She licked her lips. “James, then . . .”
He raised an imperious brow. “You will call me Mr. MacKenzie.”
Her face colored violently, and a flash of something—was it anger?—widened her eyes. “I will call you whatever I please,” she retorted, lifting her chin.
James felt an answering tug in his chest. “You’ll have to do better than the stammering speech you’ve delivered so far,” he told her.
“Rogue,” she spit out, displaying a hint of the flirtatious temper he remembered from the night before. “Scoundrel is a good name, and fitting, don’t you think?” Her gaze swung southward for a scant moment, lingering a hair too long in the vicinity of his abdomen before finding his eyes again. “Husband.” She drew a deep breath, as if for courage. “That last one is the most annoying, I will admit.”
James suffocated an irrational urge to acknowledge her spirit with an answering grin. When she finally—finally—stood up to him instead of stuttering out an apology, she was glorious. Good God, was it any wonder he had behaved so impulsively last night? He was not tempted just to throw caution to the wind in response to her smile.
He was tempted to wrap caution around a rock and toss it through his other bloody window.
Instead of telling her that, he wrangled his thoughts into a neat, orderly pile, willing himself to remember why he was here, and what she was. “It matters not what you call me,” he said. “It only matters what I call you.”
She looked up at him, her forehead creased in confusion. “And what do you call me?”
In the harsh afternoon light, last evening’s regrettable actions seemed very far away. James stuffed the instinct to soothe her worried brow into his empty coat pocket, the same pocket where his money purse was supposed to be. Did she think she could bat those pale eyelashes at him and turn his insides to jelly, the way she had last night?
He wouldn’t permit it. Not anymore.
“I call you a criminal.” James handed over the summons with a flourish. “Consider yourself served, Lady Thorold.”
Chapter 17
DREAD, COLDER EVEN than James MacKenzie’s damnable green eyes, lurched through Georgette’s stomach.
He thought she was a criminal. Not a lady. Not even a lightskirt, which was a title she arguably deserved. A criminal.
She was going to kill Elsie when next she saw her.
To be fair, she had been breaking into MacKenzie’s office, but she had only meant to pick the lock and have a peek at his desk. For him to so misread her intent and serve her with a summons . . . the very thought of it made her chest squeeze in anger.
She reached out a hand and snatched the proffered papers from him. The name he had growled at her was there, written in a firm, bold script by someone with excellent penmanship. She peered up at him. It occurred to her, as she craned her neck to meet his eyes, that it was a long way up. What sort of genie was this man, that he could produce an official-looking document like this on such short notice?
“Mr. MacKenzie—” she started, only to be cut off by his feral snarl.
“Do not say anything,” he said, taking a step closer.
“Mr. MacKenzie,” she said again, refusing to cower. She was still appalled by the way he had all but invited her to use his given name, only to cut off her attempts to have a nice, decent conversation. “I insist on the opportunity to speak. You have clearly misunderstood the situation, and—”
He lifted a finger to her mouth.
She inhaled sharply, stunned to silence by the contact of his work-roughened skin on her sensitive lower lip. All too soon he pulled his finger away, no longer touching her, but not leaving her in peace either. He had smelled like plain brown soap. That was all. No brandy. No woman’s perfume hinting at an earlier assignation.
Just soap.
She glared at him. “You cannot stop me from speaking my mind.”
“No,” he agreed, taking a half step back. “But you may wish to withhold your words until you can find yourself an attorney.” An angry pulse jumped beside his right eye, and she could see his hands clenching and unclenching.
Georgette’s mind felt fuzzy, as if she was surfacing for air after being too long under. Why did she need an attorney? She was still focused on the way he had smelled. His fragrance was far, far different from her former husband’s. And her body reacted far, far differently to him. But despite her body’s approval, her mind was disappointed. He was different from how she had imagined him. Harder, somehow. Less inclined to listen. She supposed it was because she had built up an image of someone heroic, thanks to Elsie’s prattling. Someone worth knowing.
This was not that man.
She licked her lips nervously. “That seems an odd bit of advice. You are an attorney.”
“True,” he said. “But I am not your attorney. If I was, I would advise you to hold your tongue. You need to protect yourself against those who might exploit your inexperience with such matters.”
Georgette raised a brow. “The same way you exploited my inexperience last night?”
His eyes narrowed before dipping to roam over her body. Belatedly, she realized her careless words had all but invited him to do so. “While I admit my memory is not fully returned, you did not strike me as being inexperienced last night, Lady Thorold.”
Georgette’s cheeks burned under his scrutiny. But something gave her pause . . . he had suggested his own memory was suspect. Through all of this, she had presumed that he, at least, would remember enough to help her undo the marriage. She had imagined he would want an annulment, once she helped him see reason.
But he had not yet acknowledged they had even gotten married. What game did he play?
Georgette breathed in. “You misread the situation, sir. I wasn’t breaking into your office to steal anything.”
“You are correct.” His smile grew firmer, more dangerous. The points of his teeth were clearly visible.
