“How much?” James asked through clenched teeth.
“One pound, four pence.” The boy sounded almost frightened to admit to such a fee, as well he should be. Caesar was a famously even-tempered stallion, a thick-boned mount that could take a fence with ease and was the envy of half the town. The idea that such a horse could turn this place on its head and make an adolescent groom cower was ludicrous. James was beginning to suspect the entire bloody town was either conspiring on how to separate him from his savings, or else having a good laugh behind his back. Neither would get him any closer to London.
James shuffled the corset from one arm to the other, and stretched his free hand toward his pocket, searching for the ivory cuff links he had felt there earlier. The groom’s eyes narrowed on the corset. “Mr. Morrison dinna say anything about taking trade for it either, and that tiny thing isn’t going to fit the Missus Morrison.” He flushed to be imparting such delicate information, but plowed on. “She’s expecting twins next month, you know.”
James raised a brow. As if he would trade the one bloody clue he had.
“You fetch the horse,” William broke in. “We’ll scrape together the fee, and we’ll make an exchange, nice and even-like.”
The boy eyed them both, as if he suspected they might disappear on him, then darted down the alley. “What was that all about?” William muttered.
“Damned if I know.” James squinted down the lane, half expecting Caesar to emerge as a fire-breathing dragon. “I . . . I will have to borrow the money if I can’t barter my cuff links.”
William smiled. “Of course.” He amiably patted his coat pocket. “And I shall be only too happy to offer my aid. If you can bring yourself to say please, that is.”
James worked his jaw around the objectionable word and found he could not say it.
“And in the Queen’s English.” William waved one finger in front of James’s nose. “It does not count if you say it like a Frenchie.”
“Please, you son of a—” James pulled up in astonishment as the young groom emerged from the dark alley dragging a saddled horse behind him. The oddity of the morning’s exchange fell into place as the boy dodged a near miss of clicking teeth and dancing hooves.
The moment called for something dramatic, but James was at a loss for what a proper reaction should be. Beside him, William started laughing, hearty guffaws that made the groom pink up in ignorant embarrassment and the anger churn red in James’s stomach. Of course this horse kicked down a stable wall. Of course James had left it here in a state of dim remembrance. It fit perfectly with the ridiculousness of the rest of his evening’s activities.
“Take it, sir.” The groom was practically begging now, handing over the snorting black horse as one would a lighted fuse.
James reluctantly reached out his hand and closed it over stiff leather reins that felt foreign in his hand. He gave voice to the thought tripping around in his head, though he doubted the question would win him any friends or do him any good.
“What is this?” He gestured toward the horse and earned a flattening of the animal’s ears for his trouble. “Is this some sort of joke?” He half-expected to see William bent over in laughter, having concocted this elaborate ruse merely for entertainment value.
The groom’s eyes widened in confusion. “It’s your horse, sir.”
“This is not my horse.” As if agreeing with him, the horse reached out and nipped at James’s waistcoat, ripping the fabric and taking a bit of skin, to boot. “My horse is chestnut.” He rubbed a hand over his newest injury and eyed the beast with irritation. “And male.”
“Well, it’s the horse you left with me last night.” The groom’s voice wavered.
“It’s not my horse, and therefore not my problem.” James started to hand back the reins, but the groom’s cry of protest halted his progress.
“Never say you aren’t going to pay!” The boy sounded frantic now. “If you dinna pay, I’ll lose my job. That would be a fine meddle, the town solicitor and Lord Kilmartie’s son, to boot, running out on his bill.”
The grim reminder of his father’s inevitable disappointment and what he stood to lose in this made James’s fingers curve inward, itching for release. Respect. He had worked hard to build the town’s trust of him, to prove he was more than a rough-and-tumble second son who needed to be saved by his father. He had turned his life for the better, and done it without the help of his influential family. He did not want to toss those gains aside.
He tamped down the urge to strike out at something with a skill born of long practice and necessity. It was not this groom’s fault he had misplaced his horse, any more than it was the groom’s fault James had forgotten himself last night. He turned to his brother, his decision made. William was already counting out coins from his money purse. When it was all over, the groom skittered back into the filthy darkness of the stable, and James was left holding the reins of the ill-tempered black mare and the ends of his own frayed temper.
He eyed the horse with distaste, wondering what he was going to do with it. Riding it certainly seemed out of the question, at least if he wanted to make it to the end of the street with his neck intact. She seemed none too sound anyway, obviously favoring her right rear leg.
He took a step toward the mare, his hand raised in placation. This was not his horse, but it obviously belonged to someone. She had good conformation despite her foul temperament, with a high crest to her neck and slim legs. The horse’s ears, when not pinned back flat against her head, formed two graceful arcs above intelligent eyes.
There were only a handful of Moraig’s citizens who could afford a piece of horseflesh so fine. When he found the mare’s owner, he would likely be able to add another clue to the puzzle of his evening.
He placed a firm hand on her nose. The mare responded with a squeal and kicked out violently with her forefeet, striking James in the knee with a body-shuddering crack. He pitched backward, knocking his head against wall of the stable. His hat went rolling on its brim across the dust and straw that littered the ground. He lay there a long moment, unsteady and sick and contemplating whether he could afford the cost of a bullet for the intemperate beast.
