Rogue of the Isles (34 page)

Mari did not dare look at Jamie, She heard what sounded suspiciously like a growl from near the door where he still stood, but she wasn’t sure. “It was not all that much of a kiss,” she said and heard the sound again, a bit louder this time.

Her aunt gave her an annoyed look. “I should think you would understand that no public display of affection is proper, Marissa. Whatever were you thinking to allow it?”

“It happened so fast—” She paused. Yes, that sound coming from Jamie was definitely a growl. Mari slanted a glance at him. His golden eyes looked decidedly wolfish at the moment. She turned quickly back to her aunt.

“Nothing else happened. We left shortly after that.”

Her aunt’s expression darkened. “Yes. The two of you were seen by those same women, apparently alone in the carriage.”

“Because Effie was ill and lying down in the seat,” Mari exclaimed.

Jamie stepped forward and crossed his arms over his broad chest. “If these gossips ruined the lass’s reputation, I will call the man out to do battle with me. Mari and I—”

“No!” Mari stopped him before he could say anything about their being hand-fasted. Her aunt would no doubt swoon at the thought, not to mention the servants were probably hovering in the hallway. “Violence will not solve anything.”

Jamie set his jaw stubbornly. “’Tis a quick way to settle the matter.”

“The matter has already been settled,” Aunt Agnes said. “Mr. Algeron told me he wanted to do the honorable thing and offered for Marissa’s hand. Since Jillian is not here, I accepted.”

‘You accepted?” Mari was almost as annoyed with her aunt as she was with Jamie when he gave her orders. Did no one think she was capable of making her own decisions? “What if I do not wish to marry right now?”

Her aunt picked up her teacup. “You should have thought about that before you took such a risk. Just be thankful that Mr. Algernon is doing the honorable thing.” She turned to Jamie. “Given the circumstances, I think it would be best if you stayed at my boarding house. I had a room prepared for you.”

Jamie looked at Mari, but she studied her hands. Without a word, he turned and walked out, and she heard the front door close behind him.

Lud! How could she be betrothed to two men without her own permission?

Nicholas poured a large dose of expensive French cognac into one of Wesley’s cracked clay mugs and tossed nearly half of it down in one swallow.

“You seem to have lost your refinement,” Wesley commented as he sipped his own brandy.

Nicholas slammed the cup down, nearly sloshing the remains over the rim. “That damn Highlander is back.”

“So is Marissa Barclay. Did you expect her to travel alone?”

“Of course not. I expected her to be sent back with a handful of soldiers along with her maid, and that damn MacLeod would tend to his own matters at Raasay. Does that forsaken isle run itself?”

Wesley shrugged and reached for the brandy decanter. “It probably does since it is not well populated. I am sure a trusted kinsman was left in charge.”

“Well, this sure as hell complicates things.”

“Why? I would think the manner in which you painted the Barclay bitch would pretty much assure she is tainted goods not even a northern barbarian would relish.”

“It was a stroke of luck the chit mentioned her birthmark to me, was it not?” Nicholas smiled smugly. “Painting it close enough that part of the nipple showed will have a shocking effect on those damn foolish matrons at the next
soiree
.”

“Too bad you didn’t just paint her nude.”

“Tsk. Tsk. That would be far too
risqué
for proper London Society. Even I could not offer for her if I had exposed all of her charms.”

“How gallant of you for offering for her at all,” Wesley said wryly. “Were you quite contrite when you spoke with the aunt?”

“Of course. I apologized profusely for the poor judgment I used that day in the gardens.”

“I am sure you managed to sound sincere?” Wesley asked with a trace of sarcasm.

“
Certainement.
All the aunt was concerned about was her dear niece’s reputation.” Nicholas assumed an apologetic expression and bowed elaborately. “I assured the old biddy I would be honored to have the girl for my wife.” He straightened and smiled thinly. “For a considerable dowry, of course.”