Georgette blinked. “I am?”
He leaned forward, and for some reason she could focus only on the wicked slant of his lips. “You have already stolen my money purse, and quite possibly my horse. I have nothing left of value. So unless you are a thief with a penchant for books, you would have left my office empty-handed.”
His words brought the reality of her situation into sharper focus. This made more sense. The prepared summons. His harsh tone. He thought she had stolen his money purse? And his horse—where on earth would she have put a beast of that size, what with the kitten and the snarling dog she had been gifted?
“Why would you think that?” she asked. “What proof do you have?”
“Why wouldn’t I think that?” came his damnable answer. He tapped his scalp. The stitches stared back at her in accusation. “I awakened this morning to a nasty head injury, courtesy of a woman I could scarcely remember. Spent the day sorting out reports and clues about who you may or may not be, and what we may or may not have done last night. My horse, which is probably worth more than both of us put together, is gone, maybe dead. My purse is missing, and you are the only one who knew I even had it.” He leaned in, closer still, and she could see the rich gold flecks rimming his green irises. “It does not take someone of overwhelming intellect to see it all points back to you.”
MacKenzie’s admission that he did not fully remember last night either sent Georgette’s head spinning. “You have made a mistake,” she told him, fear eating up any eloquence she might have reached for.
“The mistake is yours,” he said, shaking his head now as if he was disappointed in her response. He reached out a hand, and this time he did tuck her errant coil of hair behind one ear. She shivered like a horse, trapped beneath its master’s touch. “Only a stupid thief chooses a target with such lack of care.”
Georgette drew herself up. “That is the second time you have called me stupid, sir.” Her mind flew to a logical
argument, one she had yet to make though she had noticed it immediately upon examining the papers he had thrust at her. “Yet I am not the one who issued a useless summons.”
His hand flashed out again. This time, instead of a gentle touch, he wrapped his fingers around her arm. She was held fast, and there was no one around to hear her scream should it come to that.
“Why do you think it is useless?” Uncertainty graveled the texture of his voice.
Georgette lifted her chin. “Because it is made out to Georgette Thorold.” His fingers tightened on her arm, but there was no stopping her now. She was willing to own up to the errors she made last night, but stealing his purse had not been among her sins.
“And in case you don’t remember, my name is now Mrs. James MacKenzie.”
DAMN HER, SHE was close to right. James struggled with his annoyance, even as he grudgingly acknowledged the sharp mind at work behind those soft gray eyes. If they had been married, the summons would be useless.
But they were not married. David Cameron had assured him of it, and his own recollection supported their vows as nothing more than a joke. That meant she was trying to exploit his memory loss, not realizing he was already beyond the fumbling forgetfulness to which he had first awakened.
It was easier to remember his primary goal now, with her protestations of innocence and her false, injured air. The thing inside him that had been leaning toward her only moments before shifted violently to the left.
“So you are a liar, in addition to being a thief.” He locked up his office and began to walk down the street, pulling her with him. The soles of her boots slapped against the loose gravel, and the sound scraped at his ears.
“No!” she cried. “Please, you have to listen to me. You have to believe me.”
Her soft, panting sounds of distress made James’s fingers loosen on her arm. “I will only listen if you walk,” he warned her. He did not like dragging an unwilling woman down the street. It wasn’t just that the sight would raise eyebrows once they made it out onto Main Street.
It was because the act made him feel the opposite of powerful.
She nodded, her anger a swath of red across her cheeks and décolletage. James released her cautiously, ready to give chase if she showed any inclination to run.
He no longer believed this was the person who attacked him. This issue of clothing aside, she was about six inches too short and about ten times too curvaceous. That didn’t mean she hadn’t somehow influenced the earlier assault, of course, just that he didn’t have enough evidence to charge her with more than theft. He held out a hand, motioning her to walk on down the empty street, as if they were nothing more than friends out for an afternoon stroll. As if he hadn’t seen her naked last night.
As if she hadn’t cracked him over the head with a chamber pot.
She lifted her chin but did not move her feet. “Why did you just accuse me of lying?”
“Why did you claim we were married?” he responded, pushing her elbow in the direction he wanted. He could hear the shouts and whistles building from the crowd on Main Street. The Bealltainn festivities would be starting in an hour, maybe two. There was not much time to get her before the magistrate but he was determined to try.
“Because Elsie told me we were,” she said. “Because you told me we were, this morning at the inn.” She planted her feet and twisted a ring on her finger. “And because of this.”
He noted she did not say anything about remembering. He glanced down, and his lungs ceased working. She had his ring on her finger. Correction: she had the Kilmartie ring on her finger. It winked up at him, the outline of the stag embossed in gold.
Goddamn it. He didn’t even wear the blasted thing. Refused to wear it, in fact. He had taken it off when he shed his financial and emotional ties to his family, nigh on eleven years ago. But despite the finality of the act, he had never quite relinquished the need to carry it around in his pocket.
