Saving the Scot, page 20
Reverend Wynterbottom joined them. Ian had completely forgotten about the man.
After introductions, Mr. Kirby said, “My carriage is right this way if you’ll all follow me.” Kirby offered Miss Robertson his arm. The loon was going to walk into a wall if he didn’t tear his eyes away from Miss Robertson and look where he was going.
Ian offered Miss MacQuarie his arm, but not because he needed to attach himself to her like a lovesick puppy. He did it for purely practical reasons. The streets were crowded and rutted and it would be just his luck she would turn an ankle.
“Does your arm pain you?” she asked.
“Only when a certain someone sticks her thumb in my wound.”
She snorted. The bloody wee bizzum snorted.
“You find that amusing?”
“Me? No.” Was she feigning innocence? Was she acting again?
“It’s a serious matter, ye ken. It could have been worse. As it was, I nearly died.” How did she manage to get at his spleen?
“I know and I am sorry. You’re in a delicate state, and I promise to handle you gently from now on.”
He clamped his mouth shut and bit back a curse. When he had his temper under control he growled, “Miss MacQuarie, when I get you alone I’m going to—” Something occurred to him, a sudden thought which blossomed into a full realization. He smiled his bitter satisfaction. “I see what you’re doing.”
“What? What am I doing?”
“You’re trying to make me so angry, I’ll return to the ship.”
She gasped and sputtered those female sounds, the ones that meant she thought he was being ridiculous, but it was all an act.
“I’m not trying to—that’s utter nonsense. I dinnae ken where you get such notions.”
They didn’t speak again until they reached the carriage, a smart-looking coach and four. Mr. Kirby must be doing well for himself. Ian held the reverend’s stick for him and gave the older clergyman a boost up into the carriage.
While Kirby helped Miss Robertson inside, Miss MacQuarie turned to him and announced in full voice, “Well, this is goodbye then, Captain Sinclair. You’ve executed your duty splendidly. Miss Robertson and I are safely delivered into the capable hands of Mr. Kirby.” She was acting up a storm. He knew it. She knew it. He suspected Miss Robertson knew it, too. “I thank you for your service and do wish you a good voyage home.” Mr. Kirby was, however, unfamiliar with Miss MacQuarie’s talents.
“Captain Sinclair, I insist you join us. There’s plenty of room in my house. You’ll be an honored guest at our nuptials. We can be wed within a fortnight.” He turned to the Daughter from Hell. “That is, if you desire it so, Miss Robertson.”
Miss Robertson gave him a pretty blush. “I do, Mr. Kirby.” Could women make themselves blush whenever they wanted to? He knew he couldn’t control his own color. Perhaps that was a skill taught only to women.
“Captain Sinclair has very important business awaiting him in Boston,” Miss MacQuarie insisted.
“Thank you, Mr. Kirby. I accept your gracious offer as it is my fervent wish to see you wed so that I may report the details to Miss Robertson’s father.”
He experienced a euphoric rush when his pistol-wielding, trouser-wearing actress slumped her shoulders in defeat.
Chapter Ten
Louisa resisted calling the captain a bad name and climbed inside the coach. Why did he have to insist on coming along for the wedding? He’d done his job, fulfilled his obligation. Now it was time for him to go back to Scotland and report to her father. She could imagine how that would go. Captain Sinclair standing at attention in front of the general, glowing with the satisfaction of a job well done, and fully expecting his hard-earned commission.
Delivered the goods just as you asked, sir. A few minor incidents at sea. Nothing out of the ordinary. Chased by a hurricane and shot by a pirate. Nothing I couldnae handle. What’s that you ask? Any problems with the Daughter from Hell? None at all, sir. Quiet as a mouse, she was. Stayed in her cabin like a good girl the entire time. It was her companion that was the real problem. A blasted actress. Wore trousers and carried pistols with her. Nearly got me killed.
And then her da would know. The Tartan Terror would fly into a rage. If he didn’t kill Captain Sinclair on the spot, he’d put him in irons. At the very least, he’d dismiss him, disgrace him, leave him dishonored and disbarred from the army forever.
