Читать книгу Highland Rogue, London Miss - Margaret Moore - Страница 11

“I’ ve brought your supper, madam,” a man called out from behind the closed door of the bedroom of the inn sometime later.

MacLachlann hadn’t returned and Esme wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he intended to remain below for the entire night.

“Come,” she replied, setting the law book on the table beside her chair near the window. After MacLachlann’s childish exit, she’d decided to brush up on the differences between Scottish and English law so she would be prepared. She certainly wasn’t going to waste any time pondering MacLachlann’s mental state, or any abilities—sexual or otherwise—he might possess.

Then MacLachlann himself strolled into the room. He was carrying a large tray holding covered dishes, as if he were a waiter.

This was hardly the behavior of a nobleman, and one possible explanation instantly came to mind—except that he didn’t appear to be drunk. Indeed, his gait was remarkably steady, as if the tray and its burden weighed next to nothing.

Not sure what to say or do, she picked up her book and got out of the way so he could put the tray on the table.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes reading in the dark,” he said evenly, and as if they hadn’t quarrelled earlier.

If he was going to ignore what had happened, so could she. “It was still light enough to read. And I note an earl would hardly carry a tray.”

“He does if he’s hungry. I also told them that I wanted to make up for a silly quarrel with my wife.”

That would explain the slammed door, if others had heard it, and they probably had.

He gestured for her to sit. “Dinner is served, my lady.”

Although she didn’t consider their quarrel silly, they needed to work together, so she would behave as if there was a truce between them. She put her book on top of her trunk and took her place at the table before removing the napkin covering a small basket of freshly baked bread. It smelled heavenly.

Meanwhile, MacLachlann slid into his chair with his usual lithe, masculine grace. He always moved like that, as if he were part cat. “I don’t suppose that’s a novel,” he said, nodding at her book while buttering his bread.

“It’s about mortgages and promissory notes,” she replied, lifting the covering over the plate before her to reveal a dark, rich beef stew, with carrots and potatoes in thick gravy. It smelled nearly as good as the bread.

“Heaven spare me! And you didn’t fall asleep?”

“I enjoy research.”

“I dare say there are some people who enjoy having a tooth pulled, too,” MacLachlann reflected as he lifted a spoonful of stew.

Despite the necessity of getting along with him, both his tone and his words rankled. “Just as I suppose there are some people who enjoy drinking to excess.”

“I was never one of them.”

“Really?” she pointedly replied as he continued to eat with relish.

“I don’t deny I used to get drunk, and often. I deny that I ever enjoyed it.”

“Then why did you do it?”

He raised his eyes and regarded her with a disarming frankness. “To forget.”

What? she wanted to ask. What did he want to forget? His family? Some past misdeed? A woman?

But if she asked and he answered with that apparent honesty, she might find herself caring about him.

He looked down at his food. “I was a fool, wallowing in self-pity and blaming all my misfortunes on others—the gamesters who won what money I had, my supposed friends who deserted me when I had nothing left. My father, who never liked me. The rest of my family, with whom I had nothing in common. I believe I even blamed my mother for dying when I was a child. It was easier to do that than admit that I’d made terrible mistakes. Then one night I found myself on Tower Bridge, alone, drunk, penniless, thinking I would do the world a favor if I jumped and never surfaced.”

He raised his eyes to look at her again. “That’s when your brother found me. He’d heard I was in London from one of my false friends he was representing, and sought me out.

He took me to an inn, bought me dinner, told me he wanted my help, and that he would pay me for it. I’ve never gotten drunk since.”

As MacLachlann made this unexpected confession, Esme discovered she could no longer meet his steadfast gaze. She’d always thought he felt no shame and no remorse for his wasted youth. How wrong she’d been! She’d never heard such sincere regret.

Yet all the answer she dared make to his confession was a subdued “Oh.”

If she said more, what might she confess? That she’d never seen such excellent accounts? That she thought he was astonishingly handsome? That when she heard him laugh, she wanted to laugh, too? That she’d been overwhelmed with desire when he kissed her in the coach?

