Kresley Cole - [MacCarrick Brothers 02] (22 page)

“But right now, you’re half-married to a
rough Scot
?” he grated.

That had really gotten to him. “They don’t mean anything by it.”

He looked away and plucked a piece of grass as he asked, “Were you…were you shamed to have me here as your husband?”

“Oh, heavens, no!” she said, then wished she’d been a little more poised—and a little less exclamatory—in her answer, even as his grim expression eased somewhat.

She didn’t care what her cousins said. She’d always found Hugh’s rugged looks handsome. He dressed simply but well, and he had good manners for all that he didn’t talk much—and for all that his handshake was a “bit excruciating,” as Robert had told Sam, who’d told Jane.

“Besides, rough Scot is a lot better than what they call Robert.” When Hugh raised his eyebrows, she said, “They call Robert the laughing quack. He thinks the two of you are fast friends, by the way. He told me he got a good sense about you, though he couldn’t wrangle more than two words out of you. He’s usually right about these things.”

“Good sense, huh? Then why…?” He never finished the question, as he’d caught sight of Lawrence starting the bonfire. “There’s to be a fire?” He eyed his surroundings warily. “Here?”

She nodded. “We eat supper out here whenever the weather’s this nice.”

“I ken that.” His gaze was watchful as Belinda and Sam began setting out food and wine.

“We will stay, won’t we?”

He swung a look at her as if she’d just asked him to drink from the Thames.

They intended to sit out here. All of them. Together. Oh, no, no.

“No, we canna stay.” He rose, pulling her up with him. This, Hugh would not do.

He and his brothers had been invited to attend those fireside dinners, but they’d never accepted, all of them too uncomprehending of the strange behavior of this family. Men drank readily and smoked cigars in front of their wives, trilling laughter sounded throughout the night, children slept draped over their parents wherever they’d fallen asleep, not waking even at the loud laughter.

How many nights had the three brothers sat out on their terrace, listening, giving each other looks of bewilderment?

Now he was to be on the other side of the cove, for the fire?

He must have shown how dismayed he was, because she sidled up to him, a smile playing about her wine-reddened lips—the lips he’d burned to sample when he’d pressed her against the house just minutes ago.

“I’d really like to eat here tonight,” she said.

He shook his head sternly.

“Please?” she asked in a soft voice, making him wonder which was worse—that she could manage him, or that they both knew she could.

She took his hand, easing them back down to the blanket. “We’ll just sit here.” He knew she was manipulating him, but he was also aware she would clasp his arm and mold her body to his as they sat. Withstand the fire; get this attention.

He would win this one.

Leaning close, her breasts soft against his arm, she trailed her hand up to the back of his neck, then made slow, lazy circles with her nails. “This is not so bad, is it?”

Not with her, but the others had all convened—from nannies to bairns to couples—all lazy on blankets around the fire, with delicacies spread about on china dishes. Though Jane prepared him a selection, and the food smelled delicious, he had no appetite.

Once the children had dropped off—with the wee lass Emily bundled in a blanket and curled over Jane’s ankles—and the nannies had retired, more bottles of wine surfaced. The talk grew lively and the language turned frank, even in front of the ladies, even
by
the ladies.

Hugh glanced up when he heard Robert say, “At least Hugh knows what she’s like. Imagine if he’d married her without having known her for so long.”

Samantha said, “Well, I’m sure he knows that Janey’s the wildest of the Eight.”

“I am not!” Jane cried.

“Does Hugh know about the Russian prince?” Samantha asked, and Jane gave a self-satisfied smile.

Hugh’s no’ sure he wants to know about the Russian prince….

But Samantha had already begun. “Just this spring at a ball, a horrid old lecher of a prince stuck his hand down Charlotte’s bodice. Little Charlotte was so mortified! So we all went on the offensive, spreading rumors about his eleventh toe of a male appendage.” Samantha’s eyes were glinting with amusement. “But Jane merely watched from the side like a tigress sizing up prey, waiting for the right moment. I saw the whole thing happening. As he strolled past her, she flashed him a come-hither smile. His attention was so fixed on her that he never saw her foot sweep out from under her skirts to trip him. He crashed face first into the gala-size punch bowl.”

