Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(67)
Alec had styled them as a squire and his wife, with Mrs. Reynolds a widowed friend and companion to Celia. He seemed to revel in the deception, speaking little, looking confused when asked too many questions. The innkeeper and wife were indulgent to him, probably thinking him a bit slow in the head. Alec laughed as they rolled away, Mrs. Reynolds frowning at him.
“I understand why Willie likes the games he plays,” Alec said, then his laughter died. “Though his games can be deadly, the bloody fool.”
If the errand weren’t so dire, Celia would be rejoicing in the country drive. June was marching on, the time when her father would be finishing up his business in London and moving them to the country for the rest of the year. Soft warmth touched the land around them, the fields blushing green, the trees beyond the marshes growing thick with foliage.
The Crenshaw estate in Kent, Hungerford Park, was beautiful, with a grand garden and grassy lawn, rambling hills excellent for long walks or rides on the duke’s horses. The house was the largest in the area, a stone villa with rows of glittering windows, galleries of paintings, and books—so many books. On rainy days, Celia and her father shut themselves in the library and read all day long.
She would miss that. A qualm touched her, but she refused to give up all joy in her life because her mother had shoved her down a path—quite literally. She would prove that Alec Mackenzie was no traitor, his family would be restored, and he and her father would come to know and like each other. Harmony would return to life, she was certain of it. The alternative was too painful to face.
They followed the river and its waving marsh grasses to Tilbury, but they moved on through that town, not stopping until they reached a tiny village called Stanford le Hope. Here they found a small inn happy to take their custom.
It was such a different thing to travel as a married woman, Celia realized. She’d always been rather an appendage when she journeyed in her father’s coach, her father and brother being the most important members of the family.
At the turnpike inn and now the inn at Stanford, the landlady assumed Celia would make all the important decisions—what was to be done with the baggage, what food would she like brought, and what sort of chambers did she wish to take?
Mrs. Reynolds slid into her relegated position as lesser person without fuss, and remained silent as Celia answered the landlady’s questions. Alec again became the hearty if dim country squire, deferring all decisions to Celia. He was masterful at puckering up his face as though thinking hard and then shrugging and saying, “You must ask my wife. Yes, she will know what to do.”
“You’re horrible,” Celia said when they lay in bed under the eaves. She poked him playfully in the chest. “I’ve never had to give such commands before. I’m terrified I’ll choose wrong.”
“I’m not.” Alec gave her a smile that fired her blood. “You’ve a wise head on your shoulders. You can look after your doltish husband with no trouble.”
“They pity me, I think. I see the landlady’s sympathy when you clutch your head and walk away. You’re enjoying it.”
“Aye, a bit of playacting is a welcome diversion. And it keeps them from asking questions.”
He had a point. “But you refused to dress up as Pierrot in the gardens,” she reminded him.
Alec gave her a long-suffering look. “There are limits, my wife. It was hard enough putting on the uniform of a Scot whose job it is to put down other Scots.”
Celia regarded him in puzzlement. “I thought you said the man was a friend of yours.”
“He is. But he’s fighting Frenchies and their allies on the Continent, not striding about the Highlands. Hence, we became friends. He lent me the uniform in case I needed to be a Scot while in England, but not a feared one.”
“You are a complex man, my Lord Alec.” Celia traced designs on his bare chest, enjoying the planes and curves of him.
“Not really. But I’ll present whatever face I have to.” He nuzzled her. “With you, I can be the real Alec. Thank you for giving me that, lass.”
Celia kissed him. “I like the real Alec. Do you like the real Celia, I wonder?”
“I have all this time.” Alec ended the conversation by rolling her onto her back and sliding inside her, loving her in swift silence.
In the morning, Alec woke with Celia’s warm hair spread across his shoulder, and his protectiveness surged. The thought of taking her close to the house they’d explore today, possibly putting her near soldiers, a pack of restless young men away from home, made every misgiving rise. If they were guarding prisoners and spotted and arrested Alec, what would they do to Celia?
“Stay behind today,” he said as Celia blinked open her eyes. “Hide away here, and let the landlady look after you. Mrs. Reynolds and I will explore and return.”
“Absolute nonsense,” she said at once.
The heat of her defiance didn’t really surprise him. “It will be dangerous, love.” And if he lost her, no words would describe the incredible emptiness and grief that would be Alec Mackenzie. He’d already lost enough.
Celia sat up, the covers falling enticingly from her body. “I have already told you. I am here to help you. I will, no matter how small my assistance might be. I want you to find your brother. Besides, leaving me here is no guarantee of my safety. Plenty of dangerous people come to inns and taprooms. Who knows if the landlord can be trusted to guard me?”