Oh God, what have I done?
“Are you feeling unwell, Miss MacQuarie?” Mr. Kirby asked. He and Captain Sinclair were seated facing Mairi, Reverend Wynterbottom, and Louisa in the sumptuously appointed carriage. The interior was lined with velvet and trimmed in polished brass. Even more impressive, the seats were upholstered with plush leather squabs.
“I fear she has the land sickness,” Captain Sinclair said. “Odd because she didnae have the sea sickness at all. I ken the lady was made for the sea.”
Louisa wanted to smack the smirk off the captain’s face. How could he be such a beast after she’d chased away his migraine and nursed his wound for weeks?
Mr. Kirby leaned a concerned face Mairi’s way. “Was it a difficult journey for you, Miss Robertson?”
Mairi batted her bloody eyelashes. “Och, dinnae fash yourself, Mr. Kirby. I didnae have any trouble with the seasickness. I come—came to like the sea just fine.”
Mr. Kirby glowed. “Charming.” He turned to the captain. “Isn’t she charming?”
“Oh, aye,” Captain Sinclair said, sounding bored. He leaned an elbow on the open window and pretended interest in the scenery. Impossible man.
“I don’t know if your brother Nathan told you, but I’m English. Well, my mother was a Scot, but I was raised in the Lake Country near Penrith.”
“Beautiful country. I know it well,” the reverend said.
“Do you know it, Miss Robertson?” Mr. Kirby asked. Mairi stared blankly, and he gushed an apology. “No, of course, you wouldn’t. I’m sorry for babbling. I’m just so…happy.”
She sent him a dazzling smile, the one that never failed to slay any man she targeted. “As am I, Mr. Kirby.” She held him in her blue-eyed gaze. Even the big bounce the carriage took when it hit a particularly deep rut didn’t shake the man loose from his trance.
Captain Sinclair lifted his chin from his fist to examine Mr. Kirby, then darted a look Louisa’s way. He was probably thinking the same thing as she: Poor Mr. Kirby is done for.
“How much longer?” Louisa asked.
Mr. Kirby came to and answered, “Oh, em, not much longer. Another mile, I’d say. I hope you like the house. We call it Quaker Hill. It’s in desperate need of a woman’s touch.”
“I’m interested to see your foundry,” Louisa put in, if only to change the subject. It worked, too, because Mr. Kirby and Captain Sinclair launched into an involved conversation about furnaces, Fahrenheits, ingots, and iron. She turned her attention to Mairi. “You look very happy,” she said and squeezed her hand. “Is he all that you hoped for?”
“Aye. And more. So much more.”
Even though her grand idea had become something not so grand, at least she’d done one thing right. Mairi was happy—blissfully happy—and so was Mr. Kirby. Once Louisa began her acting career, she’d be happy, too. If only there was a way to make things right for Captain Sinclair. He was the only person to suffer from her deceit.
That wasn’t exactly true. When she’d hatched this idea, changing identities with Mairi and running away to be an actress, she had hoped that her father and her brothers would regret their cruelty. If she was perfectly honest with herself, she’d hoped they would suffer from guilt for sending her away.
She’d imagined a scene, a sort of tableau, with her father weeping and her brothers at his side, hats in hand and heads bowed low, all three grieving for the loss of their beloved sister. Years later, she would arrive in Edinburgh as a celebrated actress, and her fathers and brothers would come to her beautiful hotel suite, kneel before her, and beg for forgiveness. She would, of course, forgive them because she was a kind-hearted person.
She now knew those scenarios to be pure fantasy. Nothing like that would ever happen. Rather quite the opposite and much worse. Her father would shake his head in disgust and shout something like, “I expected nothing more from my Daughter from Hell.” Her brothers would laugh and celebrate having seen the last of their ridiculous sister. She’d never be welcomed home. And Captain Sinclair. Oh God. How perfectly horrible for him. Would people laugh? Would he be ruined? Would he give up hope and—
“Miss MacQuarie. Lass!”
“What?”
Captain Sinclair narrowed his eyes at her as if assessing her health. “We’ve arrived.”
