What Happens in Scotland (9 page)

Before he could even think, James snaked a fist out and grabbed his friend’s necktie, pulling Patrick’s face down within inches of his own. “That’s my pretend wife you are disparaging, so I’ll thank you to think twice.”

Patrick carefully disengaged himself from his friend’s grip and gave him a cocky grin for his trouble. “Same reaction as last night. Just checking to see if you were still arse over elbow for the lady. I suppose I should count myself fortunate. You knocked out MacRory’s two front teeth last night for far less an indiscretion.”

James blinked against a swirl of confusion as Patrick set in again on his scalp. He knew he had busted the butcher’s teeth last night—the innkeeper had told him as much. He even remembered doing it now, recalled the satisfying crack of his fist, a woman’s high-pitched scream, and the violence of shattered glass and splintered wood. And of course, there had been the inevitable rush of guilt as MacRory had spit out a mouthful of blood.

But no one had yet told him why he had done it. Had he brawled with the butcher last night, over the girl? “Why did I hit him?” James asked.

Patrick shrugged, which was in hindsight a reaction best avoided when one was putting a needle to skin. “Hell if I know. He said something about the girl, I suppose. One minute you’re laughing, and the next you’re swinging. Never seen you like that, truth be told.”

James winced as his skin twitched under Patrick’s painful ministrations. His thoughts were a jumble inside his head. His purported reaction last night made no sense. He had spent his adult life carefully controlling those impulses, ensuring a veneer of respectability that would stand fast, no matter how thin a shield it actually was. After the failures of his youth, he had sworn never again to be brought to violence, and certainly never again over a woman.

Only he had apparently abandoned all that effort last night, and all for one false female. She was a thief, had probably plotted to steal his purse from the moment she first sat upon his lap and felt its promising bulge through his coat pocket. If
he
wanted to see her brought to justice, what did it matter what Patrick thought of her?

“I suppose it doesn’t matter.” James gave his thoughts of her a good hard shove and returned his attention to the fact he had almost hit his best friend. The pain in his head had numbed to a dull ache, but the bite of each pass of the needle made his eyes pull shut. “I do not know where she is, anyway.”

“Well, the first place
I
would look if I had misplaced my wife and my horse in the same night would be David Cameron’s house,” Patrick said, leaning in close to inspect one damnably sure stitch after another.

James squinted up at his friend. Patrick was already in dangerous territory, ribbing him about the girl and poking him with the unremitting needle. But mentioning the woman he sought and the man he despised in the same breath was tempting violence. “Why would I want to visit Cameron?” he asked carefully, his nails digging crescent moons into the upholstered seat beneath him.

“Because that great black beast you have tied up to the fence post outside is his mare. Treated her for founder, just last month. Lame as Gemmy, that mare is. She’ll make a decent broodmare, but will be useless as a riding animal. If you traded that horse for Caesar, you’ve been swindled, my friend.”

James’s head buzzed in alarm. Not because he thought he might have done something so stupid as to trade Caesar. It was more the mention of David Cameron, Moraig’s magistrate.

James knew Patrick still counted the man as a friend, a side effect of the time the three had shared at Cambridge. They were all second sons, thrust into the requirements of receiving a proper education but denied the benefits that came with any rightful claim to a title. Surrounded by young men who were wealthier and more assured of their lot in life, the three had come together to form a sort of club.

But despite this history, and the fact that both he and Cameron hailed from Moraig, James had long since ceased to think of David in a friendly manner. In fact, he tried very hard not to think of him at all, although his position as the town solicitor and Cameron’s role as the town magistrate made some degree of professional communication necessary.

He could not avoid thinking of him now, however. A memory returned from the previous evening, of pulling the girl up on the table and standing beside her as the room spun around them. It was not real. At least, it was not
supposed
to be real. He remembered staring down at her, her hands reed-slender in his own, as Cameron—equally as deep in his cups as anyone else in the place—had performed the mock ceremony with the dramatic flair of a born thespian, and then grandly pronounced them drunkard and wife.

He had no memory of why he had agreed to such a farce. It was outside the bounds of decency, and it made a mockery of marriage and love and things James generally viewed as sacred. It made no sense for him to have risked his reputation in such a way. He could only imagine the girl had asked it of him, and that he had done it for reasons separate from the way she made his body stand at attention.

But David Cameron . . . he was a wild card in this. The man of whom they spoke was a surprisingly decent magistrate, fair and direct in his dealings. But outside of the job, he still acted exactly like the spoiled second son he had always been.

“About Cameron . . .” James swallowed. “Do you think . . . I mean, could he have . . . performed a legitimate ceremony last night?”