Wesley snorted. “I was hoping you would not forget that.”

“Hardly. Since the girl has been disgraced—I arranged that rather cleverly, did I not?—I was able to request a substantial amount. Maybe even more once the portrait is revealed and those pompous women think the Barclay girl really exposed herself.”

“You will have to go through with the wedding to get your hands on the money. Are you willing to do that?”

Nicholas shrugged. “It would afford me the opportunity to plunder unfurrowed fields. I find it quite enjoyable listening to virgins scream with pain.”

“Unless she is no longer a virgin,” Wesley said. “Those damn MacLeods seem to have a way—”

“Then she will pay,” Nicholas interrupted. “Shoving my cock into her ass will be equally pleasurable for me and equally painful for her.” He narrowed his eyes as rage began to build inside him. “If MacLeod took what is now
rightfully
mine, I can make it
extremely
painful for the little bitch, and the Highlander will pay as well.”

“You are finally beginning to sound like my son,” Wesley said and poured brandy for both of them. “I was wondering if you had it in you.”

Nicholas took the cup, a memory flashing of one of his mother’s prostitutes trying to cheat his mother on money—and what he’d been allowed to do to the whore in retribution. He had learned much that evening about inflicting pain. He gave his father a brittle smile. “The bitch will not walk for days.”

Wesley nodded. “And what about MacLeod?”

Nicholas narrowed his eyes again. “I will do what I should have done before. Get rid of him.” He tossed the rest of his brandy down. “You did say you knew some men for hire?”

“That I do,” Wesley said, an odd gleam appearing in his eyes. “How many do you want and when?”

Mari looked at the note Nicholas had sent the morning after she returned home and then at Maddie and Abigail seated across from her in the parlor the next afternoon.

“Nicholas is going to escort me to Lady Jersey’s
soiree
tomorrow night.”

“Is that not what you wanted?” Maddie asked.

“I…I do not know.” Mari had expected Jamie to show up at the townhouse yesterday, but he had not put in an appearance nor had he sent a message. Did he think because her aunt asked him to reside at the boarding house she meant for Jamie to stay away? “It…it is just that I have not talked to Jamie about any of this.”

Maddie drew her brows together. “I do not understand. When you left here, you wanted nothing more than to have Mr. Algernon pay you court. He has even offered for you. Why are you not thrilled?” She paused. “Did something happen between you and Mr. MacLeod while you were in Scotland?”

Mari hoped her face did not look as hot as it felt. She could hardly admit—even to her best friends—what had nearly occurred that wintery morning. The memories of Jamie lying over her, both of them half-naked, lingered in her mind. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel his hands and mouth on her body, inflaming her. She pushed the thought forcefully from her head. If Jamie had
really
wanted her, why had he never tried opening the door between their two rooms? She had made sure it was unlocked.

“No, of course not.”

“Well, if you ask me, Jamie MacLeod is much better-looking than the French painter,” Abigail interjected, “and he has a body anyone—any sculptor that is—would love to study.”

“Abby!” Mari exclaimed while Maddie gasped. “Where do you get such ideas?”

“Books.” Abigail adjusted her spectacles and blinked at them. “Jamie is a fine specimen. In fact,
all
the MacLeod men are excellent specimens.” She hesitated. “By any chance, did Shane bring you back?”

“No. He sailed to France.” Mari eyed her friend. “Do you fancy him?” Abigail’s ears turned pink, a brighter shade than Jamie’s did. Mari had never noticed that before. “You do!”

“I am only curious if real, human men look like the statues in the art books,” Abigail said quickly. “The MacLeods are all so tall and large—”

“Yes, well,” Maddie interrupted. “Let us return to Mari’s dilemma. If you really like Jamie, you should tell him so.”

As if she had not tried. But again, Mari could hardly blurt out she’d gladly have given her virginity to Jamie. He knew that. He had also told her, in no uncertain terms, she would be free and not obligated once they were in London—and here they were.

