A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady: Mackenzies, Book 11 Page 8

  She swallowed as Uncle Lucas and David watched her keenly. A shadow outside the doorway told her Mrs. Corcoran was avidly listening.

  “A divorce is a terrible thing,” she said in a choked voice. “But on the other hand, I no longer wish to be married to my husband. It would mean I’d be free.”

  Free to hide in her uncle’s house or follow him across the world, wherever the fit took him. She might be unwelcome in polite society, but she’d be free nonetheless.

  If Laurie no longer sought the divorce, she’d be trapped as his wife forever. She’d be his property, subject to his commands, his malice …

  David closed his fists as he registered her dismay. “No, no. My dear, Miss Tierney, forgive my idiocy. I am telling it wrong. He and his solicitors will decide to annul the marriage rather than go through the procedure of divorce. You’ll be free and clear of him but without the humiliation of the trials.”

  “Annul?” Sophie wet her lips, the word tasting strange. “Laurie will never do that. He cannot—there are no grounds.”

  David smiled like a fox who’d just outwitted a pack of the best hounds. “I believe you will soon receive a paper that says you are Miss Sophie Tierney and always have been.”

  He was too serene, too prideful. Sophie narrowed her eyes as her heart began to pound. “What did you do?”

  “Me?” David pressed a hand to his chest. “Why should I have anything to do with it?”

  Sophie gripped the edge of the table. “You disappear to London and claim you won’t return, then you pop up again announcing that my marriage will be annulled, when neither my husband nor his solicitors have ever mentioned any such possibility. I can’t help but think this is down to you.”

  “Exactly.” Uncle Lucas fixed him with a stern gaze. “Explain yourself, my boy.”

  David lifted his teacup, glanced at the tea inside, then set the cup down and pulled out a silver flask. “I thought you’d be pleased.” He dolloped whisky into the teacup and tucked away the flask.

  “I asked you not to interfere,” Sophie said in a hard voice. “Begged you, as I recall.”

  “As did I,” Uncle Lucas put in. “Your name attached to Sophie’s will cause her even more scandal.”

  “Worry not, my friends.” David sipped his doctored tea. “My name will not come up in this business at all. I do know how to go about these things. Please do not tell me you’d prefer a divorce, dear lady. An annulment is embarrassing, of course, but nothing that won’t blow over.”

  “I will be ruined all the same.” Sophie’s cheeks went hot. “If the marriage is declared invalid, I will have been living with a man not my husband.”

  Sharing his bed, she meant, but could not bring herself to say. Not that Laurie had touched her after the first few years of their marriage. When Sophie hadn’t conceived, he’d sought entertainment elsewhere.

  David wore an odd smile. “I don’t believe so. You might be the object of pity, but you’ll weather it.” He had a smug gleam in his eyes, very pleased with himself.

  Sophie wasn’t certain whether to laugh, scold, or throw up her hands and flee the room. She chose to remain quiet, retrieve the fallen sponge cake, and put it out of the way on a plate.

  The discussion was nonsense, in any case. David could not change the world, or Laurie, no matter what he thought. There were no grounds for annulment, and the divorce would continue. Laurie was a spoiled man and would have his own way.

  The situation was impossible, even for someone as canny as David. All she could hope was that he hadn’t made things worse for her.

  She lifted her teacup and glared at David over it. She refused to be a namby-pamby chit in front of David about all this. She’d secured her future as Uncle’s secretary, and she’d have a fine time.

  His look turned puzzled at her resolve, but he shrugged and lifted a profiterole—a puff pastry bursting with cream—and took a bite, cream sliding across his lips.

  “Mmm.” David closed his eyes as he swiped up the cream with his tongue. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mrs. Corcoran,” he called out the open door.

  “Go on with you,” Mrs. Corcoran’s good-natured voice floated back.

  Sophie couldn’t move as David drew his tongue over his lips, licking the cream into his mouth. He opened his eyes to look directly at Sophie, and her blood burned.

  She glanced quickly at Uncle Lucas, but he’d become absorbed in his notes on the dig while absently shoving cakes into his mouth.

