A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady: Mackenzies, Book 11

by Ashley Jennifer

  The jolting, sickening cart finally halted then listed as the driver climbed down. “You’re here, guv.”

  Here was very, very dark, and utterly cold. David had no recollection of what he was doing or where he’d been trying to reach.

  Light shone in his face, and David cringed. The driver and another man who’d joined them hauled David out of the cart and to his feet, but David promptly collapsed as soon as they let him go.

  He fell on wet paving stones with grass between them. The boots in front of him drew back, and a face bent toward him. The head was shaggy and a white noose encircled its neck. David flung up his hands, crying out.

  “Good heavens,” a rumbling voice said, and the face resolved into one of comforting familiarity. The white noose, David realized, was the collar of a country vicar.

  “Sanctuary,” David whispered.

  The vicar stared at David for a time before he let out a sigh. “Help me get him inside,” he said to the driver.

  The next memory David had after that was light.

  Far too much light, pounding through his eyelids and searing at his temples. He groaned.

  The sound was loud, and David cut it off. He lay for a long time in dire misery before he realized he was in a bed piled high with quilts, a rather comfortable one at that.

  The bedroom was tiny, with whitewashed walls, the ceiling sloping abruptly down to the eaves. David discovered this fact when he sat up and banged his head on a roof beam. A window about four feet square let in the dazzling sunlight.

  His coat and waistcoat had been removed, but not his trousers. He tried very hard to remember where he was and why he’d come here, but at the moment, all was a blur.

  When he at last dragged himself from the bed, David couldn’t find his coat, but a dressing gown had been draped over a chair. Ah, well, the inhabitants of this house would have to take David as he came.

  David struggled with the dressing gown, only managing to get one arm inside before he found the door to the bedroom and opened it. This led onto a landing, no other doors around it. If he hadn’t hesitated on the threshold, he’d have plunged straight down the stairs.

  Recollection about where he was grew as he went down the staircase, its wood dark with time. At the bottom lay a whitewashed passage that ran the length of the cottage. If David remembered aright, this door led to a dining room. He didn’t particularly want food, but Dr. Pierson would have thick, strong coffee, and at the moment, it was all David craved.

  He chose the correct door, stumbled into the room, and collapsed onto a chair on one side of the table, eyes closing. He slumped forward, forehead resting on the polished table, and let out another groan.

  A hot beverage slid toward him. David could tell by the scent that curled into his nose that it was tea.

  “Coffee,” he mumbled. “For the love of God.”

  “Tea might be a wee bit better in your condition,” a light voice said. “I’ve read books on the matter.”

  The speaker was not Dr. Pierson, David’s longtime friend and sometime mentor, a burly man with a beard and a rumbling voice. This voice held a clarity that slid through David’s stupor and touched something deep inside him.

  He raised his head—carefully.

  And beheld the most beautiful woman in the world. She sat across the table from him, surrounded by a halo of light, and gazed at him with unblinking green eyes.

  Chapter 2

  Is he quite all right?” Sophie asked her uncle.

  Lucas Pierson, the vicar of this parish, shook his head and raised a cup of tea to his bearded lips. “Not really.”

  Sophie studied the lump of humanity who’d landed at Uncle Lucas’s breakfast table. He’d managed to get one arm into Uncle’s best dressing gown but no more. The other arm lay on the table in a soiled shirt sleeve, the cuff open to reveal a sinewy hand and part of a well-muscled forearm.

  A tangled mess of dark brown hair covered the head partly raised, as did dirt and bits of grass. His face was brushed with a shadow that said he’d missed a shave for two or three days. The rest of the face was interesting—square shape, nose not too long but not small, skin rather pale, the lightness of the far north, Scotland perhaps.

  His eyes, though. Sophie’s teacup hesitated on the way to her lips. She was not certain of the color just now—blue, she thought, or gray, or some shade in between. A lake on a cloudy day.

  Those eyes were intense and, even though now bloodshot, held strength of will that kept Sophie from glancing away from him.

  “Does he speak at all?” Sophie asked.

  Uncle Lucas chuckled. “Sometimes far too much. My dear, this sorry specimen is my old friend, Mr. David Fleming. I look upon him as a reprobate son or younger brother, as my mood takes me.” He raised his voice and directed his next words to the motionless, staring form. “David, if you can understand me, this is my niece, Sophie … er, Tierney.”