Good heavens. The reverend, Mairi, and Mr. Kirby had exited the carriage and she hadn’t even noticed.
“What’s wrong, lass?”
“Nothing at all.”
He slid out of the door and reached a hand back in to help her out. There was a mud puddle at the base of the step and Captain Sinclair lifted her by the waist and set her down on dry land. “My God, have you lead in your pockets?”
She felt her cheeks color.
“Bloody hell, woman. Are you carrying your pistols?”
“You can never be too careful.”
He rolled his eyes. He rolled his bloody eyes at her. And to think, a moment ago she had felt sorry for the bastard. Well, not anymore.
“Give them to me,” he said, holding a hand out.
“I will not. They’re mine.”
The carriage had stopped in front of the stable. The others were already halfway to the house, a three-story brick house. Not palatial by any means, but a hundred times grander than Mairi could have hoped for had she remained in Edinburgh and married the coal man.
“Give them to me before you shoot off your foot.”
The driver was staring at them, waiting for them to clear the carriage.
“You’re making a scene,” she hissed. The captain didn’t move, just stared at her dull eyed. Damn. “Fine.” She retrieved the weapon from her skirt pocket and handed it to him.
“Now the other one.”
Bollocks. She pulled the second pistol from her other pocket. “I want these returned to me when I leave for New York. They were a gift from my gran.”
“Damn it, woman. These are loaded.”
“Well, they’re not much good to me empty, are they?”
He tucked them in his coat pockets.
“I would also like our travel documents back, please.”
“I gave them to Mr. Kirby after the harbormaster checked them.”
“Why?”
“For safekeeping.”
“We are not children. We are grown women—”
The driver interrupted. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“No. No problem,” the captain called out. “Just sorting out a few details.”
…
Ian had reached the end of his tether with the bloody woman. Actually, he’d thought he’d reached the end several times before, but each time his tether seemed to lengthen another yard or two. But really, this had to be the end.
He turned her about and ushered her toward the house. Mustering his last scrap of patience, he said, “You’re exhausted from traveling. You’d best find your room and have a lie down.”
She marched ahead of him at an angry pace. “The only thing that has me exhausted is an irritating captain named Sinclair.”
“The only thing that has me irritated is the Daughter from Hell’s infernal companion.”
She froze in place for a moment before her head slowly turned on her slender neck a near 180 degrees, as if she were possessed. Even more terrifying was the look on her face. Just like a gorgon. Ian thought he might turn to stone. He couldn’t believe it, but he actually heard himself say, “Oops.”
She opened her mouth to fire some insult his way. He was spared by Miss Robertson.
“Come on, you two. Mr. Kirby’s going to give us a tour.”
Kirby hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said the house was in need of a woman’s touch. It had no touches at all. They stood inside the hallway, walls plastered, but void of any paintings, sconces, or embellishments. It was a good-sized entry, though nothing like Balforss House with its grand two-story hall and central staircase that was roomy enough to hold parties and family gatherings.
A sturdy woman about his own mother’s age stood at the foot of the stairs wearing an apron and a pleasant smile.
“Everyone, this is my housekeeper, Mrs. Foley.”
Mrs. Foley said, “Welcome to Quaker Hill. Or should I say, welcome to America.”
“This is Miss Robertson’s companion, Miss MacQuarie, Reverend Wynterbottom, and Captain Sinclair,” Kirby said, and then, in a honeyed tone, “and this is my fiancée, Miss Robertson.”
Miss Robertson curtsied, which was slightly odd. Looking confused and probably not knowing what else to do, Mrs. Foley curtsied in return.
Kirby picked up the lost thread. “Em, Mrs. Foley and her husband, Mr. Foley—my driver, you met him—they pretty much run the place. Since it’s just me, she does all the cooking.”
“Will you no’ be overburdened with all the house guests, Mrs. Foley?” Miss Robertson asked.
“Not at all. My two nieces have come to help out,” Mrs. Foley reassured her.
“I’m giving everyone a tour of the place,” Kirby said.
“Of course. I’ll have tea ready in an hour.” Mrs. Foley added, “I hope you like fish cakes. They’re Mr. Kirby’s favorite.”
