She stood up from her crouch. The strain of the morning and her body’s emotional response to the tender homecoming made her feel jumpy. “No thanks to you,” she retorted, poking the man in the apron-covered chest with a bare, angry finger. Now that she knew the kitten was safe, the earlier worry dissipated, leaving only irritation in its place. “What were you thinking, taking such a young animal away from its mother?” She turned herself over to the tirade that had been simmering inside her ever since she first awakened this morning. “Why would you do such a thing? Why would you think I would want such a burden?”
The large, bloodstained man shuffled his feet, his hands spread in surprise. “But it was a gift, miss. You earned it.”
The reminder that this man thought she had somehow earned the kitten brought a spasm of dismay in her stomach. “You keep saying that,” she snapped, poking him with her finger again. “But there is clearly some mistake.”
The butcher’s face scrunched in confusion. “You saved my life, miss.”
Georgette’s eyes widened and the spasm in her stomach subsided to more of a minor cramp. “I did?”
Elsie broke in. “What did you think MacRory was talking about?”
Georgette looked between the two, trying to remember but falling short. “I thought . . . I thought he was referring to something else.” She shook her head. “Whatever you think I did . . .”
“I choked on my teeth,” the butcher said. “MacKenzie’s fist shoved them clean down my throat. Thought I was done in, sure enough. Whole room thought it was a great bloody farce, nobody taking me seriously. And then you stepped up, quick as you please, and looped your arms around me and squeezed. Hard.” He peered down at her. “You’ve a mite of strength in you, for being such a little thing.”
Georgette did not know what to say to that.
“And then his teeth popped out, right there onto the table, and the whole place cheered,” Elsie finished with a sharp intake of air, and then sneezed.
“God bless you,” Georgette said automatically, still trying to wrap her head around the retelling of such an improbable event.
“Thank you.” Elsie sniffed once, and then leaned in close to MacRory, whispering loudly behind a cupped hand. “She can’t remember a bloody thing that went on last night. Can’t hold her drink.”
Georgette sighed, though she did so in relief. Whether she had saved the man’s life was not up for debate: they thought she had. The cramp in her stomach eased into nothing. She had not done something unmentionable with the butcher. She had helped him, though she had absolutely no recollection of doing it.
Thank heaven for something going right last night.
“Don’t you want it, miss?” MacRory blinked at her. “The kitten, I mean. Like I said, you earned it.”
This time, Georgette chose her words with greater care. “It was a lovely gift, truly. I was honored to receive it. But the kitten is too young to be away from its mother. Perhaps in a few weeks’ time . . .” She trailed off. It was a promise she couldn’t make. She wouldn’t be in Moraig in a few days’ time, much less a few weeks.
But she had already said too much, if the butcher’s gaping smile was any indication. “That’s brilliant, miss. I’ll save it for you, until it’s weaned. I’ve a feeling this one will make a good mouser, and will take right good care of you.”
“Thank you,” she said reluctantly, knowing it would cost too much to explain why she was already planning her escape. “It would be nice to be cared for.”
MacRory offered her a grin. “You could marry me, and I’d care for you the rest of your days,” he said cheerily. “Not like that blighter who just left.”
Georgette sucked in a breath, her heart near knocking out of her chest as she registered the importance of the man’s words. “What blighter? Who just left?” When the butcher took too long to answer, she stomped her foot. “Who just left?”
“You dinna see MacKenzie?” MacRory lifted his big shoulders, spreading his palms wide. “You practically tripped over him. He was just here, talking about you.”
The suggestion that James MacKenzie was talking about her made the fine hairs on Georgette’s arms stand at attention. He had been standing here, in this shop, mere seconds ago.
And she had been on his mind.
“No,” she said, casting a frantic gaze down the street. “I did not see him.” Her thoughts followed the path her eyes took. The man she had seen running away had looked familiar, and now she knew why. She was but minutes behind him.
And that meant there was no time to waste.
She grabbed up her skirts, grateful that her hands were finally free of the bundle of fur she had been carrying about like a fifth limb. “He went north,” she gasped to Elsie, already moving in the direction he had been heading.
The maid dutifully fell into step alongside her. “His offices are on the north side of town,” she said, keeping pace. “He might be heading there.”
Georgette nodded, her heart in a close race with her feet. She could think of nothing beyond her desire to see him, to explain her behavior of the previous night and apologize for hurting him this morning. The thought of what she had to do after that pulled at her, but did not slow her feet. She couldn’t risk losing MacKenzie again, not when he was so close.
Not when her future depended on it.
“Remember what I said!” MacRory called after them, his big voice echoing down the street. “I’ve a two-room apartment above the shop. And you could have all the beef you want!”
Georgette choked back the hysterical laugh that rose in her throat at the thought of being married to the butcher. Not that it wasn’t a kind offer, and not that MacRory didn’t appear to be a lovely man, now that she realized she had done no more than save him last night.
But what girl needed the headache? Being married to one Scotsman was more than enough.
