a little time
, Mari thought grimly. He’d probably have both of them in the courtyard sparring with the footmen. This was probably not the best idea to share right now. “Mr. MacLeod fights with a huge sword,” she said. “We can hardly allow him to wander about London’s streets brandishing
that
.”

Her aunt smiled for the first time since Mari had arrived. “My dear, I have a feeling Mr. MacLeod is just as adroit with a pistol or his hands, for that matter.”

A host of butterflies Mari hadn’t known to be roosting in her stomach suddenly fluttered to life as she recalled Jamie’s hands—around her waist, on her shoulders, holding her tight against him in the carriage… Merciful heavens. What was wrong with her? She needed to stop thinking about Jamie MacLeod.

“Besides,” her aunt continued, “he is the brother of the Earl of Cantford
and
the brother-in-law of the Marchioness of Newburn. I doubt the
ton
would dare look down their collective noses, considering the relationships.”

Her aunt was probably right. The
ton
revered titles above all else. The bright side was all the matrons would know Jamie’s ties too, which meant they would practically hurl their eligible daughters at him.

Mari smiled. Jamie would be too busy dealing with determined mamas at the balls and parties to pay much attention to her.

Which was exactly the way she wanted it.

“I am so glad to see you.” Madeline Winslow threw her arms around Mari in the foyer two mornings later, dancing a happy jig with her.

“I am glad you are here, Maddie,” Mari replied, dragging her friend into the drawing room. “I want to hear all the news.”

“Of course, but first tell me who was that devilishly handsome man leaving your house as I was coming up the stairs? At this early hour, his departure really could be quite scandalous if any of the gossips saw him—your aunt is here to chaperone, I presume? I would not—”

“Stop, Maddie.” Mari held up her hand, smiling at her friend’s non-stop questions. “He is Ian’s brother. And devil is a good description. He enjoys tormenting me.”

“
Ooooh
. You are so lucky, having someone like that in the family.” Maddie’s green eyes sparkled with mischief. “He does have a dangerous look with those golden, wolfish eyes and that long, dark hair, but it is quite alluring. Violetta and Amelia will be so jealous of you at the first party Friday.”

“This Friday?”

“Yes, Lady Tindale is having a
soiree
as a sort of ice-breaker for the Little Season. The invitation came a few days ago.”

“I have not received one.”

“Oh, I am sure you will, once Lady Tindale knows you are in Town. Have you left calling cards yet?”

“I wanted to, but Jamie insisted on accompanying me. I tried to explain that was not how it is done. I told him a lady makes morning rounds simply to leave her card with the butler, not actually expecting to see the person in question. He snorted at that, calling it a waste of good time. I tried telling him—with
extreme
patience—the card was merely a way of letting friends know I would be receiving.” Jamie had given her a strange look and asked what she expected to receive, if she wanted something he could go get it for her. Mari had summoned a last shred of patience from somewhere and told him
receiving
was a custom to which one must strictly adhere, and that she would be perfectly safe with the driver and Effie.

Jamie’s jaw had squared in a way Mari was finding all too familiar. Either he accompanied her, or she did not go.

“So I sent Dobbs around in my place,” Mari finished.

“Oh.” Maddie frowned slightly and then smiled. “I am sure no one will take that as a slight. It does take several days to adjust to Town’s schedule.”

“I hope everyone understands,” Mari said. The
ton
was not exactly known to be benevolent, especially when it came to courtesies. She simply had to make contact personally. Hmmm. Jamie had gone to talk with the man Givens had found to ride north. She tilted her head and studied Maddie.

Her friend smiled. “What is it? Your face tells me you are up to something.”

“Is your driver still here?” Mari asked.

“Yes. He is probably in the kitchen with Effie and my maid enjoying a spot of tea. Why?”

“I could use a new bonnet,” Mari replied. “The shops should be opening. Do you want to go?”

“Oh, yes. It has been ages since I have shopped.” Maddie stood. “I will just gather the maids and have the driver bring the carriage around.”

Mari smiled as she went to get her wrap. A leisurely stroll along Bond Street would be just the thing to let everyone know she was in Town, just in case her calling cards had been misplaced. She really would hate to miss Lady Tindale’s party.

“What do you mean, the lass went shopping?” Jamie had gotten no farther than the foyer before he sensed Mari was not here. He scowled at Givens who blanched but managed not to retreat. “Did ye nae remember me saying the lass should nae go out without me?”

The butler adjusted his jacket, lifted his chin and stared at a space past Jamie’s shoulder. “Miss Barclay and Miss Winslow decided they needed new bonnets, sir. Their maids accompanied them.”

“Mrs. Stokely gave them permission to go?” Jamie thought Mari’s aunt had more sense than that. After all, she was the one who suggested he stay here.

Givens’s gaze faltered. “Mrs. Stokely had business to attend to at the boarding house this morning.”

Jamie groaned. Fine protection two unarmed maids would make. Did the wee vixen not understand the danger that lurked in this sooty city? Apart from not knowing where Alton was hiding, London was filled with street ruffians, petty thieves and swindling scoundrels, not to mention the barmy scum who lurked around the docks.

