Читать книгу Highland Rogue, London Miss - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 8

A week later and attired in new trousers and Wellington boots, a shirt of brilliantly white linen, black silk cravat, double-breasted vest in a black-and-gray horizontal-striped satin, black woollen jacket, and an equally new bottle-green greatcoat with three capes, the formerly Honorable Quintus Aloysius Hamish MacLachlann strolled up the street toward Jamie McCallan’s town house, a valise bumping against his thigh.

Jamie’s home was a well-kept little establishment on the edge of Mayfair, close enough to impress the ton, but far enough away to be affordable if a man made a good living, as Jamie obviously did.

As Quinn trotted up the steps to the front door and raised the polished brass knocker in the shape of a thistle, the curtain at the front bow window shifted. The movement was barely noticeable, yet it was enough to suggest that somebody was keeping watch.

Esme, no doubt. The woman was like a prison guard. She was also beyond prejudiced, always ready to believe the worst of him, regardless of any evidence to the contrary and despite the necessary work he did for her beloved brother.

Since she thought him beneath contempt, was it any wonder he was always tempted to say outrageous things to her? To tease and mock and goad her until she gave him the edge of her sharp and clever tongue?

Jamie’s butler, a tall, slender fellow of indeterminate age, opened the door and took Quinn’s hat and valise. “They’re waiting for you in the drawing room, sir.”

“Thank you,” Quinn briskly replied, darting a passing glance at his reflection in the pier glass in the spotlessly clean foyer. In this rig he did look like his brother, certainly enough that the ruse should work.

He’d never imagined Jamie had such a devious streak. Well, there had been hints of it at school, he supposed. A few times Jamie had gone with him to sneak a bit of food from the buttery, and once even told him when the cook would be away, but he’d never gotten drunk on the cooking sherry, or cheated on tests, or lied to the headmaster.

The drawing room was as neat and tidy as the foyer. It was simply, but tastefully, furnished, with nary a figurine or knickknack in sight. He had never seen a speck of dust or dirt in either Jamie’s home or office. He suspected even dust and dirt were too intimidated by his sister to linger. Books there were in plenty, however, and what furniture there was had been well-crafted. The camelback sofa and chairs were worn, but comfortable, and the mantel—

Esme stood by the mantel, but Esme as he’d never seen or imagined her. Her eyes were downcast, her dark eyelashes fanning over smooth, pink cheeks and her slender, yet shapely, figure encased in a well-fitting traveling gown of soft pale blue wool. The bodice, bordered by a band of scarlet ribbon, accentuated perfect breasts. Glossy, chestnut-brown tresses were beneath a charming bonnet decorated with small scarlet rosettes, and a few even more charming tendrils of soft curls fell upon her cheek and neck.

She looked young, pretty, fresh, modest—the very picture of Youthful Femininity, until she raised her head and glared at him with irate hazel eyes, her bow-shaped lips turning down in an equally irate frown.

“Although I see you at least remembered to shave, you’re late,” she snapped, running an imperious gaze over him.

He sauntered farther into the room, just as fiercely determined to prevent her from seeing that he was even remotely disturbed by her disapproval. “I went to a barber, so now my cheeks are as smooth as silk. Care to feel?”

“Certainly not!” Esme exclaimed before she abruptly turned away.

But she was blushing, and she’d lowered her eyes again, as if she was tempted to touch him but didn’t dare.

Good God, could Esme McCallan secretly want to touch him? This was a most interesting development and one definitely worth exploring. “You look lovely, Esme.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your unwelcome remarks to yourself!”

“You’re the first woman I’ve ever met who didn’t appreciate a compliment.”

“If I thought there was any sincerity to your observations, I might be flattered.”

Despite her contempt, he tried again. “I am being sincere. You look very nice. I never realized what a difference a change of clothes could make.”

She whirled around to face him.

And then, a miracle. She smiled—a warm and genuine smile. His heart leapt with what might be joy, although it had been a long time since he’d felt anything like true happiness, so he could be wrong.