Probably not. That would just place him further in debt.
William leaned in, concerned. More precisely, two Williams leaned in. “Are you all right?” His brother’s voice sounded slurred and distant, but that couldn’t be right, not when there were two of him speaking.
“Piss-poor and proper,” James groaned, fighting a wave of dizziness. His leg hurt like the very devil, but he forced himself to standing. The earth undulated beneath his feet. He snatched up his battered hat and then lifted a hand gingerly to his skull and probed the memento of his past evening’s indiscretion. Fresh warmth coated his fingers. The wound had started to bleed again.
William’s mouth stretched into a smile. “If you are done boxing with the beastie, I have to ask. What do you want to do now?”
James reached out a hand to grab the mare’s reins, this time taking care to stand to the side. He decided against a steadying hand on the mare’s neck, choosing instead to live. “Isn’t it obvious?” he grumbled, wiping his blood-covered fingers on his ruined waistcoat. “We need to figure out who in the deuces this horse belongs to.”
The horse, like the corset, was a clue. A reticent clue, but a clue nonetheless. He needed to get started on the investigation. Each lost moment was a risk to his future and an opportunity for the woman in question to flee town with his money purse in hand. If this had been a case brought to him by a client, he would have eagerly set foot to pavement, ruthlessly tracking down each beckoning trace of her.
Unfortunately, his body did not agree with his mind. He leaned a hand against the weathered wood of the livery, breathing deeply through his nose. He had never come so close to fainting in his life.
“I think we need to get you to the
surgeon.” William’s voice was colored gray with concern.
James shook his head and pushed himself straight. He renewed his grip on the reins with one hand and his hold on the corset with other. “That’s all I need, word of this getting out amidst the town gossips. If I go to see the sawbones, he’ll want to know how I got cracked on the head with a chamber pot. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a piece or two of china left in there, given the way my head hurts.”
“To your house, then.” William’s drawn, bushy browns and stern voice brooked no argument. “Let your friend Channing take a look at you.”
James snorted, and immediately regretted the expression. He lifted a hand to his head. Its pounding was dwarfed only by the sharp, immediate pain in his shin. “Oh, aye, that’s rich. Let’s have Patrick, the town veterinarian, take a look at me. I’ll be the pride of the MacKenzie clan for that.”
“At least he won’t spread the tale far and yonder,” William argued. He spread his hands in supplication. “You need help, Jamie. And if you won’t take it from me, at least ask it of your friend.”
A fresh wave of dizziness pressed in from all sides, and James closed his eyes against the weakness. He felt William’s hands slide across his back and reluctantly turned over some of his weight against his big brother’s ready shoulder. He had to fight against the urge to push himself away. He didn’t want to ask Patrick for help, any more than he wanted to accept William’s. But neither did he want to pitch over face-first in the sawdust-strewn entryway to Morrison’s Livery, the smell of urine-soaked shavings in his nostrils and the ringing laughter of the townsfolk in his ears.
Though he knew it was shameful, pride had everything to do with it. His pride had been the only thing he had taken with him on his journey to manhood, the one thing he could not shake off when he had fled his father’s house eleven years ago and abandoned everything in his life that carried the stamp of the Earl of Kilmartie about it. Once upon a time, his ego had been the instrument of his downfall and very nearly his family’s. But that inborn arrogance had also pointed his feet down the road to self-sufficiency. That same pride now screamed at him to move on, to handle this himself.
But luckily, good sense trumped pride, at least in this moment.
“Fine,” James muttered, opening his eyes to take in his brother’s pinched concern. “To Patrick, then.” At the very least, he supposed if he went home he could change his clothes and wash from his skin the smell of the woman he could neither fully remember nor forget. “But remember, I’ve seen the man work,” he warned as they began to take their first tentative steps, dragging the mare behind them. “He’s as likely to put a bullet between my eyes as a bandage around my head.”
“I’m proud of you for seeing reason,” William said, no small degree of amusement edging his voice. “Although, to be honest, I am beginning to think putting you out of your misery might be just the thing.”
Chapter 6
“IF YOU’RE GOING to stand there with your mouth hanging open, the least you could do is fetch me a towel.” The woman in Georgette’s bath spoke as easily as if she had asked for the salt over dinner.
Only that conversation would have surely involved clothing.
Georgette could voice no objection beyond a strangled, whistling sound lodged deep in her throat. Embarrassed heat stained her thoughts, but she could not look away. It was as if her eyes were operated by marionette strings.
She forced her hands to stay relaxed, though her fingertips ached from the strain. Had she been half so brazen last night? If she had, it was no wonder she had ended up in a handsome stranger’s bed. “Who are you?” she finally choked out.
The woman’s head lolled toward her. Two auburn brows drew up in confusion. “Why, I’m Elsie, miss. Have you taken a bloody great blow to your bean?”
Georgette swallowed a surprised gasp. The chit was naked and profane. “Your full name, if you please,” she said crisply.
A sigh of annoyance escaped the girl, as hot and damp as the steam rising from the tub. “Elsie Dalrymple. As if you dinna already know.”
