What Happens in Scotland (19 page)

His eyes seemed an open, desperate question. “Would being married to me really be such a bad thing?”

“I—” She stopped, not knowing how to answer. Her fear of losing control of her life inched higher, and sneered down at her inexplicable attraction for this man. “I don’t want to be married at all,” she told him. “Whether or not it is to you is not the point.”

He stepped closer. “You said something about that last night. That you did not like marriage.”

Georgette could not remember what she had told him, but there was no denying his words parroted her own thoughts. “I did not find marriage to be a pleasurable institution,” she told him primly. “My first husband was . . . a disappointment.”

“You did not seem to mind
my
kiss.”

She swallowed, and her chin inched up a notch. “You pointed out I was not in my right head last night.”

“I was talking about the kiss this afternoon.” His eyes lowered to her mouth. Heat flamed through her, the same heat that had exploded when he had kissed her so expertly but an hour ago. Her lips tingled, as if they had been trained to want his touch.

She licked them uncertainly. “We do not need to be married to kiss.” Her heart pumped far too loudly in her ears.

“I am glad to hear you say that,” he told her, his mouth slanting down toward hers. “Because I want nothing more than to kiss you again.”

Chapter 21

“N
O.”

James stopped cold, even before she put a hand between them, her fingers pressing into his chest in warning. The word that fell from her lips, deceptively soft, was the nearest thing to a knife for severing his body’s enthusiastic charge.

“We shall not repeat that mistake,” she told him, the flicker of her eyes belying her composure. “It is not wise to keep . . .
exploring
such paths when I have no intention of finishing the route.”

James jerked back. He had been halfway to her mouth, despite the fact there were probably half a dozen of Moraig’s curious citizens within a stone’s throw of seeing them. He noticed she did not say she lacked the
ability
to explore the road he had been about to take them down. She was reminding him this was her choice, and it did not matter if he was inclined to see where this might lead.

He could not fault her thinking. If they were seen kissing on a public street, they would have even fewer options to extricate themselves. And if she let him have a kiss, he was going to want more, given the way his body announced its own intentions every time he stepped near her.

James could not even justify his own wants here. A marriage like this, to someone he barely knew, would do little to build a case for his father’s approval. Worse, he was scraping and saving every penny, trying to finance his future. He couldn’t
afford
a wife, especially not one whose fine clothes and manners suggested her tastes ran toward expensive trinkets. She was doing him a favor, really, by rejecting him.

Curious how his arguments sounded the weakest sort of defense, even to his practiced ears.

He stepped back a half foot, renewing his grip on Caesar’s reins. “You might consider drawing me a map, Georgette.” His chest felt thick with regret. “I get bloody lost every time I look at you.”

She did not answer. Instead, her head jerked somewhere to the right, and after a moment’s confusion, he saw what had claimed her attention. Through the sounds of Bealltainn celebrations up and down Main Street, he sensed someone was bearing down on them. Caesar sawed on the bit and danced at the person’s approach, and James placed a calming hand on the horse’s neck.

He did not recognize the man who emerged from the smoke of the town’s bonfire, which had just been lit to much clapping and whistles. It was not William, or David Cameron, or any other number of Moraig’s townsfolk who might object to their proximity to each other.

And so, James did not step away from her. If anything, he stepped closer.

The man stalked toward them, his face an angry mask. As he drew closer, James could see he was young, probably in his twenties, with hair of a similar color to Georgette’s. With his striped waistcoat and polished boots, he appeared to be a gentleman, although the image was somewhat farcical given that the glasses on his nose were twisted at an off angle and a blood-soaked bandage was tied around one hand.

Georgette’s hand touched her throat once, hovering over the little space where sound was formed. “I . . .” She breathed in deeply, as if for courage. “James, this is Mr. Burton.” Her voice sounded very small.

“Her cousin,” the man spat out. “I have been looking for her everywhere, and then when I do finally find her, it is in clearly questionable company.” Burton took a menacing step closer, and James could see the resemblance now. Beyond the fact they both had pale yellow hair, their eyes were the same unsettling shade of gray.

James shifted uneasily. She had not mentioned having family close by. A warning began to rattle about in his head.

“I am disappointed in you, Georgette,” Burton went on, his words a caustic blur. “You are well and truly ruined now, when if you had simply done as I instructed we could have cleaned this up quietly.”