“Jamie,” she said, walking past him.

She’d been smiling at her brother, who had entered the room behind him.

Of course. He must have been momentarily mad to think Esme would ever smile at him like that, and he must not be disappointed. After all, there were plenty of other women who were eager for his attention.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Jamie,” he said before Esme could condemn him. “I was delayed by the tailor.”

“Never mind. There’s still plenty of time to get out of London and a good distance before dark,” Jamie replied. “The money was well spent, I see.”

“So was yours. I confess I had my doubts about your sister’s ability to pass for a titled young lady, but in those clothes, I think she could.”

“How delightful that my garments meet with your approval,” Esme said coldly. “Now might I suggest we be on our way? The sooner we reach Edinburgh, the sooner we can conclude our business and return.”

Quinn couldn’t agree more.

As the hired town coach rattled along the road north, Quinn didn’t bother to hide his scowl or attempt to make conversation. Why should he exert himself with a woman who was so obviously determined to detest him?

Water from the puddles left by the heavy rain the previous night splashed up nearly to the windows, and the sky was dull and overcast, with a brisk breeze that did nothing to add to the comfort of the coach.

“If you slouch any more, you’ll ruin your greatcoat,” Esme noted as the heavy vehicle upholstered with striped worsted jostled over yet another rut in the road. “It must have cost my brother a pretty penny.”

“I doubt it cost more than the pelisse you’re wearing and probably less,” he replied, sliding a little lower on the seat just to spite her. “I’d wager my whole wardrobe cost less than one of your gowns, and I have the receipts to prove it.”

She gave him a haughty look. “I know how to drive a bargain.”

“I’m sure a look from you can freeze the marrow of a modiste’s bones and convince her to work at a loss,” he agreed. “I, however, believe in paying for a job well done.”

“I only want my money’s worth.”

“Your brother’s money’s worth,” he pointed out.

That brought a flush of pink to Esme’s cheeks. “If women could have a profession, I’d have been a solicitor, too, and gladly earned my own income.”

She’d probably be as good a solicitor as her brother, Quinn mentally conceded. She might be one of the most unpleasant women on the face of the earth, but he couldn’t deny her legal expertise.

“I think you’d be a better barrister,” he said, and that was no lie. “I can easily imagine you interrogating a witness on the stand.”

She frowned, clearly not pleased with his comment. “Solicitors do all the real legal work, the preparation and research, while barristers unfairly reap the glory—the way noble landlords reap the benefits of their tenants’ labor, even if those landlords are wasteful, drunken gamblers.”

God give him patience! And the remembrance that he himself had made her criticism possible. Nevertheless … “Unless you want the servants to gossip about our marriage, you’re going to have to at least pretend to like me when we get to Edinburgh.”

“I see no reason why,” Esme replied. “There are plenty of unhappy marriages in Britain. Ours can simply be another.”

“Not if we’re to be invited to balls and parties and things, and we should be, so we can find out if other gentlemen are experiencing financial woes, or if that’s unique to the earl.”

Esme shook her head. “I rather think the opposite. A squabbling couple is sure to be an object of curiosity and if people think we’ll give them something to talk about, we’ll be more likely to be invited. Haven’t you noticed that people are more curious about a quarrelling, bickering couple than a happy one?”

“If that’s the case, the hatred you harbor for me is indeed fortunate and we stand an excellent chance of being the most popular couple in Edinburgh.”

“I don’t hate you, MacLachlann,” Esme said with infuriating composure. “I’d have to care about you to hate you.”

It was like a slap to his face, or a blow to his heart, to hear her calm dismissal of him. But he would die before he’d allow himself to show that she—or anyone—could hurt him.

“Whatever you think about me, Miss McCallan,” he said just as coolly, “your brother’s asked for my help and he’s going to get it. It would make that task easier for us both if you would refrain from condemning me every time you speak to me. And while I don’t expect you to respect me, can you not at least cooperate? If not, we should return to London.”

