Patricia Rice (17 page)

* * *

As the mail coach rumbled to a halt in front of the
inn with a blare of horn and wail of brakes, Mac watched eagerly for the
nursemaid who would rescue him from the spider’s silk winding him in
its trap.

A plump young girl with cherries bouncing on her hat
stepped down, tugging a toddler with her, and his stomach sank to new
lows. Both girl and child wore the vapid expression of contented cows
and moved at the gradual pace of ancient galleons.

Buddy would have them walking the plank before the ship left port.

Mischief danced in Bea’s fine eyes as she watched their slow progress. “With her as nursemaid, you would have
four
children to watch,” she murmured. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Fine time for the haughty female to develop a sense
of humor. Mac shoved his hand in his pocket in search of coins to
recompense the candidate for nanny so he could send her back from whence
she came.

“The children know Mary, and she’s good with them. I
fail to see why she can’t go to America with us,” Mac said curtly,
pacing the dirt lane in front of the Cottles’ neat stone cottage.

Several days of mail coaches carrying unsuitable nannies had passed, and he was growing increasingly frustrated.

Crouching to lift Mary’s baby sister, Bea smiled
apologetically at her maid’s mother. “Mac is like this when he can’t
have his way. Don’t let him frighten you.” Lately, she’d been thrust
into the position of providing a softening barrier between her tenants
and Mac’s American tactlessness. Mac didn’t even notice.

Mrs. Cottle wound her apron around her hands and
nodded as she watched Mac study a dead tree limb scratching the
cottage’s tile roof. “It’s not that I don’t want better for the lass—”
She gasped and stared as Mac reached for a sound limb and swung his
large frame into the tree.

Bea sighed with a mixture of appreciation and
exasperation as the broad muscles of Mac’s back stretched his shirt to
the limit. The man was incapable of sitting still and carrying on a
civilized conversation, but she had to admit she harbored a fondness for
the way all that brawn worked. She winced as he cracked off the dead
limb with a powerful twist, then dropped the branch to the ground. His
neckcloth and shirt would be grimy with sap.

She tickled the child in her arms and nervously
avoided the image of Mac stripping off his dirty shirt. Her mind took
the strangest paths these days. “I understand, Mrs. Cottle,” she said
reassuringly. “With ten young ones at home, you need as many hands as
can be spared. Mary’s a hard worker. I don’t know what I’d do without
her.”

Mac dropped to the ground, brushed off his hands, and glared at her. “You could live with a little dust for a few months.”

“Mrs. Cottle cannot live without her eldest
daughter,” she retorted. Now that she knew he was all bark and no bite,
she could stand up for herself a little better.

“I have a cousin....” Mrs. Cottle offered
tentatively, glancing back and forth between them to see if she should
proceed. Noting she had drawn their attention, she unwrapped her apron
and brushed it down. “She has unmarried daughters. I could have Mary
write—”

“Do that.” Mac snapped the broken branch into pieces
and stacked the bits by the gate. “I’ll pay well. There’s plenty of
employment to be had in Virginia.”

“Or he’ll send them safely home, if they prefer,”
Bea interceded gently. “He seems to think Virginia is the only place to
be.” The hint of resentment in her voice surprised her.

Mac apparently didn’t hear it. Tugging his coat back
on, he seized Bea’s elbow and nodded abruptly at Mary’s mother. “If you
would do that, I’d be most appreciative.”

Without a fare-thee-well, he steered Bea bodily down
the side street toward town. “Why the devil is it so difficult to hire a
good nursemaid?” he complained.

“Perhaps because you terrify them? Or because they
don’t wish to travel halfway ’round the world. Or because you declare
them incapable of handling two incorrigible, ill-mannered children and
send them away. Bitsy and Buddy need the love of good parents.”

There, she’d said it. He was always telling her what to do. It seemed fitting that she should be permitted to turn the tables.

Mac growled, but before he could speak, his gaze
caught on some sight in the street below. “What is your blithering
footman doing dressed like that?”

“It’s his half day off. He’s entitled—” Bea glanced
down the hill at a group of elegantly tailored young men. “Oh.” James
looked as if he’d just stepped from a men’s expensive fashion plate. She
didn’t think she paid him
that
much. The gentlemen with him appeared a trifle disheveled and dusty from the road.

