Nowhere Near Respectable

by Mary Jo Putney

  Chapter 33

  Mackenzie was a good actor, but not good enough to convince Kiri that he was all right. Even in the dark of the carriage, she could feel how tightly strung he was. Something had happened at the boxing match, and she guessed it was the sight of her gore-splashed body. He must have thought she was dead or mortally injured, and that had triggered a fierce reaction that had shaken him to the breaking point.

  She wondered if Cassie could also feel the brittleness under Mackenzie’s casual manner. Perhaps—the other woman was very perceptive. But she hadn’t slept with Mackenzie. Even though they’d been together only once, Kiri was sensitized to the man. He was in pain, and she hurt.

  When they reached Exeter Street, Mackenzie helped the two females out of the carriage as if nothing was wrong. Ever the gentleman, except that Kiri could feel his vibrating tension even through her glove.

  Once they were inside, he said, “I have a bit of the headache, so I’ll rest now and not join you for dinner.” He bowed politely, avoiding Kiri’s eyes, and headed upstairs.

  Still worried, she took off her cloak and examined the condition. “The blood should brush off when it’s completely dry, but my gown will need a complete wash. I hope it doesn’t stain.”

  “Give both to Mrs. Powell. She’s a wizard at getting bloodstains out of clothes.” Cassie’s mouth quirked up. “Housing Kirkland’s agents has given her much experience.”

  “What an alarming thought.” Suddenly tired, Kiri headed for the stairs. “I need a bath after rolling around in that field. Can I get a tray and eat in my room?”

  “The Powells will provide food as well as hot water for your bath.” Cassie covered a yawn. “I think I’ll do the same. Brawling makes me tired.”

  Kiri turned back on the steps, her brows arched. “This happens to you often?”

  “It’s not unknown.” Cassie pulled out her hairpins and shook out her hair, then ran her fingers through as if she was on the verge of headache herself.

  “If you’re going to bathe, I have fragrant oils with me,” Kiri said. “Would you like lemon verbena or rose?”

  “Bath oil!” Cassie’s face lit up. “It’s been so long. . . . Rose, please.”

  “I’ll bring it to your room.” Kiri was glad that the prospect of rose oil could bring such a smile to Cassie’s face. The smile made her look years younger. What kind of life had she lived before she was engulfed in war and drawn into being an agent? It was none of Kiri’s business, of course. But she couldn’t help wanting to know.

  Since Kiri was on the steps, she could look down on Cassie’s head. Surprised, she leaned over the railing for a closer look. “Your hair appears to have red roots.”

  Cassie made a face. “Time to dye it again. My natural red is too conspicuous, and the whole focus of my existence for years has been to pass unnoticed. The dye I use gives a boring brown, but it wears off in time, and the roots must be covered regularly.”

  “You’re good at making yourself forgettable,” Kiri said as she tried to visualize the other woman as a redhead. That would make her skin look almost translucently white. “I should like to see you someday when you aren’t trying for invisibility.”

  “I’m no beauty even at my best,” Cassie assured her.

  Perhaps not, Kiri thought as she resumed her climb of the stairs. But Cassie would surely be striking.

  Mr. Powell and a servant brought Kiri supper, which she ate while they heated water. Then they brought up a hip bath and canisters of blessedly hot water. In return, they carried off her cloak and gown for cleaning.

  Having taken the rose oil to Cassie, Kiri added the lemon verbena to her own tub. The lovely tangy scent was intoxicating, and the hip bath large enough for her to sink in to her shoulders if she scrunched up. The hot water soothed her numerous bruises. She’d been knocked about more than she realized at the time.

  She stayed in the tub until the water had cooled and her skin was wrinkly, then dried herself off and donned her nightgown and robe. She considered reading or writing letters, or even going to bed.

  But she couldn’t stop thinking about Mackenzie. Perhaps rest had cured his shattered nerves—but she didn’t believe that. She would not sleep easy until she’d seen herself how he was.

