Patricia Rice (14 page)

“Stop dancing around the subject! I’ve tossed and
turned the night away trying to imagine what dreadful thing you have to
say. It’s not as if I haven’t been insulted before. Just say it.”

He stood to his full, towering height. His face was
in shadow, but some trick of morning sunlight illumined the gold of his
hair as he recited his perfidies. “My full name is Lachlan Warwick
MacTavish. The children are my niece and nephew, Percy and Pamela
Simmons. They have a whole slew of other names as well, but I won’t bore
you with them. I’ll just say they’re the children of Sebastian,
Viscount Simmons, the grandchildren of the Earl of Coventry, and by now,
I daresay, all of London is seeking them.”

Bea felt as if the breath had been knocked out of
her. She looked around for a place to sit, found an upended log that
someone had fashioned into a seat, and dropped down on it. She stared at
the man standing beside the brazier, legs akimbo and hands behind his
back as if waiting for a firing squad.

“If they’re your niece and nephew...” She sorted through the trail of names and relations. “They’re your sister’s children?”

“My late sister’s,” he said gruffly. “I arrived in
London to discover the viscount had not bothered notifying my family of
her death. From all reports, the viscount has been drowning himself in
brandy and has been incapable of doing anything sensible for months.”

“I see.” She heard a catch in his tone, a note of
grief as well as anger. “So you thought to get even by stealing his
children?” She tried to find the sense in that. She didn’t think Mr.
Warwick a foolish man.

Impatiently, he drew a crate closer to the brazier.
“Sit here, where it’s warmer. I might be an idiot, but I’m not a
dangerous one.”

She didn’t really think him a dangerous man so much
as a troubled one, although she didn’t know why. Kidnapping children
certainly wasn’t the act of a saint.

She transferred to the crate and held her hands out
to the heat. The new position placed her much closer to Mr. Lachlan
Warwick MacTavish. She would have to start thinking of him as Mr.
MacTavish.

“Do you often tell lies, Mr. MacTavish? If so, why
should I believe any of this?” Somehow it didn’t seem reasonable to be
civil around this man, and once she set aside the barrier of etiquette,
her timidity appeared to dissipate.

“You need only verify it with your aunt. She’s just
been through London and suspected at once.” He dragged the cut-off log
to the other side of the brazier and perched on it, looking at his
hands. Even sitting, his was an imposing presence. “I occasionally let
strong emotion get the better of me, and don’t plan things as thoroughly
as I should. I can only excuse myself by saying I sought to protect the
children. The viscount had so neglected his household that the children
were in grave danger.”

His proximity did odd things to Bea’s breathing. In
the best of all possible worlds, she could lean over and pat his hands
consolingly, but she hadn’t discarded all her reserve. “So, in effect,
you rescued them?”

His head jerked up, and his grave expression reassured her.

“That was my intention. I even obtained the
viscount’s signature on legal papers, but when he changed his mind, I
lost patience, broke his beak, and fled with the children. I believe
they’ll be better off raised by my parents than by a man who has no care
for anything but the wealth they represent. Unfortunately, transporting
them across an ocean is proving to be a bigger challenge than I
imagined.”

Trying to imagine Buddy and Bitsy on board a ship, Bea had to agree with him. He’d need an army of nursemaids to keep them safe.

She actually believed, his tall tale. She shook her
head and rubbed her eyes as if the bear of a man across from her would
disappear, and her quiet life would return to normal.

“Unless you know of someone who would be willing to
travel to Virginia with me, I suppose I must sail without a nursemaid,”
he said wearily.

“Are you saying you must leave now? Is Aunt
Constance threatening you?” she asked in mystification. She didn’t know
how all the pieces of this puzzle fit together.

“Yes.” He breathed a deep sigh. “She says she will
have me thrown in jail and return the children to the viscount if I
don’t cooperate.”

“Cooperate?” A frisson of alarm traveled through her
as Beatrice stared at his massive shoulders bent in resignation. “What
on earth does she want you to do?”

He lifted solemn eyes to hers. “Marry you.”