Hugh felt the corners of his lips quirking. Fierce lass.

Belinda added, “Jane sauntered up to us, brushing her hands off, and remarked”—she mimicked Jane’s sensual voice—“‘Darlings, all men bow before the Weyland Eight. Or they fall.’”

Hugh raised his eyebrows at Jane, and the words slipped out: “They bow, do they?”

“Weren’t you listening?” she asked with a saucy grin. “That, or they fall. And the big ones like you fall
hard
.”

No bloody kidding.

Everyone laughed. After that, the conversation devolved into a dirty limerick contest. When Hugh found himself on the verge of grinning, he grew guarded. He forced himself to draw back. That’s what he did—he was always on the outside, looking in. Always. It wasn’t difficult—he was so different from these people, it was like night and day.

Everyone here was so bloody comfortable in their own skin, so settled and sure in their relationships, affection displayed openly, unconsciously. Samantha laughed with her lips pressed to Robert’s neck. Belinda and Lawrence held hands to walk ten feet to go retrieve her shawl.

What would it be like if he belonged here, if Jane truly were his? What would
he
be like without the constant shadow of the
Leabhar
over him? How he envied this life.

One family so blessed, one cursed.

When he exhaled, Jane absently stroked the back of his neck with her nails, as though she sensed he needed it.

He stared into the fire. Just weeks ago, the woman his brother loved—the only one he’d ever loved—had almost died. Because of Court’s brash actions, the two of them had been hunted down by the Rechazado.

Two had followed Annalía’s brother to the MacCarrick home in London, and had seized her, dragging her outside. When Court had charged after her, one shoved a gun against her temple so hard she’d been bruised. Court could do nothing to help her, could only grate out a strangled plea to Hugh, who, as usual, had been on the periphery and able to back away.

Hugh had made it upstairs to his room, snatched up his rifle, and drawn a bead from the second-story window. Never had a shot meant so much—he knew his brother would be destroyed if the girl died.

Hugh had succeeded in killing the target in a way that prevented the man from firing, but Annalía had had to crawl away from the dropped body that still clenched her. Before Court could get to her, she’d slipped in the pooling blood, crying softly.

And as he’d seen Court rushing to her, Hugh had been shamed to feel relief—that he himself had never risked Jane. He remembered thinking, “I’ll die before I expose Jane to something like this.”

But he was….

Jane kissed his ear and murmured, “A hundred pounds and counting. Care to make it two?”

Twenty-eight

G
rey felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up just before the tavern went silent.

He shook his head, grinning into his cup. The unrelenting bastard had just entered the very lakeside tavern where Grey had reposed during the day—and the one he was departing from by ferry as soon as darkness fell.

Grey had already determined his means of a swift exit and slipped toward the side door, but he hesitated in the shadows to get a closer look at his pursuer.

Ethan MacCarrick.
Ah, the fiend that fiends feared.

That made Grey want to chuckle.

Ethan’s eyes were intent, surveying the scene for threats. His face was set in a scowl, his scar bone white. Grey had always hankered to know who’d dealt Ethan that blow, but Hugh wouldn’t speak of the subject and resented being asked about it. Yet Grey knew that whoever had done the job had had skill—Ethan’s scar whitened with any expression—and he had done it when Ethan was still a young man.

Backing to a wall, Ethan continued searching the crowd, no doubt for drunken patrons who looked like regulars. Grey knew that they were the gatekeepers—the ones with all the information—because drunks could be remarkably perceptive, and no one was guarded enough around them.

Under Ethan’s watchful glare, a patron suddenly bolted toward the door. Within the space of a heartbeat, Ethan had the man by the hair, hauling him outside.

Grey skulked out the back, trailing as Ethan pulled the man into a foggy alley. From a distance, Grey watched him slowly strangling the man with one hand, then allowing him to gasp out words in violent intervals. Grey rolled his eyes. Ethan’s style had always been blunt and dependent on power.

When the mark yelled a name that was actually a roundabout lead to him, Grey supposed Ethan had had
some
success with it. After knocking the man flat, Ethan returned to the tavern, inadvertently trapping Grey—the bloody ferryman was
inside
, guzzling ale, waiting on Grey to give the word to depart.

