The Stolen Mackenzie Bride

by Jennifer Ashley

  Wilfort’s nostrils pinched. “And I should take the word of a Jacobite and a traitor?”

  “I am neither of those, and you should take my word,” Mal said. “I want to marry your daughter, I’ll have ye know. Your other daughter, I mean. Mary.”

  The earl’s brows quirked, but he masked his surprise well. “You can’t. She is spoken for—not that I would let you marry her if she were not.”

  “Mary is betrothed to a man who will break her spirit. I promise ye, I’ll never do that to her. Tear up the agreement with Halsey, and make one with me.”

  Wilfort contrived to look amused. “Is that why I am here? Arrested so the first ruffian in a plaid can marry my eldest daughter? I don’t even know who you are, sir.”

  “Malcolm Mackenzie. My father is Duke of Kilmorgan.”

  “Ah.” The earl’s gaze sharpened. “Yes, I know him. But I have never heard of you, which means you’re a younger son and inconsequential.”

  Malcolm shrugged. “I’ve been called worse. I am the youngest of six—five, I mean. At one time we were six.” He never could seem to remember that Magnus was no longer with them.

  “Then you are nothing.” Wilfort made a dismissing gesture with his fingers. Mal heard a rattle as he did so—they’d chained him to his chair.

  “I’d be nothing if I were English,” Malcolm pointed out. “I’m Scots, I inherited a large sum from me mum, and I have a good share of the Mackenzie money too. That means Mary will be well provided for, respected, and wealthy.”

  Wilfort sent him a withering glance. “Living in a hovel in the bleak Highlands, grubbing for food. Go away, bonny wee Scotsman.”

  Mal shoved himself from the table and to his feet, barely keeping his anger in check. “I’ll marry her, with your blessing or without it. At least, with me, she’ll be well out of range of your fists. A cut like that will never come from my hand. For Mary’s sake, I’ll see ye sent back to England with your head intact—with your blessing or without it. Tell Halsey he’s out of luck where Mary is concerned.” Mal paused at the door. “No, wait, I’ll do it meself. Good day to ye, father-in-law.”

  Wilfort half rose, but the chains dragged him back to the chair. “Be damned to you!” he shouted, the ring of it fading as Malcolm slammed the cell door.

  Halsey was more inclined than the earl to bargain. He faced Mal across a similar table, dabbing his nose with the handkerchief he’d been granted, as he sullenly listened to Malcolm explain that the man should step aside and give him Mary.

  Halsey too had a sharp face, but it was more like that of a weasel, his eyes alight and looking for a way to gain the most for himself.

  “What will allying yourself with Wilfort and his family win you?” Halsey asked when Mal finished. “You’re Scots, and you’re a rebel. If you believe making Wilfort your father-in-law will keep you from being executed as a traitor, you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not interested in Wilfort. I’m interested in his daughter.” Malcolm studied the man across from him, his symmetrical face, the dark buzz of hair on his shaved head, his compact form. Mal contrasted his own large body, which had hung on him awkwardly in his youth, his hard face that could not be called handsome by the standards of the day, his nose which had been broken more than once.

  Halsey might be considered attractive to Englishwomen, despite his current disheveled appearance and unshaven chin, which must be hell for a man who liked to be fastidious. Halsey was young enough to be handsome, old enough to understand how to handle himself.

  And he was cruel. Mal found nothing in the man’s blue eyes but self-interest. Even his present situation didn’t seem to bother him much. Likely he had many schemes already in the works that could get him free.

  Mal rested one large, scarred hand on the table. “You don’t understand what ye have in her, do ye?”

  “Lady Mary?” Halsey sniffed and wiped his nose. “I understand that she brings a substantial dowry with her. More than you’ll ever find working in the mud on your farm, Highlander. No wonder you seek to bring her home.”

  “Oh, is that what I am? The proud Highlander dressed in rags, eking out a living, stealing from his neighbors, uncaring about the world outside his clan’s lands. A neat picture, painted by an Englishman.”

  “A picture that is more or less true,” Halsey said.

