Chapter Three
London
Connall hated travellingby mail coach. He preferred to control his own destiny, and that included his means of travel. But he could not ride his own cattle all the way to London. At least not at the speed the Sassenach mail coach did. And so he grabbed a seat up top—the only place left—and cursed Miss Mairi MacAdaidh all the way down to London.
He shouldn’t have been surprised that she took off the way she had. The woman had a Scot’s temper, but it was usually tempered by good sense. Dangerous enough to travel by oneself as a man. To do so as a woman into a city as strange as London? Well, that was reckless on a whole new level.
But he knew that’s where she was even before her father confirmed it. From the moment Liam had told him that Mairi had disappeared, he was sure she’d headed down to that harridan of a countess and to hell with any Scotsman who wanted her hand.
Damned bold she was, and he had little choice but to follow. It was the only way he could be sure she was still alive.
He’d taken the fastest route down to London—in the rain, no less—drenched to the bone on top of the mail coach. He knew his way about London, at least enough to get him to her address, but he appeared on the countess’s doorstep like a half-drowned rat. And now he stood with his hat in hand, praying that Mairi had made it here safe and sound. And if she was, well, then he planned to throttle her.
The door was opened by a dour-faced butler who curled his lip in disdain. Supercilious Sassenach. There was nothing wrong with crushed clothing if one had just travelled across the country without so much as time for a shave.
“I’m here to see Miss Mairi MacAdaidh,” he declared.
“Oh look. Another Scot,” the man drawled.
Connall was about to say something biting when he realized the man had saidanotherScot. “She’s here then? Safe?”
“And who might you be?” the butler returned, refusing to answer.
“I’m the man charged with seeing to her safety, damn you. Is she here?”
“Then you’ve done a poor job of it, haven’t you? Now who are you?”
“I don’t need you to tell me my business,” he snapped. “Is she hurt?”
Far from answering, the man drew up to his full height which, for a Sassenach, was plenty tall. And given that he stood a step above Connall, he thoroughly blocked the door. “Your name, sir.”
Connall took a breath to blast the man, but then he heard a distinctive voice, thick with brogue and using words best reserved for Scotsmen in the drink.
“Damn yer bluidy book! And damn these infernal boots!” There were more words, softly murmured by someone else, quickly lost amid a flurry of curses that made Connall grin. Only one Scotswoman swore like that, and if she had enough breath to speak loud enough for this butler’s ears to turn red, then she was alive and well.
He blew out a relieved breath. “Ye can inform the crabbit lass that Connall Aberbeag, son of the Duke of Aberbeag is here to ring her bonny neck.” He’d let his brogue run thick just to confuse the butler. The man would hear the words Duke of Aberbeag and not make much else out. And that very confusion allowed him to bully his way inside. “Don’ mind me,” he said. “I’ll find her meself.”
Fortunately, he was a big man, otherwise he’d never have managed it. When he stepped into the doorway, the butler had to retreat or be bowled over in an undignified heap. And once the man had given up that small bit of space, Connall wasted no time in pushing past to head straight to the parlor where he’d heard Mairi curse.
He hauled the parlor door open. Trust Mairi to curse loud enough to be heard through a closed door. Then he drank in the sight of Mairi with a book on her head looking like a miserable, bright yellow sack of potatoes.
The woman he knew was muscular with strong hands, a willowy waist, and breasts that made a man enjoy the looking. What he saw now was bright yellow fabric with two flounces that hung on her body in misshapen lumps. The scowl on her face was familiar enough to be attractive to him. The way one always smiles at an old friend. But the tilt to her head was new. It made her appear to be staring down her nose at him. He knew the books atop her head caused the new position, and right hilarious she looked balancing them that way.
“Say one word, Connall, and I’ll…blast!”
Apparently, the woman couldn’t curse at him and keep the books on her head. They tumbled down around her like heavy rain. Thank goodness she wore sturdy half boots, otherwise her toes would have been pummeled.
With the books at her feet, he got a good look at the way her hair was twisted and pinned. Well, no wonder she’d had to tilt her head to an unnatural angle. And he’d bet anything she had a headache from the octopus-like coils of locks.
“Have none of the Scots any manners?” inquired a very English woman who sat ramrod straight on the settee. Obviously, the Countess. Now that he had seen that Mairi was safe—if miserable—then he could make his bows to the lady.
Crossing to the Countess, he took her hand to bow deeply over it. And when he straightened, he spoke as clearly as he could with no trace of Scots in his voice.
“Forgive my intrusion, my lady. I’m afraid Miss MacAdaidh’s father was in a panic at her absence yesterday morning and dispatched me to retrieve her. We are all most grateful for you to have given her aid and comfort in her time of need.”
He nearly choked on the word “comfort.” Mairi looked anything but comfortable, but that wasn’t the point. She’d risked a great deal to come here on her own, and he was still furious with her for the danger she’d put herself in.
Typically, Mairi wasn’t silent. “My father knew exactly what I’d done. I left a note—”