“I . . . I don’t think this is a good idea.” Georgette lifted her shoulders in apology. “You are a bit . . . different than my usual choice in a maid.”
Elsie’s brows pulled down in an expert impression of a pout as she worked the buttons of her bodice. “Well, I guess I don’t fit your specifics for a ladies’ maid, not that I know what they are. Tell me, miss. Do I need to be taller?” Her lips followed the downward arc of her brows. Her voice took on a hysterical ring. “Prettier?”
“Covered,” Georgette mouthed, breathing a sigh of relief as the last button slid home beneath Elsie’s busy fingers. Now that the girl was respectably clad, she could think. “You are pretty enough,” she offered. And Elsie was pretty, if a bit frayed around the edges. She had dark reddish-brown curls and a nose scattered with freckles, strategically placed to attract the eye but not overwhelm the canvas.
“Suppose it doesn’t matter,” Elsie sniffed. “Can’t do much about my looks, can I? But I’m handy with a needle and have muscles to fetch and carry your bathwater. I don’t mind a little hard work. What is wrong with me?”
“It isn’t you,” Georgette said carefully, realizing it was true. “It is me.” Her lips pursed, amusement now soothing her initial discomfort. There was no denying the girl needed a chance to improve herself. And if Georgette didn’t provide it, who would? If nothing else, Elsie would provide a loud, opinionated shield against Randolph when the man returned from town. Yes, there were definite advantages to keeping this girl on.
If she would only promise to keep her clothes on.
“I’m a frightful snob.” Georgette paused. “And I’m only here for a few days, after which time you’ll need to find a new post. I will probably need to beg you to stay.”
Elsie’s brows winged up. “You want me to stay?”
“Do you want to stay?”
Elsie placed her hands on hips now hidden by the wrinkled skirt. Her face broke into a smile. “Well now, that depends. I prefer my patrons a bit cleaner, if you ken what I mean. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Elsie stepped forward, her fingers stretching toward Georgette’s gray silk gown. Georgette stayed her with a firm hand. “I can manage this part.”
The maid stepped back. Georgette carefully slipped the buttons from their anchors. She lifted the alarmingly listless kitten from its perch between her breasts and handed it to the maid. “Would you happen to know someplace nearby where we could find some milk?” she asked hopefully.
Elsie’s eyes widened in surprise. Her nose gave a twitch, and then another, until finally her entire body was racked with a brutal sneeze. “What is this?” she gasped once her body stopped shuddering.
“A kitten.” Georgette slipped the wrinkled silk from her shoulders and clasped it against her breasts. The motion brought to mind the shame she had felt this morning putting the gown on, and the appreciative glow in the Scotsman’s eyes when he had seen her in it. At least he didn’t see me naked. Well, not that she remembered. Given her natural state upon waking, she had to presume he had seen her in the buff at some point in the evening.
“I can see it’s a bloody kitten.” Elsie’s voice snapped through her heated thoughts. The maid leaned in close. “What is it doing here?” she hissed.
The maid’s contempt and language surprised Georgette. Vehement tone aside, what kind of person used the words “bloody” and “kitten” in the same breath?
“After my morning in Moraig, it seemed best.” She gripped the gown over the front of her body, wondering if Elsie would think it odd if she turned away to finish undressing. She slid the fabric lower, mortification curling around her fingers. “I almost got trampled by a cart, and the front of my dress seemed the safest place to keep the animal from suffering a similar fate.”
“Not the bit with your dress, although I’ll admit it’s an odd place to stash a kitten.” Elsie flapped her free hand in consternation and clutched the ball of tabby fur with the other. “What is the wild beast doing in your house?”
“Well, it’s not precisely a wild beast,” Georgette offered weakly. “Or my house.” She dropped her dress and scrambled into the tub as quickly as she could, hoping her rapid progress would conceal her regrettably necessary lack of clothing. Her uncoordinated efforts sent water sloshing over the sides, but the water offered a grateful bit of cover. She sank down to her neck, wishing the maid had someplace else to go, and someone else to watch.
