Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(15)

White stockings hugged muscular calves that immediately marred the portrait of a half-starved man having to work for his keep. Celia had seen the spindleshanks of poor men, whose stockings sagged in deep folds.

In fact, Mr. Finn was robust and in raging good health compared to the gentlemen she and her mother carried charity baskets to at the hospitals and parish poor houses.

He still did not turn, though he knew good and well Celia stood behind him. Celia opened and closed her hands, not sure if she was offended or relieved he didn’t acknowledge her. She hadn’t made up her mind how to speak to him, what to say. The memory of him sitting so near, baring so much skin, made perspiration bead on her brow, the room suddenly close.

On the other hand, he was being appallingly rude. Celia’s father, one of the loftiest men in England, would never stand with his back to a lady. The duke would turn, smile, say something congenial—he did this even for the lowest servant, who was supposed to be beneath his notice.

Celia decided she’d try her father’s approach, a kind inquiry. There was a reason her father had so many friends.

She cleared her throat, a much softer version of Rivers’s noise. “Mr. Finn?” she walked to him, making her brocade skirts rustle. “Are you well, sir?”

Mr. Finn came to life. He straightened from the fire and swung to her, his smile blazing like the flames on the hearth.

Celia’s mouth popped open, damn the flies. Mr. Finn’s face was an unholy mess. A large, purpling bruise ran from his temple to his cheekbone, blackening the area under his left eye. Deep cuts sliced his right cheek, the corner of his lip, and his chin.

As Celia stared, Mr. Finn’s smile widened.

“Well now, lass, that depends on what you could call well.”





Chapter 5





Good heavens, Mr. Finn—what on earth happened to you?”

Alec looked into Lady Celia’s stunned face and eyes that held deep concern. He’d half hoped she’d grow angry with him when he didn’t respond to her presence and stalk away, but he realized that Celia Fotheringhay had more resolve in her than Lady Flora guessed. Studying the fire had given him time to come up with a story.

“Aye, well, an Irishman isn’t always welcome in an English tavern, is he?”

Celia’s eyes narrowed, and Alec saw with a jolt that Lady Flora had underestimated her perceptiveness as well.

“Hadn’t you better give up on the Irishman idea, Mr. Finn?” she said. “We both know you are a Scotsman. It is all right—there are plenty of Scots in London. I know not all fought for the Young Pretender or even condoned his presence. My father has Scotsmen advising him, good and wise men. I will not be frightened in the presence of one.”

He made himself look surprised and then grateful. Alec Mackenzie had indeed fought for Bloody Prince Charlie, if reluctantly, had watched men die for him, including Angus and Duncan, his flesh and blood.

Alec tried to stem his bitterness as he answered, keeping to his persona as Will had taught him. If a man was to live a lie, he had to believe it with all his heart.

“’Tis a relief, I will admit, to have you know the truth,” he said. “Please understand, lass, that I’m never sure how an Englishman—or Englishwoman—will respond to me. As happened in the tavern last night.”

Celia flushed. “I apologize for my fellow Englishmen. But you must know how very frightened we all were. The army of Highlanders nearly reached London, and we feared we’d be massacred in our beds.”

“Ye needn’t have worried, lass. It would have taken some doing to massacre every person in London. Prince Teàrlach’s force wasn’t quite that large, so I’m told.”

“Perhaps not.” Celia gave him a conceding nod. “But men like my father had much to fear. My brother, Edward, fought in many of the battles. His descriptions of Highland soldiers were quite terrifying, and my father … well, he was afraid he’d be seized and run through, the poor man. He was ready to have us on a ship to the Continent, though my mother pointed out that the French were about to sail against us, and this was no solution. Did you fight on the King’s side, Mr. Finn?”

“No,” Alec said sharply, then mitigated his tone. “I’m a drawing master, my lady, not a soldier.”

“I see.” Her eyes held compassion, so much so that Alec burned with it. “Not all Scotsmen fought, I understand, though you feel the consequences of the Uprising. I take it the men you tried to explain this to last night did not listen?”

“They did not.” Alec tried a grin, which pulled at the cuts on his face. “And they reasoned they could relieve me of my few pennies at the same time.”

“Oh dear.” Celia studied him with flattering attention. “Have you put a poultice on those cuts?”

“I’ll be well. Now, then, I believe we have a drawing lesson—”

“Wounds can take sick if not properly attended,” Celia persisted. “Lady Flora should have prepared calendula for your cuts, and a poultice of hyssop or rosemary for the bruises. Or, rather, she’d have had her cook or housekeeper prepare it. I cannot imagine Lady Flora herself in the stillroom.”

Celia’s light laughter at her statement trickled into the empty spaces in the man that was Alec Mackenzie and tried to fill them up.