Mia Marlowe (4 page)

“If, as ye claim, he’s doing this imagining about me, why is he trying to
cry
off on our betrothal?”

Lucinda sighed. She knew she ought not to hope for anything more in an arranged match, but mere liking seemed such a pale imitation of what she really craved.

Love. Ungovernable. Overturning. All-else-be-damned love.

Finding it in a union with Lord Bonniebroch seemed as unlikely a prospect as sprouting a pair of wings.

“How do I make certain he sticks to his word and honors the contract?”

“Have no fear. Yer aunt will see to that.”
Brodie shivered, his diaphanous form shimmering in the air.
“No man can stand before that auld dragon.”

“That’s no good.” She’d steeled herself to bear a loveless marriage, but one with an unwilling bridegroom was beyond her comprehension. “I’ll no’ force the man to the altar.”

“Torment him? That sounds lovely. Shall I sharpen the pruning shears and snip away at him then?”

“Nay, lass. If he were no’ a cursed
MacGregor,
I’d tell ye to flirt with him like a little tart. Ye need only tease and please and drive the man wild with kisses and—”
Brodie stopped himself.
“But he
is
a MacGregor and therefore ye ought no’ to sully yerself with his ilk. Forget what I said about flirting and—”

“Too late.” Lucinda picked up the tray and headed back toward the parlor. She’d already thrown herself into the man’s arms once.

How hard could it be to do again?

“And so ye see,” Hester MacGibbon said with a shake of her bulldoggish jowls, “the contract is duly signed and notarized right here.”

“But that’s not my signature,” Alexander protested.

“Are ye no’ laird of Bonniebroch?” she asked.

“Well, yes, but—”

“That’s how the contract was signed. Lord Bonniebroch. Plain as the nose on yer face. It doesna signify a flibbet what yer Christian name might be. Only yer title and ye’ve already admitted to that.”

“She has a point,” Clarindon put in unhelpfully.

“But a marriage contract cannot be enforced between an unnamed woman and a title.”

At least, not in England. Scotland was undoubtedly another matter. Alexander paced the room, nervous energy crackling off him. As an unattached covert agent, he was prepared to take risks a married man would shun. There was no place in his life for a wife. It wasn’t safe, for him or the lady.

“This is no’ a private agreement, ye ken. ’Tis more like . . . two goin’ concerns joining forces with the added blessing of a Christmastide wedding thrown in,” Hester said.

Lucinda MacOwen glided into the parlor then, her kid-soled slippers making soft swishes on the threadbare carpet. Without a glance at Alexander, she set the tray on a low table, served her aunt the tot of rum, and settled before the tea service to pour out.

“How will ye be takin’ your tea, Sir Bertram?” she asked with a smile of such luminous glory, it nearly took Alexander’s breath away. She certainly hadn’t smiled like that at him. Winsome, hopeful smiles, yes, but nothing like this dazzling display. He forced himself to look elsewhere, but his gaze kept returning to Lucinda MacOwen’s graceful white hands as they fluttered over the tea things.

Clarindon told her he preferred tea with milk and made appreciative noises over the fresh bannocks. The fact that she gave preference to his friend by serving him first was not lost on Alex, but he supposed he
had
injured her feelings rather badly. After all Clarindon’s needs were met, Lucinda MacOwen finally turned her attention to him.

The smile that had been an expression of unabashed pleasure and welcome became brittle. “One lump or two?”

He wondered if she were thinking of lumps she’d rather deliver to his head instead of the sort that would sweeten his tea. On the off chance she’d had time to add a bit of hemlock to the brown clumps of sugar, he decided to err on the side of caution and asked for his tea without embellishment.

Hester MacGibbon quaffed her rum with a satisfied slurp. Then once she upended her glass, she leaned forward and resumed her lecture on the finer points of Scottish law.

“So the main consideration is this, my lord. It matters no’ a morsel what ye may call yerself whilst ye’re on English soil,” Hester MacGibbon said. “Ye accepted the mantle of Bonniebroch with all the benefits and encumbrances thereto. Here in Scotland ye be Lord Bonniebroch and as such, ye’re betrothed to me great-niece. Many is the man that would count himself fortunate to ally with a sept of the Campbell clan, though I’ll admit the fact that ye’re a
MacGregor
means we’ll have to hold our noses to see the pair of ye wed. Still, a contract’s a contract and there’s an end to it. We’ll hold up our end of the matter.”