Apparently oblivious to the embarrassment tripping about Georgette’s breast, Elsie threw one hand up in disgust. “I specifically asked last night if you had any cats before I agreed to take this position. Swell my eyes and nose up something awful, they do.” She sniffed, and Georgette could see the girl’s hazel eyes were indeed watering profusely. Those bleary eyes narrowed, and she leaned closer. “You’ll have to get rid of it if you want me to stay.”
Georgette sighed. She had carried the tiny bundle from Moraig, lodged like a wish against her chest. But the need for a human buffer between her and Randolph was all too real. Moreover, it was obvious she could not care for the kitten, not here in a house better suited for a bachelor than a nursing pet. She knew which she needed to choose, but it would hurt to give up the little bit of fur. She had grown quite attached to it over the course of the last hour.
Of course, it was the one thing she remembered vividly out of the last sixteen.
Elsie pointed toward the water. “And look what it’s done to you, miss.”
Georgette looked down. Through the murky water, along the inner edge of one partially bared breast, she could see a reddish mark. She stared at her marred skin. She did not remember feeling any pain during the time the kitten had been nestled there.
Elsie hefted the kitten to her other hand and leaned in for a closer look at the mark, her nose already twitching again. “Well, whatever else its sins, I don’t think this wee bit of fur did that.” She sniffed once, paused, sneezed again. “And that mark wasn’t made by a corset, because you weren’t wearing one.” Humor edged Elsie’s sneeze-altered tone as she acknowledged Georgette’s shocking lack of undergarments had been noticed.
“I . . .” Georgette fell silent, shifting uncomfortably beneath her wet, transparent blanket. What on earth could she say to that? I left my corset in a strange room with a strange man this morning. Could you please pass the soap?
Elsie peered down at Georgette, her eyes scrunched in amusement. “That, my lady, looks very much like a love bite. Probably from that great, lovely blighter you married last night.”
Georgette froze, all worry of nudity forgotten. She latched on to that bit of information. The maid knew something about her disremembered night. Hope hammered in her chest. Perhaps she now had a more articulate clue than the simple signet ring that still lay on her finger. “Do you know the man?”
Elsie sighed dreamily, her eyes lifting to the herb-hung ceiling. “Oh, aye, right enough. All the ladies in town know him. And if James MacKenzie’s reputation is well earned, I would imagine you had a right fine time acquiring it.”
Chapter 7
“MACKENZIE.” GEORGETTE FIT the name around her lips. It triggered no memory, no hint of recognition, but it did incite a spark of warmth, fluttering in her abdomen. She found herself insanely curious about Mr. MacKenzie, now that she had a knowledgeable, breathing body to press for details. She wondered what kind of man he was. Kind or hard? Generous or tight-fisted?
Faithful or indiscreet?
The thought flew unbidden from the depths of her subconscious. She shook her head, sending water rippling against the sides of the bath. She had been only twenty-two years old when she had married the first time, and had not thought to ask such an indelicate question then. Her husband had turned out to be of the faithless variety. But it did not matter if this James MacKenzie was a man who honored his vows or was the biggest philanderer in Moraig.
It was not a questio
n she needed to ask of a man she planned to leave.
“Do you know anything of what I did last night?” Georgette asked, pushing her curiosity about the bearded Scotsman to a quieter place.
“Oh, aye, miss.” Elsie picked up a washcloth with her free hand, the kitten still balanced precariously in the other. She reached over the edge of the bath. “You hired yourself a maid.”
Georgette snatched the cloth from her. “I can take care of this part myself.” The promise of learning more about what might have happened last night warred with her prudish aversions. She pointed to an upholstered chair that until recently had been occupied by Elsie’s towel, scarcely able to believe she was not only going to invite the maid to stay and provide an audience, but insist upon it. “Sit, please. And tell me what else I may have done.”
