The Stolen Mackenzie Bride Read online

  Malcolm personally wanted nothing more than to perfect his recipe for the best Scots uisge ever made, build himself a house, and find a woman to warm his nights.

  He was a simple man. Sad that he didn’t live in simple times.

  Some of the officers were on horseback, and Mal recognized a few of them. He’d met them on his travels or on business, or at university. When they saw Malcolm, they broke discipline to give him a grin and a wave. Cocksure, they were.

  One Highlander Mal knew very well indeed. The man rode with confidence on a fine bay horse, wrapped in a thick plaid that covered him from shoulders to knees. His boots were muddy but supple, made of finest leather. His basket-hilted sword hung prominently from the strap across his chest, and he had a pistol tucked into a holster at his side. The Scottish bonnet set at an angle on his head held a white silk rose, the symbol of Charles Edward Stuart.

  “Bloody hell,” Malcolm said.

  The man turned his head and saw him. Malcolm expected him to call out, as he’d done Malcolm’s whole life, Do something useful or get out of the way, runt!

  But Duncan never spoke. He met Mal’s gaze with a scornful one, berating Malcolm silently for not marching with him.

  Their gazes locked for a long time, unspoken admonitions passing between them.

  Then Daniel Duncannon Mackenzie, oldest son of the Duke of Kilmorgan, and Jacobite to his very marrow, turned and rode on with his men. Off to meet his prince, and plot the takeover of Britain.

  “Don’t be afraid, Mary.” Halsey patted his nose with his handkerchief, returned it to his pocket, and picked up his heavy fork to resume his meal. “Cope has landed with his men south of here, and these rebels will be thrown out in a few days’ time. All will be over, except for the hangings. I imagine those will take some while.”

  Mary stabbed at her quail in wine sauce and didn’t answer. Across from her, Audrey flinched. She didn’t like to hear about violence.

  Audrey looked much like Mary—fair-haired with a touch of red in it, and blue-eyed. But while Mary’s face was a bit round, holding the robustness of her father, Audrey had the more delicate features of their late mother. Her blue eyes were large in her face, her chin pointed, her mouth soft. When she smiled, she was lovely and ethereal.

  “I’m still uncertain whether we should stay,” Aunt Danae said. “War is men’s business. The girls and I should retire to Lincolnshire. There is much to be done there—winter is nearly upon us.”

  Wilfort, at the head of the table, cleared his throat and spoke in his usual steely tones. “Sending our women running will signal to the Jacobites that we believe they’ll win. They won’t. Even if they easily took Perth and Edinburgh, they cannot prevail in the end.” Lord Wilfort had a fine-boned face and thin body, but his slight build belied a man of strength. Mary had seen men twice her father’s size cower before his unwavering blue gaze. His long black frock coat was free of ornamentation, except for dark blue braid trimming its lapels, and his wig was plain with a single tail. Wilfort, like Halsey, did not believe in ostentation.

  Wilfort continued. “Charles might be ensconced in Holyrood now, but he hasn’t taken the castle, and he never will. Once reinforcements come from the south, they’ll be done for. The entire Jacobite enterprise is badly timed and ill prepared for. It will come to naught.”

  Perhaps, but so far, it seemed fate favored the Jacobites. Charles had come from the west, raising an army along the way, had walked into Edinburgh with no one making much effort to stop him. Today, in the middle of the city, Charles’s father, James, had been declared King of Scotland and England, with Charles his regent. The so-called Union between Scotland and England was considered null and void, and Scotland was a free country.

  “Audrey should go, at the very least,” Aunt Danae continued. “I shudder to think what will happen if they start breaking into houses. Mary and I are stalwart, but Audrey is only eighteen. A girl still.”

  “No, no,” Audrey said quickly. “I’m not afraid.”

  The fact that Audrey had actually spoken at table betrayed her agitation. In the Lennox family, unmarried ladies were to sit in polite silence while the men talked of whatever they wished, the girls speaking only when directly asked a question.

  Audrey’s outburst had nothing to do with the Scots. Mary had explained to her this afternoon about the plans for her elopement.