  “Mebbe in me grandfather’s time. Things are changing now, even on the remotest hills. But this is how you English choose a bride? How much she’s worth in pounds and shillings? I’m surprised the lot of ye have survived.”

  “You’re young,” Halsey said coolly. “A man who marries for passion is a fool. Even in your world, you pick a bride from the best families, the one with the most cattle, say.”

  He wasn’t entirely wrong, which was irritating. Mal’s fingers curled on the table. “I’d say Mary is worth more than a few shaggy black coos.”

  Halsey curled his lip. “That you speak of her by her given name tells me she’s already ruined for me. Which means you have cheated me out of ten thousand pounds.” Halsey took a breath, deliberately calming himself. “However, I am not an unreasonable man. I’ll keep Lady Mary on for the sake of her dowry, even if you’ve rutted her. And if the first child comes too early, I’ll send it up to you in your tumbledown castle.”

  Chapter 20

  Mal slammed himself over the table and hauled the man up by his coat. Like Wilfort, Halsey was chained to his chair. He hung awkwardly in Mal’s grip.

  “Ye watch what ye say about Lady Mary, or I’ll break your neck,” Mal said with low-voiced menace. “I’d break it now if Geordie Murray weren’t so keen to keep ye alive. When he’s done squeezing ye for information, maybe I’ll come back and finish ye off.”

  Halsey masked his flash of fear with another sneer. “No need for violence, Highlander. I’ll step aside for you with Mary, if you make it worth my while.”

  Mal jerked him closer, and Halsey grunted in pain. “Why the devil should I make it worth your while?”

  “To keep yourself from being jailed for cheating me.” Halsey’s voice was scratchy, his light blue eyes as cold as a winter lake. “Give me the ten thousand I was promised, and marry the chit if you want. Or make her your whore once you pay for her. I scarcely care.”

  Mal shook him. “I remember telling ye to be careful what ye say, Halsey. Ye’d sell her to me, then? Maybe I’ll lend her a dirk, and she can rid herself of ye that way. That’s what Highland lassies do to husbands they hate.”

  Halsey put on a tired smile. “You’d do well to remember that. Ten thousand pounds, paid to my man of business in London. Mr. Sheridan, at twenty-three High Holborn. He’ll nullify the contracts.”

  The man was disgusting. Mal slammed Halsey back into his chair, finished with him. “Ye don’t worry that ye won’t be going home to collect the money?”

  “No.” Halsey lifted the handkerchief that had fluttered to the table. “This rebellion is doomed to failure. Your chiefs can’t agree on who to support, and even the ones who’ve already joined can’t agree with one another. The popular view is that all Highlanders are Catholic and behind the Stuarts, when you and I both know that neither fact is strictly true. Your own father is a staunch Protestant, and thinks all Catholics are the devil. He must chafe that his son and heir has joined the side of Beelzebub.”

  “My father has no love for anything English either,” Mal said. “Good day to ye, Halsey. I might be back later to kill ye.”

  Halsey only touched the handkerchief to his drippy nose. Mal closed the door behind him, his anger and revulsion leaving a foul taste in his mouth.

  Wilfort at least had showed that he cared for his daughters, despite the bruise on Mary’s face, even if he could not come straight out and say it. Lord Halsey, on the other hand, cared for nothing but himself.

  Mal walked upstairs, lost in thought. He spoke to Duncan, even gained a brief audience with Lord George Murray, and then left Holyrood. The streets of Edinburgh embraced Mal as he made his way
to the close where his house lay.

  When he arrived, he sought out Will and asked him to compose a letter in his elegant way to Mr. Sheridan, man of business, at twenty-three High Holborn, London.

  Mary heard Malcolm return, and watched over the banisters as he disappeared into a room below and didn’t come out.

  The duke, fortunately, had quit the house soon after Malcolm, and a modicum of peace had come over the place. Mary had spent the time breakfasting and settling herself into the chamber Naughton had said was hers.

  Mary had not had much appetite, but she’d made a show of serenely eating the bannocks Naughton brought her and drinking her tea. No giving way. She was a Lennox, from a line of proud people.

  Naughton then produced Mary’s own trunk full of her clothes. Somehow, he and other servants had sneaked inside her father’s house and packed up her things.

