Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(88)
Alec watched Celia come into her own as she bathed wounds, wrapped limbs, and bullied the landlord who ran the house into scrounging up clothes, medicines, clean bedding, decent food, and hearty ale. She did it all in perfect French, ordering large, strong men about with the intensity of a battlefield general. Perhaps having something of her mother in her wasn’t a bad thing.
After two weeks, the Highlanders improved and grew stronger, and talked about what they would do. Some wanted to brave going home, to make sure their families were well. Others planned to settle in France or find their friends who’d gone to the Low Countries for life in exile. Stuart Cameron was one who planned to return to Scotland, though he promised he’d keep his head down and not require Will and Alec to rescue him again.
Letters had gone back and forth between Le Havre and Paris, Mal telling Alec he had everything ready for Alec’s return with his bride and daughter. Celia insisted on writing to her father to ensure him she was well, and Will got the letter smuggled across the Channel.
They set out on a fine summer morning in a chaise Will had procured, one with good springs and soft cushions. Sally rode inside with them, she and Celia cooing over Jenny, who loved every moment of attention. Alec and Will rode facing the two ladies, the brothers traveling in companionable silence. Will looked his old self again, his beard long gone, his red hair trimmed, his eyes as animated as ever.
The journey went in easy stages, Alec not wanting to tire Celia, Sally, and Jenny. He liked the slowness, which gave him time to talk at length with Will and discover everything he’d learned since they’d last seen each other.
The Mackenzies would have to lie low in Paris for a time, Will said, though Lord Wilfort was subtly pulling strings to have the family cleared of treason and slowly brought back to life. Will, for his part, preferred to stay dead—he could travel about and poke into things easier if everyone thought Will Mackenzie had perished on the battlefield.
Alec didn’t mind one way or another—he had Celia and Jenny, a place to live, time to pursue his painting and raise his daughter. One day, he would return to the lands of his ancestors, but for now, he’d while away his time in Paris, not a bad city to spend an exile in.
He also liked the time to lie abed with Celia, learning her body, teaching her to explore his. Sunlight lingered into the night at this time of year, which let him enjoy her in the long dusk, her body a place of light and shadow.
Paris unfolded like a smoky smudge on the horizon after a few days. The outskirts were thickly clustered with houses, the buildings rising higher and becoming more lush as they neared the Tuileries, Palais-Royal, the Louvre, and the squat towers of Notre Dame. Tall houses crowded onto the Pont-au-Change and other bridges, the Seine beneath as smelly as the Thames.
Alec took them to a house in the Saint-Germain district, a confection of stone and painted shutters that rose to a mansard roof. The main door led to a courtyard, beyond which was a large garden shared by houses in the square.
A door in the courtyard sprang open as soon as the carriage pulled into it, and out came Malcolm Mackenzie, the Runt towering over Alec as he pulled him out of the coach and smothered him in a hug.
He shoved Alec aside and yanked Will out next, giving him the same crushing embrace.
“I was sure you were both dead,” Mal declared at the top of his voice. “Without me there to look after ye.”
A young woman with very blond hair and a quiet manner stepped out of the house after Mal, beaming her wide smile on Alec.
“I knew you’d prevail,” she said, rising on tiptoe to kiss Alec’s cheek, then Will’s. “Mal worried every day, but between you and Will, I was sure you’d be right as rain.”
Mary stepped back and took them in, and Alec saw the smudges of worry that had stained her face, despite her glib words. Alec also noted that her gown was cut to hide her thickening belly, and Mary touched her hand to her stomacher. “He kicks something lively,” she said. “A Mackenzie without question. Now, where is she?”
Mary reached Celia before Alec could, the two greeting each other with enthusiasm, as Alec helped his wife from the coach.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when Mal told me Alec had married Lady Celia Fotheringhay,” Mary exclaimed. “I thought you betrothed to that horrid Lord Harrenton. We must talk.”
“Watch yourself,” Mal warned Alec, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. “That’s a bad sign.”
“You love listening to Mary chatter, Runt,” Alec returned. “Don’t pretend you don’t. I imagine the house will be filled with chatter now, and babies crying. We won’t be able to think.”
“There’s always whisky.” Mal clapped both brothers on their shoulders. “I am bloody glad to see you both, I won’t deny it.”
Sally emerged from the coach with Jenny, and Alec took his daughter gladly into his arms. At the same time, a rumble filled the courtyard as Daniel William Mackenzie, Ninth Duke of Kilmorgan, barreled out the door.
“Did anyone bother to tell me they were here?” he bellowed. “It’s more gray hair you’ve given me, Willie, you and Alec both. I can’t spare any more sons, damn the lot of ye. Is this the wife?”
Alec held Jenny securely, she observing the duke without fear as she chewed on one fist with new teeth. Alec put his arm around Celia, and Mary remained steadfastly on her other side.