  The earl gave his youngest daughter a stern frown. Halsey appeared surprised and disapproving that Audrey had spoken. He looked across the table at Mary. “Mary, what say you? Shall Audrey stay or go?”

  Mary didn’t like the way Halsey pinned her with his gaze, as though his question were a test of some sort.

  Mary chose her words with care. “I think Father is correct that running in fear will give the wrong impression. On the other hand, I believe we should ready ourselves in case we must leave at a moment’s notice. Audrey’s things should be packed at the very least.”

  Audrey shot Mary a grateful look before she went back to picking over her game bird. Lord Bancroft, Jeremy’s father, had supplied the quail, the best his gamekeeper had bagged today.

  Halsey was still watching Mary. He assessed her answer, then gave a little nod, as though she’d done well.

  Why had she never noticed him doing such things before? Or perhaps she had but not paid attention. Once she’d convinced herself that marrying Halsey was the right thing to do, she’d shut her eyes to his character, his mannerisms, himself. She’d seen only his role, and not the man. With Malcolm, it was impossible to see anything but the man.

  His crooked smile, his warm eyes, the rumble of his voice, the firm pressure of his lips. Mary’s throat closed up, and she set down her fork.

  Mal had showed her, too clearly, that there were other paths, other choices out there, an entire world of them.

  But not for Mary. She was dependent on her father, his money, his whims. What would happen if she decided to run off with Malcolm, only to find that Malcolm hadn’t meant to marry her after all? Had been amusing himself with her, as many a young man did with a naïve woman? Mary would be ruined, her father would be within his rights to turn his back on her, and Halsey might sue him for trying to give him damaged goods. Mary’s heart burned, and her appetite fled.

  No one but Audrey noticed. Halsey, her father, and Aunt Danae went on speculating about the Jacobites and how long they’d be in Edinburgh. Audrey shot Mary a puzzled look, clearly knowing something had happened.

  After supper, Mary played the harpsichord in the drawing room, as halfheartedly as she always did, while Audrey pretended to embroider. Mary noticed, while she dragged her way through the piece, that Audrey was poking her needle in and out of the same hole, stitching nothing.

  Mary declared herself tired after playing only one selection, and stated that Audrey was tired too. So much had happened today.

  Aunt Danae clearly wanted to remain and discuss things with Wilfort and Halsey, and so Mary linked arms with Audrey, and they walked upstairs.

  They’d reached a landing on an upper floor when Halsey’s voice brought Mary to a startled halt. “Mary.”

  Halsey climbed to them while Mary and Audrey waited in trepidation. The shadows were deep here, candles in the hall above not giving much light.

  Audrey’s eyes widened, a mixture of terror and determination in them. She feared Halsey knew everything.

  “Go on up to your room,” Mary said to Audrey, patting her hand. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Audrey shot her a look of gratitude, gathered her skirts, and scampered on up the stairs, ankles flashing.

  “You are good to her,” Halsey said, reaching Mary. “A fine trait, is compassion.”

  Mary had no patience with Halsey tonight, but she fell back on her training and curtsied politely. “Thank you, sir.”

  Halsey closed his fingers over Mary’s arm. “You are the perfect woman, you know. Kindness, courtesy, no foolish idea that you know better than anyone else about everything. An
d so very comely.” He brushed one knuckle down her cheek, and Mary tried not to flinch. “And yet, not so comely as to make other men want a conquest with you.”

  Mary wasn’t quite certain how to respond to that. Well, thank you very much. Halsey was master at following a compliment with a slap.

  “I’ll never compromise you,” Halsey continued. “No one will count on their fingers and snigger when our first child is born. There will never be question as to the legitimacy of my sons.”

  Quite glad to hear it, Mary longed to say.

  “But you will learn, Mary, that though I might not always show it, I am a man of needs. I’ll try not to frighten you with them, but I will tell you now that I believe in making good use of the marriage bed. One reason I agreed to you is because you seem a courageous young woman. But if you have any timidity in regard to that side of marriage, I warn you to rid yourself of it now. Have a talk with your aunt if you’re worried.”

