Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction Read online

  Alec stilled her babbling with a finger on her lips. “I’m not doing it for your legacy. I want to keep you from your mum’s machinations forever. Even if your dad has me killed for it, you’ll be my widow and looked after by my da’ and brothers.”

  Celia kissed his finger. “Don’t say things like that. All my life I’ve watched my mother and her friends, including Lady Flora, use marriage as a weapon, or at least a tool to obtain what they want. I say I turn the tables on them, use it as my own weapon.”

  Anger flared in Alec’s eyes. But of course—Celia had just declared she’d use him and marriage to him to thwart her enemies. What gentleman wanted to hear a woman say that?

  The anger vanished with the suddenness of a slap and Alec burst out laughing. His head went back, and his booming laughter filled the room.

  “What a woman!” His eyes glowed with golden fire. “I’ll show ye off to my family with pride, I will. Yes, I’ll marry ye, lass. To hell with the lot of them.”

  “Good.” Celia stuck out her hand. “Seal the bargain?”

  Alec pushed the offered hand aside. “I’ve a better way to seal it than that.”

  He scooped her up to him and kissed her with a strength that took her breath away. Celia sank into him, sliding her hands under the warmth of his hair. His tam slid off to fall among the detritus, but Alec didn’t seem to notice.

  He held Celia against him, his arms firm on her back, his body a bulwark in the dark, a solid rock in the swirling maelstrom of her life. Celia kissed him as the boat listed with the current, the strength of the Thames fighting it.

  When Alec raised his head, his eyes were dark in the red glow of the stove, the look in them one of triumph, but also one of pain.

  Celia wondered at the pain, but there would be time for them to talk, to understand. She touched his cheek, acknowledging what she’d seen, then she kissed him again, seeking the warmth of his lips. They were in this together now, she tried to convey.

  Alec’s return kiss acknowledged this and made Celia realize that her journey was just beginning.

  Another carriage waited for them on the north side of the Thames, at the top of Temple Stairs. Alec tossed the waterman a pouch that clinked as they disembarked, then he took Padruig aside and spoke to him in a low voice.

  Padruig looked none too pleased when they finished, but he gave Alec a nod and trotted off into the darkness.

  Alec handed Celia into the carriage. She heard him tell the coachman to take them to High Holborn before he climbed in beside her, and they creaked through crowded London streets, neither speaking, Alec gazing out the window.

  The house in High Holborn was squashed between its fellows, rising a long and narrow way upward. Alec stepped down from the carriage before it stopped and plied the brass knocker on the front door until a grudging footman opened it a crack.

  “We’re expected,” Alec told the watery eye that peered out at them.

  The footman scowled then opened the door all the way, shoving his wig into place as he stepped back to admit them. Alec lifted Celia down, a flash of her clocked stockings and satin shoes showing under her flurry of white skirts.

  Alec led her inside, the footman closing out the wind as he shut the door. The interior of the house was quiet, smelling of beeswax and books. Indeed, books were everywhere—in the foyer, in the hall, left in little piles on the bottom step of the staircase.

  “Who lives here?” Celia whispered.

  “A bishop,” Alec said. “Father of a friend, kind to me whenever my mate brought me home with him from Cambridge.”

  Some bishops sat in the House of Lords, which meant they’d know Celia’s father. She wondered if this one supported or opposed the duke, and if he’d simply send the duke word that his errant daughter had turned up, attempting to elope with a Scotsman.

  Celia shook out her white velvet skirts. She’d chosen a path—she would take it and make the best of it. Her mother wasn’t the only one in the family with steely determination.

  The footman returned and told them to follow him up a flight of stairs and into a large sitting room that overlooked the street.

  The chamber he ushered them into was sumptuous yet cozy. An arched marble fireplace dominated the room, this one also full of books. The small mirror above the fireplace reflecting Celia, her black-and-white costume peeping from under the dark cloak. It showed Alec beside her, strong and tall in his red coat and plaid. He wore the kilt with ease, looking far more comfortable in it than he had in any of his threadbare suits. The plaid swirled around his strong legs, brushing the tops of his supple boots.