Esme got a stubborn glint in her eye. “I am cooperating, or I wouldn’t be here.” She took a deep breath and smoothed down her skirts. “However, I agree that continued animosity will not be beneficial to our task. Therefore, let us begin again.”

He kept his relief hidden, too, even as he wondered exactly what she meant by “beginning again.”

“If I’m supposed to be your wife, I should learn more about your family. As it is, all I know is that your father was an earl and your older brother is the heir. Have you any other siblings?”

Of all subjects, his family was the last one he ever wished to discuss. Unfortunately, she had made a point that he couldn’t refute—she should know something of his family history. “I had three more brothers—Marcus, who was the second oldest, then Claudius and Julius. Marcus died in the war with France, Claudius died of a fever in Canada and Julius fell from his horse and broke his neck when he was sixteen. I had a sister, but she died in infancy before I was born.”

If he were looking at any other woman, her expression at that moment might indicate sympathy. However, since it was Esme, her furrowed brow probably meant she was simply memorizing the information.

“And your oldest brother’s name is Augustus?”

“My father had an unfortunate love of Latin and Roman history.”

“So he called his fifth son Quintus.”

“Yes.”

“A name you dislike quite intensely, to judge by that expression.”

“Not just the name. I had little love for my father—and he for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She actually sounded sincere.

“Don’t be,” he said sharply. If there was one thing he didn’t want from Esme McCallan, it was pity. He didn’t miss his family. He’d always been too different from them—too spirited, too full of life to exist in their staid world of hunting and shooting, exchanging tales of fish caught, pheasants downed and stags sighted. He’d yearned for something different—life in Town, a vibrant, colorful, exciting existence. Expensive. Sensual. Seductive. “I found ample compensation as I grew older.”

“With women, I suppose.”

He very much doubted Esme would ever understand why a man would try to console himself in the arms of a woman, even if it provided only a fleeting moment of pleasure and forgetfulness.

He couldn’t even imagine Esme naked in a man’s arms, kissing him, stroking, making love with sighs and moans and whispered endearments, writhing and passionate, crying out at the moment of climax.

Actually, he could.

Which was a very disconcerting discovery.

“How old is Augustus?” she asked, startling him out of his stunned reverie.

“Forty-five.”

“Which makes you …?”

“Thirty.”

She nodded thoughtfully, and he noted that she didn’t seem to find it impossible that he could pass for a man fifteen years his senior.

What did it matter if she thought he looked older than he was? “His wife is twenty-seven. It’s fortunate you can easily pass for that.”

She didn’t seem the least bit upset by his observation.

On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by her lack of reaction. He’d never met a woman less vain of her looks. “She was seventeen when they married,” he added. “Augustus always liked his women young.”

Esme didn’t look nonplussed by that, either. “They have no children?”

“Not yet, but if I know Augustus, it isn’t for lack of trying.”

A spark of interest lit Esme’s hazel eyes, which gave him another shock. He’d expected her to react with prim condescension, disgusted by the mere suggestion of the physical relations between a husband and wife.

“What was in the marriage contract?” she asked eagerly. “There was one, I assume.”

He should have known it wasn’t the sexual nature of a relationship that excited her, but the legal. Still, it was rather interesting watching her when she was talking about the law and her hazel eyes became vibrantly, intelligently alive. He could easily envision her brain as a sort of well-oiled machine, all whirring gears and levers.

But as for any marriage settlement or contract his brother might have made … “I have no idea. Nor do I care.”

She frowned. “You should. If he dies before you and there are no children, the inheritance—”

“I won’t get a penny and the title will probably go to my cousin Freddy. I was disinherited, remember?”

Finally something dulled those shining eyes.

“I should mention that my brother prefers his women pliant and ignorant, so his wife is likely as uninformed and stupid a young woman as you’re ever likely to meet.”