“Might we continue this discussion privately, Mrs. MacGibbon?” Alexander cast a glance in Lucinda MacOwen’s direction. He didn’t want to wound her again if he could help it.

“Why? As this touches on Lucinda’s future, she has every right to be present.”

The girl smiled at him again, a different sort of smile this time. She turned her head in a feline tilt, for all the world like a tabby eyeing a mouse hole. “As I’ve need to learn my intended’s mind about things, I see no reason to betake myself elsewhere.”

“Very well. Since my being a MacGregor is so distasteful to you, surely we can come to a mutually satisfactory agreement to void the contract,” Alexander said, wincing inwardly at having to say such things before his nominal bride. He wasn’t used to being such a lout.

“Certainly, ye may void the contract an’ ye wish to,” Hester MacGibbon said with every appearance of affability. “There’s a provision that stipulates how the contract may be broken. The party wishing to do so merely forfeits all his holdings to the other party.”

“That might be agreeable,” Alexander said. He’d wondered how to divest himself of the Scottish estate once he no longer needed it. The least he could do for the jilted girl was gift her with Bonniebroch.

“Are ye no’ hearin’ me, lad?
All
yer holdings, both here, and in England and wherever else ye may have property or interest in moneymaking ventures of any kind.”

“Oh,” Alex said slowly. As a second son, he wasn’t heir to the marquisate, but his father had settled several unentailed properties on him and through his own industry, he owned half the shares in a fleet of three merchant ships. Even though his needs were small while he remained in the service of his country, he couldn’t in good conscience walk away from the private wealth he’d amassed.

“I can see ye’ve had a bit of a ponder on that point and come round to my way of thinking,” Hester said, approvingly. “It’s a wise man as knows when to quit a losing position. There may be hope for ye yet.”

Lucinda studied the tea set as if she’d never seen the like before. Her lips were clamped in a hard line, her cheeks florid. The girl was quietly livid and Alexander couldn’t blame her.

“Miss MacOwen,” he said. “We’ve started out on the wrong boot. Allow me to make amends. Of course, you and your family will be welcome to stay at Bonniebroch after the king’s envoy returns to London. That way, you and I can get acquainted with a nice long engagement.”

“Oh, aye, take all the time ye like.” Hester gave a cackling laugh. “The wedding’s no’ set to take place till Christmas Day. Check the contract. Ye’ll find it spelled out nicely. But dinna worrit. A man and a maid can ken quite a bit about each other in a short time. I advise ye to get started whilst I see what those other two wee ninnies are about. Come wi’ me, Sir Bertram, and we’ll see if an Englishman can haul down a Scottish lassie’s trunk without damaging either himself or the baggage.”

The old woman levered her bulk out of the chair and moved ponderously across the room. Clarindon, the traitor, followed in her wake, as eager to please as a blasted lapdog.

Once they were gone, silence descended on the parlor like a shroud. Alexander had always prided himself on being able to negotiate the rounds of small talk that passed for brilliance with members of the ton, but for the life of him, he could think of nothing appropriate for this occasion.

What did one say to an unwanted bride?

Fortunately, she didn’t seem upset by the silence, though she was looking distractedly beyond his left ear instead of meeting his gaze. Then her eyes flared in alarm and she jumped to her feet. He glanced over his shoulder, sure from the sudden panic in her face that someone was stalking his unprotected back with a drawn blade, but there was no one there.

“Will ye be pleased to take a turn in the garden with me, my lord?” she said, nearly tripping on the words in her haste to spill them over her tongue.

“Of course, but what about the rain?”

“’Tis likely ended, or about to start again. If we stayed indoors for every wee mist, we’d never have a breath of fresh air.”

“Very well. Why not?” One place was as good as another for the soon-to-be-leg-shackled-for-life. Even if he dispatched a letter to London immediately, it wouldn’t reach his solicitor in a timely fashion. He’d have to figure a way out of this betrothal on his own. Preferably one that didn’t involve beggaring himself.

He offered Miss MacOwen his arm and she led him out of the room and down a corridor so narrow, his shoulder rubbed against the faded wallpaper on one side. Still, he was relieved to quit the stifling parlor and hopeful something suitably botanical would spring to his lips once they stepped outside.

“Are ye always this quiet then?” she asked as they pushed through the back door and into a small walled garden.