Damn it!
Although Grey was only a half-hour ferry ride away from Ros Creag, he felt he needed to move quickly. He suspected that Hugh wasn’t planning to remain at the lake much longer. Hugh must know Grey would eventually discover his den.

If Ethan didn’t withdraw from the tavern directly and ride from this small town, Grey would have to kill him tonight. Grey hadn’t planned to—at present; he wanted to murder Jane. He’d always found it prudent to prioritize these things lest one overextend oneself, and yet already he’d deviated from his plan by pursuing Lysette.

In this matter, however, Grey might not have much choice.

But Ethan wasn’t exactly an easy target. To strike without detection, getting close enough to the man to gut him, would take hours of work—hours Grey didn’t have.

After a quarter of an hour passed and Ethan remained inside, Grey realized he was going to have to
shoot
Ethan….

Assessing the area for a serviceable vantage, he found a balcony that faced the tavern’s front entrance with a view of the side alleyway as well. As he climbed up one of the balcony’s iron filigree supports, each old bullet wound in his chest screamed in protest.

But once he’d set up his position, time crawled by as he waited for Ethan to emerge. He watched people strolling on the street, or entering and exiting the tavern’s groaning front door. Was Ethan eating in there? Interrogating? Grey knew he wasn’t likely buying a woman. Ethan took no pleasure in life, not even pleasure in women any longer.

After well over an hour, Ethan exited from the side door. Grey aimed his pistol, though his hand shook wildly. With his other hand, he slipped medicine between his lips to ease it.

Immediately, Grey knew something was different about Ethan. In the light of a flickering street lamp, Ethan looked distracted, off his game.

Grey knew of only one thing that could make the man look like that, because he’d seen a similar expression on Hugh’s face many a time.

Ethan MacCarrick had a woman on his mind.

In the past, Ethan had put on a good show, seeming uncaring about his appearance. But now, when two boys stopped and stared at his face, his brows drew together, as if he were only just comprehending how people saw him. He glowered at them, but evinced no satisfaction when he made them flee. Instead, he ran the back of his hand roughly over the scar.

Grey wouldn’t pity him, though. Not when he remembered sweating with pain while locked in that dank basement. A flare of rage began to burn inside him, until it overrode even the most assiduous chewing of his medicine.

When Ethan had finally released him, Grey had acted as though he were grateful and on his way to wellness. Hugh had appeared so bloody relieved—and so guilty for hitting Grey. “Ach, it’s good to have you back,” Hugh had said. But Ethan had given him a look that said, “I’ll be watching you.”

Now Grey watched him. Again, he took a bead with a tremulous hand, willing it to grow steady.

Though Ethan couldn’t have heard the sound from his distance away, the instant Grey cocked his pistol, he froze. He either sensed Grey at last or realized how careless he’d been, walking into an alleyway with vantages all around, without so much as a cursory scan of the area.

Ethan gazed upward and spotted Grey. His expression was disbelieving; so was Grey’s—he’d never thought he would take out the great Ethan MacCarrick so easily. Then Ethan’s face became a mask of rage. He yanked his gun free and fired.

When the bullet merely whistled through a deceptive billow in his bagging clothing, Grey pulled the trigger.

Blood spurted straight into the air from Ethan’s chest, then cascaded over his fallen body.

A pathetic shot?
Not tonight. Grey had aimed true.

Twenty-nine

H
ugh rode back to Ros Creag with Jane dozing in his arms. She’d fallen asleep tucked against his chest in front of the fire, with the girl still slumbering over her legs. Once Robert had scooped up Emily, Hugh had gently lifted Jane, then quietly refused offers to stay the night.

Now Hugh found himself almost grinning as he imagined the looks on his brothers’ faces when he told them he’d endured an evening at the Weylands’. They’d never believe him.

Yet it hadn’t been that bad. No, he admitted to himself, it was one of the most enjoyable times he’d had in years. And now he was holding Jane again, and the moon was out, and she was…
nuzzling his chest
? He drew back his head. “Jane, are you awake?”