  Sophie tried not to flinch at Uncle’s hesitation, and held her breath, waiting for Mr. Fleming’s reaction. Uncle Lucas hadn’t used Sophie’s married name, but as everything about her had been dragged through the newspapers sideways, Mr. Fleming must certainly have read her history.

  The gray-blue eyes blinked a few times, no recognition in them. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Tierney.” The deep voice grated somewhat, as though he’d not drunk water in a fortnight. “Forgive my present, deplorable state. I …” He slumped to the tabletop. “It is a long story.”

  Sophie let out her breath in relief. Mr. Fleming hadn’t heard of her, or at least did not remember in his wretched condition. Odd, but she’d be grateful for it. She’d sought sanctuary here, in Uncle Lucas’s out-of-the-way parish in a corner of Shropshire. Here she could be merely Dr. Pierson’s niece, not the notorious Lady Devonport, the Whore of Babylon.

  She studied the man across from her with more interest. Sophie had heard of her uncle’s friend, Mr. Fleming, but she’d never met him. He was a colleague of the Duke of Kilmorgan, a scandalous Scotsman who dressed in kilts and vowed to make Scotland an independent nation.

  Sophie’s husband, Laurie Whitfield, the Earl of Devonport, was in a decidedly anti-Scots faction, and she’d never been invited into the Duchess of Kilmorgan’s circle.

  Mr. Fleming had a breathtaking presence, even in this stage between inebriation and illness. His half-dressed state fascinated her—Sophie’s husband remained completely clothed at all times, except when he became babe-naked for his half hour attempt to beget an heir on her.

  Mr. Fleming would be a handsome gentleman if he cleaned up a bit, not that Sophie was interested in handsome gentlemen. They could stay far, far away, thank you very much.

  She lifted her teacup, managing to take a sip this time. “Did you have a wrestling match with a lawn?” she asked him.

  “Very amusing.” Mr. Fleming’s slurring voice was touched with Scots, but only a touch. “It was a close-run thing, but the lawn finally let me go.”

  Sophie chuckled. He was so self-deprecating that she couldn’t help it. She’d had her fill of arrogant men who could do no wrong.

  A fleeting smile touched his mouth, increasing his handsomeness. A dangerous man, Sophie concluded. No lady would be safe with him. She sipped tea and felt momentary envy for those ladies.

  “I had no idea you had company, Pierson.” Mr. Fleming attempted to lift his teacup, but his fingers shook so much, the tea slopped over. “I beg your pardon. I can take myself off.” He sucked tea from his fingertips, mouth puckering in inadvertent sensuality.

  “You’re in no condition to take yourself anywhere,” Uncle Lucas said sternly. “I imagine you were running from the law or an angry husband or furious MPs. Or all three. Stay until you’re in fighting form again. I imagine that’s why you sought me out.”

  Mr. Fleming winced at his blunt speech. “Delicate ears, Pierson.”

  “I keep no secrets from my niece. If I allow a man to stay under the same roof as she, she deserves to know the truth about him.” />
  “I have no wish to cause a scandal.” Mr. Fleming sat up straight in an attempt to draw his dignity around him. A lock of hair fell over one eye. When he tried to brush it back, the loose sleeve of the dressing gown caught on his saucer and sent it to the floor with a crash. “Damnation.” He started to reach for the saucer, then grabbed his head and righted himself, falling back into the chair. “Bloody hell … Sorry, Miss Tierney. I am a lout this morning.”

  Sophie was laughing again. “Drink the tea, sir. All of it. It’s oolong. It will do you good.”

  “No wish to cause a scandal?” Uncle Lucas asked Mr. Fleming in surprise. Uncle took a hearty bite of his eggs and toast, which made Mr. Fleming go a bit green. “You mean one different from the others you’ve caused in your lifetime?”

  “Miss Tierney is unchaperoned.” Mr. Fleming’s admonition, like a maiden aunt’s, was so out of place that Sophie’s amusement grew.

  “I am her chaperone,” Uncle Lucas said emphatically. “Besides, she’s a married woman. Also seeking sanctuary.”