James honed in on the man’s spoken words. The man was no gentleman, not to speak to her in such a way. This was a discussion meant for private ears, not a spittle-drenched accusation on a crowded street. He wanted to smash his fist into Burton’s thin nose. And moreover, he wanted to nudge Georgette, to see what she had done with the woman who had rejected him so unswervingly just moments before. Why was she standing there, dumb and mute, that wicked tongue so silent? It was not lost on him that he once had spoken that way to her himself, when he thought she had been a thief. She had shown far more spirit then. But she had
known
she was not a thief.

Did she truly believe she was ruined, or that she deserved this fop’s scorn?

She had claimed a man was threatening her, and here one was, in the flesh. The pieces of evidence began rubbing up against each other, blending into an irrefutable pattern. Was this the man who had tried to force her to marry him? The thought crawled down his throat and sat inside him, threatening to explode.

“You did not let the lady finish.” James’s muscles were already coiling up, ready for use. “My name is James MacKenzie. Her
husband
.”

Burton’s attention shifted to him then. “One picks up a lot of information, following people about and keeping to the shadows. Seems to me the lady still thinks that is a matter of debate.”

The suggestion that the man had been following—nay,
stalking
—them sent James’s blood boiling. “That is a private matter.”

“
Private?
” Burton shook his head. “I think not. This is nothing that simple. She had an agreement with me, sir, made before she met you. A betrothal. You do not have a claim here.”

“The lady is mine,” James replied firmly. Georgette’s stated intentions rattled about in his head, but he ignored them for the moment. This man was a more immediate threat than her desire to end the marriage, and he would not leave Georgette to deal with this man alone. “We are married,” he growled to Burton. “Doubt it at your own peril.”

“James,” Georgette hissed at him. “It may not be for long.”

Now,
now
she found her voice? No doubt she intended to remind him he did not need to fight on her behalf. James focused on the fact that he needed to disarm this threat permanently, before he no longer had a right to help her.

“So, you see how she changes her mind,” Burton sneered. “She cannot be trusted.” He waved his bandaged hand around like a weapon. “She left a vicious dog to attack me in my own house. There’s no telling what she’ll do to you. Why, look at the bloody gash on your head. I hear she’s already tried to kill you once.”

Memory prodded at James, fully intact and demanding attention. Someone
had
tried to kill him today, and not just with a chamber pot. He hesitated, turning over the events of the afternoon in his mind. Did he trust her fully? She had proven she wasn’t a thief, and Caesar was safely in hand. But who was to say she wasn’t plotting something more nefarious, possibly in conjunction with the man in front of them?

But as quickly as the uncertainty flashed in his mind, it was extinguished by the grim fear he saw on her face. Either she was the most accomplished actress to ever grace Moraig’s dusty streets, or this man made her uneasy. There was no time to juggle doubt. He must rely on his instincts, muddled as they were.

And his instincts told him she was in danger.

He took up her hand and addressed Georgette’s cousin as he would a courtroom adversary, all bristling threat and bald facts. “If I ever hear you speak to my wife that way again, Mr. Burton, you will find yourself in the infirmary with more than a bandaged hand for your trouble.”

A bark of incredulous laughter escaped the man. “I’ve heard about you, MacKenzie. The whole town talks about you, behind your back. You are nothing but a wastrel second son, a disgrace to your father.”

James lost control of his feet then. He leaped forward, his body vibrating with suppressed violence. Georgette’s hand jerked in his, a warning not to hurt her cousin. That she thought him capable of it was telling. He
was
capable of it, had proved it in his past. He drew a deep breath and fought for the presence of mind to remain civil. He wanted to kill the man, of course. But he did not want Georgette to see that side of him.

His hesitance seemed to embolden Burton. The man tugged at his waistcoat, like a great, preening fowl who had escaped the butcher’s knife. “Perhaps I no longer want her as a wife. Perhaps there’s a better way.” His eyes narrowed. “Seems like the two of you may not be in agreement on this little matter of whether or not you are married. When I tell your family what you’ve done, they’ll pay to keep this quiet.”

The threat snapped the last of James’s restraint. He jerked away from Georgette’s grip and rounded on the man. Burton showed some meager slice of intelligence then, taking two steps back in rapid succession, his feet scraping on dirt and stone.

Faster than a rabbit, and before James could even lift a fist, the man was gone, dashing off into the Bealltainn crowd.

And James was left with his fists curled and a lifetime of frustration held barely in check.