  Mary studied Naughton, a rail-thin man with red hair going to gray, as he announced, in his quiet voice, what he’d done. Unlike Mary’s friends’ conception of the oversized, ill-mannered, unruly Scot, Naughton was quietly efficient. And kind. Mary nearly lost her pride to tears as she thanked him.

  “Not at all, m’lady. Anything ye wish to make your stay more comfortable, ye have but to summon me.”

  Naughton had departed, letting Mary compose herself and finish her breakfast. A maid called Jinty was sent up to help her wash and dress. Jinty was a beautiful girl—dark-haired and blue-eyed in contrast to the fair or red-haired servants Mary had seen in this house so far.

  “I come from the islands, m’lady,” Jinty said in a musically soft voice. “Iona, in the Hebrides. At least, me mum did. Then she married a Scot from the Highlands. I was born at Castle Kilmorgan. Was so excited when I first came to the city.”

  Jinty had not been trained as a lady’s maid, so Mary had to instruct her on what to do. Jinty helped her brush out her hair and unpack her things. The girl was well mannered and eager to learn.

  But after Mary settled in, dressed now in her own clothes, she paced, nervous, waiting for Malcolm and what news he might bring. Now, as she watched over the stair railings, he shut himself into the room downstairs, for whatever reason, and didn’t seek her.

  Mary could stand it no longer. She gathered her skirts and hurried down the stairs, barely able to make herself pause and knock politely instead of barreling inside to find Malcolm.

  Malcolm himself wrenched open the door. Will was behind him, saying, “I hope to God ye ken what you’re doing,” before Mal came out into the hall.

  Mary started to speak, but Mal gave her a silencing look, pushed her to the next door on the landing, and guided her inside.

  This was another sitting room, one that faced the rear of the house and was quiet. The chamber was small, but the furnishings here were as rich and elegant as those she’d seen elsewhere. If French kings and aristocrats gave Will furniture to make him go away, he must make a nuisance of himself often.

  “My aunt—” Mary began worriedly.

  Malcolm touched his finger to her lips. “Is fine and well. With Lady Bancroft in that huge house with plenty of people to look after her, including your formidable maid.”

  Mary’s hand went to her heart as it throbbed in relief. “And my father?”

  The question was more fearful, and Malcolm’s expression did nothing to reassure her. “He’s imprisoned but in a room with a table and a bed, not a dank dungeon. I’ve fixed it so he will be freed soon.”

  Mary’s knees started to buckle. Only Malcolm’s quick arm around her waist stopped her from falling. She’d kept herself from speculating all this time about what would happen to her father, to her aunt. Families could be broken and destroyed so easily in these times, arrests made, executions swift. “Thank you, Malcolm,” she said fervently. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet, love. We’ve a long way to go.”

  Mary curled her fingers against his chest. “Everything is splintering, falling away beneath my feet.” She gave a little laugh. “Much of it because of you.”

  She expected Malcolm to respond with a smile, but the look in his eyes was bleak. “I never knew my father would go so far to thwart me. I’m sorry, lass. Truly, I am. But all will be well, I promise ye.”

  He again wore the haunted look he had before he’d left the house, when he’d shouted at his father and then at Will. The weight of the world seemed to press on Malcolm’s young shoulders. Mary touched one of those shoulders, feeling steel strength beneath his coat.

  “What did you mean?” she asked him. “As you were leaving, you said, ‘I can’t take care of all of you at the same time.’ You looked odd when you said it.”

  Malcolm went still, his tawny eyes seeking hers. For a moment, Mary thought he wouldn’t answer, then he shrugged.

  “It’s me lot in life, isn’t it? To be the one to pick up the pieces? Duncan is fixed on the Jacobites. Will is interested in information—the gathering, the keeping, the using of it—no matter where it comes from and what it’s for. Angus looks after Dad and can’t be bothered with the rest of us. Alec falls so deeply in love, it’s like he drowns. Magnus was the dreamer, lost in his own world, and he never was well.” Malcolm let out a breath. “I look after them all—ye see? Even Dad. I have to. They need me. No one else to do it, is there?”