  Celia didn’t recognize the man who entered. He was small in stature, like her father, and wore a silver embroidered blue frock coat that belled over velvet breeches. His waistcoat, an ecclesiastical purple, strained itself over his ample belly. He wore, as Celia’s brother called it, a dog collar, a stiff white band at his throat. A many-curled wig crowned his head above his puffy face, but his dark eyes were gentle as he held out his hand to Alec.

  “Well met, my lord. Ah, is this the young lady? How very charming to meet you, my dear.”

  Celia curtsied politely to his bow, and the bishop looked them over, clasping his hands as though pleased with them both.

  Then he patted his pockets. “Ah, yes, I do have the license.” He pulled out a thick piece of paper, folded into quarters. “And you will have to sign the register, but I think I can manage to lose it for a time. I am the ubiquitous absentminded clergyman, my lady, apt to set things down and not remember where.” His eyes twinkled.

  He slid the paper back into his pocket and pointed for them to stand on the carpet facing the fireplace. He then wandered the room for a few minutes until he at last took a book from the middle of a stack on a table and returned to them.

  “Now then, my lord, you have a ring?”

  “I do.” Alec removed a thick gold band from his finger and held it out to the bishop.

  Celia wondered at the bishop’s continuous use of my lord. Perhaps he didn’t know exactly how to address a Highlander, who must be the son of what was called a laird. A laird wasn’t necessarily an aristocrat though, she’d learned, only a landholder. But perhaps the bishop was merely trying to be polite.

  “Excellent,” the man went on. “And a witness? I’m afraid I’m the only one in the house at the moment besides my footman. The wife is visiting Thomas—his wife is expecting her third child.” He beamed, radiating pride.

  Alec grinned at him. “Another bairn, eh? Good for old Thomas. Send him my felicitations. I do have a witness—I believe he’s just coming up the stairs.”

  Celia heard the footman berating someone and a growled reply, and then the door was wrenched open to admit Padruig.

  “Stay out of there, you!” The footman tried to grab Padruig, but Padruig easily evaded him.

  “It’s all right, lad,” Alec told him. “I told him to come.”

  The footman, handsome and haughty as good footmen were to be, sent Padruig a disdainful look then Alec one for having such a servant.

  Padruig positioned himself behind Alec, his reflected bulk in the mirror incongruous with the luxury of the room. The footman remained, the second witness, Celia surmised, but positioned himself a long way from Padruig.

  “I will keep the ceremony short, as no doubt you are in a hurry.” The bishop gave Alec a knowing smile. “Now, my lord—Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife? … Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her … forsaking all others … So long as ye both shall live?” The bishop finished and looked at Alec expectantly.

  Alec’s gaze was on Celia. “I will.” The words filled the room, and Celia flushed with sudden warmth.

  “And you, my lady? Wilt thou have this man—”

  “I will,” Celia broke in quickly. No need for the bishop to say the words again. She’d made her decision.

  The bishop lifted his brows but looked pleased. “Very well. We’ll move on to the next bit. You must r
epeat after me, my lord—after I have finished, please. I—erm—what is your full name, my lord?”

  Alec’s gaze went to Celia’s in the mirror.

  “Alec William Mackenzie,” he said in a ringing voice.

  Chapter 17

  Mackenzie.

  Celia gaped at him. She knew that name, and not because half the clan had risen to fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie.

  Her mother had her finger on every title and family tree of every peerage in England, Scotland, and Ireland. One never knew when such a person might be useful to her.

  There was a Mackenzie that had long ago been awarded the title of Duke of Kilmorgan. The current duke had been one of the handful of Scots selected to attend Parliament in England, after the Act of Union thirty years ago had dissolved the Scots’ own parliament.

  That duke had been killed, and all his sons with him at Culloden. Served them right, her mother had declared with a sniff. Fools, the whole lot of them.

  The bishop called Alec my lord. Not because he was confused about Scottish titles but because Alec, as the son of a duke, would be Lord Alec Mackenzie.