He held his breath as he waited for Patrick to answer. Damned if
that
wouldn’t muck things up, even worse than they already were. The ceremony had sounded real enough to his ale-buzzed ears. It would be just the kind of sick humor Cameron had specialized in so long ago at Cambridge, before life had thrust them in opposite directions. David might be Moraig’s newest magistrate, but James doubted the man’s new professional geniality extended to the point of forgoing such a delicious joke, or a chance to exact such an ironic measure of revenge.

Patrick squinted down at him. “I was there for only the last bit of it. If you’ve a mind to find out, you’ll need to ask Cameron himself.” His friend ducked down and snapped the last bit of thread with his teeth. “All finished.”

James reached out an unsteady hand and balanced himself against the sawdust bag that hung temptingly from a rafter. Normally, when he felt this coiled up, he used it to release his pent-up energy, working his muscles into compliance and his mind into submission. But given the way his head was pounding, he suspected it would be several days before he felt well enough to use the sparring bag again. One more thing to add to his growing list of reasons to be annoyed with the girl.

Patrick sighed as James pushed himself upright. “If you were one of my four-legged patients, I’d recommend a bath and a few days’ rest before you go traipsing all over town.”

“I’ve seen what you do to your four-legged patients.” James headed toward the hallway on unsteady feet. “And if poor Gemmy is any indication, I prefer to keep my limbs and my balls intact.”

A bath, unspeakably tempting as it was, would take time James did not have. No, he would have to make do with a quick wash in his room, using the sliver of plain, brown soap that awaited him there. He would sacrifice the thirty seconds it would take to make use of his toothpowder and put on a clean shirt, if indeed one even awaited him in his near-empty chest of drawers.

But the few days’ rest Patrick suggested was out of the question. Every minute he let slip past without pursuing the few clues available to him was another minute she could use to cover her tracks. He had no choice. As soon as he could manage to stumble his way out the door, he was off to Cameron’s.

And God help the man—or brother—who tried to stop him.

Chapter 9

A
RRIVING IN TOWN
on the back of a potato cart that smelled of moist earth and rotting vegetables was more tolerable than Georgette had first imagined.

It helped that Elsie Dalrymple was a fountain of local lore, distracting Georgette from the indignity of their conveyance by pointing out the distant loch shimmering in early afternoon sunlight and the thin blue band where fresh water met the sea. As the wagon rocked over the rutted road and Georgette cradled the kitten protectively against her chest, Elsie spun fanciful tales about Kilmartie Castle, which sat high on a bluff over the loch. And as they drew closer to town and began to pass curious residents, Elsie diverted Georgette’s embarrassment by elaborating on the history of Moraig itself and its role as a smuggling port twenty years ago.

By the time they pulled to a stop outside the Blue Gander, Georgette felt as if she could have grown up here, so complete was her knowledge of the town.

Of course, if she
had
grown up in Moraig, it would not matter that her memory from the previous evening showed no signs of returning. She would know precisely the sort of man Mr. James MacKenzie was, and what made him so irresistible that she had agreed to marry him after a courtship the length of a heartbeat.

She no longer felt panicked over what she had done. She felt resolved. There was no time to waste in tracking him down, no reason to delay the inevitable. She needed an annulment.

But first she needed to find him.

Elsie tumbled out of the cart first, shaking out her skirts and ignoring Georgette’s expectant look. Georgette cleared her throat. “A ladies’ maid helps her mistress down if there is no footman about.”

Elsie dissolved into giggles. “Oh, that’s rich, miss. Are we pretending the potato cart is a coach now?”

Georgette had to admit, it
did
seem a little silly. She slid from the back of the wagon, her reticule and kitten uncomfortably in one hand. Small steps, she reminded herself. It took time to train a proper servant.

“I enjoyed seeing you again, Joseph.” Elsie smiled at the young man who had served as their coachman. “Perhaps I’ll see even
more
of you later tonight.”

The boy flushed red. Georgette grabbed Elsie by the elbow and pulled her out of earshot as the cart began to move off. “A ladies’ maid does not say such things,” she hissed.

Elsie lifted a hand to one hip. “Why not?”

“It’s . . . it’s just not done.” Georgette shifted the kitten from one hand to the other, trying to remember
why
it was not done.

Elsie’s eyes trailed back the cart, which was already threading its way into Main Street traffic. “I suppose you think I should not associate with the likes of Joseph Rothven anymore,” she sniffed. “Well, I don’t see why being a ladies’ maid should turn me into a nob. And he was good enough for
you
last night.”

“No.” Georgette cleared the embarrassment from her throat. “I mean,
no
, you are free to associate with whomever you want. Servants just need to be more careful about what they say in public. Your comportment reflects upon your employer.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound like much fun,” Elsie muttered, but any further inappropriate words she may have planned were captured in a sneeze that shook the maid’s whole body.

