If Mac could be grateful for anything, it was that the lass had realized right off that she’d gone a wee bit too far this time with her crazy notions. She was as nervous as a spaniel pup, despite the dirk she had hidden up her sleeve, with a mate tucked in her boot. And yet her confounded stubbornness wouldn’t let her leave until Mr. Willcocks put in an appearance. At least they’d managed to conceal her femininity fairly well.
Mac had thought that would be the stumbling block that would keep her from coming with him tonight, but unbeknownst to him, the lass had done some clothesline raiding in the wee hours of the night to be able to show him her disguise this morning when he got around to mentioning that she’d need one, but that they didn’t have the money to spare for it.
Her delicate hands were hidden under the grubbiest pair of gloves Mac had ever seen, so big she could barely manage to lift the mug of ale he’d ordered for her, whereas the patched breeches could have used a lot more room in the seat, but at least the sweater covered the tightness in that area—as long as the lass didn’t raise her arms, which hiked the sweater up. On her feet were a pair of her own boots mutilated beyond repair, enough to pass for a man’s pair that should have been thrown away years ago. Her sable-brown curls were tucked under a woolen cap, pulled down so low it covered her neck, ears, and her dark brown eyes, too, as long as she managed to keep her head lowered, which she did.
She was a sorry-looking thing, to be sure, but in fact, she blended in better with this bunch of wharf rats than Mac did in his own clothes, which weren’t fancy, but were certainly of a better quality than anything these rough-
looking sailors were sporting—at least until the two upper-class gents came through the door.
Amazing how quickly the out-of-place could quiet a noisy room. In this case, only some heavy breathing could be heard and—perhaps by a few—Georgina’s whisper.
“What is it?”
Mac didn’t answer, nudging her to be silent, at least until the tense seconds passed while everyone took the newcomers’ mettle and decided they’d best be ignored. Then the room’s noise gradually rose again, and Mac glanced at his companion to see that she was still working on being unobtrusive by doing nothing more than staring down at her mug of ale.
“It isna our mon, but a couple of lairds, by the bonny look of them. An unusual occurrence, I’m thinking, fer such as them tae be coming here.”
Mac heard what sounded like a snort before the quiet whisper, “Haven’t I always said they have more arrogance than they know what to do with?”
“Always?” Mac grinned. “Seems tae me ye only started saying such six years back.”
“Only because I wasn’t aware of it before then,” Georgina huffed.
Mac almost burst into laughter at her tone, not to mention such a blatant falsehood. The grudge she bore the English for stealing her Malcolm had not lessened any with the end of the war, and wasn’t likely to until she had the lad back. But she bore her aversion so genteelly, or so he’d always thought. Her brothers had been known to rant and rave with some very colorful invectives about the injustices inflicted on Americans by the British, perpetrated by the governing nobility, and this long before the war, when
their trade was first affected by Britain’s blockade of European ports. If anyone still bore ill will toward the English, the Anderson brothers did.
So for more than ten years, the lass had heard the English referred to as “those arrogant bastards,” but she hadn’t cared so much then, would just sit back and quietly nod agreement, sympathizing with her brothers’ plight but not really relating to it. But once Britain’s highhandedness touched her personally with the impressment of her fiancé, it was a different story. Only she still wasn’t hot-tempered about it as her brothers could be. Yet no one could doubt her contempt, her total antipathy for all things English. She just expressed it so
politely
.
Georgina sensed Mac’s amusement without seeing his grinning face. She felt like kicking him in the shin. Here she was shaking in her boots, afraid even to lift her head in this crowded hellhole, bemoaning her own stubbornness for bringing her here, and he found something to be amused about? She was almost tempted to have a look at those dandy lords, who no doubt must be dressed to the gills in colorful foppery, as their ilk tended to do. She didn’t for a moment think that Mac might be amused by what she’d said.
“Willcocks, Mac? Remember him? The reason we’re here. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble—”
“Now, dinna be getting snippy,” he gently chided.
She sighed. “I’m sorry. I just wish the fellow would hurry up and make an appearance if he’s going to. Are you positive he isn’t already here?”