The rain had ceased and eased the sense of perpetual dampness. As befitted the home of a thrifty Scottish matron, most of the garden space was given over to herbaceous borders gone brown with the cold of December. A trio of rosebushes climbed a trellis in the far corner, the vines dry-leaved and prickly with forbidding-looking thorns.

“No’ that I’m complainin’, mind ye,” she went on. “A quiet man is a restful man.”

“I confess I’ve been rendered speechless by this turn of events,” he said. “You must admit it isn’t every day a man finds himself unexpectedly betrothed. Please don’t take that as a slight, Miss MacOwen.”

“And how should I take it?”

She was right. His behavior had been abominable, but he couldn’t seem to stop saying the wrong things. Silence was the safest course.

She released his arm and strolled ahead of him a few paces on the meandering path. A rare ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and backlit her in its shining glory. The brisk breeze whipped her skirt against the curves of her calves and shapely thighs. At least his betrothed was a fetching bit of muslin. Part of him thought things could have been decidedly worse.

Then suddenly they were.

A man wearing a cutaway jacket was unable to disguise what might be occurring beneath his trousers. Alexander’s tented rather obviously, making room for his growing bulge.

Damn. She’ll think me a complete cur.
Resisting an engagement was one thing. Doing it while sporting a raging cockstand was quite another.

There was a stone bench in the center of the garden and he made for it quickly, taking position behind the granite back that rose high enough to hide him from the waist down.

“Would you care to sit for a bit?” he asked.

She shrugged and came over to plop down on the bench. Her slippered feet didn’t quite reach the ground, so she hooked her ankles and let them swing back and forth with nervousness.

He began to regret asking her to sit. From this angle, he could see down her bodice into the shadowy hollow between her breasts. They were plump and sweet and likely to fit his palm to perfection. His body would never settle with this sort of feminine distraction so near.

“I wonder,” he said, casting about for anything to fill the silence that yawned between them, “if this betrothal isn’t a bit easier for you than for me.”

“Why should it be easier for me?” She crossed her arms, pressing her breasts together and deepening the cleft between them. Alexander ground his teeth, but couldn’t drag his gaze away. “D’ye think I want to be saddled with a man I didna even ken?”

“No, I suppose not, but at least you knew you were betrothed.” He moved around the bench and sat down. If he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his arousal should be less obvious. “When I won Bonniebroch from its previous owner, I had no idea you’d come with it.”

“Read the contract, my lord,” she said in a biting tone. “Ye’re also getting a prize Blackface ram.”

He chuckled. “Well, that makes all the difference in the world.”

She obviously didn’t find that as absurdly funny as he did, for she shot him a searing glance and then looked away.

“This is every bit as difficult for me as ye,” she said. “I might’ve had another beau, ye ken.”

“Do you?” If she was pining for a Highlander somewhere, perhaps Alexander could convince
her
to negate the contract. His problems would be over. He’d even foreswear the clause that forfeited her family’s wealth to him if that was what kept her from balking.

“That’s no’ the issue. Even if I did have a beau, I have two more sisters. Ye could take yer pick between Aileen and Mary in that case.” She turned to him and he felt himself in danger of tumbling into her green eyes again. He couldn’t decide if those shaded glens were a balm for the soul or a hideaway for bandits. “That’s no’ a bad idea. Would ye fancy one of my sisters, then? I’ll be pleased to step aside, if that’s the case.”

As if he needed another way to wound her. “No, I don’t fancy one of your sisters.”

“Is it that ye dinna like women, then? I’ve heard whispers of such men, but never did I think to meet one.”

Indignation made his hackles rise.

“Trust me, I like women.” He was tempted to unfasten his trousers and show her just how much he liked women. Her delectable form especially, at the moment.

“I simply didn’t intend to marry . . .”
ever,
he finished silently. Now to avoid it, he’d have to find a quick husband for not only Lucinda, but both her sisters. It was a daunting prospect, but not impossible. He latched onto the idea as the only hopeful one he’d had all morning.

“Ye dinna want to wed at all?”

“I’m counted young for it still.” He was not yet thirty, but the depth of his pockets meant he could well afford a wife if he wanted one.

“Ye seem old enough to me.” She folded her hands in her lap, lacing her fingers so tight, her knuckles whitened. Alex was trained to notice minute ticks, small tells of deception or subterfuge. Lucinda might try to project an image of calm, but she was like a duck, skimming lightly over the surface of the pond with hardly a ripple and all the while paddling furiously underneath. “Perhaps ye feel guilty over winning Bonniebroch in a game of chance.”