  Kiri didn’t plan to seduce Mackenzie. Upset as he was, he needed his honor even more. In her ankle-length nightgown and robe, she was completely covered and shapeless. Her heavy knit socks were good for keeping feet warm on cold floors, but they were as unprovocative as any garment could possibly be.

  Even so, she took the precautions against pregnancy that Julia Randall had taught her. The attraction between her and Mackenzie made it impossible to predict what might happen.

  As she walked silently down the hall, she swore to herself that she would not encourage him to behavior he’d regret. He had troubles enough, from the way he’d looked when he withdrew to his room.

  She knocked gently on his door. No answer. Might he have gone out? Her instinct said no, that he was inside and ignoring the knock. She turned the knob.

  The door opened quietly under her hand. The only light came from the small coal fire, but it was enough to illuminate the bleak figure standing at the window and looking out into the wintry night. Mackenzie had shed coat and boots and eye patch, but whatever devils had seized him were still present.

  “A pity these doors don’t have locks,” he said wearily. “I knew you’d come, Kiri. Now turn around quietly and leave, closing the door behind you.”

  She crossed the room on silent feet. “If you knew I’d come, you must also know that I don’t obey orders well.”

  “I’ve noticed,” he said dryly. Even though he wouldn’t look at her, she sensed that he was glad he was no longer alone.

  She mustn’t touch him. That would cause complications and solve nothing. She moved to his side and gazed out the window at the barely visible rooftops of London. “Blood and women are the key to your own private chamber of horrors, aren’t they?”

  He didn’t answer, but she saw his jaw tighten. He looked beautiful and doomed, like an archangel cast out of heaven, falling helplessly toward his inevitable end.

  “From the intensity of your reaction, I’m not the first woman you saw like that. I must have triggered something that was already burned on your soul.” She hesitated for a moment, not wanting to believe that he could have murdered his mistress. But if he’d been drunk and betrayed, if the woman had provoked him—anything was possible. “Were you remembering Harriet Swinnerton?”

  He drew a harsh breath. “Yes, but not because I killed her. After Rupert returned and supposedly heard her name me murderer with her dying breath, he and several of his troops dragged me from my bed and took me to the scene of the crime. He screamed his accusations at me while I had to see her lying there broken, bleeding. . . .”

  An image that haunted him still. Kiri locked her hands together to prevent herself from reaching out to him.

  “It might not have been a great love affair, but I cared for her,” he said haltingly. “Harry could be demanding, but also playful and generous. I liked pleasing her. Certainly I would have tried to protect her. Instead, I brought about her death.”

  Kiri frowned as she visualized the scene. “Is it possible her husband isn’t the one who killed her? If he truly believed you were the murderer, he might have felt it only just to confront you with the evidence.”

  Mackenzie shook his head. “No, Swinnerton was the murderer. Maybe he wanted me to see her body as a form of revenge, or maybe in his twisted way he was boasting. Whatever his reason—seeing Harriet dead haunts my nightmares.”

  “He must have wanted that. Not that you would have had nightmares for long if he’d succeeded in hanging you,” she said gravely. “Bad enough to know she was murdered, but seeing her body had to have been far worse.”

  “Seeing and knowing my guilt.”

  “Those two were locked in a dance of death,” she said firmly. “You had only a small rol
e in their drama. Small but nearly fatal.”

  “I don’t disagree,” he said, voice bleak. “But it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “A conscience is a great nuisance.”

  His mouth twisted. “I don’t have much of one, except when it comes to destroying women.”

  There was something in his voice. . . . Abandoning her resolve not to touch him, she rested her hand on his wrist. “You’re thinking of another woman who died, aren’t you?” In a flash of certainty, she knew. “Your mother.”

  He jerked away from Kiri. “How did you know, damn it?” he said fiercely. “Are you some kind of witch?”

  “Of course not,” she said quietly. “I am only a woman who loves you, so I watch you very closely.”

  He pivoted, staring. “You love me? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  She smiled ruefully. “That’s not supposed to make you feel either better or worse. It simply is. I have no expectations of you, though I would appreciate honesty.” Not only for her own sake, but because she thought honesty might purge his wounded soul.