“There’re a few warts on cheeks and noses, as I can see, but none a quarter inch long on the lower lip of a short, pudgy, yellow-haired lad of twenty-five or
thereabouts. Wi’ such a description tae go by, it isna likely we’ll be missing the mon.”
“
If
that description is accurate,” Georgina thought she’d better point out.
Mac shrugged. “It’s all we got, and better than nothing, I’m thinking. I wouldna like tae be going ’round tae each table here and asking…Laird, help us, yer curls are slipping, la—!”
“Shh!” Georgina hissed before he could get that damning “lass” out, but her arm went up immediately to tuck in the falling locks.
Unfortunately, her sweater hiked up in the process, revealing the tightly encased derriere that didn’t by a long shot pass for boy’s or man’s. Just as quickly it was covered again when she put her arms back on the bar, but not before it was noticed by one of the two well-dressed gents who had previously caused such speculation when they’d arrived, and now sat at a table only six feet away.
James Malory was intrigued, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. This was the ninth tavern he and Anthony had visited today, searching for Geordie Cameron, Roslynn’s Scottish cousin. He’d just heard the story this morning of how Cameron had been trying to force Roslynn to marry him, had even kidnapped her, though she had managed to escape.
This
was the reason Anthony had married the girl, to protect her from this scurrilous cousin, or so Anthony claimed. And yet Anthony was determined to find the chap, to impress him with a sound thrashing, enlighten him with the news of Roslynn’s marriage, and send him back to Scotland with the warning not to trouble her again. All just to protect the new bride,
or was his brother just a little more personally involved than that?
Whatever the true motivations that drove him, Anthony was sure he’d found his man when he had seen the red-haired chap at the bar. Which was why they were sitting so close to the bar, hoping they might overhear something, since all they knew of Geordie Cameron was that he was tall, red-haired, blue-eyed, and unmistakably Scottish in his speech. This last was revealed a moment later when the chap’s voice rose slightly in what James could have sworn was a scolding for his short friend, but all Anthony noticed was the thick Scottish brogue.
“I’ve heard enough,” Anthony said tersely, swiftly rising to his feet.
James, much more familiar with dockside taverns than Anthony, knew exactly what could happen if a brawl started. In seconds, the original combatants could be joined by the entire room. And Anthony might be a first-rate pugilist, just as James was, but gentlemen’s rules didn’t apply in places like this. While you were busy fending off the blows of one man, you were likely to get a shiv in the back from another.
Envisioning just such an occurrence, James grabbed his brother’s arm, hissing, “You’ve heard nothing. Be sensible, Tony. There’s no telling how many of these chaps in here might be in his pay. We can bloody well wait a little longer for him to leave the premises.”
“
You
can wait a little longer. I have a new wife at home I’ve kept waiting long enough.”
Before he took another step, however, James sensibly called out, “Cameron?” hoping no response would end
the matter right there, since Anthony wasn’t being reasonable. Unfortunately, he got ample response.
Georgina and Mac both swung around at once upon hearing the name Cameron. She was apprehensive about actually facing the entire room, yet did so with the hope of seeing Malcolm. Perhaps it was he who had been hailed. Mac, however, braced himself in an aggressive stance as soon as he saw the tall, dark-haired aristocrat shake off his blond companion’s hand, his eyes, clearly hostile, glued to Mac. In seconds, the man had closed the space between them.
Georgina couldn’t help it. She gawked at the tall, black-haired man who stepped up to Mac, the most handsome, blue-eyed devil she’d ever seen. In her mind it registered that he had to be one of the “lairds” Mac had tried to tell her about, and that this was not exactly the image she harbored of such creatures. There was nothing foppish about this gentleman. His clothes were obviously of the best quality, but understated; no loud satins or bold velvets here. If not for the excessively fashionable cravat, he was done up as any one of her brothers might be when they chose to turn themselves out elegantly.
All of that registered in her mind, but it didn’t stop her nervousness from doubling, for there wasn’t anything friendly in the man’s demeanor. There was in fact an anger about him that seemed just barely held in check, and it seemed to be directed solely at Mac.
“Cameron?” the man asked Mac in a quiet tone.
“The name’s MacDonell, mon, Ian MacDonell.”
