Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(51)

Celia wondered at the pain, but there would be time for them to talk, to understand. She touched his cheek, acknowledging what she’d seen, then she kissed him again, seeking the warmth of his lips. They were in this together now, she tried to convey.

Alec’s return kiss acknowledged this and made Celia realize that her journey was just beginning.



Another carriage waited for them on the north side of the Thames, at the top of Temple Stairs. Alec tossed the waterman a pouch that clinked as they disembarked, then he took Padruig aside and spoke to him in a low voice.

Padruig looked none too pleased when they finished, but he gave Alec a nod and trotted off into the darkness.

Alec handed Celia into the carriage. She heard him tell the coachman to take them to High Holborn before he climbed in beside her, and they creaked through crowded London streets, neither speaking, Alec gazing out the window.

The house in High Holborn was squashed between its fellows, rising a long and narrow way upward. Alec stepped down from the carriage before it stopped and plied the brass knocker on the front door until a grudging footman opened it a crack.

“We’re expected,” Alec told the watery eye that peered out at them.

The footman scowled then opened the door all the way, shoving his wig into place as he stepped back to admit them. Alec lifted Celia down, a flash of her clocked stockings and satin shoes showing under her flurry of white skirts.

Alec led her inside, the footman closing out the wind as he shut the door. The interior of the house was quiet, smelling of beeswax and books. Indeed, books were everywhere—in the foyer, in the hall, left in little piles on the bottom step of the staircase.

“Who lives here?” Celia whispered.

“A bishop,” Alec said. “Father of a friend, kind to me whenever my mate brought me home with him from Cambridge.”

Some bishops sat in the House of Lords, which meant they’d know Celia’s father. She wondered if this one supported or opposed the duke, and if he’d simply send the duke word that his errant daughter had turned up, attempting to elope with a Scotsman.

Celia shook out her white velvet skirts. She’d chosen a path—she would take it and make the best of it. Her mother wasn’t the only one in the family with steely determination.

The footman returned and told them to follow him up a flight of stairs and into a large sitting room that overlooked the street.

The chamber he ushered them into was sumptuous yet cozy. An arched marble fireplace dominated the room, this one also full of books. The small mirror above the fireplace reflecting Celia, her black-and-white costume peeping from under the dark cloak. It showed Alec beside her, strong and tall in his red coat and plaid. He wore the kilt with ease, looking far more comfortable in it than he had in any of his threadbare suits. The plaid swirled around his strong legs, brushing the tops of his supple boots.

Celia didn’t recognize the man who entered. He was small in stature, like her father, and wore a silver embroidered blue frock coat that belled over velvet breeches. His waistcoat, an ecclesiastical purple, strained itself over his ample belly. He wore, as Celia’s brother called it, a dog collar, a stiff white band at his throat. A many-curled wig crowned his head above his puffy face, but his dark eyes were gentle as he held out his hand to Alec.

“Well met, my lord. Ah, is this the young lady? How very charming to meet you, my dear.”

Celia curtsied politely to his bow, and the bishop looked them over, clasping his hands as though pleased with them both.

Then he patted his pockets. “Ah, yes, I do have the license.” He pulled out a thick piece of paper, folded into quarters. “And you will have to sign the register, but I think I can manage to lose it for a time. I am the ubiquitous absentminded clergyman, my lady, apt to set things down and not remember where.” His eyes twinkled.

He slid the paper back into his pocket and pointed for them to stand on the carpet facing the fireplace. He then wandered the room for a few minutes until he at last took a book from the middle of a stack on a table and returned to them.

“Now then, my lord, you have a ring?”

“I do.” Alec removed a thick gold band from his finger and held it out to the bishop.

Celia wondered at the bishop’s continuous use of my lord. Perhaps he didn’t know exactly how to address a Highlander, who must be the son of what was called a laird. A laird wasn’t necessarily an aristocrat though, she’d learned, only a landholder. But perhaps the bishop was merely trying to be polite.

“Excellent,” the man went on. “And a witness? I’m afraid I’m the only one in the house at the moment besides my footman. The wife is visiting Thomas—his wife is expecting her third child.” He beamed, radiating pride.

Alec grinned at him. “Another bairn, eh? Good for old Thomas. Send him my felicitations. I do have a witness—I believe he’s just coming up the stairs.”

Celia heard the footman berating someone and a growled reply, and then the door was wrenched open to admit Padruig.

“Stay out of there, you!” The footman tried to grab Padruig, but Padruig easily evaded him.

“It’s all right, lad,” Alec told him. “I told him to come.”

The footman, handsome and haughty as good footmen were to be, sent Padruig a disdainful look then Alec one for having such a servant.

Padruig positioned himself behind Alec, his reflected bulk in the mirror incongruous with the luxury of the room. The footman remained, the second witness, Celia surmised, but positioned himself a long way from Padruig.