Patricia Rice (18 page)

She might be ignorant of the bookkeeping aspect of
business, but Mac could see that she possessed an astute grasp of the
practical elements. “Digby’s inn will attract a few travelers,” he said
carefully. “The mill will draw more. And there seem to be quite a few
great houses hereabouts that must entertain their owners and guests upon
occasion. If they had some reason to visit town, I’m sure they would.”

She regarded him with unconcealed pleasure, and
before Mac could anticipate her action, she leaned over and brushed his
cheek with a kiss. “Thank you!”

Unable to endure temptation any longer, Mac trapped
her rounded chin before she could pull away, and relished the silky
texture beneath his rough fingers. Her eyes widened, and he thought she
stopped breathing. Hell, he knew he had. Her pale lips parted, and her
gaze darted nervously to his mouth, which he seemed to be lowering quite
irrationally toward hers.

“The two of you seem to be in fine fettle this
evening.” Lady Taubee announced, sailing into the room. “Beatrice, dear,
it’s much too warm to be wearing that shawl.”

The old bat must have been standing outside the
doorway, waiting for the moment, Mac thought grimly as he retreated. He
ought to be grateful for the intrusion.

To Mac’s relief, Bea ignored her aunt’s admonition
about the shawl. Her gown’s design revealed soft slopes and swells of
creamy skin and a smattering of freckles in a place he’d get down on his
knees and beg to explore. Every so often her shawl would shift, and he
had to wish for blinders until she adjusted it.

“We’re discussing a consignment shop, Aunt Constance. What things do you think might sell in a place like Broadbury?”

“Such romantic conversation,” Constance said dryly,
lowering herself to a wing chair. “All this younger generation thinks
about is money.”

“Bea and I aren’t poetry readers.” In frustration, Mac resigned himself to jousting with the old tartar.

“I see that.” Lady Taubee gifted him with a sardonic
lift of her eyebrows. “Well, at least you have interests in common.
We’re turning into a nation of shopkeepers.”

“You would prefer being known as a nation of idlers
and do-nothings?” he challenged her. “At least Americans are interested
in progress.”

“Mac,” Bea protested, “Aunt Constance didn’t mean
anything by that. Things change so fast, it’s hard to know what to
expect. Have you ever been on a train, Aunt?”

Mac noticed that Bea shifted to leave a space
between them, but her fingers toyed with a loose thread in one of her
flounces, so she wasn’t quite as calm as she sounded.

“Of course, child. I took one to Evesham on the way
here. Smelly, horrible machines, but much quicker than a coach. I’ve
never liked hiring chaises.” Lady Taubee retrieved her watercolors from
the easel she’d set up in the midst of the cluttered parlor. “I think we
ought to have a dinner party to discuss your plans, dear.”

Bea frowned. “We would have to invite Lord Knowles,
and he’d hate the idea. And then he’d find out I’ve sold the dogs to
Dav, and I’d never hear the end of it.”

Mac had his own reasons for not wishing to hobnob
with the local aristocracy, and he shot Lady Taubee a telling look. She
was baiting him for some reason. Was that some sort of threat?

“Well,” Constance said with a sigh, frowning at her
exotic painting of colorful tents and waving palm trees and ignoring his
glare, “I daresay you’re right, dear, but it seems a shame not to have a
teeny tiny little dinner while I’m here.”

The conniving old tyrant had tenderhearted Bea
wrapped around her little finger, Mac thought. Now, if Bea were really
his wife...

That thought brought him to an abrupt halt. They actually had him thinking of Bea and
wife
in the same sentence. Heart pounding as if he’d just stepped back from a cliff’s edge, Mac desperately sought distraction.

“We could invite the curate and his wife,” Bea suggested. “That would be proper and wouldn’t require inviting everyone else.”

Bea rose and retreated to the piano, leaving a gaping emptiness beside him.

“As you wish, dear. I suppose those charming Carstairs men have departed?”

“Days ago,” Mac agreed with a measure of triumph. No
longer confined to the love seat, he stood to prowl the room. “The
Season is in full swing. They’re gallivanting about ballrooms as we
speak.”