“You’re lying.”
Georgina’s jaw dropped when she heard that growled accusation, then she gasped as the man jerked
Mac forward by his lapels and lifted, until the two men were glowering at each other, their faces only inches apart, Mac’s smoky-gray eyes blazing with indignation. She couldn’t let them fight, for God’s sake. Mac might love a brawl as well as any sailor, but devil take it, that wasn’t what they were here for. And they couldn’t afford the attention it would draw—at least she couldn’t.
Without considering the fact that she didn’t know how to wield it, Georgina slipped the knife from her sleeve. She wasn’t actually going to
use
the thing, just quietly threaten the elegant gentleman into backing off. But before she could get a good grip on the knife with her oversized gloves, it was knocked out of her hand.
She really panicked then, remembering too late that Mac’s accoster wasn’t alone. She didn’t know why they had chosen her and Mac to pick on when there was a whole room full of tough customers if they were merely looking for some sport. But she had heard of such things, how the arrogant lords liked to throw their weight around, intimidating the lower classes with their rank and the power behind it. But she wasn’t going to just stand there and be abused. Oh, no. The fact that she was supposed to remain inconspicuous went right out of her mind at the injustice of this unprovoked attack, like the injustice that had lost her Malcolm.
She turned and attacked, blindly, furiously, with all the bitterness and resentment built up over the last six years toward the English and their aristocrats in particular, kicking and hitting, but, unfortunately, doing nothing more than hurting her fists and toes. The blasted
fellow felt like a brick wall. But that only made her so furious she didn’t have sense enough to stop.
This might have gone on indefinitely if the brick wall hadn’t decided he’d had enough. Georgina was suddenly flipped about and hefted off her feet without the least bit of effort, and horror of horrors, the hand holding her up was clamped to her breast.
If that wasn’t bad enough, the dark-haired gent still holding Mac suddenly exclaimed in a loud voice, “Good God,
he’s
a woman!”
“I know,” the brick wall replied, and Georgina recognized an amused tone when she heard it.
“Now you’ve done it, you miserable curs!” she snarled at them both, well aware that her disguise had just become useless. “Mac, do something!”
Mac attempted to, but the arm he pulled back and swung at the dark-haired gent was caught by his fist and slammed down on the bar.
“There’s no need for that, MacDonell,” the dark one said. “I made a mistake. Wrong color eyes. I apologize.”
Mac was disconcerted at how easily he had been outmaneuvered. He wasn’t that much smaller than the Englishman, yet he couldn’t raise his fist off the bar to save his soul. And he had the feeling that even if he could, it wouldn’t do him much good.
Prudently, he nodded his acceptance of the apology and gained his release by doing so. But Georgina was still held tight by the other rogue, the blond one Mac had felt instinctively was the more dangerous of the two when he’d first seen them.
“Ye’ll be letting go, mon, if ye ken what’s good fer ye. I canna let ye monhandle—”
“Be easy, MacDonell,” the dark one interjected in a hushed tone. “He means the lass no harm. Perhaps you’ll let us accompany you outside?”
“There’s nae need—”
“Look around you, dear fellow,” the blond one interrupted him. “There appears to be every need, thanks to my brother’s loud blunder.”
Mac did look and swore under his breath. Just about every eye in the room was gazing with speculation at the lass, who had been transferred to the big gent’s hip, one thick arm holding her there like a sack of grain as he carried her toward the door. And, miracle of miracles, she wasn’t voicing any complaints at this crude handling, at least not that Mac could notice, for her protest had swiftly died with a tight squeeze about the ribs. So Mac wisely held his tongue, too, and followed, realizing that if it weren’t such a menacing-looking fellow who was carrying her, they wouldn’t get very far.
Georgina had also come to the realization that she was in deep trouble if she didn’t get out of there fast, which was
their
fault, but didn’t change the fact. And if the brick wall could get her outside without incident, then she’d let him, even if he was doing it in a way that was absolutely mortifying. This kept her temper simmering impotently.
As it happened, though, they were stopped, but by a pretty barmaid who suddenly appeared and latched possessively onto her toter’s free arm. “’Ere now, ye’re not leavin’, are ye?”