Two would do her in.
Chapter 14
HE WAS GAINING on her.
James’s lungs labored for air and his arms pumped in time with his burning legs. His head hurt like the devil, and the knee Cameron’s horse had kicked halfway to Sunday throbbed with every jolt of his feet on the road. And then, of course, there was his new wound, which might be less serious than the paper cut he had given himself yesterday but felt as if there might still be a metal blade dancing a Highland jig inside his skin.
But the wool-capped head that bobbed and weaved among the gathering Bealltainn crowd was an unholy incentive to keep going.
He lost his hat by the time they rounded Frankston Street, and he lost William a scant three blocks later. Either his drive to catch the girl was greater than his brother’s, or the long hours logged in front of his sawdust punching bag made him better able to handle the demands of the pursuit. Whatever the reason, five minutes into the chase James realized he was alone.
A quick glance around told him he had stumbled into a less reputable part of Moraig now. The colorful paper lanterns that had been put up on Main Street in promise of the Bealltainn celebration had fallen away to reveal fetid alleys reeking of refuse. The residents of this part of town had a hollow-cheeked appearance, their sallow complexions a testament to poor diet and poorer prospects.
He knew these streets well. His practice brought him in touch with all of Moraig’s residents, and he did not shy away from those who could not afford to pay. If anything, he veered toward them. It was part of the reason he struggled so hard to secure a decent income.
And part of the reason I need to catch this thief now, while I have the chance.
He put on a fresh burst of speed, though his body objected with a shaking groan. The person he was chasing seemed to be powered by wind as much as fear, and was clearly not burdened by the same injuries as James.
It occurred to him, as the figure nimbly ducked beneath a laundry-laden rope that had been stretched across
the street, that the person he chased not only seemed more agile than he remembered, but taller too. Perhaps only a few inches shorter than he. Not that he trusted his memory. It was still a fragmented mess, and the strain of the chase was surely scattering his thoughts even more.
Up ahead, the person he was pursuing ducked down a side street. By the time James burst out onto Main Street again, his attacker had disappeared completely into the swelling mob of shoppers.
He leaned over and braced himself against his knees, gulping in fistfuls of air and trying to ease the pain in his chest. Everywhere he looked there were people. People he knew. People he didn’t.
Damned Bealltainn, and its May Day crowds. The process of sorting out a blond-headed stranger among them proved impossible. The night’s pending celebration was an annual event, and it drew in every self-respecting Scotsman within a fifty-mile radius. By nightfall, the streets would be even more distorted with merrymakers and costumed revelry.
James straightened, wincing against the effort and his muscles’ screamed protest. He had lost her. Lost his horse, his money purse, and his goddamned self-respect right along with her.
James turned back toward the center of town and walked a slow half block before he spied his brother jogging toward him. William’s face was red, his chest heaving. Although there was little good to be found in the last ten minutes, the visible demonstration that he was better than his brother at something made him feel a little better.
“You should get more exercise,” James told him as William came to a labored stop in front of him. His own lungs still burned, but at least he was no longer short of breath.
“And you shouldn’t be running like that,” William told him. “What would you have done if you caught her, hurt as you are? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Between breaths, William’s dark eyes probed at him like knowing fingers.
“On the contrary.” He ticked his list off on his fingers. “I am trying to locate my horse, catch the girl, and wring her devious neck.”
William shook his head. “Go home, Jamie-boy.” His voice was tinged with concern, belying the lightness of his words. “You’re exhausted. You need sleep. And you need to be examined by a doctor.”
“No.” By James’s reckoning, working on his list would make him feel a lot better than succumbing to his brother’s well-meant suggestions. “If I didn’t need a doctor this morning, I sure as hell don’t need one now. And I won’t rest until I find her.”
“That only proves my point,” William snorted, waving his hands in exasperation. “You’re not thinking straight. Knife wounds are nothing to ignore, and you aren’t acting like yourself, running all over, chasing some piece of skirt through the gutters. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a trail of blood following you. Let me take you home.”
James shook his head against the thought. Home. He really didn’t have a home, didn’t belong anywhere. There was nothing tempting about the thought of returning to his lonely rented house and his sliver of brown soap, with only Patrick for company. He did not want to be put to bed like an infant, only to wake up to Gemmy’s soulful eyes and the steady thump of the dog’s tail instead of the gentle touch of a woman.
He was tired of living that way. It was not just that he was injured and in need of tending. He had been injured before, and had never entertained such maudlin thoughts.
It was because he was lonely. The thought was startling in its simplicity. William’s company today, and the warm memory of the girl he had held in his arms last night, made him want . . . something. Perhaps last night, he had even done this irrational thing, had pretended to marry the girl, because it filled a void in his life he hadn’t known had been there. He had not given much thought to marrying before, but now, having gone through the motions, it had him thinking.
Of course, the woman in question was beyond inappropriate. She was as likely to slit his throat as wake him with kisses.
“I don’t want to go home.” James sighed. “I want to keep looking for her.”