At the mention of food, Ian’s stomach made a loud sound.
Miss MacQuarie looked at him as if he’d done it on purpose, then said, “Sounds delightful, Mrs. Foley.”
Kirby led them into what he called a “cozy little parlor.” The echo of their footsteps bounced around the room. No carpet, no paintings, and no draperies. The only thing cozy about the room was that it was smallish. On the positive side, there were several comfortable-looking overstuffed chairs, a secretary, a settee, and a card table with four ladder-backs. The ceilings were high, too, and the two tall windows allowed in plenty of afternoon light.
Kirby waited anxiously while Miss Robertson strolled around the room. At last she turned to him radiating delight, and said, “It’s absolutely perfect.”
Mr. Kirby exhaled as if the judge had just announced, “No, Mr. Kirby, you will not hang today.”
“I’ll buy whatever things you need to appoint the room as you see fit, of course.”
Too bad for Mr. Kirby, Ian thought. The poor besotted fool was headed for financial ruin.
“All it really needs is drapes,” Miss Robertson said. “If you’ll help me choose the fabric, I can make those.”
Ian made a quick reassessment of Kirby’s fate. Maybe the fellow was a lucky besotted fool.
Jealousy slid its long knife into his chest much the way he’d seen his cousin Magnus sink a fourteen-inch dirk under a pirate’s armpit straight into his heart. Instant death. Only jealousy didn’t kill a man. It just made him stupid. And Ian felt himself growing stupider by the minute.
“Shall we go look at the dining room, now?” Kirby asked.
“You all go on ahead without me,” Miss MacQuarie announced. “I think I’ll sit here and rest until tea.”
“Sounds like a good idea. I’ll join you,” Ian said. “Dinnae let us hold you up. Miss MacQuarie and I have things to discuss.”
They stood silently as Kirby, Miss Robertson, and the reverend’s voices trailed away into other parts of the house. The fire had gone out of Miss MacQuarie’s eyes. He was sad to see it go. He rather liked her temper. She was beautiful when she was angry. She was beautiful when she was happy, too. The only time she wasn’t beautiful was when she was unhappy. Which was, of course, a lie. She was always beautiful. He was just bothered today because he suspected he was the cause of her unhappiness and he’d rather be the reason for her joy.
“Why are you here?” she asked. A simple question. Why was it so hard for him to answer her?
Tell her the truth, ye bampot. Tell her you’re here because you couldnae bear to let her go. Tell her you wish you could take her home with you.
But he couldn’t tell her that because then he would have to tell her that his carefully planned future had exploded into a million bits before they’d left Edinburgh, that he had a son, a six-year-old son he hadn’t known existed until six weeks ago.
“I want you,” he said. The words had spilled out before he’d had time to calculate the risk in saying them.
“You want me to what?”
He shook his head and took a step closer. “You dinnae understand. I want you. I want to have you. Do ye ken what I mean, lass?”
It was plain Miss MacQuarie understood exactly what he meant. As plain as the blush on her cheeks and the perfect O on her lips. He’d never had such a pretty pink reception to one of his blatant advances. Unable to stop himself, he took advantage of her momentary silence and kissed the O from her lips. She kissed him back with a startling ferocity that made him rock hard. If she didn’t take her wicked hands out from under his waistcoat immediately he was going to ruck up her skirts and have her against the—Jee-sus.
He pulled away and Miss MacQuarie teetered on her pins until she opened her eyes and stomped her foot. “You infuriating man. Why do you always stop?”
Ian sputtered. “It’s, it’s, it’s the middle of the day and we’re in a strange house.” He gestured toward the door. “It’s unlocked. Anyone could—” Bloody hell. A second ago he was in control.
She pointed that deceptively delicate finger at him. “You-know-what-I-mean.” She punctuated each word with a jab to his chest. That made him angry.
He managed to keep from shouting, but his voice shook from the effort of holding back his rage. “I stopped because you fire a passion in me that I cannae control and I willnae take you like some animal.” He paused to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow. “When I have you, it will be in a bed, naked, and with full control of my body and my mind. I would have your first time—”