Georgette sighed. It was the third such reflexive sneeze in the past hour. Either Elsie was catching a summer cold—which seemed unlikely, given the unseasonably warm weather—or it was yet another reminder that in addition to finding Mr. MacKenzie, they also needed to locate the butcher and return the kitten.

She looked around, taking note of her surroundings and searching the crowd for either a large, blood-spattered butcher or a man with a brown beard and eyes the color of absinthe. To their right, a man climbed up a ladder to string colored paper lanterns along the Blue Gander’s broken front facade. His height and beard looked about right for Mr. MacKenzie, but when he finished his task and turned around to face her, she could see his face was too thin, his eyes too blue.

Disappointment settled over her. Moraig seemed larger than it had this morning, possibly a town of several thousand people. How was she supposed to find MacKenzie when everywhere she looked there were brawny Scotsmen with beards? If she had to go about staring into every resident’s eyes, it was going to be a long afternoon, indeed.

“Are they preparing for some sort of celebration?” Georgette asked, nodding toward the paper lanterns.

“ ’Tis Bealltainn, miss.”

“What is Bealltainn?” The word sounded foreign on Georgette’s lips, but carried a hint of the local dialect her ears were coming to recognize.

“The May festival.” Elsie offered Georgette an impish smile. “There will be dancing tonight, and a bonfire. Lots of dark corners, and opportunities for stolen kisses.”

Georgette grimaced. Bealltainn sounded like just the sort of activity she usually avoided.

Then again, so was the evening crowd at the Blue Gander.

She pulled Elsie south along Main Street, heading in the direction she had plunged that morning. The smells and sounds she remembered from the dawn’s dash to freedom had shifted, and instead of frying dough and market voices raised in trade, the unmistakable scent of roasting meat and the sound of hammers filled the air. Preparations for Bealltainn appeared in full swing, which made it all the more imperative she find MacKenzie and the butcher and escape before the impending revelry made it an impossible task.

“Tell me more about Mr. MacKenzie,” she directed Elsie as they walked, the kitten bundled tight against her chest.

The maid offered her mistress a knowing gaze, her hazel eyes shining in amusement. “I thought you were anxious to be done with the man.”

“I am.”

She was.
But the curiosity Georgette felt about him was like an electric current in her veins. She hummed with the need to know more. “In order to find him as quickly as possible, it would help if I knew more about him. Where he goes. What he’s like.”

The maid shrugged. “What else is there to tell? The man is handsome as sin, and there will be throngs of women grateful you don’t want him.” She grinned. “When I think about how he tossed the butcher through the window . . . well, what I wouldn’t give to wake up to
that
one in my bed.”

“The butcher?” Georgette asked, trying to follow the maid’s erratic train of thought.

“MacKenzie.” Elsie’s lips stretched wider. “Once you’re done with him, of course.”

A flash of jealousy turned Georgette’s stomach, end over end. She clutched the kitten tighter, confused by her body’s unexpected reaction. What did it matter if Elsie sighed like a love-struck schoolgirl in need of a kiss whenever she mentioned MacKenzie’s name?

Georgette didn’t need his kiss—she needed to be
rid
of him.

“Treats women well, that one does,” Elsie continued, oblivious to her mistress’s unanticipated turmoil. “Never seemed close to settling down, though, until you showed up.” She leaned in closer. “Of course, there’s the rumors.”

Georgette pursed her lips. She could well imagine the rumors that would trail a man of Mr. MacKenzie’s obvious . . . virility.

Elsie looked right, then left. “Some kind of tragedy. In his youth,” she whispered.

“That doesn’t sound so sordid,” Georgette whispered back, though she really had no idea why they were speaking in such low, hushed tones.

Elsie scanned the people on either side of them before stepping closer to whisper behind a cupped hand. “It was apparently quite the town scandal some years ago. A girl got herself with child, and claimed someone else was the father. MacKenzie claimed it was his.”

Georgette stilled, trying to imagine such a terrible thing. “What happened?”

“That was before I came to Moraig. But the way I hear it, the girl pitched herself over a bridge soon after, and MacKenzie went a little mad, fighting any scrapper who cared to take a swing at him. Gave him a bit of a reputation. But I don’t see the problem. Sometimes a body needs to use their fists.”

“Not in London,” Georgette said, weak at the thought. She couldn’t imagine ever facing a scenario in which she could strike someone.

“Well, perhaps you need to get out more, miss.”

Silence descended. Really, what was there to say after such a personal, tragic bit of gossip?

They walked on. Georgette thought about the laughing rogue who had beckoned her back to bed this morning, tried to imagine him as a hurt young man taking out his frustrations on anyone close enough to suffer his fists. Her heart squeezed for him.

“He’s the son of the Earl of Kilmartie,” Elsie offered next.