  “Why?” Mr. Fleming at last got the teacup to his mouth. He took a gulp of the contents and swallowed, the green tinge leaving his skin. “Is her husband a boor?”

  He truly hadn’t heard of her. Sophie sent her uncle a warning look before she rose from her chair. “If you’ll excuse me one moment, I’ll bring you something to soothe your ills, Mr. Fleming.”

  Mr. Fleming realized she was standing and hauled himself to his feet.

  He was tall. Very tall. Laurie stood shorter than Sophie by a good inch, which always made her feel awkward and others titter. She made certain never to wear high-heeled slippers near him. Mr. Fleming would not make his lady feel awkward, and she could wear as high a heel as she wished.

  At the moment, his height didn’t agree with him. Mr. Fleming swayed mightily, and Sophie skimmed from the room so the poor man could sit down again.

  She bustled to the kitchen and through it to the larder beyond. Mrs. Corcoran, the cook and housekeeper, gave Sophie a nod, asking if she could be of any help. The lady was used to Sophie running in and out to mix her herbal concoctions or ask for a recipe.

  Sophie’s happiest times in girlhood had been her visits to her uncle in Shropshire. Uncle Lucas, a lifelong bachelor, lived a simple life tending his parish, writing sermons, and researching Britain’s deep past.

  Sanctuary indeed. Here, the intervening years fell away—the giddiness of Sophie’s debutante days, the strange excitement of her grand wedding, the disillusionment that married life brought. Next had come the disappointment when she didn’t conceive, and finally anguish when Laurie decided to exchange her for a new wife.

  The divorce case had yet to commence—the solicitors were putting arguments together for the long and complicated process. Laurie had decided to blame everything on Sophie and drag her through the mud.

  Unable to take the betrayal in her own household, Sophie had fled to Uncle’s vicarage, to the one place she could find peace. Even visiting her parents brought no relief, as they were sorrowful and upset about the whole turn of events. Uncle, upon her unexpected arrival, had merely said, “Ah there you are, my dear. Have a look at this map—a survey from the seventeenth century. It plots the old Roman settlements excellently.”

  Mr. Fleming appeared as though he’d been dragged through the mud, quite literally. As Sophie mixed her potion, making certain to put in plenty of cayenne, she realized that for the first time in a long while, Mr. Fleming had made her interested in another person. She’d been so sunk in her own defeat that even conversing on the weather had been a chore, and she’d avoided her friends—the ones still speaking to her, that is.

  She shook the herbs, egg, and spices together, poured the concoction into a glass, and carried it out, thanking Mrs. Corcoran as she went.

  “There.” Sophie set the glass in front of Mr. Fleming as he struggled to rise upon her entrance. “No, please do not get up. I believe it would be quite dangerous for you.”

  Mr. Fleming sank from the half-standing position he’d managed and eyed the gray-green mixture in the glass with suspicion. “What the devil is that?”

  “A cure for your condition. Or at least a palliative. You’ll feel much better once it’s down.”

  Sophie resumed her seat and finished her last piece of toast—loaded with butter, the way she liked it.

  “I’d take her advice,” Uncle Lucas said. “Her little potions do amazing things for me when I take cold.”

  Mr. Fleming tapped the glass. “It looks like sick. Smells like it too.”

  “Perhaps Uncle should hold your nose while I pour it into your mouth,” Sophie said as she munched.

  Mr. Fleming glared at her. “Did you raise your niece to be so cheeky, Pierson? Or does it run in the family?”

  “Drink the potion,” Uncle Lucas ordered. “As you are staying in my house, I would like you to be less bearlike and more amenable to bathing.”

  Mr. Fleming looked hurt. “I told you I’d take myself off.”

  “And I know you have nowhere to go, else you’d have gone there instead. You only seek me when you’re at the end of your tether.” Uncle gave him a severe look. “Drink.”

  Mr. Fleming eyed Sophie again. She took a noisy sip of tea, meeting his gaze squarely.

  Mr. Fleming heaved a long sigh. He held his own nose and took a large swallow from the glass.

  He had to let go of both nose and glass to cough. He fumbled for a handkerchief and didn’t find one, so he coughed into the sleeve of Uncle’s dressing gown. But the potion stayed down.