“Oh?” Esme replied as if about to write a treatise on the MacLachlanns. “Is that a family trait?”

Once more feeling the need to be on the offensive, MacLachlann inched forward so that their knees were nearly touching. “I prefer intelligent women who know what they want and aren’t afraid to ask for it. In fact, intelligent women who are interested in the law fascinate me.”

Especially if the woman regarding him had shining hazel eyes in a pretty, heart-shaped face, with full lips and soft cheeks, and her head proudly poised above a slender, yet shapely body, the proximity of which was proving more of a temptation than he ever would have expected.

An expression flashed in Esme’s bright eyes, but it was gone before he could tell what it was, and the rest of her expression didn’t alter. “I don’t believe you.”

He sat back and laughed as if she were right.

Esme gave a long-suffering sigh. “If we are to work together, you should cease attempting meaningless, flirtatious banter or trying to elicit a reaction from me. Simply convey the information I require if people are to believe you are Augustus and I am your wife.”

Despite his increasing frustration and his own resolve to remember that she hated him, suspicion was not what was being aroused.

“For instance,” she briskly continued, clearly and blessedly ignorant of her effect upon him, “what did your family call you? Quinn? Quintus?”

“Several epithets I don’t care to remember. Since we’re going to be husband and wife, you’d better start referring to me as ‘my lord’ or some form of Dubhagen.”

“Pretending to be husband and wife,” she immediately corrected.

Of course she would want to be precise.

A different sort of expression came to those hazel orbs. Almost … mischievous.

“Dooey,” she declared. “After Doo-agen,” she unnecessarily clarified.

He knew how the name of his family’s title and estate was pronounced.

But Dooey sounded like some sort of dim-witted beast. “You can call me Dubhagen, or my lord. If you call me anything else, I’ll ignore you—or refer to you as my little haggis.”

As he expected, she didn’t like that. “Very well, my lord,” she grudgingly conceded. “What is your sister-in-law’s name?”

This was going to be interesting. “Hortense.”

Esme reared back against the squabs, then her eyes narrowed. “Is it really, or are you just saying that to upset me?”

“It really is,” he honestly admitted. “However, I think it would be best if we avoided the use of first names, even in private. That way, should our ruse be discovered prematurely, nobody can say we were using their names.

“I could call you Horsey,” he proposed as if seriously considering it, although her features were not at all horse-like. “Or my little plum cake.”

He had called her that last Christmas to tease her, but now, when he considered how delectable she looked, it seemed rather fitting.

Good God, had he just thought of Esme McCallan as delectable?

She glared at him as if she could kill him where he slouched. “If you do, I shall call you my dearest ducky.”

Eager to get his feelings back to normal, he not only took up the challenge, but he also upped the ante. “I could call you my sweet encumbrance.”

“My darling incarceration.”

He frowned and sat up straighter. “My beloved shackles.”

She shifted forward, as if being nearer to him spurred her imaginative efforts. “My handsome millstone.”

He told himself not to notice how pretty she looked, or think about her rosy lips, or how it would be to have her looking up at him with desire instead of annoyance.

Or how his traitorous body was responding to her excitement, her appearance and her proximity. “My adorable … punishment.”

“My wonderful pestilence.”

“My dearest—”

“I’ve used that already!” she cried, eyes aglow and full of triumph.

There seemed only one way to snatch victory from defeat—a way that was simply too tempting to resist.

He took hold of her face with his gloved hands and kissed her right on the mouth.

Never had Quintus MacLachlann felt such an immediate, powerful jolt of desire as the one that hit him the moment his lips touched hers. It was like being struck by liquid passion, hot and all-encompassing, enveloping him and filling the air around them.

He would never have guessed how soft and kissable Esme McCallan’s mouth might be. He’d had no idea how much he’d want to keep kissing her, for as long as he could.

Or that he wanted to be the only man who ever kissed her.

But so it was, as he moved his mouth over hers in a hired coach lumbering northward toward Scotland.