Where was he?

“All I know is that I do not want to be ordered to marry anyone,” Mari said, “and I do not like all of this being arranged while I was gone.”

“There was a great deal of
on-dit
when you left,” Maddie replied. “Mr. Algernon spent a good amount of time assuring the patronesses that he meant to do the honorable thing upon your return. I am sure your aunt was only acting in your best interest.”

Mari sighed. She hadn’t liked it when Ian decided she and Jamie should be hand-fasted either. Jamie had obviously only gone along with the idea because it was expected. If Jamie did not want her, how could she be sure Nicholas did?

What a knotty ball of yarn she’d been left to unwind.

Jamie had managed to stay away from the townhouse for an entire two days, and it had taken every ounce of his willpower to do it. He was too angry and too confused to make a good decision.

Not that anyone had asked him to make a decision.

Jamie stomped along the quay leading to the warehouses that held goods waiting for shipment to the Continent. Before he left Scotland, Ian had given him a bill of lading that needed to be filed with Shane’s shipping line.

The wharf was as dismal looking as Jamie felt. Heavy fog hung over the muddied water of the Thames, making the air damp, dark and cold. Since no ships were tied to the piers, the docks were nearly deserted.

Most of the time, Jamie avoided this area because it brought back memories of the abduction he had been unable to stop, but today the atmosphere suited his mood.

Hellfire and damnation. He’d known Mari did not want to be hand-fasted to him, but he had not expected her to be betrothed to another when they returned to London—and to a damn French dandy painter.

Jamie muttered a curse as he turned the corner to the shipping office. He knew many marriages were arranged and English Society was damn snooty about proper behavior, as he had already found out regarding the incident in the modiste shop. But a woman should have a choice in the matter, which is why he did not press the issue of hand-fasting. Even though Jamie had first broached the issue with Ian as a matter of honor and protecting the lass’s reputation, the more he thought about it, the more attractive the idea became. Even though the lass drove him barmy at times, he had come to admire her spunk—usually—and sometimes even her independent thinking. And he had experienced first-hand how passionate Mari could be. His groin tightened at the thought of waking up to her each morning, and then jealousy sliced through him like a sharp blade at the thought another man might actually have the privilege.

Jamie slapped the paperwork on the desk, startling the short, bald-headed bookkeeper who quickly closed a ledger he’d been working on.

“Sorry,” Jamie said as the little man approached the counter cautiously. “My mood matches the weather today.” He slid the sheaf more gently toward the accountant. “’Tis my cousin, Shane MacLeod, who needed these filed.”

“Of course. Captain MacLeod’s last trip down was quite quick. I will attend to this immediately.”

“Thank you,” Jamie said courteously and managed not to slam the door on his way out. His anger returned as he reached the wharf. He did not trust the Frenchman. The man was slick as spilled lantern oil, and there was something about his eyes that disturbed Jamie. Even when the man smiled and lavished flowery compliments on the women, his eyes were cold and calculating.

Did Mari actually want to marry someone like that? If she did, Jamie would not stop her. He clinched his fists, wishing he had something to hit. He would be willing to fight for her, even though he knew she did not approve of fighting, but what if the lass really did not want him? She had made no attempt to discuss the hand-fasting matter. Jamie sighed. He would have to swallow his pride and risk rejection, but he would have to
ask
Mari—not order her—to make a decision.

A fist smashed the back of Jamie’s skull, and he heard the whish of a knife past his ear as his instincts kicked in. He crouched low and spun around, throwing his shoulder into his attacker’s side, knocking the man off-balance. Jamie straightened, using the momentum to crash his fist into the second man’s face. It made a satisfying crunch, and blood streamed from the man’s nose. Jamie whipped his dirk from his belt and slipped the
sgian dubh
from his boot, cursing the fact that he did not have his claymore. He splayed his feet in a warrior stance, one blade in each hand, slashing at the first man who attempted to attack again.