  “What did you put into this?” he rasped at Sophie. “Oil of vitriol?”

  “Only things growing in Uncle’s garden. And from the market—wherever Mrs. Corcoran obtains her comestibles.”

  “Belladonna?” he snapped. “I imagine that grows in the garden.” Mr. Fleming drew another long breath and took a second swallow. “Oil of vitriol, I swear it.”

  “Nonsense. It’s a bit of pepper to warm your stomach.”

  “Warm it? Or set it on fire?” Mr. Fleming coughed again, but already he sounded stronger.

  “My mother swears by it,” Sophie said. “Helped my grandfather no end.”

  “I can bear witness to that,” Uncle Lucas said.

  “He lived a long and happy life, your grandfather?” Mr. Fleming growled.

  “Indeed,” Sophie said. “Passed away at a ripe old age, falling off his horse.”

  Mr. Fleming sent her a dark look. “Very encouraging.” Sophie noticed that he finished the drink.

  Uncle Lucas leaned his elbows on the table. “Get some breakfast down you, Fleming, then clean yourself up. Now that you’re here, you can help work on my villa.”

  Mr. Fleming groaned. “You’re not still hunting for that, are you? I thought you’d given up years ago.”

  “Of course I haven’t given up,” Uncle said in a tone bordering on shock. “It’s there, mark my words.”

  Sophie sympathized with Mr. Fleming’s dismay. Uncle had been scrambling around the knobby hills beyond the vicarage for years, convinced a Roman villa lay buried beneath the thick grass and scrub. He’d once found the remains of an ancient brooch of forged gold, and he was convinced that a wealthy Roman, or at least a Romanized Briton, had built a vast country estate somewhere nearby.

  “A walk sounds lovely, Uncle.”

  Mr. Fleming only glowered, but reached for a piece of toast from the platter on the table, scattering crumbs as he ate.

  * * *

  “Only you would drag a man in my condition out into the freezing mist at the crack of dawn,” David grumbled as he trudged the familiar path past the village church and out into the fields.

  The sun was shining in spite of the earlier fog, and the day would be fine, if cold. David knew he should rejoice in the chance of fair weather, should skip and hop as though thrilled to be out of doors, and any moment sing along with the birdsong. He tramped forward, huddled in his coat, wondering why the be-da
mned birds had to sing so loudly.

  He had to admit, however, that birds twittering in the trees, tiny lambs like puffs of wool on the green, and the clearing blue sky to show the ruined abbey on a far hill was a damn sight better than smoky London with dullards trying to shoot him, then banging him up for assault.

  The company was much better too. Dr. Pierson was the sort of no-nonsense fellow David needed right now, and his niece …

  David realized Pierson had nattered on about his niece in the past, but he’d pictured a schoolgirl in braids and never thought a thing about her. David had even heard Pierson tell him she’d married, but again, he’d had the fleeting image of a simpering young bride and then forgot about her.

  He hadn’t been prepared for the black-haired beauty with green eyes and a straightforward stare who’d gazed at him fearlessly across the breakfast table. Still less prepared for her frank assessment of his half-inebriated, half-hungover state, which had obviously not impressed her.

  David was used to women fawning over him no matter how he appeared. He did not confuse this fawning with delight or love or a natural reaction to the glory that was David Fleming. The ladies usually wanted something from him—money, favors, escape from their narrow lives for a few hours.

  Sophie Tierney didn’t need anything from David. He was her uncle’s old friend, and that was all. She saw past his flummery and sardonic sneer to the very sad man behind it. And again, was not impressed.

  She’d dressed sensibly for the outing, he noted. Female fashion had discarded the massive bustle, replacing it with sleeves so ballooning that David expected the ladies to be lifted off the ground at the first puff of wind. Miss Tierney, however, had eschewed the new style, at least for this country tramp. Her blouse was plain over a narrow skirt, and she wore a long jacket against the cold, and stout boots. No billowing sleeves in sight. Her wide-brimmed hat was large enough to keep off the sun and any rain that might fall.

  David had left clothes at the vicarage over the years, which Mrs. Corcoran kept clean for him, so he had a suitable ensemble for slogging through muddy fields. It wasn’t often he had the chance to wear gaiters laced to his knees.