Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(26)

Celia shut the door, as Mr. Finn moved down the gallery, his stride swift. Celia rushed to catch up with him, her brocade slippers pattering on the inlaid floor.

Mr. Finn walked past paintings by the artist Rembrandt he so admired, past masterful sculptures by Bernini and Donatello. At the end of the hall another paneled and gilded door led to a tiny withdrawing room, and Mr. Finn made for it.

Celia rustled inside several steps behind him. Mr. Finn stopped abruptly on the far side of the small room, as though suddenly realizing he could go no farther.

He swung around, and Celia froze.

Another lock of Mr. Finn’s hair had fallen, this one to his shoulder. Celia seemed to see another man imposed over him, a soldier in kilt and coat, the plaid wrapped around his shoulders, a Scots tam on his head. This vision held a sword in one hand, pistol in the other, the light in his eyes intense and deadly.

Celia took a final stride inside the chamber and closed the door behind her.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” she asked softly. “I know I shouldn’t ask you that—you could kill me where I stand. But I have weighed the consequences and decided that, on a whole, such a thing would be preferable to a lifetime in a back chamber at Hungerford Park, my father’s estate in Kent. As proud as my father is of his house, every room has rising damp.”

Mr. Finn blinked but he remained utterly still. “Ye should not be here, lass.” His voice was low, harsh, with a note of fierceness.

“I know. But as I say, I have weighed the consequences …”

“I mean in this house at all. With me.” The last was a snarl.

Celia kept her gaze steady. “I prefer lessons with you, sir, to embroidering with my mother. Here I have at least an hour a day as a respite from the catalog of my shortcomings.”

Mr. Finn briefly closed his eyes then turned to the window to stare out at the gloom. Unlike Celia’s mother, Lady Flora insisted on lit candles in any room into which her guests might wander. The window panes reflected pinpoints of flame and Ansel Finn’s broad-shouldered silhouette.

“This is beyond your ken, lass. Ye should be well out of it.”

“Well out of what?” Celia took a courageous step forward. “What of drawing lessons is beyond my comprehension, or a danger? Whoever you are, you are an artist, Mr. Finn. What you did to the clumsy drawing of myself was masterful. You are teaching me, and I wish to learn.”

Mr. Finn remained ramrod straight, staring into nothing. Celia moved another step, her heart hammering. “Were you in the battles?” she asked in a near whisper. “Lady Flora should not have let them speak about it, or make cruel jokes. It was unfeeling, horrible.”

“Aye, I was in battles.” The rumble was quiet, absorbed by the chamber’s silk-covered walls. “I killed men. Are ye satisfied now?”

“Of course not. War is a terrible thing.” Celia’s last step brought her beside him. Cool air touched her through the window, but Mr. Finn’s solid body held warmth. “I saw your expression. You were ready to kill them. Another moment and you might have. You lost family, didn’t you? And friends. Those Highlanders they derided were your kin.”

Mr. Finn gazed down at her with eyes of flinty gold. “What do ye wish me to say, lass? Aye, I lost m’ brothers, and my father is nearly mad with grief. I’m dead meself—the ghost is what ye see. The muster rolls list my name, and every one of my brothers and my dad as killed. If ye tell a soul, they’ll hunt me down and make sure my death sticks this time. So run off and blurt out your tale. I’ll be gone before those dandies can draw a breath in horror.”

Celia’s lips parted as she listened, the burning in her chest rising.

“I’d never,” she said. “I wouldn’t betray you, Mr. Finn. Or whatever your name is.”

“Alec.”

“Alec.” Yes, that fit him. It felt better in her mouth—Alec—a name derived from Alexander the Great. Brief but full of meaning.

“Why wouldn’t ye betray me?” Alec demanded, his eyes hard. “Your father is a powerful aristo who holds the whip over more dogs of the British government than any man alive. King Geordie himself doesn’t command such respect. Your father says a word, and my bloody head is falling on the grass. Or my body hanged, drawn, and quartered. It’s a traitor I am. Was forced to be. Run from me, lass.”

“If you will cease with your terrifying speeches,” Celia said, her throat dry, “you will note that I am going nowhere, blurting your tale to no one. You have hidden yourself well, and there is no reason not to remain hidden. But you will have to control your temper around Lady Flora’s guests. They are misguided and were much afraid. Bonnie Prince Charlie very nearly did win.”

Alec shook his head. “Teàrlach mhic Seamas was a bloody fool who caused the murder of many a fine man. While my neighbors are being executed for it, he wanders the west of Scotland in search of transport. He might be in France by now. If so, I hope my father finds him.”

He snapped his mouth closed, his brows drawing down into a fearsome scowl. If Alec’s father was half this forbidding, Charles Stuart might do well to fear him.

“If you will be guided by me,” Celia said quietly. “Gather yourself. Return to the salon. Smile at them, laugh with them. They are fools, remember. It is the only way.” Well Celia knew it. While she’d never been in any danger of being hanged as a traitor, she was permanently in the pillory for her crime of thwarting her mother’s schemes.