Georgette blinked at that. The girl implied no small degree of familiarity, yet Georgette did not recall having ever seen her before. “Why are you here, Miss Dalrymple?”
The girl’s lip puckered in amusement. “Well, my, my. Aren’t we formal this morning. Just plain Elsie was good enough for you last night.” She stretched a pale, freckled arm over her head and pulled a washing cloth down its length, as if daring Georgette to remember. “I’m your new maid, you daft ninny.”
“My maid?” Lack of memory aside, she couldn’t imagine hiring this colorful girl for such a delicate task. Most ladies’ maids didn’t boast a vocabulary that would curl a sailor’s rigging. Or call their mistresses ninnies.
Or last very long if they did.
“Hired me last night at the Blue Gander, you did.” The girl moved on to wash her other arm. “Plucked me from the jaws of the serving line. Promised to pay me better than the innkeeper.” The girl stopped her motions and ran a critical hazel eye over Georgette’s stained, misshapen gown. “Either you were lying about being able to afford me, or you are in serious need of a ladies’ maid. Which is it then?”
“The latter.” It came out as a whisper, so Georgette cleared her throat. She did need a maid, at least while she was staying with Randolph. But the girl was yet more evidence of her aberrant night on the town. “If you are my maid,” she said, louder now, “why are you bathing in my tub? And asking me to fetch your towel?”
The woman dropped the washcloth and shook a forelock full of wet hair from her eyes. The motion sent her bare breasts bouncing and Georgette’s eyes stinging. “You told me I needed to clean myself up before we started the job proper. Am I not doing it right?”
Though Georgette tried to control her eye’s downward track, tried to prevent looking, her gaze swept the bits of the girl’s body visible beyond the confines of the hip bath. The embarrassed heat that had pricked at her before exploded to full-bore mortification. “You look quite clean.”
In fact, Georgette was quite sure she had never seen such a clean creature.
Elsie stood up, sending water splashing over the sides of the tub and sluicing down delicate limbs. “I suppose you’ll be wanting your own bath, then.” The fierce flare of the girl’s hips drew Georgette’s eye, causing her cheeks to burn poker-hot. One bare foot prodded the rug while Elsie’s hand fished for the towel folded on a nearby chair. “The water’s still warm if you want to have a go.”
The disarming thought of sliding into used bathwater—the same water that had just touched Elsie’s bare skin—could not compete with the full, shocking sight of the naked woman stepping out of the copper hip bath. Georgette slapped a hand over her eyes, struck by the oddest sense of shame. Not for the girl’s nudity, which Elsie wore as proudly as if she was clad in a smart new gown. No, Georgette was ashamed of herself, and the disappointment she sometimes felt in her own body. Wasn’t she every bit as young—and beautiful—as the young woman dripping before her?
And yet, Georgette could not recall ever being so comfortable in her skin, or so at ease with someone else watching her.
She wondered if she had stood similarly naked in front of her Scotsman last night, wondered if the man’s dancing green eyes had watched appreciatively as she slowly peeled off her clothing. Confusion heated her thoughts. Surely she had not done something so brazen. So uncharacteristic.
So wrong.
Elsie’s voice floated between the tight clench of Georgette’s fingers. “Or if not a bath, will you be wanting something else? Breakfast, perhaps?”
Georgette cracked her fingers open a fraction and risked a peek. The girl was wrapped in a towel now. She dropped her hand cautiously, ready to clap it back in place at the first threat of additional nudity. “I am not up for breakfast just yet.”
“A good thing, tha
t is,” Elsie agreed. “Because I already ate the wee bit of food I found in the larder. And I would really recommend the bath first, miss.” Her nose twisted in concern. “You’re a ripe one this morning. Do you want me to help you undress?”
Georgette shrank against the idea of a stranger stripping her bare. Her usual ladies’ maid in London was a woman she had known since childhood. “No, thank you. Your help will not be necessary.”
The dripping woman’s cheeks colored pink. “Have you changed your mind then?” When Georgette did not immediately respond, the girl dropped the towel and snatched up a well-worn chemise from the floor, pulling it on with hard, jerky movements. “Well, ain’t that the way of it. I finally find myself a mistress that looks to be a little fun, and come morning light she wants to see nothing but the backside of me.”
Something akin to a giggle tickled at the back of Georgette’s throat. “To be fair,” she pointed out, handing Elsie the old patched dress she spied lying in a rumpled heap near the door, “I’ve seen more than the backside of you.”
It was startling to be having this conversation. No one ever talked to her like this. She would have never hired a girl like Elsie in London, where a ladies’ maid was as much a symbol of your status as the matched bays in your stables. But in Scotland, where everything seemed turned on its ear, it somehow seemed fitting to have a foulmouthed hoyden laying out her gowns. And judging by the threadbare nature of the girl’s clothing, there was no denying Elsie needed a better means of income.
But Georgette wasn’t staying here long enough to truly need a ladies’ maid. As soon as she found the mystery Scotsman and procured the annulment, she was bound for London. She already had a ladies’ maid waiting for her there, one she would have brought with her if the woman’s mother hadn’t just died.
What Happens in Scotland Page 6