Mac thought Miss Cavendish might tumble right off
her seat at his announcement. He reached out and caught her arm to
steady her. She shook free of his grip, and he detected anger in the way
she drew away from him. He could scarcely blame her. “I think your aunt
may be a bit of a lunatic,” he added helpfully.

She shot him a scathing glare, then lifted her chin
and looked beyond him. “Everyone thinks I’m a helpless ornament. I’ll
not label Aunt Constance for her behavior any more than I would wish to
be labeled for mine.” She sat silent, twisting her hands in her lap as
she absorbed what he’d told her.

“You are what you make of yourself,” he said practically. “There’s no shame in being beautiful.”

“Don’t mock me.” She refused to look at him. “I know
I’m tall and homely and I’ve accepted that men will never look at me as
marriage material, but I really do resent being thought useless.”

It was Mac’s turn to be shocked. “Tall and
homely?
Are you insane, woman? If you’re tall and homely, what in hell does that make me?”

Startled by his vehemence, she actually looked at him for a change. “Men can’t be tall and homely.”

She actually thought she was homely, Mac realized.
He’d spent the better part of his life feeling like an oversize bull
walking through a doll-house world, and the poignancy of her
misconception connected with bruised bits of his own pride. Forgetting
the topic that had brought them here, he couldn’t resist pointing out
the silliness of her statement. “I’m taller than you are,” he reminded
her.

“You’re a
man,
” she said, as if that mattered. “Tall men are... are
masculine
.”

Flattered despite himself, Mac bit back a grin. He’d
been called a clumsy oaf and a “right bit of rudeness” before, but no
gentle female had ever condescended to smooth his ruffled feathers with
flattery.

“James is masculine?” he inquired innocently,
seeking the limits of her definition of masculinity to further assuage
his wounded pride.

Flustered, she looked back to her hands. “James isn’t homely.”

“Bernie the baker is masculine?” he suggested,
beginning to enjoy himself. His life must have become a convoluted
horror if this bit of nonsense amused him, but he was grateful to this
woman for so many things, while resenting her lofty manner at the same
time, that this new aspect of her character appealed to him.

“Of course not. Bernie is...” She threw up her hands in frustration.

“Pudgy,” he rudely supplied. “And the curate?”

“He’s not tall. You are making no sense.”

“So a man can be short and homely?” He led her on,
waiting for her to see the foolishness of her conclusions—or wanting to
hear her opinion of him again.

“That’s not what I mean.
Women
are homely,” she asserted, a trifle uncertainly.

“Perhaps you just don’t
think
of me as tall and homely,” he offered.

“Of course I don’t think of you as tall and homely,” she said with indignation.

“Just as I don’t think of
you
as tall and homely.” His triumphant logic had her eyes flashing ire,
making her the farthest thing from homely that Mac could imagine.

He didn’t know how she’d arrived at her conclusion,
but he was beginning to think less of her father, and entirely too much
of himself. He puffed with pride that a lady as striking as this one
thought him masculine.

She subsided into an uneasy silence, and he wished
he knew what thoughts swirled inside that pretty head. He had come to
realize that more thoughts dwelled there than she revealed to the rest
of the world. She might be ignorant, but she wasn’t stupid.

And her ignorance was the fault of the people who’d raised her and the society that restricted her.

“It’s all a matter of opinion,” she finally said with a sigh. “I take your point.”

Hesitantly, she searched his face, and he could
almost read her wishes because they so coincided with his own. “You’re
not homely,” he answered, knowing she would never ask the question.
“You’re taller than most women, yes, but that’s to your advantage. When
you enter a room, every man’s head turns to watch and admire you. And if
I say more, I’ll embarrass you as well as myself.”

A smile flitted uncertainly across her lips. “I
believe we’ve strayed from the topic, but if it helps...” She hesitated,
then blurted, “You are not homely either.” She shrugged and gestured
weakly. “But I cannot contrive the right word. James is
handsome
, so I don’t wish to call you that. It’s not the same thing at all.”

“I’ll settle for
masculine
. I like that. Now that we have confirmed our mutual admiration, shall we return to our problem?”