  Alec gazed down at her, his tawny eyes glittering. He waited, as though expecting her to shriek, flee the room, or perhaps fall over in a dead swoon.

  Celia swallowed hard. The bishop, his eyes on his book, serenely continued, “I, Alec William Mackenzie, take thee …”

  Alec’s voice filled the room. “ … Take thee, Celia, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse … according to God’s holy ordinance. And therefore I plight thee my troth.”

  Troth, the old word for truth. It stood for loyalty and honor, binding them with its simple power.

  “Now, my lady—erm.” The bishop patted his pocket as though ready to consult the license for her name. Would her correct one be there? She’d never told it to Alec.

  “Celia Margaret Elizabeth.” Her voice was scratched and cracking, nowhere near Alec’s firm tones.

  “I, Celia Margaret Elizabeth,” the bishop went on. “Take thee, Alec, to have and to hold …”

  The bishop carried on, but Celia barely heard him. She was seeing Alec for the first time, every arrogant line of him, the son of a Highland duke, emerging from the shell of the man he’d pretended to be.

  But no, he’d never fit as Mr. Finn, poor but talented artist. He was as wrong for that part as he would have been in the costume of Pierrot Lady Flora had expected him to wear tonight. This was what Alec was, a Highlander of ancient lineage, the same sort of man as those who’d launched themselves at the British lines at Prestonpans and sent English soldiers fleeing in terror.

  Celia realized the bishop had ceased speaking and was looking at her expectantly.

  Alec’s lips twitched, the hard arrogance softening. He was also the man she’d found protectively holding his child as he slept, his bare and vulnerable foot protruding from his nightshirt.

  Celia gulped. “I, Celia Margaret Elizabeth, take thee, Alec …” Her voice grew stronger as the words tumbled out. “And therefore I plight thee my troth.”

  “And now the ring.” The bishop, laid Alec’s ring on his book to say the blessing over it, quietly continuing the ceremony he must have read dozens of times in his life.

  The band was large and gold, with a square-cut diamond in its center. Celia had never seen Alec wear it before. Her fingers trembled as he lifted it then took her hand, his fingertips brushing the inside of her wrist.

  “With this ring, I thee wed.” Alec’s voice went soft, a bare touch of sound. “With my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow.”

  He eased the ring onto her middle finger, the only one it would fit. “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” Alec finished. “Amen.”

  “Amen,” Celia murmured, and heard the final word echoed by the footman’s whisper and Padruig’s growl.

  Amen. So be it.

  Celia was married.

  Alec wondered what it would be like to wed in the usual way, with church and family, a large meal afterward, and then days alone with his bride. He reasoned he would never find out, because this was the last time he intended to be married.

  The carriage he’d hired waited outside, the coachman hunkered near the horses for warmth. He drank brandy for even more warmth, which didn’t reassure Alec, but they weren’t going far.

  “All done?” he asked Padruig.

  “Aye.” Padruig said nothing more, only climbed to the back of the coach.

  Alec had given Padruig two sets of instructions, only one to be followed depending on how events unfolded. He knew Padruig would have chosen the correct one once Alec sent him off. The man was no fool, and besides, he liked to be paid.

  Alec settled Celia in the coach before he swung in and took the seat opposite hers. Celia held on her lap a parcel the bishop had given her—cakes and bread, which had been left for his supper, but he claimed he had more than he could eat. He’d always been a thoughtful old duffer, not as absentminded as he let on. He’d keep the secret of their marriage, Alec had no doubt.

  Celia regarded Alec calmly as the carriage pulled forward, her brown-green eyes assessing. She looked him over as though seeing him for the first time, only now he was her lawful husband, before God and in the eyes of the laws of Great Britain.

  “Your father is the Duke of Kilmorgan,” she said.

  Her voice was steady, but she fidgeted with the ring, her hand resting on the parcel.

  “Not my fault.” Alec said, trying to sound indifferent. “My dad sired six sons, God rest my poor, dear mum. I happen to be one of them, one above the youngest.”