Abruptly, Mac pushed her down a carriageway between
two towering hedges. “Simmons!” he hissed. “That traitorous wretch James
must have summoned the children’s father.”

“James wouldn’t do that,” Bea whispered back, shaken
as much by Mac’s hand catching her waist and hauling her onward as by
any perceived threat. The gentlemen seemed harmless enough, although
their rising voices sounded much like her father and his friends when in
their cups.

Not bothering to argue with what he’d seen with his
own eyes, Mac shoved her into a narrow alleyway concealed by the
overgrowth of the hedge. Biting back a litany of curses, he tried to
think what to do now. The children were nearly a mile away. How could he
reach them before the viscount did?

“Honestly,” Bea said, still protesting. “James wouldn’t betray us, not even for a reward. He’s
family
. The children are quite safe.”

Mac wanted to believe her, but his own experiences
with family weren’t reassuring. In this proximity, he was too aware of
Bea’s disturbingly feminine presence. A hint of lilac easily distracted
him when he needed his wits about him.

All he could do was hide and pray Simmons didn’t
head this way. Resting his back against the wall, he prevented Bea from
rushing off by pulling her into his arms. Now that he actually held
temptation, he couldn’t resist nuzzling her neck just below her earlobe.
He needed distraction.

“Mr. MacTavish,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “What are you doing?”

“Courting,” he muttered. The lure of her bountiful
breasts tore at his willpower. He was a man who needed to touch, to
grasp, to act....

“We can’t...” She shuddered and wilted closer as he pressed his tongue to the place he’d kissed. “This isn’t...”

Amusement rippled through him at her inability to
complete a sentence. “Think of this as another lesson, more interesting
than account books.”

The approaching sound of argumentative male voices halted further exploration.

Mac groped along the stone wall, parting the bushes
until he discovered a gate into the next yard. Wincing at the creaky
latch, he dragged Bea through the opening, eased the gate shut, and
leaned against it while he looked for an escape route.

“This is foolish,” she whispered, brushing nervously at the long curls he’d disturbed at the back of her head.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Shall I turn myself over to Simmons and free you from my embarrassing presence?”

Her eyes widened in such fear and concern, he could
have kissed her there and then. She wanted to protect the children as
much as he did. A woman of obviously good sense.

“My father won’t part with a farthing,” a querulous
male voice said in a low tone from the other side of the wall. “When he
returns, he’ll no doubt disown me. It’s in your best interest to help
me.”

“Simmons,” Mac hissed in Bea’s ear, pulling her to
him again. She nodded, and stood taut against him, not objecting to his
possessive hold. If it weren’t for his brother-in-law on the other side
of the gate, he’d be enjoying this. Miss Cavendish was one handful of a
woman.

“You gambled and lost,” James said loftily from a distance past the gate. “A gentleman pays his gaming debts.”

“To other gentlemen,” Simmons said scathingly.

Their voices were traveling farther away. Bea began
to wriggle impatiently in Mac’s grip. He glanced around the walled
garden. Unless they chose to invade the attached cottage, they had no
other escape but the gate—nor any way of seeing where the viscount was.

The argument faded down the alley.

Did the damned footman know about the children or not? Maybe he could climb over the wall....

The gate behind them rattled.

“You can come out now!” James’s voice was unnaturally cold as he shook the old wooden planks. “They’re gone.”

Mac cursed and, gently releasing Bea, set her
upright. “If he has Simmons out there, they’ll have me arrested,” Mac
said before she could open the gate. “I’ve left the name of my father’s
agent on your desk. Order him to do whatever is necessary to protect the
children.” Reaching past her, he released the gate latch.

Frozen by Mac’s alarming warning, Bea held her
breath until she saw only James standing there in his city attire. Hand
to chest, she gulped deeply while the two men glared at each other.

“The hedge would have hidden you well enough,” James
declared angrily. “You didn’t need to drag Miss Cavendish in here with
you.”

“If you hadn’t called the bloody damned viscount out here—”

“I never did!”