Elsie perched on the chair and arranged her skirts. She placed the kitten in her lap and wrinkled her nose, seemed to focus a second on averting another sneeze. When the moment passed, the maid laughed. “Can’t remember, eh? I’m not surprised, to tell you the truth. You came banging into the rear entrance of the Blue Gander last night, close to eight o’clock.” She leaned forward. “Looked three sheets to the wind, if you ken what I mean, and I thought to myself as I was cleaning up the tankards, she looks like a handful of fun.”
Georgette looked up from where she was lathering the cake of soap between her hands. Surely she could not have heard that right. “You thought I looked fun?”
Elsie nodded. “Ladies, you see, hardly ever come in the back door of the Gander. That’s an exit usually reserved for patrons looking for a quick poke in the alley.”
“A poke?” Georgette asked in mortification.
Elsie’s cheeks colored prettily. “Sorry, miss. I forget sometimes you are a lady.”
Georgette’s own face heated as she went to work cleaning one filthy foot. Apparently, so did she. While she scrubbed, she thought. She was still unable to piece together how she had come to be at the Gander when she was supposed to have been at the church with Randolph. “Was I alone?” she asked
“Oh no, you weren’t alone.”
Georgette forced her horrified eyes to meet Elsie’s. Had Randolph taken her to the Blue Gander? “I wasn’t?”
“Not for long, anyway. The entire table was mighty interested in the pretty young lady who had dropped in their laps.” The maid wrinkled her nose against another sneeze before adding, “I believe you may have sat in one or two of their laps. And you talked to me, of course. Never did see a lady who wanted to talk to the serving girl, but you were quite interested in a heartfelt chat. By the time MacKenzie came in, the whole place was roaring with laughter and I was your new maid.”
Georgette squeezed her eyes shut. It was mortifying to learn these details from the bemused servant. It was every bit as bad as she had feared. She tried to move her hands, to get on with her bath, but was riveted in a watery prison, listening to every last hardscrabble detail of her night gone wrong.
“Of course, once you clapped eyes on MacKenzie, it was obvious to all of us you were bound for the altar. Why, from the time you sat in his lap until the time he hoisted you onto a table and presented you to the entire room as the future Mrs. MacKenzie, couldn’t have been more than an hour or two.”
“I was on the table?” Georgette asked, sinking lower into the water. Who was this wild, uninhibited creature Elsie remembered with such glee? She gave her feet a hard scrub, wondering if she could rub hard enough to strip the stain of last night’s antics as cleanly from her soul as it apparently was from her memory. “You said future wife.” Georgette hung a moment on that bit of the conversation, hoping she had heard the maid correctly. “So we weren’t married after all?”
Elsie inclined her head. “Not then. But the magistrate took care of that, right enough. The man stood up and offered to make it official. Whole bloody place served as your witnesses.” She offered Georgette a delighted smile. “Don’t often get to attend a wedding at the Gander. Why, you even let us tar and feather your feet. Fetched the feathers myself, I did, a whole pile of them from the kitchen.”
Georgette blinked, piecing together forgotten bits of her morning. That explained the mess of feathers she had stumbled over in the room this morning, and the black, sticky mess that she could not quite get off the soles of her feet.
It did not, however, explain what had been tripping around her head when she had made the crucial, ill-formed decision to marry Mr. MacKenzie. The description painted by the maid was of a fun, confident woman. The kind of woman who did not care what Society thought, or what bed her husband had stumbled from. The kind of woman Georgette had long wished she could be, but had never been.
What about the events of last night—and this man, in particular—had brought that woman out in her?
“What kind of man is Mr. MacKenzie?” she found herself asking, though she had promised herself she wouldn’t.
Elsie wiggled in her seat. “Oh, he’s a right fine one. Handsome devil, and with a wicked tongue. Has those green eyes that don’t precisely undress a woman, but make you want to right enough.” She sighed. “Shame you can’t remember. That recollection’s sure to be one worth storing away for a cold winter’s night.”
Georgette realized then the maid had misunderstood her. She didn’t want a physical description of the man. She had enough of that from her morning’s experience. She knew the man was sinfully attractive, had felt that quickening response in her own body as those green eyes had swept her appreciatively. She did not need to hear from Elsie the man had a way of making women act like love-struck adolescents.