  Blast Malcolm. Two days ago, if Halsey had said these things to her, Mary would have regarded him calmly then gone to Aunt Danae for an explanation of what he meant and would expect. If Mary couldn’t have love, she could at least be held up as a paragon of wifeliness.

  What a sham she was! And what a fool to think any sort of marriage with Halsey would fulfill her, in any way.

  Malcolm had shown her, in two brief encounters, that there could be more to her life. Even if she never saw him again after this night, Mal had awakened something in her that she’d never put to sleep again.

  Only the meticulous manners drilled into her from childhood kept her from flinging off Halsey’s touch and running screaming from him. Mary made herself dip into another polite curtsy.

  “You need have no qualms, sir.” Because Mary intended never to go near Halsey’s wedding bed. How she’d go about calling off the betrothal, which was a mesh of legal agreements, settlements, and signed documents, she didn’t know yet, but she would find a way.

  “Good.” Halsey took her hand and squeezed it. “We understand each other. I had no doubts of it.”

  He lifted her hand, turned her palm upward, and kissed it. When Malcolm had done the same thing, his breath had been hot, his mouth strong. Halsey’s lips were thin, his breath cool and moist. Mary want to snatch her hand away, but she swallowed and held still.

  Halsey straightened. Then he deliberately reached out, put his hand over her breast, and squeezed.

  Foulness rose in Mary’s stomach. Halsey couldn’t touch much. Her stomacher, bodice, corset, and gathered lace made certain he held mostly fabric and boning. But Mary felt the squeeze, Halsey’s surety of possession.

  Mal had cupped her breast as well. Halsey did it to tell her that her body belonged to him. Mal had done it to learn her, and to give her pleasure in return.

  Halsey squeezed again, harder. Mary refused to let tears prick her eyes. She firmed her jaw.

  Halsey didn’t notice her reaction. He flicked the lace on her décolletage and gave her a shallow bow. “Good night then, Mary.”

  Another curtsy—Mary had perfected them. “Good night, sir.”

  She turned without haste and walked up the stairs with decorum. She’d never betray she was shaking all over, barely able to breathe.

  Behind her, Halsey sniffled, and when she glanced back, he had his handkerchief at his nose again.

  Mary reached her chamber, hurried quickly to the washbasin, and brought up the quail in sweet wine sauce into it.

  When Malcolm reached home late that evening, after several hours of moving from public house to public house, he found disaster waiting for him.

  He’d been out trying to shore up arrangements for Jeremy and Audrey, but the Jacobites’ arrival had made things difficult. As Malcolm banged back into his house, irritated and disappointed, he found his brother Angus, Alec’s twin, just coming down the stairs.

  “Runt,” Angus said in acknowledgment.

  Malcolm stopped in amazement. Naughton shut the door behind Mal, bolting it hard, as though fearing Teàrlach would rush up the hill and press-gang them all into his army.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” Malcolm demanded of Angus. “You’re supposed to be looking after Kilmorgan Castle and Da. We’re to join him there tomorrow.” Not that Mal had planned to obey.

  “I am looking after Dad,” Angus said, a sparkle in his eyes that said he knew hell was coming. Angus looked much like Alec, of course, but there were differences—Angus’s face was not as sharp, and he wore a constant smug look that came from knowing he was their father’s favorite. “You’re not going to Kilmorgan. Da is here instead. Wanting to see you.”

  He’d barely finished his words before a bellowed “Malcolm!” shook the entire house.

  “Bloody hell,” Malcolm said with vehemence, and went to face his doom.

  Chapter 9

  Daniel William Mackenzie, ninth Duke of Kilmorgan, was a large man of almost solid muscle. Only Will topped him in height, and only Duncan had more breadth.

  Malcolm, while tall and broad of shoulder himself, had long endured being shouted at and cuffed by this giant who had no softness in him, at least none since their mother died.

  Before then, though Mal had been very young before Allison Mackenzie had gone, his father had smiled, laughed, and even played with his unruly sons. The duke had been big, strong, formidable, and frightening, but at least human.

  After Allison’s death, their father had retreated deep within himself, growing harsher every passing year. Anything of compassion, love, and humor had dried up and vanished.