“Well, it is clear that she doesn’t want to be found,” William pointed out. “If you won’t let Patrick Channing look at you, let me take you home to Kilmartie Castle. Father will know what to do.”
“God, no. That is not my home.” Not anymore.
His big brother was one of the most genial people James had ever known, full of riddles and ribald teasing. But anger flashed in his eyes at James’s staunch refusal to even entertain the idea. “For Christ’s sake, Jamie. Ask for some help, for once in your life. Father is not your enemy.”
“What in the hell do you know about it?” James challenged. “Your path was laid clear from the time Father took the title. My path keeps changing beneath my feet, and more times than not he is the cause!”
“He did not have a damned thing to do with this latest mess.”
“Only because I have not permitted him to.” James had blamed his father for his life’s direction for so long that it came as naturally as breathing. The fact that he had fallen into this latest trouble purely on his own was hard to acknowledge.
“Father can help with this. He has connections, and he can—”
“No.” Never again.
William shook his head, sadness overtaking the earlier anger. “I can tell you won’t listen to reason, and so I am not going to waste my breath. Just hear this: you are not the boy you once were, Jamie. I’m proud of the man you have become. Hell, half the time I’m jealous of you. Father is proud of you too. But if you keep dwelling on the past, you’re going to make a muck out of your future.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” James was so stunned at William’s admission, so lost at the mention of his past, he could scarcely get the words out.
William threw up his hands in defeat. “I am going home.” He pivoted and stalked away. “But watch your back,” he snarled out, behind his shoulder. “I’m tired of cleaning up your messes.”
James refused to give in to the urge to call him back, to apologize. The old anger tumbled inside him, wild as the heather, as he watched his brother walk away. He felt twenty-one again, trying to do the right thing and having fingers pointed at him instead. And his father’s doubt, and subsequent attempt to fix things, had been the worst part of it.
James shook himself out of his morose thoughts. William was wrong. Dwelling on his past was a necessary part of his future. He had been paying for old sins one lonely day at a time for as long as he could remember. He had come back to Moraig as penance, determined to show his father and the entire town he was a reformed man.
And this woman threatened to topple all his efforts to change.
He glanced up, once, measuring the angle of the sun. It seemed early yet. He consulted his pocket watch. Two o’clock. The day was far from over. His mind settled on his next step.
He carried the summons in one coat pocket, but this latest attack made him see things differently. Assault with intent to kill was a serious crime. If he could prove it, he could do more than demand simple recompense.
He could have the chit transported.
James started to smile, imagining his options, imagining her face when she realized she was caught. First, he needed to consult his legal tomes, and find out if he could charge the woman with more than theft.
He turned north again. No, he was not going home. He was going to work.
Chapter 15
THE LAW OFFICES of James MacKenzie, Esquire, were located on a nearly deserted street on the north side of Moraig, an easy walk from the bustle and noise of the swelling Main Street crowd. The practice was housed in a wood-plank building flanked on one side by a saddlery and on the other by a tailor’s shop. All three businesses were closed up tight.
Georgette knew this because she watched, aghast, as Elsie rattled the knob of each one and boomed out a hearty hullo.
“A ladies’ maid do
es not say ‘hullo’ like a newspaper crier,” Georgette told her. She covered her eyes with one bare hand, letting the skin of her fingers absorb some portion of the intense afternoon sun. In retrospect, the loss of her bonnet now seemed a poor idea.
“Well, what should I say instead?” Elsie asked.
“You should say ‘good afternoon’ or ‘excuse me.’ ” Georgette dropped her hand and fixed the maid with a stern gaze. Elsie’s nose looked perfectly fine, shaded as it was by the generous brim of Georgette’s old bonnet. “You need to try a little harder if you want to do this.”
Elsie wrinkled her perfectly pale nose, and probably would have stuck out her tongue if she had been a decade younger. “Being a ladies’ maid isn’t as much fun as I thought it would be.”
“It’s a paid position. It’s not supposed to be fun.”
“Well, working behind the Gander was fun,” Elsie pouted. “A little hullo usually did the trick, especially if I swung my hips and followed it with a wink, like this.” She closed one eye dramatically. “I suppose a ladies’ maid doesn’t wink either.”
Georgette shook her head. “Particularly not at the man of the house.” She swallowed the amusement the image built. It was impossible to stay irritated with someone as exuberant as Elsie, no matter that her manners were better suited to a barmaid than a trusted domestic servant.
“Well, if the lady of the house winked a bit more, the man of the house probably wouldn’t be chasing the maid’s skirts,” Elsie pointed out, her voice far more innocent than her words.
The maid’s logic was irrefutable. Georgette had never once winked at her former husband, and he had definitely chased a maid or two. Perhaps if things didn’t work out as a ladies’ maid, Elsie had a career in philosophy ahead of her.
“You try it,” Elsie urged. She winked again. “It isn’t hard.”
Georgette pursed her lips. Almost of its own volition, one eye fluttered closed. “Like this?”
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