No, she wanted to know what made James MacKenzie’s heart race and his palms sweat, not the color of his eyes.
“Was he also, how did you say it, three sheets to the wind?” Georgette pressed. If they had both been incapacitated, perhaps that would play better into her plan to demand an annulment.
“Well,” Elsie mused, “MacKenzie looked none too fresh himself, but he’s a strapping big man, so of course he holds his liquor better than most.”
“A big man,” Georgette mouthed, wondering just how big a man he was. It had been difficult to tell when he had been lying in bed. His shirttails had reached her calves this morning, true enough. An unbidden thought rose, refused to be pushed back into shadows. Was he big in other places too? She squeezed her hands to fists in the water, imagined touching him intimately last night. The dissipating heat from the bathwater ill-compared with the warmth that suffused her body from the inside out.
“It sounds as if I quite enjoyed myself.” She swallowed, forcing herself to rinse the soap from her limbs. The lemon verbena scent tickled her nostrils, but she ignored it for more important things. Like trying not to think about what manner of intimacy she might have engaged in last night.
And like resisting the urge to find the man and make a proper memory.
Elsie laughed again. “Oh, aye. You had a right fine time. Of course, that was before the fight. You dinna enjoy that awful much.”
“I got into a fight?”
“No, MacKenzie did. Over you.”
“Over me?” Incredulous, Georgette dropped the cloth. She was not a woman men fought over.
“Well, to be fair, half the blighters in the place wanted to kiss the new Mrs. MacKenzie. And your husband has a reputation for not wanting to share. Once he took care of that nonsense and knocked them all over the place, he gave you a great bloody kiss, swept you in his arms, and the pair of you stumbled out the door.”
“The rear door?” Georgette whispered in mortification. Surely she wouldn’t have. Surely she had been more circumspect. Then again, according to Elsie, she had gotten married on a table in a public barroom. A tup up against the wall in the alley behind the Gander was not the physical impossibility it should be.
Elsie stood up and placed the kitten on the seat of the chair, then held th
e towel out for her mistress. Georgette dutifully rose and let the maid wrap it around her. “You left through the front door, miss,” Elsie soothed, as if she could sense her distress. “And that was the last I saw of you.”
Georgette fell silent as Elsie set about dressing her, lost in her thoughts. She suffered through the maid’s inexperienced fumbling over the snarled nest of her hair. Stepped into a clean gray merino walking dress, although without benefit of the corset she had so thoughtlessly left behind at the Blue Gander. And through it all, she tried to sort out how she would find James MacKenzie and undo this thing.
“You want to undo it?” Elsie’s voice rang uncomfortably close to her ear. Georgette winced. She had not realized she had voiced that last part aloud.
“I . . . I was not thinking clearly last night.” Georgette fought the urge to wring her hands against Elsie’s incredulous stare. “I don’t want to be married,” she added. It was not just an afterthought.
It was the entire thought.
“But, miss . . .” Elsie’s eyes grew wider. “Everyone wants to be married to MacKenzie. He’s . . . he’s . . .”
“Not for me,” Georgette said firmly. The issue of the man’s right to control her finances aside, she didn’t know what kind of man Mr. MacKenzie was. Elsie’s innocent words might have been meant to titillate, but they spoke all too eloquently of the man’s randy nature and his reputation about town as a ladies’ man. No matter how the man made her feel when he looked at her, she did not want to suffer through another marriage to a man who cared not where he trimmed his wick.
And then there was the little matter of Randolph, rushing about town, out for vengeance, and no doubt imagining himself the great hero. Why, he would probably challenge MacKenzie to a duel without a moment’s thought as to the consequences.
And that was why she needed to get back to Moraig as soon as possible.
Elsie knelt to lace up her mistress’s heeled boots. “Well, it’s a fine muddle you’ve gotten yourself into. Tied up to the most eligible man in town and desperate to see it undone.” She blew an errant wisp of auburn hair out of her face. “I suppose you, being a lady, think you’re too good for the likes of him.”
What Happens in Scotland Page 7