“Finished?” he asked, his voice as casual as if they’d been discussing the price of tea.

As hers ought to be, despite the rapid beating of her heart. “Yes,” she said, pushing the plate away.

MacLachlann rose and went to the bell pull by the small hearth to summon a servant, then returned. “I don’t expect you to understand why I drank,” he said quietly, regarding her with a furrowed brow. “I don’t imagine you’ve ever done anything wrong in your life.”

She couldn’t meet his gaze, and she couldn’t lie. “Once I stole a shilling from Jamie. I felt so guilty, I never spent it. I still have it, in a box in my room at home.”

Even now the guilt of that small sin tore at her and made her feel ashamed. Nevertheless, she risked a glance at MacLachlann, to see him smiling with delight. “Dear me, I’m consorting with a criminal!”

While what she’d done was no great crime, she immediately regretted having revealed her secret.

MacLachlann stopped smiling. “Good God, I think you feel worse about that than I do about …” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Some of the things I’ve done that are much worse. I do appreciate your confidence, little plum cake,” he said, “and rest assured, your secret is safe with me.”

He spoke so earnestly, she was sure he would keep her confidence.

Although that was a relief, she couldn’t help wondering why he was suddenly being so kind, so sincere, so serious and chivalrous. And why was she finding it so easy to believe that he was being honest about keeping her secret, and that he really would?

As she looked into his eyes, trying to decide if she could truly trust him, another unwelcome knock heralded the arrival of a servant to take away the tray.

As MacLachlann wordlessly waited, Esme reached for her book and pretended to read. She was trying to act as if nothing extraordinary had happened, and as if she stayed with a man—a handsome, compelling, seductive man—every night.

After the servant had gone, she held her breath, expecting MacLachlann to leave, too.

He didn’t. He sat in the chair across from her, and he didn’t say a word.

His silence was tense and unnerving, filling her with uncertainty and stress, because … because he was there. Watching her.

Finally, after reading the same paragraph five times, she’d had enough. She closed her book and said, “I’d like to retire.”

“Please do,” he replied as he stretched his long legs out in front of him.

“I wish to go to sleep,” she added pointedly.

“So do I.”

“You should go below until I’m in bed. Then you may return and sleep on the floor. You can have the blanket.”

“How very generous. However, I’ve seen quite enough of the taproom and its patrons for today, especially if you’re expecting me to sleep on the floor.”

“Where else could you—?”

His gaze flicked to the bed.

Good heavens! “Never!” she cried, jumping up. “Not here and not in Edinburgh, either!”

“Calm yourself, Miss McCallan,” he said, rising as well. “I have absolutely no desire to make love with you tonight, or ever.”

She believed that, too, and felt a most ridiculous pang of disappointment.

And although there was no obvious change to his expression, she had the sudden horrible feeling that he could sense that disappointment.

She immediately straightened her shoulders. “If you did touch me, I would have you charged with attempted rape.”

“I doubt that,” he said as he went to the door. “That would mean telling the world we aren’t really married.”

With his hand on the latch, he paused and looked back at her, his expression enigmatic. “Good night, little plum cake.”

After he was gone, Esme sat on the bed and rubbed her temples. Even for Jamie’s sake, how was she ever going to endure this untenable situation with the most insolent, infuriating man in Britain?

Who tempted her beyond reason.

It seemed MacLachlann might be regretting his revelations, for he apparently had no more desire to converse than she did as they continued their journey north to Scotland. Unfortunately, she couldn’t easily ignore him. During the day, when MacLachlann hunched in the corner of the carriage, either asleep or staring moodily out the window, she could fill her mind with legal precedents and possible scenerios that could explain the earl’s financial distress; at night, though, when they stopped at an inn and had to play their roles of husband and wife, it proved more difficult to pretend he wasn’t there.

At least MacLachlann never again made a fuss about sleeping on the floor. Every night, he went below while she prepared to retire, then returned when she was already in bed and presumably asleep.