“My aunt wants you to marry me, or she will have you
up on kidnapping charges?” She reduced the question to its cruelest
form now that she’d recovered some of her equilibrium.

“Old women tend to think they know better than
anyone else. I’ve been told often enough that I should marry and that a
good woman would settle me down. Unfortunately, I’ve never seen the
advantage of settling down.”

“I can understand that,” she said wistfully. “I wish
I could be brave enough to do what you do. I don’t even have the
courage to leave Broadbury, much less sail an ocean.”

“You’ve never had the opportunity, and you’re afraid
of the unknown.” Mac dismissed her fears with a flick of his hand.
“I’ve been on ships since I could walk. Ladies terrify me, but I daresay
they don’t you.”

He’d never said such a thing to anyone, but he had
an odd need to reassure this curiously vulnerable woman. Of course, she
held his future and that of the children in her hands. It was in his
best interests to pacify her.

“Ladies terrify you?” she asked doubtfully, raising
her delicate eyebrows. Her eyes widened. “Is that why you’re always
barking at me? You’re afraid of me?”

He shrugged. “Just... uncomfortable. Let’s leave it at that, all right?”

His haughty lady dissolved into an almost blissful
smile at discovering this weakness in him. “I have never stopped to
think how I must appear to others. This has been most enlightening.”

“This discussion has not solved our problem,” he corrected. He couldn’t have the damned woman thinking he was
afraid
of her, but he certainly couldn’t tell her she had him by the balls, either.

“Oh, solving the marriage problem is easy,” she said
with startling aplomb. “Did she give you a date by which we are to
declare our intentions?”

Mac watched her suspiciously. “Three weeks from yesterday.”

She nodded. “Aunt Constance is incapable of staying
in one place for any length of time. She has no doubt already set some
plan in motion for her departure. We will merely play along with her
wishes for the next few weeks—” She halted, as if realizing something.
“Of course, there must be a few conditions.”

“Of course,” he said dryly. “Such as?”

She clenched her hands tightly. “You will use this
time to teach me what I need to know about managing my estate. I do not
wish to be dismissed or humored any longer.”

“That seems fair, if you’re willing to accept my
occasional irascibility. I’m not a patient man.” He might as well lay
that out clearly right now.

A lovely, shy smile blossomed on her lips. “I’ve
noticed. Fair enough.” Then, remembering, she asked, “Your ship? When
does that depart?”

Now that they had formed a conspiracy together, Mac
didn’t wish to disappoint her. He knew his father’s ship would set sail
any day now, but he still didn’t have a nanny to help him. He would
write Cunningham to take care of seeing the
Virginian
off. His father wouldn’t be happy and would no doubt cut him out of his
proposed partnership, but the safety of the children was his priority.
“I have a ship of my own,” he admitted. “It can sail as soon as it’s
completed.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”

He grimaced. “That my family is related to half the
aristocracy of Great Britain? That I’m a businessman and don’t own any
estates?”

“Right.” She pulled her gloves on more securely and
adjusted her shawl. “Of course. How foolish of me to think otherwise.”
She stood up.

He rose with her, knowing he’d just placed his future in her hands. Nervously, he awaited her decision.

“Well, then, as I was saying, we’ll simply play
along with my aunt’s wishes until she leaves. You’ll pretend to court
me, and I’ll pretend to be courted. Once she’s certain I’m suitably
settled, she’ll be about her journeys. Then you may take the children
and sail away. I’ll not report you to a drunkard who neglects his
children”

“Suitably settled?” he asked warily.

She looked off into the distance. “Announcing a
betrothal should do it. She cannot expect me to actually marry until my
year of mourning is ended.”

Why did he not feel the least bit relieved as she
strode briskly out, leaving him to stew over all the possibilities
lurking between “suitably settled” and “sailing away”?

Watching her skirt sway hypnotically with her
long-legged stride, Mac wondered if the next few weeks wouldn’t be a
severe test of his ability to restrain his impulsiveness.

He’d almost learned to control his temper, but he’d never had to rein in his lust.