  David swallowed. “These truly are most excellent.”

  He smiled across the table at Sophie, challenging her. He expected her to wilt at his sensuality, she realized, to fall under the table at his feet as she suspected many women did.

  Blasted man. Sophie snatched a profiterole from the three-tiered tray and quickly stuffed the whole thing into her mouth.

  A mistake. Cream gushed from her lips, and Sophie coughed. She snatched up her napkin and coughed into it, her face scalding. Silly Sophie, choking on a puff pastry to show a gentleman she cared nothing for him.

  David was off his chair and around to hers, pounding her on the back. Uncle looked up from his notebook in concern.

  Sophie wiped cream from her mouth and tears from her eyes. “I am well.” Her voice was a hoarse gasp.

  David dropped into the empty chair next to her, his warmth too close. “Are you certain? Cream puffs can be deadly.”

  Sophie patted her mouth with the napkin. “Don’t be absurd.”

  Uncle, seeing she was truly all right, went back to his notes with a chuckle. “Deadly cream puffs, indeed.”

  “Try another.” David plucked one from the tray. “A small bite. They are quite delicious.”

  What did he wish from her? For her to make a fool of herself? Well, she was capable of that without his help.

  Sophie snatched the profiterole from David but this time made herself take a delicate nibble.

  The cream, thick and sweet, smeared her mouth. David’s gaze flicked to it, smile gone, as Sophie licked it away.

  She felt heat on her lips as though he’d licked her himself. Her whole body smoldered as his focus remained on her mouth. Sophie carefully took another bite.

  David’s stare held fire, intensity, fierce desire. Sophie clutched the profiterole, cream oozing to her fingers. She absently put her forefinger to her lips and sucked the fingertip clean.

  David let out a ragged breath and rose abruptly to his feet. “If you will excuse me, Pierson, Miss Tierney. I need a walk.”

  Without waiting for their response, he strode swiftly from the room. He called more thanks to Mrs. Corcoran, then the front door slammed, and his footsteps faded down the slate path outside the house.

  Uncle raised his brows but said nothing, returning to his notes. Sophie took another shaky bite of her cream puff, her confusion and the memory of what had been in his eyes blazing inside her.

  * * *

  “I am quite enjoying this,” Eleanor said as she sorted through plates of the photos she’d shot that day.

  “You do love photography.” Her husband, the lofty Duke of Kilmorgan, lounged in a nearby chair, cupping a glass of Mackenzie malt. The windows were dark, night and London fog sealing them into their warm nest.

  “Not what I mean. I meant—”

  “I know exactly what you meant,” Hart rumbled. He leaned back in his chair, a Mackenzie plaid kilt draping his legs and woolen socks. Eleanor liked him this way, rumpled at the end of a long day, his reddish hair awry, his golden eyes warm and half closed. “You are talking about David and your promise to help him be devious. Have a care, El.”

  “Nonsense, it is most entertaining being devious. Mrs. Whitaker is a brick, is she not? I imagine most gentlemen never realize how very clever she is.”

  “Oh, they know.” Hart let out a chuckle. “Or discover it too late.”

  “And she is subtle. Knows exactly how and when to strike—rather like you and David. She’s very kind to help, when she doesn’t even know M
iss Tierney. I ought to have taken Miss Tierney under my wing long ago, but Devonport is on the other side of the fence from you. Politics is a stupid thing.”

  “True.” Hart shrugged. “But it is better than tyranny.”

  “Tyranny is politics, you know, just of a different sort.” Eleanor studied a photo of young Malcom and a cat on its hind legs, smiling at the image. “Anyway, I have decided I will make a friend of Miss Tierney and see that she does well. David sets quite a store by her.”

  She became aware of Hart’s piercing gaze. “How do you know that?” he asked in suspicion. “Did he say so?”

  “No, indeed. But why else would David be churning that marvelous brain of his to set her free of her awful marriage? I have a feeling David regards Miss Tierney as much more than the pitiable niece of his mentor.”

