Swallowing hard, she could only nod.
Jamie studied her a moment longer, then he sighed. “Verra well. If ye must go to London, I will go with ye.”
Mari suddenly found her voice. “What? I assure you, there is no need. London is quite civilized.” She could just imagine how members of Society would react to a massive Highlander striding down Fleet Street wielding that huge Scottish sword.
Jamie set his jaw. “These be my terms. Ye can accept them or ye can stay right here. I gave my oath to protect ye, and I canna do that if we are parted.”
Recognizing the stubborn line of his chiseled jaw, Mari knew there would be no arguing with him. Lud! How was she ever going to find an eligible husband if this great hulking Highlander hovered over her? She certainly was not going to find a husband staying in the country either. She would just have to find a way to discourage Jamie’s presence once they got to London.
A sudden thought came to her. A number of debutantes came out during the Little Season. The perfect solution would be to find one to distract Jamie and free her from his bossyguardianship. Considering the maids at Newburn made calf-eyes at him—which he did not discourage—the task should not prove difficult. Mari gave Jamie her best smile.
“If you insist,” she said.
Because of their mulish argument and the fact that Jamie had to pack a trunk, it was near noon before the landau finally rolled off the graveled drive of Newburn onto the London road. Mari suppressed a vexed sigh. Jamie—the lout—had actually insisted she go with him to Cantford while he got his things. As if she would leave without him. She paused in her fuming. Well, to be honest, she probably would have. But did he think her such a ninnyhammer that she could not take care of herself? Not only did she have her maid, Effie, with her, but two footmen rode the rear of the carriage—footmen Jamie had personally trained to handle weapons, much to their delight.
This time she did sigh. Highlanders thought everything could be solved through might. In the few weeks Jillian and Ian had been gone, Jamie had turned the entire ranking of staff upside down. He had chosen the strongest—brawwas the word he used—of men to train, whether they were stable boys or house servants. Adams, the butler, nearly had an apoplexy when Jamie ordered him and the steward who kept the books to the makeshift pistol range. Every man should be able to defend the women of the estate, Jamie had said.
From what did they did to be defended? Since Napoleon had been defeated, England wasn’t even at war. Certainly, their neighbors were not suddenly about to attack. England wascivilized.
A thought niggled at her mind. Wesley Alton, the son of Jillian’s dead husband, had tried to retake Newburn through a forced marriage to Jillian approved by the prince regent. Mari had to admit it truly had been a wondrous spectacle to see Ian and Jamie breaking through the doors of Brighton’s chapel on the day of that fateful wedding, wielding their great claymores as though they were children’s toys. The priest had fainted, and the whole incident was totally scandalous, but Mari had felt a shivery thrill shoot through her body at the sight of them and their clansmen charging through the church, broad chests clad only in tartan sashes and kilts revealing strong, well-muscled legs.
After all, how often did a lady have the opportunity to see bare, bulging biceps and muscular thighs? English Society was rather overdressed in that respect.
Still. There was hardly a need for medieval behavior. Although Wesley Alton had attempted to rape Jillian and was suspected of killing his mistress, the Earl of Sherrington’s wife, the man was safely in Bedlam, under the care of doctors determining his sanity.
“With all your sighing, miss, a person would think you aren’t happy to be going to London,” Effie said. “Lord knows, you’ve fussed over which gowns to take and badgered me to get all the packing done.”
Mari had given up long ago trying to train her maid to be mindful of her place. The woman was ten years older than she and her widowed Aunt Agnes’s friend. Effie had helped raise Mari since her mother died in childbirth. “Iamexcited to be going to London. I just wish we could have gotten an earlier start. We will never cover the twenty-five miles to Town before nightfall, thanks to the delay this morning.”
“There is a very nice inn at Windsor,” Effie replied. “Besides, it gives a body comfort to know we have a nice, strong man riding alongside.”
“Humph. An overbearing, bossy semi-barbarian, you mean.”
“You’ve always been a headstrong girl yourself.” Effie chuckled. “Seems fitting you’ve met your match.”
“Jamie MacLeod isnotmy match. Not in any sense of the word. He is stubborn, willful, unyielding once he gets an idea into his head—”
“Sounds like you are repeating yourself, Miss.” Effie gave her a sly look. “But maybe those are attributes you admire?”
“I certainly donot. The man is nearly insufferable and much too sure of himself. He thinks because he’s good-looking and has all those muscles women should swoon at his feet. Remember how he practiced sword play without his shirt—” Mari snapped her mouth shut. Lud! She didn’t need to recall the rippling muscles of his arms and back or his broad chest with the light dusting of dark hair turning into a tantalizing line down the hard ridges of his belly… It was suddenly quite warm in the carriage, even for an autumn day.
“Um-hmm,” Effie said wisely.
Mari Barclay had to be the most vexing lass he’d ever encountered. And one of the most winsome as well.
Jamie grinned to himself as he held the Andalusian stallion at a steady jog to stay abreast of the carriage. Over the past few weeks, he’d caught Mari watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking—like the time she’d shooed the housemaids inside while they watched him train in the courtyard. He’d even admit he flexed a little extra muscle for her benefit, although, of course, she hadn’t acknowledged it. Instead, she’d tossed her bonnie head, making the blonde sausage curls dance, and lifted her wee nose in the air.
Faugh! The English had strange ways. What was wrong with admitting an attraction between a man and a woman? Mari might shoot blue fire from her eyes when he teased her—which he did on purpose to savor her spirited reaction—but he’d also seen those eyes deepen to the color of a Highland loch when he stood close. Not that he would boast of such things, but he did have a wee bit of experience with lasses. Well, perhaps more than aweebit, given that Ian and he spent many a night carousing with wenches. Jamie always made sure the lass took her pleasure as well, and he was careful no bairn would result. What more could a lass want?
Jamie had given his oath he would protect Mari. At his home on Raasay Isle, a lass would take that as a great compliment. Women expected the men to protect them. He sobered. He had not finished training the men at either Cantford or Newburn. Not that house servants or outdoor ghillies barely old enough to be called men qualified as real fortifications, but it had been a start. Ian would not be pleased that he’d left the estates to follow Mari to London, but what choice did he have?
The wee vixen was as headstrong as their older sister Bridget. Jamie suspected Mari had a nose for adventure and trouble as much as his little sister, Fiona, did. How many times had Ian and he rescued that one from ill-fated escapades? Mayhap those experiences would serve him well in keeping Mari in his sights while they were in London. She wouldn’t be going far without him.
Cold rain pelted the carriage the next morning as they left Windsor Inn, the sodden skies turning already brown fields into hapless slabs of mud. Mari invited the two footmen to ride inside instead of on the rear bumper seat even though Effie scolded that thetonwould certainly consider such behavior completely unacceptable. Mari knew that was true since Aunt Agnes had spent countless hours schooling her on what was proper and what was not in London’shaute tonSociety. Still, they weren’t in London yet, and Mari saw no reason why the young men should sit in the drenching downpour. Even now, they both wore broad, appreciative smiles on their faces.
Or maybe that was because of the situation they were facing across from them.
What Mari hadn’t considered was Jamie tying his horse behind the carriage and riding inside also. He planted himself firmly between her and Effie, ignoring the maid’s protests that such closeness was improper. With every jolt of the landau, Jamie managed to brush his thigh against hers—and the road was becoming quite rutted with rain forming rivulets everywhere.