Jamie hated the docks. His cousin, Shane, owned a shipping line. Jamie had worked as crew enough times to know what drunken sailors on shore leave looked for. True, there were doxies to be had, but abducting aristocratic ladies for ransom was a lucrative income, especially if the ship’s captain was a blackguard himself and shared the profits.

Jamie would never forget trying to rescue a lady from a dozen thugs right here in London nearly six years ago. Shane had found him unconscious in an alley the next morning. The girl had disappeared.

Those ladies did nae return to their families as innocents.

Bloody Hell—an English term that Jamie had grown quite fond of—Mari Barclay was going to cause him grey hairs before his time. Jamie rubbed his temples, feeling the beginning of a nagging headache coming on. Or maybe it was a nagging thought about the little vixen he was supposed to protect.

Jamie retrieved his claymore from behind the coat rack and strapped it to his back as Givens’s eyes widened to saucers. Checking to make sure he had both his
sgian dubh
in his boot and a dirk in his belt, Jamie turned and stormed out the door.

Wesley Alton stepped back into the shadows of a shop entryway, hardly able to believe his luck. Marissa Barclay strolled with a friend not half a block away. He had not expected her in Town until after Christmas, but he could move his plans up easily enough. Wesley had already dispensed a missive to his son in France, whom he’d always thought a rather unfortunate accident. He’d sired his bastard son shortly after he’d been sent to the continent at the tender age of fourteen years by his cold-hearted, sadistic father. The boy was seventeen now—or perhaps eighteen—Wesley hadn’t really kept up with Nicholas or Richard, another brat spawned before Wesley had learned about using lambskins to keep from having by-blows.

He scratched the beard he’d grown and adjusted the fake spectacles. He hated both as much as he hated powdering his hair and letting it grow to an unfashionable length. Wesley smiled bitterly. The last thing he needed to worry about was fashion since he could hardly make an appearance at White’s or Brooke’s or any of the social events, for that matter. At least not until the furor about his escape died down. For now, he would have to live in second-rate establishments near the docks on London’s east side.

If his plan worked, he’d be a wealthy landowner in France within a few months. All Nicholas had to do was court Marissa Barclay, set her up in a compromising position and then demand a large dowry for accepting spoiled goods. Once they had the money, Wesley and Nicholas would be gone, leaving the chit standing at the altar.

If that didn’t work, abduction for ransom was always an option. His accomplices, Louis and Jean, could handle that without exposing him.

The Cantford and Newburn estates were worth a great deal of money. He had no doubt the damned Highlander would pay either the dowry or the ransom. No doubt at all.

Maybe he could arrange for both.

Wesley stepped out of the dim entry, adjusted the frayed collar on his worn top coat and followed discreetly behind the two unsuspecting girls.

Chapter Three

“Perhaps we should have brought one of the footmen along,” Maddie remarked to Mari as they exited a third milliner’s shop with several packages of ribbons, lace and bows. “I do not think our maids can carry any more.”

Mari glanced over her shoulder to see Effie glaring at her in a definitely unservant-like manner. Although both maids carried hatboxes containing the bonnets just purchased, none of them was heavy. Of course, that was not the real reason Effie was glowering. She had been mumbling dire words of warning ever since they left about what would happen when Jamie MacLeod found out they’d gone shopping.

Mari gave her a bright smile, refusing to let her maid’s sour mood spoil hers. Jamie had business to attend to, and they would be home long before he returned. The day was too nice to be dismal. The London sky was a rare blue, with only fluffy white clouds dimming the sunshine. The brisk breeze held a hint of early winter looming, but it also cut the soot in the air. All in all, a perfect day to be out and about as was evidenced by the number of ladies
already strolling the street. It never hurt to see and be seen.

“Oooh. Look. A new modiste shop.” Mari pointed across the street. “I would love to have a new gown for that special dance at Almack’s next month.”

“Let us hope we get invitations,” Maddie answered. “The patronesses have not yet issued vouchers for the regular Season.”

“Oh, posh. Why would we not receive invitations? Jillian assured me she had the ear of Lady Jersey, and your papa is a baron.”

“The patronesses pride themselves on not bowing to pressure or titles,” Maddie replied. “I heard the Duke of Wellington was actually turned away once when he arrived a few minutes late for supper wearing trousers rather than breeches.”

Mari felt her eyes round. “The duke? He defeated Napoleon.”

“My point exactly,” Maddie said. “One of the rules is that the doors close promptly at eleven o’clock in the evening and no one—not even a duke—is an exception.”

Mari shrugged. “We must make certain, then, that we follow all of Society’s rules.”

“Hmmph,” Effie muttered from behind her. “Having a proper escort might be a good start.”

“Oh, Effie. It is broad daylight on a safe street with shoppers about. What could possibly happen?

“Hmmph,” Effie said again.

Mari ignored the grumpiness as she pushed open the door to the dress shop. “You worry too much.”

“
Mademoiselles. Bienvenue
.” A petite Frenchwoman came forward to meet them. “I am Madam Dubois. How may I be of service?”

“I would like to see some material for a ball gown,” Mari said, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. “Silk, I think.”

“But of course. I have the perfect color for you.” The woman turned gracefully, almost seeming to glide across the floor to a corner area. She took a bolt from the shelf and slipped a piece of the cloth over her arm. “This would go splendidly with your eyes.”