  Hart listened in growing consternation. “El—as I said, have a care.”

  “I think it’s marvelous. David has been alone far too long.”

  “My love, David Fleming is never alone. He is surrounded by people day and night, especially night. Believe me, he does not suffer by himself in a monk’s cell.”

  “Don’t be maddening. I did not mean alone in the literal sense. I mean in his heart.” Eleanor lightly touched her chest. “He needs a wife.”

  “God help us.” Hart took a long sip of whisky. “Would ordering you to cease your matchmaking tendency do any good?”

  “Of course not.” Eleanor abandoned her photographic plates and went to him. Hart’s eyes softened as Eleanor curled up on his lap and rested her head on his formidable shoulder. The tension between them changed, from husband and wife disagreeing to the electric awareness that flowed from Hart to Eleanor and back again. “David is your best friend. He’s performed monumental tasks for you over the years. Do you not wish to see him happy?”

  “You are boxing me into a corner.” Hart’s voice vibrated her pleasantly. “If I tell you to leave off, you’ll accuse me of not wanting David to be happy. I do wish him well, but that does not mean I condone you rushing him into matrimony with a lady he barely knows.”

  “Then we must see that he learns more about her.” Eleanor ran her fingers down the placket of Hart’s open shirt. The warmth of the man beneath enticed her, but she made herself not touch him except through fabric—far too distracting. “They may not suit at all, but we must give them a chance.”

  “We,” Hart repeated. “You keep saying we.”

  “Well, of course. David trusts you.”

  Hart growled. “Not if I shove him at a woman and tell him to marry her. He’ll think I’ve lost my mind.”

  “He is already interested, if he is giving the problem this much thought. You must see that. But we will be careful, as you insist.”

  “I see you’ve already decided.” Hart lifted Eleanor’s hand, scattering her thoughts by kissing her fingertips. “What do you want me to do?”

  Eleanor blinked. “I must say, you agreed very quickly. I thought I’d have to do much more persuading.”

  Hart’s relaxed manner vanished, and the dangerous man she’d fallen in love with surged to the surface. “I never said I’d not command a price.”

  “Ah.” Eleanor sank into agreeable warmth. “When will I have to pay this price?”

  “Not when. For how long.” Hart’s golden eyes glittered. “We are starting now.”

  “We?” Eleanor slanted him a coy look.

  Hart growled. He came off the chair, Eleanor in his arms, his strength breathtaking. Eleanor knew they would not make it to their bedchamber, but the rug before the fire was plenty soft. Plans, and photography, could wait.

  * * *

  Sophie wasn’t speaking to him, David concluded. At least, not in the easy, friendly way she had before.

  She was furious, and David felt it with every glance. The February chill the next day as he returned to the dig with them was nothing to her coolness.

  What had he expected? David chided himself as he shoved his spade into the earth. For her to swoon into his arms?

  Sophie had entreated with him not to interfere, and he’d ignored her plea. For a good cause, David told himself. He wanted to save her from humiliation and utter ruin.

  In London, his choice had been clear. Here at the vicarage, David had to face himself with honesty. Had he put plans in motion to unselfishly help Sophie or did he have visions of her melting before him in undying gratitude?

  Damnation. The problem with being friends with a vicar was that his ethical ideas started rubbing off, no matter how hard David tried to avoid such things.

  Yesterday, when Sophie had stuffed the profiterole into her mouth, cream exploding across her lips, his entire body had gone hard. Even more so when she’d nibbled the second bite. Droplets of cream had clung to her lips, begging David to kiss them away.

  When she’d sucked the cream from her forefinger, he’d been swamped by a vision of her in a fire-lit bedchamber, delicately catching cream from the pastry on the tip of her tongue. In this vision, Sophie hadn’t been wearing a stitch of clothing, a coyly draped bedsheet making her all the more enticing.

  Fleeing into the cold garden had been his only choice.

  David pulled up his shovel and turned to Sophie, the iciness emanating from her nettling. She knelt on hands and knees on a tarp, skirts primly hiding her ankles as she skimmed her trowel through the dirt, utterly ignoring him.