But she only feigned sleep to avoid another confrontation. More than once she’d been rewarded—or cursed—by the sight of MacLachlann’s naked back, all hard muscle and sinew, with a few scars marring his marble-smooth skin. His shoulders and bare arms were likewise muscular, as if he’d spent several years at the oars of a boat. Or boxing. Or fencing.

The rest of him was equally fit, muscular and well-formed.

So now during the day she was too often aware of his body beneath his fine new wardrobe, even as she reminded herself that he was still Quintus MacLachlann and they had a job to do that required her utmost attention.

At last, however, Edinburgh Castle appeared in the distance and the city beneath it came into view. She wasn’t surprised when the carriage went toward the New Town, where all the gentry and aristocracy lived since the Great Flitting at the end of the previous century, when they’d abandoned the older, inner part of the city for fine new houses.

MacLachlann continued to stare out the window, a deep, disgruntled frown darkening his features. Either he was annoyed with her, or as concerned about their purpose and their ability to achieve their goal as she, or else Edinburgh held no happy memories for him. Given what she’d learned of MacLachlann, she wouldn’t be surprised to discover all three reasons brought that expression to his face.

The carriage came to a halt outside a large, imposing three-story stone house with a huge fanlight over the door. She’d assumed that the town house of an earl would be a large and fine one; even so, she was not quite prepared for a house as big as a palace, with an abundance of windows and black double doors that gleamed like liquid pitch. No doubt there was an enclosed garden at the back and a coach house and stables off the mews for horses and carriages, too.

“Home sweet home,” MacLachlann muttered with an absence of anything remotely like joy as the doors of the house opened and a butler appeared on the threshold, looking suitably austere and grave.

MacLachlann hissed a curse and before she could ask what was the matter, he said, “It’s McSweeney. Been with the family forever.”

“Do you think he’ll recognize you?” she asked, trying to hide her own dismay at this unforeseen turn of events.

“If he does, we’ll just have to brazen it out. If he doesn’t, he’ll probably go out of his way to avoid me. He never liked Augustus.

“And remember to act vapid and stupid,” he added. “I daresay all the servants will be more curious about you than they will be about me.”

That wasn’t exactly comforting, Esme thought as a liveried footman came out from behind the butler, trotted down the steps and opened the door.

MacLachlann got out of the coach, then held up his hand to help her down.

She tried to ignore the warmth of his touch, and his expression that could be encouragement as she stepped onto the pavement.

“McSweeney, you old dog!” MacLachlann cried as they started up the steps. “I thought you must be dead by now.”

“As you can see, my lord, I am not,” the butler replied, sounding exactly like an undertaker in a house of bereavement.

“Nor hired by another family?” MacLachlann asked.

“I was, until your solicitor inquired about the possibility of my return to Dubhagen House, my lord.”

“He offered you a pretty penny, too, I don’t doubt. That’s a solicitor for you, always ready to spend a client’s money.”

Esme’s grip tightened at the insult, but MacLachlann ignored her as they continued into the house.

MacLachlann glanced over his shoulder as the butler ordered the coachman to drive around to the mews, then whispered with obvious relief and delight, “McSweeney didn’t bat an eye. If we can fool him, we can fool anybody.”

She was relieved, too, but she couldn’t share his confidence. For one thing, he’d been raised to his role. She had not.

Nor had she grown up in such opulent surroundings. A round mahogany table with an enormous oriental vase full of roses stood in the center of the marble-tiled foyer, their scent lost amid the stronger odors of beeswax and lemons. Pier glasses hung on sea-green walls decorated with ornate white plaster work.

Two middle-aged maids holding brooms and dustpans were in the corridor leading to the back of the house, a hall boy with an empty coal scuttle lurked by a door that probably led below stairs, another footman in scarlet livery waited by the door to what was likely the drawing room and three more maids peered down from the landing above, reached by a wide hanging stair.

“See that our baggage is unpacked at once,” MacLachlann ordered with a casual flick of his hand. “I’ll show her ladyship to her bedroom myself. I trust it’s ready?”