  She took his hand and pulled him down beside her on the edge of the bed. “Tell me, Damian. You were only a child when your mother died. How could you be responsible for her death?”

  He gazed blindly at the fire. “Antoinette Mackenzie was an actress to the bone. Brilliant, beautiful, volatile, and ambitious. Sometimes she doted on me, telling me I was her beautiful little boy and how glad she was that I looked so much like my father. Other times she could barely stand the sight of me. I became adept at judging her mood and vanishing when expedient.”

  Kiri frowned, thinking that she would not have liked his mother. “Was Antoinette Mackenzie her real name?”

  “I think it was a stage name, but if so, I never knew her real name.” He seemed unaware when his hand tightened on Kiri’s. “She wanted to be a lady and she thought Lord Masterson was the way to achieve that. His wife was frail. Apparently that’s why his lordship took a mistress, so as not to burden his wife with marital demands.”

  When he fell silent, Kiri asked, “Did your mother think he’d marry her after he was widowed?”

  “She was sure of it.” His lips tightened. “We were staying at an inn in Grantham on the road north to Yorkshire when she read in a newspaper that Lady Masterson had died. She was ecstatic and sent a letter off, probably saying imprudent things like how much she looked forward to them being together. He wrote back immediately saying he would never marry her, though naturally he would fulfill his responsibilities to the child.”

  Kiri winced. “Did that upset her to the point of suicide?”

  Mackenzie’s grip was so tight on Kiri’s hand that she was going to have bruises. “She had always been prone to tantrums. This time she exploded like a nest of Congreve rockets. She screamed at me that the only reason I’d been born was to give her a hold on Lord Masterson. If she bore his child, she thought it more likely he’d marry her, but no, all the pain and nuisance of bearing a brat had come to nothing.”

  “Oh, Damian,” Kiri said, agonized, unable to imagine how a mother could say such a thing to her child. “She couldn’t have really meant that. She was just angry.”

  “Angry, yes, but she also meant it. Sometimes she seemed to enjoy having a child, but most of the time she handed me over to her maid, who became my nurse. On this particular day”—he stopped for the space of a dozen heartbeats, drawing in ragged breaths—“she said that she’d make his bloody lordship sorry. First she’d kill me, then herself.”

  As Kiri gasped, he continued inexorably, “And being a woman of her word, my mother then slit my throat.”

  Chapter 34

  Mackenzie’s words were stark, unbelievable, yet impossible to disbelieve. Kiri turned to face him. His cravat was off, so she gently unbuttoned his shirt and tugged the fabric away from his throat. There, just above his collarbone, was the thin, ragged line of a long-healed scar. “I’m so very glad she didn’t know how to do it right,” she said in a choked whisper as she traced the scar with gossamer tenderness.

  “I was squirming and trying to get away, so she didn’t cut deeply enough,” he said, his voice remote. “But there was plenty of blood, so she thought her knifework would suffice. Then she used her best suicidal Juliet voice to cry out, ‘This will show his filthy lordship!’ and drove the dagger into her heart.”

  “And you were right there watching?” She wanted to weep for the child he’d been, but she could not allow tears. Her pain on hearing this was only a pale shadow of the pain he’d lived with most of his life.

  He nodded. “After she stabbed herself, she had the strangest expression, as if she hadn’t expected the pain or the blood to be real. She’d been in the theater so long that she couldn’t always tell the difference between the stage and reality. She gasped, then quietly folded onto the floor and . . . bled.”

  Leaving her son with the indelible image of his mother dying in a lake of blood. God damn woman for her selfishness! Kiri swallowed hard and managed to say with credible calm, “She must have been mad.”

  “A little, I think.” He sighed. “I was lucky to have inherited enough of the Masterson steadiness to stay out of Bedlam. Not enough to be really respectable, but enough to be sane.” After another long silence, he said, “You can see why Will became the most important person in the world to me.”