  Chapter 21

  The tug in his voice pierced Mary’s heart. “I heard what happened to Magnus,” she said. “Naughton told me while you were out. I’m sorry.”

  Malcolm’s arms tightened around her, but his gaze went remote, looking at something far away. “I found him that day. Lying in a heap all cold. I couldn’t wake him, couldn’t make him alive again.”

  The simple statement said more than all the anguished wails he could have uttered. Mal’s directness and unwavering stubbornness made a little more sense to her now that she knew the tale. Naughton had told her about it after Jinty had let slip that the brothers had lost another, long ago. Naughton had wanted to make certain Mary heard the correct story, he’d said.

  Magnus’s death had hurt Mal terribly, Mary could see. If Mal blamed himself for it, thinking he’d failed to look after his brother properly, small wonder he strove to make sure such a thing didn’t happen again. This explained him following Duncan to battle and sending Alec to France to find his daughter.

  Mary slid her arms around Malcolm’s waist and ran soothing hands up his back.

  “Nay, Mary,” he whispered. “Don’t do this.”

  Mary barely noticed his words. She was warm, comforted for the first time that day. She rested her cheek on his chest, hearing his heart banging away beneath his shirt. “Don’t do what?”

  “Feel sorry for me.” Malcolm put his fingers under her chin and tilted her face to his. “I don’t walk about morose over the terrible things that have happened to me family. Most of it, except for Magnus, and poor Alec’s wife, is their own damned fault. I only come behind and pick up the pieces.”

  Mary gave him a little smile. “I’m a compassionate woman. I can’t help myself.”

  “And when ye smile at me like that, I’m a man lost.”

  He stroked her lower lip with his thumb, then dipped his head and kissed her.

  Mary tasted his need in the kiss, but also that he held back. His large hand came up between them to rest flat against her breasts, as though wanting to both hold her and push her away.

  Mal didn’t move, his fingertips touching the bare skin above her bodice. “Ye smell fine. Warm, clean woman. Ye had a bath, then?”

  Mary nodded. She’d been filthy from crawling through the tunnels, then fleeing through streets full of mud, men, animals, and horse droppings. A sponge and a basin hadn’t been enough. Nothing less than full immersion had been able to make her feel better.

  “An excellent idea,” Malcolm said.

  He kissed her lips once more, traced her cheek, then went to the door and shouted for Naughton.

  Duncan Mackenzie left his interview with Lord Halsey los
t in thought. He had been invited by George Murray to help interrogate the man, since Malcolm had advised Murray to make the most of the opportunity.

  It had been interesting. Halsey had smiled at them, then readily made a bargain to give them all the details on the British army landing from Flanders, exactly who in the Lowlands was prepared to thwart them, and how they might take Carlisle if they were to march south to England.

  In return, Halsey asked for his life, immunity, and a little money, enough to compensate him for having to forgo the marriage to Lady Mary Lennox.

  The man was in no way brokenhearted at the abrupt changes in his destiny. He simply bargained.

  Duncan left the cell feeling not a little unclean. He didn’t trust Halsey—motives of all turncoats were suspect—but he and Murray would use the information and milk him for more.

  Their visit with Lord Wilfort was different. Wilfort was angry, had no idea Halsey had decided to turn, and would give up nothing. He only demanded that Duncan make sure Lady Mary wasn’t used and cast aside by Duncan’s upstart younger brother.

  “My daughters are as precious to me as my honor,” Wilfort said stiffly. “If Mary is hurt, betrayed, or made miserable, I will hunt down your brother and run him through.” Wilfort met Duncan’s gaze without fear. “And then you.”

  “Malcolm is no rake,” Duncan growled. “If he wants this woman, he will take care of her.”

  “Her name is Lady Mary Lennox,” Wilfort said in a hard voice. “Not this woman. Bloody barbarians.”

  Murray, who wore clothes as well tailored as Wilfort’s, which possibly came from the same London shop, raised his brows but said nothing.

  Duncan lingered after Murray departed, the guards waiting to close the door. “My barbarian brother is asking that ye be spared, for your daughter’s sake,” Duncan said. “I think I’ve found a way to save ye.”