  Now the duke lived to bully his neighbors and expect his sons to be brilliant men and make him even more prideful than he was. He was pleased with Angus, who could do no wrong in his eyes; William, who at least made a good spy; and Alec, who made a good spy’s assistant, even if he did like to waste time drawing and painting.

  The duke showed vast disappointment in his eldest son, declaring that Duncan’s stubborn Jacobite sympathies would destroy the family. If Duncan were arrested and tried for treason, he would drag the rest of them down with him.

  The duke also was vastly disappointed in his youngest son, Malcolm, who talked constantly of the future instead of the glories of the past. Mal spent his time thinking of ways to improve farm output, sales of whisky, and Scottish trade with England and France. Making money.

  Mal was young and citified, in his father’s eyes, never mind Malcolm could hunt and fish with his bare hands and thought nothing of walking miles across country, making friends wherever he went. Mal knew the Kilmorgan lands better than any of them.

  But Malcolm didn’t like to sit in the great hall at Kilmorgan Castle, quaffing ale and glorifying the days when the clan chiefs held all the power. Those times were gone, in Mal’s opinion. Scotsmen were turning to practical matters, like building better roads, better ships, discovering the wider world, and studying it and the heavens with a new understanding. The days of cattle thieving and besting the clan in the next glen were coming to an end.

  The duke sat in the dining room at the head of the table with the remains of a repast spread before him. Mal’s father’s idea of a reviving snack was what most people ate in a seven-course meal.

  “Good evening, Father,” Malcolm said before the duke could speak. He moved to the sideboard and sloshed a small measure of whisky into a glass. The only way to face his father was with strong drink in hand.

  “Where have ye been, runt?” The duke sopped up the last of the sauce on his plate with a piece of bread, stuffed it in his mouth, and washed it down with a large draught of whisky. He drank the stuff like water. “Even Alec’s here, though I hear Will is out whoring as usual. What have ye been doing?”

  The duke’s bloodshot eyes fixed on Malcolm, expecting Mal to confess he’d slipped down to Holyrood to kiss Prince Teàrlach’s pale ass.

  “Talking to people,” Mal said without inflection. It never did to show fear in front of his father—he’d take it, twist it, and eat you alive. “F
inding out what’s going on.”

  “Your brother Duncan is here,” the duke said, bitterness in his voice.

  “I saw him,” Malcolm said. “In passing. On a horse. He looked pleased wi’ himself.”

  “He’s a damn great bloody fool!” The duke slapped the table, making dishes and silverware dance.

  Malcolm moved back to the sideboard and fetched the whisky decanter to refill his father’s glass. “Is that why you’ve come t’ Edinburgh?” he asked. “Because of Duncan?”

  The duke held out the glass and raised his eyes to Malcolm. The man hadn’t slept, that was apparent, probably not for some days.

  As sometimes happened when the duke was overly weary, Mal saw something in his eyes that cried out to him, a desperation that the man thought no one could ease. The trouble was, whenever Mal tried to reach that desperation, he was unceremoniously shoved aside.

  “We have to stop him,” the duke said. “Duncan. He’ll get himself killed—hanged, drawn, and quartered, the idiot. The heir of my loins, split into pieces, to my shame. Kilmorgan will be seized, and we’ll be nothing. Wouldn’t Macdonald love that?”

  He meant Horace Macdonald, to whom Allison McNab had been promised long ago, before she’d run away to marry a Mackenzie. According to Angus, who knew the tale, Allison and the duke had met by chance, fallen madly in love, and eloped. The Macdonalds had never forgiven the Mackenzies for it. A romantic story, but anything romantic had been stamped out of this man now growling at the head of the table.

  Malcolm sat down. His father didn’t always like his sons sitting in his presence, but tonight the duke didn’t pay much attention.

  “Duncan’s got a mind of his own,” Malcolm said. “But dinnae worry. This uprising will come to nothing. The English will charge up here with a large army, and Teàrlach will rush to the nearest ship and sail back to France. I’ve seen his portrait—the prince’s. He looks the sort who likes to dress up and hear men cheer him, but in the thick of things, he’ll have no mettle.”