G
EORGETTE COULD SCARCELY
believe the man who had just confronted them was the same man who had invited her here on holiday.

It was as if he had become someone else entirely.

“Pray do not listen to my cousin,” she told James wearily. “He . . . he wanted to marry me, and I told him I would not. It has made him come unhinged, I think.”

“Unhinged. That is one way to describe it.”

Georgette winced. Because of her, James had just been threatened. How had she thought Randolph was someone she could trust, someone who was looking out for her best interests? The isolation of the estate he had chosen for his summer residency seemed more ominous now. Had he plotted this, even as she had mourned the death of her first husband?

“Last night, you mentioned someone was trying to force you to marry against your will.” He regarded her as he might a courtroom dilemma, hard eyes and flexing fingers. “Is it safe to presume that person is your cousin, or must we sniff out the handful of other fiancés you have lurking about?”

She gave him a sharp glance. “Randolph Burton is not, and has
never
been my fiancé. I believe he meant to force the issue last night. I must have escaped, somehow.”

His expression softened. “I suppose that fits. You were frightened of
someone
last night. Do you have any idea why he would try to do such a thing?”

Georgette shook her head. No matter how she tried, she could not conjure that piece of the puzzle. Randolph’s motives escaped her. She could guess at a financial cause, perhaps. He did not strike her as harboring a mad passion for her, not when he spoke to her so.

“He has threatened to go to my family,” James said, his voice hard.

“We must explain our circumstances to them. There will be no need for—”

“ ’Tis not so simple, Georgette.” His words were issued quietly, but they fell with barbed points. “My father will believe him over me.”

She sucked in a breath. That anyone would believe a ranting near-lunatic like Randolph over someone as steady as this man before her seemed the height of absurdity. She reached out a hand and placed it on his arm. It felt like the trunk of a tree beneath her fingers, rough bark and solid strength. He had been about to tear her cousin’s limbs apart. A glad little hitch settled in her chest. In her entire life, she had never been treated as if she was someone worth fighting for.

This man did. And she did not even belong to him. Or at least, she would not for long.

“Randolph is nothing but a poor scholar, bent on securing his future through theft or force,” she told him. “Surely your family will see that and turn him away from an audience.”

“I doubt Mr. Burton will present anything close to such an incoherent argument when he speaks with my father,” James responded. “You said he was a scholar. Of which sort?”

“Botany. Plants and such. I should have known he wasn’t stable from the moment I arrived.” She could pinch herself now, for being so naïve and staying there without a female escort. “He walks about brandishing his pruning shears as if they were a weapon, muttering Latin names to himself.”

James released a long, drawn-out breath. “That is the very sort of thing that may
gain
your cousin an audience.” He looked away from her, toward the bonfire. “Instability, after all, is the mark of an excellent scholar.”

Georgette followed his gaze. She could see the glow of the town fire as it gained strength, a block or so away. A shower of sparks rose toward the evening sun like a phoenix, and she waited for him to be ready, to explain the jumble of confused thoughts in her head.

“My father was once a scholar, of early Roman culture.” James shifted beside her, one foot to another. “He studied at Edinburgh as a young man, and we lived near Moraig, excavating Caledonian artifacts for the British Museum.”

“Is your father unstable?” Georgette asked in confusion.

He offered her a sad smile. “No, my father was not an excellent scholar. Merely a middling one, but it made him happy, and it provided for our family. The title was not supposed to fall to him, it came only through a quirk of fate. Happened when I was eighteen or so. The moment he became earl, my father’s expectations for me changed, and I have given him nothing but disappointment.” He shook his head. “He has paid to silence my naysayers on more than one occasion. He will presume this is yet another thing he must fix.”

Georgette stewed over that a moment. She recalled the past tragedy Elsie had hinted at this afternoon. “Was this . . .
is
this about the rector’s daughter?”

His face twisted in surprise. “How do you know about that?” His hand lifted. “Never mind. The people in this town have a fearsome memory.”

She slid her hand down his newly tensed arm, realizing she had fallen into James’s own pattern of touching. It seemed natural, somehow. “Elsie mentioned something about it, that you claimed her child was yours.”

He laughed, the sound humorless. “I told her father it was mine, at any rate. She was terrified of the man, and all too willing to let me shoulder the blame. I was twenty-one, fresh out of Cambridge. I was head over heels for her, thinking I had a chance to win her heart by proving myself dependable. Most likely the child was Cameron’s.”