Highland Rogue, London Miss. Margaret Moore
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his features. Either he was annoyed with her, or as concerned about their purpose and their ability to achieve their goal as she, or else Edinburgh held no happy memories for him. Given what she’d learned of MacLachlann, she wouldn’t be surprised to discover all three reasons brought that expression to his face.
The carriage came to a halt outside a large, imposing three-story stone house with a huge fanlight over the door. She’d assumed that the town house of an earl would be a large and fine one; even so, she was not quite prepared for a house as big as a palace, with an abundance of windows and black double doors that gleamed like liquid pitch. No doubt there was an enclosed garden at the back and a coach house and stables off the mews for horses and carriages, too.
“Home sweet home,” MacLachlann muttered with an absence of anything remotely like joy as the doors of the house opened and a butler appeared on the threshold, looking suitably austere and grave.
MacLachlann hissed a curse and before she could ask what was the matter, he said, “It’s McSweeney. Been with the family forever.”
“Do you think he’ll recognize you?” she asked, trying to hide her own dismay at this unforeseen turn of events.
“If he does, we’ll just have to brazen it out. If he doesn’t, he’ll probably go out of his way to avoid me. He never liked Augustus.
“And remember to act vapid and stupid,” he added. “I daresay all the servants will be more curious about you than they will be about me.”
That wasn’t exactly comforting, Esme thought as a liveried footman came out from behind the butler, trotted down the steps and opened the door.
MacLachlann got out of the coach, then held up his hand to help her down.
She tried to ignore the warmth of his touch, and his expression that could be encouragement as she stepped onto the pavement.
“McSweeney, you old dog!” MacLachlann cried as they started up the steps. “I thought you must be dead by now.”
“As you can see, my lord, I am not,” the butler replied, sounding exactly like an undertaker in a house of bereavement.
“Nor hired by another family?” MacLachlann asked.
“I was, until your solicitor inquired about the possibility of my return to Dubhagen House, my lord.”
“He offered you a pretty penny, too, I don’t doubt. That’s a solicitor for you, always ready to spend a client’s money.”
Esme’s grip tightened at the insult, but MacLachlann ignored her as they continued into the house.
MacLachlann glanced over his shoulder as the butler ordered the coachman to drive around to the mews, then whispered with obvious relief and delight, “McSweeney didn’t bat an eye. If we can fool him, we can fool anybody.”
She was relieved, too, but she couldn’t share his confidence. For one thing, he’d been raised to his role. She had not.
Nor had she grown up in such opulent surroundings. A round mahogany table with an enormous oriental vase full of roses stood in the center of the marble-tiled foyer, their scent lost amid the stronger odors of beeswax and lemons. Pier glasses hung on sea-green walls decorated with ornate white plaster work.
Two middle-aged maids holding brooms and dustpans were in the corridor leading to the back of the house, a hall boy with an empty coal scuttle lurked by a door that probably led below stairs, another footman in scarlet livery waited by the door to what was likely the drawing room and three more maids peered down from the landing above, reached by a wide hanging stair.
“See that our baggage is unpacked at once,” MacLachlann ordered with a casual flick of his hand. “I’ll show her ladyship to her bedroom myself. I trust it’s ready?”
“Absolutely, my lord,” the butler replied. “Your solicitor has hired a most excellent housekeeper, so all is quite prepared despite the lack of time.”
MacLachlann turned on the butler with a speed that was shocking. “Are you presuming to criticize me, McSweeney?” he demanded.
The poor man took a startled step back. “No, my lord. Of course not, my lord.”
“Good.” MacLachlann addressed Esme as if that confrontation had never happened. “Come along, my dear.”
He gave her that … that Look. She stiffened, waiting for a kiss. He pulled her close—and squeezed her bottom.
It took every ounce of self-control Esme possessed not to slap him, especially when she saw the sly look of amusement on his handsome face, and his bright eyes gleaming in a way that sent the blood rushing through her veins.
Then, without a word or even a look of warning, he scooped her up in his arms and started toward the stairs.
Appalled and afraid he was going to drop her, Esme threw her arms around his neck. She was going to demand he put her down at once, until she saw the butler’s shocked expression.
She had a part to play and play it she must, so instead she whispered loud enough for the butler and other servants to hear, “Put me down, dearest ducky, or what will the servants think?”
He didn’t answer as he continued up the stairs.
Not sure what to do, she started to babble like a ninny. “Oh, you’re such a romantic fellow! I’m glad you’re so strong. And you didn’t tell me your house was so magnificent, Ducky, or I would have asked you to bring me here sooner. All that time courting me and you never said. And your servants—so very proper. I do hope they like me!”
Still he was silent as they passed the maids, who dutifully bowed their heads.
Perhaps Augustus was not a loquacious man.
MacLachlann carried her along a corridor full of portraits and paintings of landscapes, the walls behind painted sky blue, until they reached a room nearly at the end of the hall. Finally he spoke as they crossed the threshold. “This is my lady’s chamber.”
Distracted as she was being carried like an invalid, she couldn’t help noticing that it was a beautiful room. The walls were papered with a delicate design of pale green and blue, the draperies green velvet and the cherry furniture polished to a gleaming gloss.
Nevertheless, her surroundings were less important than the fact that he was still holding her in his arms. “You may put me down now.”
He did, slowly setting her on her feet. Very slowly. Her body close to his. Very close.
Suddenly his expression darkened and her heart seemed to stop beating as she wondered what she’d done.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded, and she realized he wasn’t addressing her, but someone behind her.
She turned swiftly to see a woman in a plain gray woollen gown and white mop cap with a pillow in her hand standing on the other side of the bed curtained with pale blue silk.
She must be a maid, Esme thought, and a very pretty one, too, although not so young as Esme first supposed. She immediately hoped she didn’t have to worry about her alleged husband seducing the servants.
“I am Mrs. Llewellan-Jones, the housekeeper, my lord. I wasn’t informed you had arrived,” the woman replied with a Welsh accent as she dipped a curtsey and met MacLachlann’s genial smile with a frown.
Esme was suddenly quite sure that even if MacLachlann tried to seduce the housekeeper, Mrs. Llewellan-Jones was quite ready and able to resist him.
As she, apparently—and to her chagrin—was not.
“Ah. The solicitor hired you as well?” MacLachlann asked.
“Yes, my lord. I was recently working for Lord Raggles.”
“How is old Rags?” MacLachlann asked with one of his more charming smiles, while Esme sidled toward a huge armoire near the door.
“His