Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(54)

Alec lifted her hand that bore his ring and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Because I’ll not be going to France with you. And this makes me sad.”

“What?” Celia’s eyes widened, but she didn’t jerk away. “What are you talking about? Of course we both must go, with Jenny.”

Alec shook his head. He hadn’t wanted to face a choice like this. On the chilly Paris morning when he’d declared he’d find Will, packed a small bag, and rushed to a boat, he’d somehow thought he’d easily track down his brother, grab him by the ear, and drag him home.

He hadn’t expected Will’s disappearance to be complicated, that the plans he’d laid with Lady Flora would be even more so. He hadn’t expected Celia to be beautiful, intelligent, talented, and a damsel in distress. She was correct when she’d declared Alec was a knight, as in the romances of old, a champion who took on all comers in defense of his lady.

But the world had changed from those faraway days, no matter how many costumes people wore at masked balls, and how much they professed to uphold honor and glory.

Alec had seen, only a few months ago, that all the glory, which was mostly men swanning about proclaiming they were restoring the rightful king, had been brutal and ugly, full of pain, sorrow, rage, and death.

“I can’t leave England, lass. Not yet.”

“Why not?” Celia pinned him with a gaze that was too discerning. “Please tell me, Alec.”

Without lying, she meant. The other day she’d been incensed at his evasion, taking offense that he would be other than open with her.

“I lied to you, because the truth is dangerous,” Alec said. “I barely know ye. And you don’t know me at all.”

“But now we are married.” Celia withdrew her hand and touched the ring, the movement equal parts wonder and trepidation. “I admit I have not seen many good examples of marriages, where husband and wife trust each other and confide all to each other. Perhaps such a marriage only exists in stories—I don’t know. But I would like to try for such a thing.”

“Then you will love Malcolm and Mary,” Alec said. “They have complete trust and devotion. Will do anything for each other. It will make ye ill.”

“Then we will be like Malcolm and Mary.” Celia gave him a small smile. “Alec, please. I can help—I would like to help you. You’ve already done so much for me, more than you’ve had to.”

“Of course I had to. My fault you’re caught in my mess.” Alec drew a breath and threw all his planning and caution to the wind. He wasn’t one for machinations like Will was—Alec only ever wanted to paint and love beautiful women. This beautiful woman. “I leapt at the chance to have the daughter of the bloody Duke of Crenshaw in my power.”

“I see.” Celia watched him calmly. “I’d say you succeeded. You’ve married me.” She did not appear unduly alarmed by this fact. “And yet, you are nothing like the wicked villains from the plays in Drury Lane. You don’t rub your hands and glower nearly enough. Nor are you very happy that you’ve succeeded in trapping me.”

“Because the game changed,” Alec growled. “You changed it. Which is why I want you out of it.”

The carriage listed as they rounded a corner to the Strand, heading for the river. The momentum pushed Celia into Alec, but instead of rising once the coach straightened, she remained against him.

“Tell me why,” she said softly. “I shall be a termagant wife, and demand to know all.”

To hell with it. Alec sent up a prayer, and cast the dice.

“Because your father knows where my brother is,” he said in a hard voice. “He’s the most likely person to know. Will’s been missing for a long time, and I’m not going back to my family without him.”





Chapter 18





Celia raised her head. The anguish in Alec’s eyes pierced her, making her want to reach to him and wipe it away.

But his words were astounding. “My father? How on earth would he know where your brother is? Do mean your brother went missing after the battle of Culloden?”

“No—Will escaped—he made it to France. Then for no reason I can understand, he returned to Scotland and—was captured.”

The bleakness Celia had seen in the back of Alec’s eyes suddenly made sense. He feared his brother was dead, had the terrible emptiness of not knowing what had happened to him. Worried he might never know.

But the notion that Celia’s father, her kindhearted, rather browbeaten father, knew the whereabouts of Alec’s brother was highly unlikely.

“My father has nothing to do with Jacobite prisoners,” she tried to explain. “He did attend some trials, but the glee with which the Scots were being prosecuted upset him, and he ceased going.”

Alec shook his head. “Your dad is in charge of a regiment—the Duke of Crenshaw’s Brigade. They escorted Scots prisoners back to London before the bulk of the regiment was sent to fight in France.”

“My father pays for a regiment,” Celia corrected him. “He’s only nominally in charge. He leaves the running of it to others. At heart my father is a peace-loving man—he doesn’t like war.”

Alec’s eyes glinted. “Nor do I. But war happens. The duke might not give the orders, and he might avoid prisoner trials so he doesn’t upset his delicate constitution, but he knows. There’s a world of knowledge in your da’s head.”