“Absolutely, my lord,” the butler replied. “Your solicitor has hired a most excellent housekeeper, so all is quite prepared despite the lack of time.”

MacLachlann turned on the butler with a speed that was shocking. “Are you presuming to criticize me, McSweeney?” he demanded.

The poor man took a startled step back. “No, my lord. Of course not, my lord.”

“Good.” MacLachlann addressed Esme as if that confrontation had never happened. “Come along, my dear.”

He gave her that … that Look. She stiffened, waiting for a kiss. He pulled her close—and squeezed her bottom.

It took every ounce of self-control Esme possessed not to slap him, especially when she saw the sly look of amusement on his handsome face, and his bright eyes gleaming in a way that sent the blood rushing through her veins.

Then, without a word or even a look of warning, he scooped her up in his arms and started toward the stairs.

Appalled and afraid he was going to drop her, Esme threw her arms around his neck. She was going to demand he put her down at once, until she saw the butler’s shocked expression.

She had a part to play and play it she must, so instead she whispered loud enough for the butler and other servants to hear, “Put me down, dearest ducky, or what will the servants think?”

He didn’t answer as he continued up the stairs.

Not sure what to do, she started to babble like a ninny. “Oh, you’re such a romantic fellow! I’m glad you’re so strong. And you didn’t tell me your house was so magnificent, Ducky, or I would have asked you to bring me here sooner. All that time courting me and you never said. And your servants—so very proper. I do hope they like me!”

Still he was silent as they passed the maids, who dutifully bowed their heads.

Perhaps Augustus was not a loquacious man.

MacLachlann carried her along a corridor full of portraits and paintings of landscapes, the walls behind painted sky blue, until they reached a room nearly at the end of the hall. Finally he spoke as they crossed the threshold. “This is my lady’s chamber.”

Distracted as she was being carried like an invalid, she couldn’t help noticing that it was a beautiful room. The walls were papered with a delicate design of pale green and blue, the draperies green velvet and the cherry furniture polished to a gleaming gloss.

Nevertheless, her surroundings were less important than the fact that he was still holding her in his arms. “You may put me down now.”

He did, slowly setting her on her feet. Very slowly. Her body close to his. Very close.

Suddenly his expression darkened and her heart seemed to stop beating as she wondered what she’d done.

“Who the devil are you?” he demanded, and she realized he wasn’t addressing her, but someone behind her.

She turned swiftly to see a woman in a plain gray woollen gown and white mop cap with a pillow in her hand standing on the other side of the bed curtained with pale blue silk.

She must be a maid, Esme thought, and a very pretty one, too, although not so young as Esme first supposed. She immediately hoped she didn’t have to worry about her alleged husband seducing the servants.

“I am Mrs. Llewellan-Jones, the housekeeper, my lord. I wasn’t informed you had arrived,” the woman replied with a Welsh accent as she dipped a curtsey and met MacLachlann’s genial smile with a frown.

Esme was suddenly quite sure that even if MacLachlann tried to seduce the housekeeper, Mrs. Llewellan-Jones was quite ready and able to resist him.

As she, apparently—and to her chagrin—was not.

“Ah. The solicitor hired you as well?” MacLachlann asked.

“Yes, my lord. I was recently working for Lord Raggles.”

“How is old Rags?” MacLachlann asked with one of his more charming smiles, while Esme sidled toward a huge armoire near the door.

“His lordship was quite well the last time I saw him, my lord,” Mrs. Llewellan-Jones answered evenly.

“Glad to hear it. Now if you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Jones,” he said, “my wife and I would like to rest before dinner.”

Esme darted him a sharp glance, then flushed when she saw The Look on his face.

“It’s Llewellan-Jones, my lord, and what would you like done with your baggage?”

“It can all be taken to the dressing room and unpacked—but no one should enter this room until we ring for a maid.”

Until …? What was he thinking?

“As you wish, my lord. My lady,” the housekeeper replied, her expression serene as she left the room and closed the door behind her.