Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(5)
Chapter 2
The foot kicked. The child let out a cry, and the sleeping lion woke, opening eyes of dark gold as he roared.
“Bloody hell, woman!”
He surged from the chair, a giant in nothing but a nightshirt that gaped open at the neck. The thin fabric let sunshine through it, silhouetting a body that was large, taut, and very bare. “What the devil do ye think you’re doing?”
The burning in Celia’s chest rose to fevered heat. The nightshirt showed her the outline of male legs, hard with muscle, a tight barrel of a waist, and a hard chest. She could see where his legs met his waist, the transition hidden but tantalizingly near.
The man clasped the child securely but glared with eyes that told Celia he was indeed a fierce Highland warrior, come to finish what Bonnie Prince Charlie had begun.
Celia realized her mouth was open. A gaping mouth only lets in flies. She shut it with a click of teeth.
“What am I doing?” she asked crisply, hiding the fact that she quavered like the aspic her mother insisted she have for breakfast. “Waking you, sir. We have an appointment.”
Alec stared down at a woman he’d never seen before in his life. She gazed back at him, her face flushed, the pitcher of torture in her hand.
Her eyes were hazel, a green-brown mix like sunlight dappling water. Her hair was dark, almost black, the crown of her head covered by a modest cap, the kind unmarried misses wore.
The cap matched the embroidered fichu that lined her bodice and kept male eyes like Alec’s from viewing her bosom. It was a fine bosom, the sort a man would like to cup while he drew her close for a taste of her lips. Her gown was a tan and yellow striped cotton without adornment. The dress was drab, very different from the colorful silks dripping with lace and ribbons that Lady Flora draped herself in.
This woman was young, barely into her twenties, with an unworldly air of a person who’d never traveled much beyond her own home. Innocent, yes, but her eyes held the stubbornness of one who would do what she must, damn all censure. Why else would a slip of an English miss dump an ice-cold deluge on him?
“Are you, indeed, the drawing master, sir?” she asked in that clear, clean voice. “You are to give me lessons this morning.”
Her words were punctuated by the clock on the tapered-legged writing table striking the half hour past eight. “Damn and blast,” he muttered.
Alec realized he faced Lady Celia Fotheringhay, daughter of the Duke of Crenshaw, the man who would be key in finding his brother.
His waking brain kicked him to life. Lady Celia had been brought here by Flora so they could ease into the duke’s head and discover all he knew. This charade was for Will’s life.
Alec banished his scowl and brought up the Mackenzie charm. Mal, it was agreed, was the most charming of all of them, but Alec came close to his wee brother’s skill. He tried a half smile and forced his voice to be light, suppressing his Scottish tones as much as he could.
“My daughter—she was restless all night.” Alec lifted Jenny close and kissed the top of her head. Jenny, right on cue, closed her eyes, her small fists clutching his nightshirt in a fetching way.
The young woman simply stared at him, her lips parting. The pitcher was in danger of falling from her hand, so Alec took it from her.
Lady Celia blinked. She jerked once and clamped her mouth closed.
“Go on into the studio, lass,” Alec said. “I’ll be there after I put her to bed. Promise.”
He let his right eye close in the hint of a wink as he set the pitcher on a table and moved past Lady Celia to the chamber door. Lady Celia pivoted as he went by, and her skirts over a modestly round hoop swiveled with her.
She was not what he expected. Alec had pictured a spoiled, pinch-faced harpy, raised to be the privileged daughter of the most prominent duke in Britain. Her father doted on her, and he’d likely know whether Alec’s brother Will had been captured and where he’d be held if so.
Will’s last contact before he’d disappeared had been the Dowager Marchioness of Ellesmere, a grand hostess in London, known to her intimates as Lady Flora.
Lady Flora, as alarmed at Will’s disappearance as the Mackenzies, agreed to help. She’d brought Alec to London, given him a new identity and a history, and informed him that the Duke of Crenshaw was the most likely man to have the power over Will’s life or death. Lady Flora’s plan was to pump Celia for all kinds of information, resorting to blackmail or whatever trickery she could come up with to get it.
If things became desperate, Flora said, Lady Celia could become a bargaining piece. Alec did not want to resort to such measures, but he knew damn well the courts would not spare Will’s life when it was discovered exactly who he was and the things he’d done. And Will had done so many things.
Having met Celia now, Alec was certain Lady Flora was too eager to use her. This young woman did not look as though she knew the secrets of the kingdom. She likely had no idea what had gone on during the battles in the far north and the Uprising’s horrible culmination at Culloden. She’d probably cheered when it was known that Cumberland had won and sent Charles running. It would have been a cheer of ignorance—the horror of it all would have been kept from her.
Lady Celia studied him, her eyes full of curiosity. No fear at all. This was a woman who’d never faced danger in her life.