  “You told me you were a ghost.” Her gaze pinned him. “Now I know what you meant. The Duke of Kilmorgan was killed at Culloden. My father regretted that, as he said we needed good Scots peers, and your father was well respected, even if he turned Jacobite. All his sons were on the roll of the dead as well. The duke and his family are no more.”

  “Aye, well.” Alec rubbed his chin. “It’s a bit difficult to tell one dead Scot from the other on a field of battle. One name was true—Duncan, my eldest brother. He died all right. The rest of us legged it. We have Mal to thank for that, and Padruig, and Will …”

  He trailed off, his heart heavy. Six sons and only three left. Magnus had died before he’d been twenty, his heart weak. Angus, shot while helping Duncan chase Lord Loudon across the northern Highlands. And then Duncan at Culloden.

  There was a rustle of velvet, and Celia was next to him, leaving the parcel behind. “Your family is alive.” Her soft voice brushed him. “You should be rejoicing.”

  “I am, lass. I am. But …”

  If Alec could live his life over again, he’d have persuaded his father and brothers to travel to France with him and Malcolm long before Prince Teàrlach set sail for Scotland. There they could have waited to see what happened with the Jacobite factions, staying well out of it.

  They’d be all together now, Duncan and his father raging at each other, Angus trying to keep the peace, Alec and Mal roaming the streets of Paris, and Will …

  Aye, well, so Will would have fallen into some sort of trouble, no matter what. The man loved intrigues and kept putting himself into the thick of them.

  Why the devil Will had sprung up and pretended to be Prince Charles Stuart, Alec still didn’t understand. Will must have been plotting something, or he might have done it to save others, distracting the soldiers so hidden Scotsmen could get away. Both, most like.

  Damn ye, Will. If not for you, I could give over all my thoughts to wooing my bride.

  “My bloody brothers will drive me mad.” Alec took Celia’s hands, bringing himself back to the present. He was in London, the wind was turning cold, and he’d just married a beautiful young woman. “I can take care of ye, lass. I have plenty of money salted away, so ye don’t have to worry about touching your legacy. I have a house in Paris, nothing so grand as Lady Flora’s or your father’s, but it does well enough.
Except my whole family lives there at the moment, including my da’. But he’ll like you.”

  Mal’s wife, Mary, had softened the old duke in the last year, and the loss of his favorite sons had also taken away some of his bluster. Daniel William Mackenzie, the Duke of Kilmorgan, would never be considered a gentle man, but he would be good to Celia—once he got over his apoplexy that Alec had married again, in secret, to the daughter of a man who’d raised an army to fight the Scots.

  But one thing at a time.

  “Are we off to France now?” Celia asked, eyes shining in the light cast by the punched tin lanterns at their feet. “What about your daughter?”

  “I thought Jenny would come with us,” Alec said. “Gair might set her to manning the sails. He always needs extra hands.”

  Celia’s laugh was tinged with hysteria. “I meant, will we hurry to Lady Flora’s and fetch her?”

  “I’ve already arranged for Sally to bring her to us at the boat. That’s where I sent Padruig rushing off to, to tell her the trip to France was going forward.”

  “I’m glad. Can you trust Sally not to blab to Lady Flora?”

  “She’s a good lass. She has a brother in France she’s been longing to see, so I persuaded her to come with us and look after Jenny.” And Sally had no love for Lady Flora. Lady Flora wasn’t parsimonious, which was why her servants stayed with her, plus there was a certain cachet that went with working for her. But most of the servants, save for Rivers, stepped delicately around her.

  “Good.” Celia studied him, her serene face out of keeping with her costume with its old-fashioned ruff and black pompons. “Why don’t you look happier, Alec? We’ve thwarted the scheming queens and will run from the chessboard with Jenny. My father will discover where we’ve gone soon enough—he has plenty of connections and friends in France, never mind we’re technically at war with that country. Wars come and go, but business prevails, is what my brother says. But if I am married, my mother cannot command me any longer. And I don’t have to call you Mr. Finn, which pleases me enormously. It was entirely the wrong name for you.” Her words ran down as concern entered her eyes. “So why are you not rejoicing?”