“Ahh, yes.” Constance gave a forlorn sigh. “London
is so entertaining at this time of year. I’m sure dear Bea would be
snatched up by any number of discerning gentlemen if only I could
persuade her out of this mausoleum. But I understand. The children are
much more important.”

Mac suffered a moment of guilt until Bea’s gentle fingering of the piano keys crashed discordantly.

“I would be the gawk of the season,” she exclaimed. “I’m
happy
here, Aunt Constance. I would not have you forfeit your fun for me. Go to London if you wish.”

Mac reverently wished the old lady would obey. He
drifted in the direction of the piano. He liked the way soft wisps of
hair curled around Bea’s vulnerable nape. The thick heaviness behind his
trouser buttons warned him of the danger of that possessive thought.

“I would be negligent in my duties to my niece’s
only daughter should I leave you unchaperoned, dear,” Constance
declared. “Let’s speak no more about it. Invite the charming curate and
his lovely wife and we will have a delightful evening, I’m sure.”

Mac needed to talk to Bea—alone. But they were never alone.

Swinging around in the desk chair and gazing out the
window to watch her playing on the lawn with the children, he dug his
fingers into his hair in frustration.

His only opportunity to catch Bea alone was in the
evening, and Mac knew perfectly well her aunt left them for only a few
minutes at a time in hopes of catching them at something foolish again.
And he
would
do something foolish. It was much too easy to forget a drunkard like Simmons while imagining Bea’s kisses.

He turned back to the desk and the letter from his London agent. He couldn’t delay his decision any longer. The
Virginian
was stocked and ready to sail. Every instinct told him he needed to be
on board, fleeing with the children to the safety of home.

He turned back to watch the children again. Bitsy
was clapping her hands and Buddy was dancing to some nonsense Bea sang
for them. He was fascinated enough to wish she were the kind of woman
who would marry him for the sake of the children and run off to Virginia
with him, but he knew she was not. Bea’s roots were sunk deep in the
soil of this village.

Grimly, Mac picked up his pen to write the letter sealing his fate. The
Virginian
would have to sail without him. Besides, Cunningham had reported
suspicious men watching the ship. He’d never smuggle two noisy children
past the viscount’s spies.

With more penstrokes, he ordered Cunningham to oversee the final fittings of the clipper and stock it, as well.

Setting his jaw, Mac finished his response to his
agent’s inquiries. And in a letter that took much longer, he explained
to his father why he was not on the ship as expected. Telling his
parents of Marilee’s death brought tears to his eyes all over again, but
explaining to them why he’d kidnapped her children was twice as
difficult.

Mac sealed the letters, gave them to James to
deliver, and to assuage his lingering guilt and despondency, wandered
out to the front lawn to watch the children.

Bea looked up in surprise as he lowered himself
beside her on the blanket she’d spread across the grass. “I thought you
had gone with the carpenters to the mill.”

“I had some correspondence to answer.” Awkwardly, he
leaned back on one hand and dangled the other over his bent knee. It
was almost peaceful in Bea’s company. She allowed a man calm in which to
think, to relax, and to admire the beauty around him.

“You are very kind to help me while my aunt holds
you hostage,” she murmured without looking up from the ribbon she
smoothed into Bitsy’s sparse curls.

He grunted and looked away from the tender scene to
watch Buddy crawling on hands and knees beneath a bush. “You’re
harboring a wanted kidnapper, and showing the children more kindness
than they’ve known since their mother died. I’d declare us even.”

“It’s awkward,” she said, from out of the blue.

He waited, but she didn’t explain. Glancing over at
her, he saw that she was watching her aunt directing a caravan of
servants and boxes toward the kitchens while speaking earnestly with a
scarlet-liveried James.
Awkward
didn’t begin to
describe the position the old lady had put them in. “Well, it gives me
some practice at courting,” he said to lift her spirits, “though I
suspect I’m going about it all wrong.”

She turned her smile in his direction. “I’ve never
been courted, so I couldn’t say. I suspect if you appeared at the front
door, candy and flowers in hand, I’d faint dead away, so you must be
doing something right.”

“Umm,” he said noncommittally. “I can fix that. I’ve
already started telling your tenants they’ll have to pay up their rents
or begin looking for work elsewhere.”