  “Stability, affection, acceptance,” she said, wishing that she knew Lord Masterson better. She’d met him because he was one of Adam’s closest friends, but only in passing. Masterson was a large, calm man who looked much like Mackenzie, but with a more relaxed disposition.

  The next time they met, she might fall to her knees and kiss Will’s feet for what he’d done for his terrorized little bastard brother. He could so easily have turned his back. “You were very lucky to have him.”

  “If not for Will, I would have ended up apprenticed to a tradesman or slaving in a workhouse. I hated when he joined the army. I’m the expendable one, not Will.”

  “You are not expendable!” She leaned forward and kissed the scar left by his mother’s dagger, touching the hard line of tissue with her tongue. “When I think that I might never have met you . . .”

  He caught his breath and she felt his pulse accelerate under her lips. “You would have been better off not knowing me, my warrior queen,” he whispered, but his hands settled on her waist.

  She raised her head to glare at him. “It may be difficult to value yourself when your mother dismissed your worth, but I will have none of that! You have the strength and honor of your father’s people, the charm and wit of your mother, and those qualities together make you a remarkable man, Damian Mackenzie. ”

  His expression softened. “You give me too much credit, my lady.”

  “And you give yourself too little.” She cupped his face in her hands, holding his gaze with hers. “I do not wish to damage your honor. But I very much wish to offer comfort.” She tilted her head back and kissed him with love, suppressing passion.

  Passion would not stay suppressed. Desire blazed between them, melting her good intentions, and his as well. His arms crushed around her. “Dear God, Kiri,” he breathed. “You are so whole and alive.”

  And her lifeblood beat hotly in her veins, not poured out in death. She leaned into him hard and they fell backward on the bed. As she kissed him again, his hands roved over her. “You smell so good,” he murmured. “Lemon and something else. Fresh. Piquant. Delicious.”

  “Verbena. You have a good nose.” She pushed herself up, bracing her arms on each side of him. The room was too dark to show the difference in his eyes, but the strong, handsome bones of his face were sculpted in firelight. “You do not wish to take advantage of my youth and relative innocence. But surely it’s a different matter if I take advantage of your maturity and most wonderful experience?”

  For a moment he looked startled. That dissolved into laughter and he wrapped his arms around her waist. “How can I resist
you?” His voice became husky. “You offer joy and sanity, and . . . I need both so much.”

  “They are yours for the taking, my darling Damian.”

  His mouth twisted. “Disreputable Damian comes closer.”

  “And that is so much a part of your charm!” She dived forward to kiss his throat while she buried her fingers in his thick hair.

  Their legs had been over the edge of the bed, but in one expert motion, he rolled them so they were both on the mattress and he was above her. That put her in a position to tug his shirt loose so she could caress the warm skin of his back.

  He jumped when she touched bare skin. “You have cold fingers!”

  “You are warming them nicely,” she said with a throaty chuckle just before she yanked at his shirt, trying to pull it over his head.

  He had to cooperate to get the shirt off. By the time he’d fought his way clear of the billowing linen, she’d undone the buttons. He turned rigid when she slipped her hand inside his breeches. Any lingering coolness in her fingers was burned away when she took hold of him.

  “Not. So. Fast!” he panted, moving to one side so that her hand slipped away.

  In this position, he was able to lift the hems of her robe and nightgown all the way to her shoulders. She hardly noticed the cool air, not when his mouth descended on her breast. “Since I didn’t have supper, I find myself very hungry,” he said, his breath warming her nipple.

  She whimpered as he kissed his way down her body. Dimly she wondered when the initiative had slipped from her to him, but she didn’t really care. Not when he was doing such marvelous, provocative things.

  “I smell a hint of vinegar,” he said with interest. “Did you come here with seduction in mind?”

  “I swear I did not,” she gasped, writhing as his fingers stroked between her thighs. “But I was raised by a general, you recall. He said one must . . . always be prepared.”

  “I would rather not think of the general just now, since he would surely pull out his horsewhip. With justice. But the damned man also raised an irresistible daughter.”