Highland Rogue, London Miss. Margaret Moore
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drawing room was as neat and tidy as the foyer. It was simply, but tastefully, furnished, with nary a figurine or knickknack in sight. He had never seen a speck of dust or dirt in either Jamie’s home or office. He suspected even dust and dirt were too intimidated by his sister to linger. Books there were in plenty, however, and what furniture there was had been well-crafted. The camelback sofa and chairs were worn, but comfortable, and the mantel—
Esme stood by the mantel, but Esme as he’d never seen or imagined her. Her eyes were downcast, her dark eyelashes fanning over smooth, pink cheeks and her slender, yet shapely, figure encased in a well-fitting traveling gown of soft pale blue wool. The bodice, bordered by a band of scarlet ribbon, accentuated perfect breasts. Glossy, chestnut-brown tresses were beneath a charming bonnet decorated with small scarlet rosettes, and a few even more charming tendrils of soft curls fell upon her cheek and neck.
She looked young, pretty, fresh, modest—the very picture of Youthful Femininity, until she raised her head and glared at him with irate hazel eyes, her bow-shaped lips turning down in an equally irate frown.
“Although I see you at least remembered to shave, you’re late,” she snapped, running an imperious gaze over him.
He sauntered farther into the room, just as fiercely determined to prevent her from seeing that he was even remotely disturbed by her disapproval. “I went to a barber, so now my cheeks are as smooth as silk. Care to feel?”
“Certainly not!” Esme exclaimed before she abruptly turned away.
But she was blushing, and she’d lowered her eyes again, as if she was tempted to touch him but didn’t dare.
Good God, could Esme McCallan secretly want to touch him? This was a most interesting development and one definitely worth exploring. “You look lovely, Esme.”
“I’ll thank you to keep your unwelcome remarks to yourself!”
“You’re the first woman I’ve ever met who didn’t appreciate a compliment.”
“If I thought there was any sincerity to your observations, I might be flattered.”
Despite her contempt, he tried again. “I am being sincere. You look very nice. I never realized what a difference a change of clothes could make.”
She whirled around to face him.
And then, a miracle. She smiled—a warm and genuine smile. His heart leapt with what might be joy, although it had been a long time since he’d felt anything like true happiness, so he could be wrong.
“Jamie,” she said, walking past him.
She’d been smiling at her brother, who had entered the room behind him.
Of course. He must have been momentarily mad to think Esme would ever smile at him like that, and he must not be disappointed. After all, there were plenty of other women who were eager for his attention.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Jamie,” he said before Esme could condemn him. “I was delayed by the tailor.”
“Never mind. There’s still plenty of time to get out of London and a good distance before dark,” Jamie replied. “The money was well spent, I see.”
“So was yours. I confess I had my doubts about your sister’s ability to pass for a titled young lady, but in those clothes, I think she could.”
“How delightful that my garments meet with your approval,” Esme said coldly. “Now might I suggest we be on our way? The sooner we reach Edinburgh, the sooner we can conclude our business and return.”
Quinn couldn’t agree more.
As the hired town coach rattled along the road north, Quinn didn’t bother to hide his scowl or attempt to make conversation. Why should he exert himself with a woman who was so obviously determined to detest him?
Water from the puddles left by the heavy rain the previous night splashed up nearly to the windows, and the sky was dull and overcast, with a brisk breeze that did nothing to add to the comfort of the coach.
“If you slouch any more, you’ll ruin your greatcoat,” Esme noted as the heavy vehicle upholstered with striped worsted jostled over yet another rut in the road. “It must have cost my brother a pretty penny.”
“I doubt it cost more than the pelisse you’re wearing and probably less,” he replied, sliding a little lower on the seat just to spite her. “I’d wager my whole wardrobe cost less than one of your gowns, and I have the receipts to prove it.”
She gave him a haughty look. “I know how to drive a bargain.”
“I’m sure a look from you can freeze the marrow of a modiste’s bones and convince her to work at a loss,” he agreed. “I, however, believe in paying for a job well done.”
“I only want my money’s worth.”
“Your brother’s money’s worth,” he pointed out.
That brought a flush of pink to Esme’s cheeks. “If women could have a profession, I’d have been a solicitor, too, and gladly earned my own income.”
She’d probably be as good a solicitor as her brother, Quinn mentally conceded. She might be one of the most unpleasant women on the face of the earth, but he couldn’t deny her legal expertise.
“I think you’d be a better barrister,” he said, and that was no lie. “I can easily imagine you interrogating a witness on the stand.”
She frowned, clearly not pleased with his comment. “Solicitors do all the real legal work, the preparation and research, while barristers unfairly reap the glory—the way noble landlords reap the benefits of their tenants’ labor, even if those landlords are wasteful, drunken gamblers.”
God give him patience! And the remembrance that he himself had made her criticism possible. Nevertheless … “Unless you want the servants to gossip about our marriage, you’re going to have to at least pretend to like me when we get to Edinburgh.”
“I see no reason why,” Esme replied. “There are plenty of unhappy marriages in Britain. Ours can simply be another.”
“Not if we’re to be invited to balls and parties and things, and we should be, so we can find out if other gentlemen are experiencing financial woes, or if that’s unique to the earl.”
Esme shook her head. “I rather think the opposite. A squabbling couple is sure to be an object of curiosity and if people think we’ll give them something to talk about, we’ll be more likely to be invited. Haven’t you noticed that people are more curious about a quarrelling, bickering couple than a happy one?”
“If that’s the case, the hatred you harbor for me is indeed fortunate and we stand an excellent chance of being the most popular couple in Edinburgh.”
“I don’t hate you, MacLachlann,” Esme said with infuriating composure. “I’d have to care about you to hate you.”
It was like a slap to his face, or a blow to his heart, to hear her calm dismissal of him. But he would die before he’d allow himself to show that she—or anyone—could hurt him.
“Whatever you think about me, Miss McCallan,” he said just as coolly, “your brother’s asked for my help and he’s going to get it. It would make that task easier for us both if you would refrain from condemning me every time you speak to me. And while I don’t expect you to respect me, can you not at least cooperate? If not, we should return to London.”
Esme got a stubborn glint in her eye. “I am cooperating, or I wouldn’t be here.” She took a deep breath and smoothed down her skirts. “However, I agree that continued animosity will not be beneficial to our task. Therefore, let us begin again.”
He kept his relief hidden, too, even as he wondered exactly what she meant by “beginning again.”
“If I’m supposed to be your