How had she come by it? Cameron’s words came back to him. You and your bride signed no register, exchanged no ring.
The evidence suggested otherwise.
He dragged a hand through his hair, wincing as his fingers skirted the row of sutures. “I don’t think we are married.” He blew out a too-hot breath, more unsure of himself than ever. “The ring does introduce some doubt.”
Of course, she could have stolen that too. He wished his memory was sharper. Several pertinent events of the previous evening were still a jumble. Such as what happened to his horse. And why the hell he had risked his reputation doing such a stupid thing.
“I can’t remember anything that happened last night,” she admitted. “I only know what I have been able to piece together this morning, from Elsie and Mr. MacRory . . .” She trailed off, her hands spread in a silent plea. “I have been trying to track you down, to sort it out. I just hadn’t expected that you might not be able to remember either.”
He concentrated on centering his breathing, square in the middle of his chest. It was necessary, because his lower body was taking far too much interest in the delectable little thief standing before him. All through the long, maddening hunt for her, he had envisioned her as a cunning seductress. Instead, she seemed far more vulnerable than he had imagined.
His instincts, honed from years of professional practice, told him she was telling the truth.
“You can explain all this to the magistrate,” he said, motioning her to move on. But despite his harsh words—the words he had been planning to deliver for the past five hours—he could not even convince himself.
“The magistrate?” she gasped, putting her hands behind her back. “Surely there is no need.”
“There is every need.” He had a few questions for David Cameron himself. Such as how the girl was wearing his ring when Cameron swore the ceremony had not been real. “And you’d best not lie to him, or he can charge you with perjury, in addition to your other crimes.”
“I am not lying!” she exclaimed, and then looked up and down the street, as if searching for someone to corroborate her story. There was only the two of them and the swelling noise from the center of town. “If your purse is missing, either someone else took it or you haven’t looked hard enough. I have no need to steal, from you or anyone else.” She sounded offended by the notion.
James found himself in a very unpleasant place. She’d made him doubt himself. When he had imagined this moment, he had thought he would feel vindicated. But his resolve to hold her accountable, to seek his revenge, was beginning to falter.
“Fifty pounds,” he said reluctantly. “That is how much was in my purse.” He could scarcely believe what he was about to do. “If you can replace the missing money, I will consider withdrawing the charges. If not . . .” He spread his palms upward. “Moraig has a very nice gaol. No windows. Infested with mice.”
Her mouth opened. Guilt surged through him. It was a lot of money. And an unchivalrous threat.
And then she started laughing.
Anger and embarrassment collided in the hollow of James’s chest. “What is so amusing? You are facing serious charges, and although I cannot help but question my sanity, I just gave you the means to extricate yourself.”
“You think I need to lift a purse with a paltry fifty pounds in it?” she gasped, her whole body shaking with some kind of sick humor. “Let me make this easy for you,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. “I’ll give you a hundred. Two hundred. Consider it payment for any inconvenience I have caused you.”
“I don’t believe you have a hundred,” James said slowly. He felt as if she had kicked his feet out from under him, there on the dirt and gravel street.
“Two hundred,” she repeated stubbornly. “On one condition. You will grant me an annulment. And then you will never bother me again.”
What kind of fresh torment was this? Not only did the woman not wish to b
e married to him, she was offering to pay him off? The entire notion of her proposal rubbed James so far wrong he struggled for air. “Are you trying to blackmail me?” he asked, incredulous. Memories of the past, of another woman, and another bribe, closed in. He kicked them away with a stern, mental foot. “Because if you are, you mistake the kind of man I am.”
“It would be a gift. Payment for services rendered. Whatever you wish to call it.”
Gift, his arse. Although . . . the services-rendered part was arguable. He had a dim memory of one service in particular he had performed for her last night, involving a glass of brandy, his eager mouth, and those luscious breasts.
“I do not accept bribes, Lady Thorold,” he told her, swallowing hard. “And I cannot grant you an annulment.” He turned toward the noise coming off of Main Street.
“Why not?”
The panic tinting her words halted his progress. He cast her a sidelong glance. “Because we are not married.”
She stepped in front of him. He could scarcely believe she was now the one blocking his way. “Are you quite sure?” she asked, her voice ringing in challenge.
That, of course, was the problem. He kept saying they weren’t married. The events he could remember did not support it. But there were too many murky pieces for him to be sure.
Her finger made contact with his chest, an angry point through which he could feel her entire body quivering. “You stand before me, spouting ideas, theories about what might have happened to your damned money purse, and whether we are or aren’t married, when it’s as plain as the stitches on your head you don’t remember any more than I do!”
Her shouting made James stop. More to the point, her shouting made him think.
She was right. It was not like him to leap to such conclusions without giving the matter due thought, or offering her due process. “If you didn’t take it,” he asked slowly, “where is my money purse?”
“It’s probably still sitting on the bedside table at the Gander, for all you remember.”
What Happens in Scotland Page 16
