Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(53)
Alec had given Padruig two sets of instructions, only one to be followed depending on how events unfolded. He knew Padruig would have chosen the correct one once Alec sent him off. The man was no fool, and besides, he liked to be paid.
Alec settled Celia in the coach before he swung in and took the seat opposite hers. Celia held on her lap a parcel the bishop had given her—cakes and bread, which had been left for his supper, but he claimed he had more than he could eat. He’d always been a thoughtful old duffer, not as absentminded as he let on. He’d keep the secret of their marriage, Alec had no doubt.
Celia regarded Alec calmly as the carriage pulled forward, her brown-green eyes assessing. She looked him over as though seeing him for the first time, only now he was her lawful husband, before God and in the eyes of the laws of Great Britain.
“Your father is the Duke of Kilmorgan,” she said.
Her voice was steady, but she fidgeted with the ring, her hand resting on the parcel.
“Not my fault.” Alec said, trying to sound indifferent. “My dad sired six sons, God rest my poor, dear mum. I happen to be one of them, one above the youngest.”
“You told me you were a ghost.” Her gaze pinned him. “Now I know what you meant. The Duke of Kilmorgan was killed at Culloden. My father regretted that, as he said we needed good Scots peers, and your father was well respected, even if he turned Jacobite. All his sons were on the roll of the dead as well. The duke and his family are no more.”
“Aye, well.” Alec rubbed his chin. “It’s a bit difficult to tell one dead Scot from the other on a field of battle. One name was true—Duncan, my eldest brother. He died all right. The rest of us legged it. We have Mal to thank for that, and Padruig, and Will …”
He trailed off, his heart heavy. Six sons and only three left. Magnus had died before he’d been twenty, his heart weak. Angus, shot while helping Duncan chase Lord Loudon across the northern Highlands. And then Duncan at Culloden.
There was a rustle of velvet, and Celia was next to him, leaving the parcel behind. “Your family is alive.” Her soft voice brushed him. “You should be rejoicing.”
“I am, lass. I am. But …”
If Alec could live his life over again, he’d have persuaded his father and brothers to travel to France with him and Malcolm long before Prince Teàrlach set sail for Scotland. There they could have waited to see what happened with the Jacobite factions, staying well out of it.
They’d be all together now, Duncan and his father raging at each other, Angus trying to keep the peace, Alec and Mal roaming the streets of Paris, and Will …
Aye, well, so Will would have fallen into some sort of trouble, no matter what. The man loved intrigues and kept putting himself into the thick of them.
Why the devil Will had sprung up and pretended to be Prince Charles Stuart, Alec still didn’t understand. Will must have been plotting something, or he might have done it to save others, distracting the soldiers so hidden Scotsmen could get away. Both, most like.
Damn ye, Will. If not for you, I could give over all my thoughts to wooing my bride.
“My bloody brothers will drive me mad.” Alec took Celia’s hands, bringing himself back to the present. He was in London, the wind was turning cold, and he’d just married a beautiful young woman. “I can take care of ye, lass. I have plenty of money salted away, so ye don’t have to worry about touching your legacy. I have a house in Paris, nothing so grand as Lady Flora’s or your father’s, but it does well enough. Except my whole family lives there at the moment, including my da’. But he’ll like you.”
Mal’s wife, Mary, had softened the old duke in the last year, and the loss of his favorite sons had also taken away some of his bluster. Daniel William Mackenzie, the Duke of Kilmorgan, would never be considered a gentle man, but he would be good to Celia—once he got over his apoplexy that Alec had married again, in secret, to the daughter of a man who’d raised an army to fight the Scots.
But one thing at a time.
“Are we off to France now?” Celia asked, eyes shining in the light cast by the punched tin lanterns at their feet. “What about your daughter?”
“I thought Jenny would come with us,” Alec said. “Gair might set her to manning the sails. He always needs extra hands.”
Celia’s laugh was tinged with hysteria. “I meant, will we hurry to Lady Flora’s and fetch her?”
“I’ve already arranged for Sally to bring her to us at the boat. That’s where I sent Padruig rushing off to, to tell her the trip to France was going forward.”
“I’m glad. Can you trust Sally not to blab to Lady Flora?”
“She’s a good lass. She has a brother in France she’s been longing to see, so I persuaded her to come with us and look after Jenny.” And Sally had no love for Lady Flora. Lady Flora wasn’t parsimonious, which was why her servants stayed with her, plus there was a certain cachet that went with working for her. But most of the servants, save for Rivers, stepped delicately around her.
“Good.” Celia studied him, her serene face out of keeping with her costume with its old-fashioned ruff and black pompons. “Why don’t you look happier, Alec? We’ve thwarted the scheming queens and will run from the chessboard with Jenny. My father will discover where we’ve gone soon enough—he has plenty of connections and friends in France, never mind we’re technically at war with that country. Wars come and go, but business prevails, is what my brother says. But if I am married, my mother cannot command me any longer. And I don’t have to call you Mr. Finn, which pleases me enormously. It was entirely the wrong name for you.” Her words ran down as concern entered her eyes. “So why are you not rejoicing?”