“What?” she cried in distress. “I gave you no
permission to say any such thing. How could you?” She plopped Bitsy down
on his chest and started to rise. “I’ll have to go see the widow.
She’ll be in hysterics.”

Mac collapsed backward under the weight of the
burbling infant, who immediately leaned over to smack his nose with her
plump fingers. “Oww,” he protested as she dug tiny fingernails into him.
“Bea, get back here this instant!”

She was already off toward the drive, leaving him
with the drooling babe. Pushing upward while trying not to drop Bitsy,
Mac hollered after her, “I haven’t told the widow yet!”

She halted and turned to glare at him before heading
back. By all that was holy, the woman could spit fire with just her
eyes. And her aunt thought her timid.
A lot she knew.

“Then why did you tell me you had?”

Damned if he could answer that. He shrugged and
tried to hand her the bouncing babe. She was having none of it. With a
sigh, Mac sat Bitsy on the blanket and crouched down to look under the
bushes for Bud.

When he didn’t answer her question, Bea rolled her
eyes, planted her booted foot on his backside, and shoved. As Mac
sprawled headfirst into the shrubbery, she whirled around and marched
off.

***

Warily, Bea watched the hallway as she descended the
stairs to her aunt’s dinner party. She’d managed to stay out of Mac’s
way for most of the day by visiting her tenants and reassuring them that
no matter what happened, they would have a roof over their heads. The
widow had sent her away with a jar of jam and instructions on how to
make a hair brooch. Bea would like to wrap Mr. MacTavish into a brooch
and pin him on a donkey.

This feigned courtship was insufferable. She’d
thought it would be simple to smile and pretend all was well while her
aunt watched, then go about her business. But, no, Mr. King-of-it-all
couldn’t be satisfied with merely teaching her how to run the estate. He
had to meddle in all her affairs.

Remembering those stolen moments in the garden, Bea cringed. She had actually
wanted
the miserable man to kiss her.

Mac had wanted to kiss her, too. That knowledge filled her dreams.

She heard the low murmur of voices from the best
parlor and stopped to straighten the bodice of her evening gown. Aunt
Constance had chosen the rich green figured silk with the dashing
décolleté for her. Bea had always worn it with a lace mantelet to
disguise the neckline, but her aunt had scoffed at that. Without the
mantelet, she felt terribly naked, especially for a dinner with the
curate.

Aunt Constance had said other women flaunted their
assets, but Bea didn’t think she could. She would much rather hide them,
especially when Mac stared at her as if she were a rich pudding he’d
like to devour, and she started wondering if she would like being
devoured.

“Bea, dear! What are you doing lurking in the
hallway? Come along, come along, and join our guests.” Sweeping up
behind Bea, Lady Taubee all but shoved her through the double doors and
into the parlor.

Mac stood beside the fireplace, his big hands curled
around a crystal wineglass, his glossy hair trimmed and curled in some
semblance of fashion. His black evening coat molded his broad shoulders
like a second skin, and the fall of linen at his throat would look at
home in the best ballrooms of London. Bea tried not to breathe too
deeply at the sight of his long legs encased in tight black trousers.

Then she saw the way he looked at her, and she thought she might catch fire and burn into smoldering ash.

Taking a deep breath, Bea turned awkwardly to greet
their guests. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mac throw back a large
swallow of wine. This had the markings of a very long evening.

Mr. Rector didn’t seem in the least disturbed by the
cut of her gown. He patted her hand, told her she was looking well, and
passed her on to his wife. Mrs. Rector exclaimed over the lovely
rosettes attached to Bea’s sleeves, wondered if she might order
something similar, then launched into a discussion of the cooperative.

Perhaps she just imagined that Mac heated the room more than the fire he stood beside. She wouldn’t turn to see.

“My dear, you are neglecting your other guest,” Mrs.
Rector eventually whispered. “He looks much too lordly to play the part
of steward, doesn’t he?”

“Well, he’s not actually.” Bea tried to think what
she could call him, but she feared revealing his true identity. James’s
arrival to announce dinner saved her from explanation.

“Mr....
Warwick
, you really must take Beatrice in. I’ll bring up the rear,” Aunt Constance commanded.