Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(25)
Never caught their twin as he slid lifeless from a horse. Never watched a father come apart with loss, heard that father address Alec with his twin brother’s name, as though hoping Alec would become him.
Alec found himself clenching his glass of whisky, Scots, which Lady Flora made certain was served to encourage talk of the Uprising. The goblet was heavy crystal, lead bringing out the blue depths of the glass. The facets pressed sharply into Alec’s palm and fingers.
“Prestonpans was such a rout of British forces, no wonder there was a run on the Bank of England when he headed south,” another man said. “But though they had the keenness, the Scots didn’t have staying power when it came to it. Terrified Cope’s soldiers though.” The man chuckled. “I hear they ran so fast their shadows couldn’t keep pace.”
Amid the laughter, Alec tightened his hand still more. He’d left Scotland before Prestonpans was fought against General Cope, the man who’d been expected to quickly put down the rebellion. Alec had been heading to France, to find Jenny, Genevieve having died. His heart had been eaten with grief as well as fear for his daughter, and he hadn’t given much thought to the Uprising.
Hadn’t until he’d returned home in time to watch Angus ride away with Duncan, the last time he’d seen his twin alive.
The situation had been far more complicated than these people knew. The belief that all Highlanders raised claymores to return Charles’s Catholic father to the throne to be defeated by English redcoats was too simple. Highlander had fought Highlander, some had closed themselves away from the fighting altogether but had still been punished for it.
Clans had been divided, as had families, including Alec’s own.
They’d fought each other and King George’s army, had died, and now were being stripped of their language, their plaids, their identity.
“They were brutal fighters,” one man said in admiration. “Screaming gleefully as they cut their way through.”
“Screamed when they died too,” another man said. “So I’ve been told. Brave fellows, cut down where they stood on the battlefield, never running. Made for some amusing jests—What color tartan do dead Scots wear? Red. What is the sound of a Highlander begging for mercy? Do your worst, ye bloody … agh, gurgle, gack.”
And they laughed. Every gentleman and every lady but Celia and her mother laughed, the duchess grimacing as though she found the entire conversation distasteful. Celia’s eyes over her fan had turned sad but watchful.
Alec saw Lady Flora dart a glance his way, but she was lost in the red mist that formed before Alec’s eyes. Every Mackenzie male had berserker rage inside him, the bloodthirstiness of their ancestor Mackenzie, Old Dan, who had won the family a dukedom.
As laughter surged around him, Alec seemed to float above the room, and the powdered and bewigged ladies and gentlemen reeking of perfume, musty fabric, and unwashed bodies. He wanted to launch himself at them with his Highland war cry just to watch them piss themselves trying to get away from him.
His hand went to his boot without his permission, ready to draw his dirk before he charged.
A cool touch cut through his haze of madness. Alec couldn’t turn his head to find the source of the touch—he only knew the mists cleared the slightest bit.
Awareness returned. He was sitting in a hard chair with carved legs, his hand at the top of his boot while he glared at the first man he wanted to gut.
A stomacher of brown and butternut brocade, a skirt flaring from the narrow waist, cut off his view, and breath scented with sherry touched him.
“Mr. Finn,” Celia said in a low voice. “Would you be so kind as to show me Lady Flora’s gallery?”
Chapter 8
Celia tensed as Mr. Finn dragged his gaze from Lord Bradford, whom he’d been eyeing like an eagle intent on striking his prey, and fixed on her.
His eyes burned gold, like said eagle’s, his breath came fast, and his hand was clenched next to his boot so hard his knuckles were white. One strand of Mr. Finn’s dark red hair fell to his cheek, touching his fading bruises, and his lip curled into a silent snarl.
At the moment, he looked like nothing more than one of the brutal Highlanders the gathering mocked.
Celia knew the men made light of the Uprising to hide their fear. Every one of them had scrambled to flee London late last year, when Charles Stuart had been within a hairsbreadth of marching on the city. They’d had ships ready to flee to the Netherlands, Austria, anywhere that would have them. The rumor that King George was preparing to dive into a barge on the Thames and race away had proved to be false, but plenty of the king’s supporters had taken their money and made ready to run to the Continent. Now they sat in their comfortable chairs, downing port and sherry and pretending they’d cheerfully faced down the Highlanders by themselves.
Celia kept herself firmly in front of Mr. Finn and his rage. “Please,” she whispered.
Mr. Finn rose from his chair, every limb stiff. He didn’t so much get to his feet as lift himself, as though pulled by strings. He made no indication he’d heard Celia, did not answer, did not nod.
He turned, his body rigid, and walked to the door behind his chair, a gilded wooden portal that led to the gallery hung with paintings in Lady Flora’s collection.
Mrs. Reynolds noticed them go. She shot Celia and Mr. Finn a speculative look. Lady Flora, on the other hand, pointedly ignored them.