“The son of an
earl
?” Georgette exclaimed. She had trouble reconciling the hard musculature she had ogled this morning with the soft, pampered life of a peer. Why, she had thought the man was a footman! Shouldn’t they be referring to him as
Lord
MacKenzie? Her cheeks burned in surprise and mortification before her mind leaped to a new destination. “Will we find him at the castle, then?”

Elsie shook her head. “He’s not the heir. Lives in town. And the earl doesn’t come anywhere near the Blue Gander. But MacKenzie’s different. You’d hardly know they were kin. Seems more like the common folk, with his skulking about and that great, shaggy beard.”

That description of the beard seemed in keeping with Georgette’s memory, at least. “Should we try his house in town then?” she pressed, unwilling to let even a single opportunity to find him slip by.

“I don’t know.” Elsie pursed her lips and glanced up at the sun, which hovered just overhead. “This time of day, I think he’d be working.”

Frustration pulled at Georgette with a thousand tiny fingers. Sorting this out with Elsie was like conversing with a soothsayer, each new twist to the conversation revealing hidden depths. She sighed. Clearly the girl had not told her everything she knew about MacKenzie. “What is his profession?” she asked, wondering if it might not be easier just to torture the information out of her new maid.

“He’s the town solicitor,” Elsie said with an air of distraction. She turned her head and smiled invitingly at a gentleman who passed by to their left. It wasn’t MacKenzie—this man’s beard was longer and speckled with gray, but he leered at Elsie in a way that very much brought to mind the way MacKenzie had looked at her this morning.

Georgette gave herself a hard mental shake. She was seeing the man in every shadow, but inching far too slowly toward seeing him in the flesh. If he was a solicitor, he wasn’t a gentleman, at least not in the sense she was used to. And it was still difficult to reconcile the muscled physique in her memory with such a bookish profession. But this, finally, was a clue worth following.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” she demanded. “Presumably he has an office we could visit.”

“Aye, he lets an office in north Moraig. Serves his clients ginger water and cakes, even the guilty ones.” Elsie pulled her attention away from the retreating gentleman and skirted an awkward pause. An uncharacteristic blush stained her cheeks. “I mean . . . so I’ve heard.”

“Elsie.” Georgette stopped dead in her tracks. “What aren’t you telling me?” A fearful suspicion became tangled in her mind. “Have you interacted with Mr. MacKenzie in a manner more significant than serving him a pint of ale?”

Elsie shrugged in that odd, one-shouldered affectation she so favored. “Once or twice. In my old position, of course.”

“Your position? You mean, at the Blue Gander?”

“Before that.” Elsie jutted her chin out, but Georgette could hear the hesitance in her voice. “I used to work . . .
behind
the Gander.”

Georgette’s hand fell away in shock. “You are a prostitute?” she asked, her throat going dry. Her feet were frozen, but her thoughts were anything but still.

Had Elsie done
that
? With the man who was currently—if temporarily—Georgette’s husband?

“Was.” Elsie shifted her balance from foot to foot. “I
was
a prostitute. And not a prostitute, really. I just stepped out with the occasional man who caught my eye.”

“In the alley,” Georgette pointed out. “That’s not precisely a traditional place for courting.”

“There’s no need to look at me like that,” Elsie said, peevish now. “You knew about it last night, when you offered me the position. And it is not as bad as you think. It was a right fine life, until MacKenzie intervened.”

Anger flashed through Georgette. She did not want to judge Elsie for her choices, no more than she judged herself for falling prey to her first ill-designed marriage. If the maid had chosen to do those things, there was no doubt in Georgette’s mind she had done so willingly, or at least tolerably. But the man in this sordid story . . . it was entirely too tempting to judge him.

Even if he did serve his clients cakes and ginger water.

“Did Mr. MacKenzie have need of your . . . services?” Georgette’s voice roughened with distaste. “Or abuse you in some way?”

Elsie’s eyes widened. “Oh no, miss, you have it all wrong.”

“He tried to prosecute you, then?”

“No, nothing like that.” Elsie’s face twisted. “He
helped
me, last spring when the town rector charged me with public indecency. Stood up with me at my court hearing, and didn’t charge me a ha’penny either. MacKenzie looks out for those of us who find themselves on the wrong side of things. But he said he couldn’t protect me if I kept at it, and helped get me the job serving pints at the Blue Gander instead.”

The relief that stole over Georgette at learning of MacKenzie’s good deed disturbed her almost as much as the earlier concern that he might have been someone worth hating. She shook herself from the thought. It would not do to develop any kind of attachment to the man, or to feel solidarity with his methods.

One did not feed or pet the creature one planned to set free.

“I am not ashamed of what I was,” Elsie went on, eyeing yet another passing gentleman with a feral gleam of interest. “I
enjoy
men. And they enjoyed paying me for a romp.”