She’d never seen James so angry. In fact, both men
had reached explosive limits without any provocation that she could see.
Hastily shoving flyaway hairs from her face, Bea brushed between them
and the gate. “Where is the viscount now?” she demanded. “If he sees
those children—”

“Off to see a prizefight,” James said with disgust.
“The lot are drunk as lords already. They said they were making
inquiries about the children, but they drank more than they questioned.”

Elbowing Mac out of the way, James hastily followed
Bea as she swept into the lane. Mac snatched James by the collar and
lifted him to the side.

Bea ignored the byplay. She didn’t understand
anything right now. She didn’t know why James was dressed like a
gentleman, or why Mac had held her as he had, or why her heart was
pounding as if it would escape her chest.

She certainly didn’t know how James knew about
Viscount Simmons or why the viscount would search for Mac in an
out-of-the-way place like Broadbury. Surely he didn’t expect Mac to be
at the earl’s estate.

Mac cupped her elbow and firmly slowed her down. She’d almost broken into a run, she realized. How ungenteel.

Letting a near stranger kiss her neck didn’t precisely qualify as ladylike either.

“Stop and have tea with Mrs. Cottle,” Mac told her.
“I want to have a talk with your fribble. I’ll be back shortly.” Without
giving her time to question, he urged her up the hill.

Perhaps this was why women were called the frailer
sex, Bea mused as she let him shove her away. Feminine heads rattled
when men kissed them, yet Mac’s head didn’t seem harmed one bit by the
encounter.

“Get back here!” Mac shouted as James sauntered
toward town once Bea was safely tucked away at the Cottles’. Mac didn’t
wait for James to respond, but took giant strides to catch up with the
footman’s deliberate ones. “Now tell me the truth, you maggot.” He
collared the bastard again, forcing him to halt. “What the devil are you
doing meeting the likes of Simmons and his cronies?”

“Pardon me, sir,” James said haughtily, “I fail to
see in what way my activities are any concern of yours. I answer only to
my cousin.”

“If you harm those children or Miss Cavendish, you will answer to
me
,”
Mac growled, shaking the flea bait for good measure. Since James was
nearly as tall as he, if not as large, shaking him wasn’t an easy task,
but he had anger enough to do it. “How do you know Simmons? What kind of
inquiries did he make?”

Bea’s cousin waited until Mac flung him aside with
disgust before replying. “It’s no concern of yours how I know him. And
all London knows he seeks his missing children.” He drew himself up
haughtily and brushed at the coat Mac had crushed.

Mac quieted and glared at him, and James continued.
“Miss Cavendish has been all that is kind to me. My one task in life is
to see that she comes to no harm. I consider you the danger here, not
me.”

“Then consider Simmons the biggest danger and stay
away from him!” Frustrated at not being able to throttle the man, Mac
settled for a warning.

James looked down his lofty nose at him. “One should
always know one’s enemy,” he said vaguely, before wandering off toward
the village.

***

“Where’s your aunt?” Mac whispered as Bea led him
into the parlor. It had been days since they’d seen Simmons in the
village, but he was continually looking over his shoulder.

“Showing Cook how to make Turkish Delights, I believe,” Bea responded absently, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Mac chose the sofa and tugged her down beside him.
He tempted the fates—or her aunt—by sitting this close, but one small
sample of Bea’s proximity had generated a hunger for more. He wanted to
hear what quirky idea her earnest expression concealed now, but he hid
his anticipation behind blandness. Her ideas were generally good, but he
enjoyed her eagerness to convince him.

“I’ve been told I should start a consignment shop,” she told him, handing him the account books he’d been teaching her to read.

“A consignment shop?” Politely, Mac tried to glance down to see if Bea’s shawl had slipped from her bare shoulders yet.

“A shop, yes,” Bea said eagerly. “I don’t know what ‘consignment’ means.”

“Consignments are goods a storekeeper offers to sell
for a percentage of the price. If they don’t sell, he doesn’t owe for
them. But you’d need a shopkeeper.”

“The Miller sisters,” she declared. Then she
frowned. “But if nothing sold, they would be paid nothing. And Broadbury
doesn’t have very many visitors.”