  “You were angry when I left for London,” he said to the hat that obscured her face. “It seems my return has made you even more so.” He waited, but there was no response. “Would you like me to leave again?” His voice was a touch louder. “Or would that also irk you?”

  Sophie lifted her head, her face chiseled beauty in the shade of her hat. “I have no interest in what you do one way or another, Mr. Fleming.”

  David rammed his spade into the ground. “So you say, but your eyes are shouting at me to go to hell.”

  “Truly? I had no idea my eyes were so loud.”

  David held up his hands, palms facing her. “I have offended you, enraged you, annoyed you, infuriated you—I know that. But I had the best of intentions, I promise.”

  Sophie climbed to her feet, hand tight on the trowel. “I dare say you did, but you likely have made things worse. My husband will never agree to an annulment. And now that he knows the notorious David Fleming has a friendship with me, he will be all the more vicious.” She waved the trowel as she spoke, scattering dribbles of dirt.

  “You could trust me to know what I am doing,” David said impatiently.

  “Why should I? I know so very little about you. My uncle is fond of you, which, so far, is the only point in your favor.”

  To hide his sudden hurt, David pressed a dramatic hand to his forehead. “Ah, lady, you grieve me. Have I not behaved like a perfect gentleman?”

  “No.” Sophie folded her arms. “You’ve flirted with me, kissed me, confused me, gone behind my back to do precisely what I asked you not to, and enticed me with a profiterole.”

  David’s laughter bubbled up along with his treacherous imagination. “Fickle woman, you have kissed me and plunged me into the deepest bewilderment. You are furious with me no matter which way I turn, and I believe you tried to confound me with a profiterole. Most alarming when you nearly choked on it.”

  Sophie’s face reddened, and she pointed with her trowel. “I believe you ought to dig in another part of the field, Mr. Fleming.”

  “Pierson directed me to dig here. And here I stay.”

  “Well, he told me to dig here as well.”

  “Then we are at an impasse.”

  Sophie glared. David wanted to laugh his triumph, but at that moment, Sophie stooped, came up with a damp clod of earth, and threw it at him.

  Mud thwacked his coat, brand new from his tailor, made for the messy business of archaeology. It was the best Scots tweed.

  “Bloody hell, woman.” His snarl was also the best Scots, his years of Harrow, Cambridge, and flitting throug
h the top of London society flowing away.

  Another chunk of mud hit his midsection. Sophie’s fury had segued into merriment, her eyes gleaming satisfaction.

  Oh, she wanted to play, did she? David tossed aside the shovel. He bent and gathered mud into his gloved hands, sending her an evil grin. He liked that Sophie’s eyes widened in trepidation, but he’d be gentle with her. Perhaps.

  He took a quick step toward her … and found himself falling, his feet penetrating a deep hole. The balls of mud fell from his hands as he windmilled for balance and found none.

  David toppled slowly forward. He braced himself to land facedown, but as he hit the earth, it opened up and swallowed him whole.

  Chapter 8

  David!” Sophie shrieked. She unfroze from the horror of watching David fall through the earth and dashed to the spot where he’d disappeared. “David!”

  Bogs could drown a person while they thrashed in desperation. The thought of David, a man so full of life, being dragged out of sight forever streaked terror through her.

  Sophie reached the edge of the square hole David had fallen through and sank to her knees, heart thudding. She spied his body, facedown at the bottom of a shallow cavern, weak sunlight barely illuminating the interior. David lay unmoving, wet earth around him, but he’d landed in a damp cave, not a bog—thank heaven.

  He didn’t move, didn’t groan. Sophie hiked up her skirts, caught the edge of the hole, and dropped down to him.

  She landed on stone covered with dirt and had to stoop to hands and knees under the low roof. “David,” she whispered frantically.

  “Music …”

  Sophie scrambled to him, uncertain she’d heard right. “David, are you hurt?”

  “Lady, thy voice is music.” David rolled himself over with difficulty, his face scratched, his words hoarse. “Is this heaven?”