Page 23 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

Marjorie woke strangely energized. She stretched, and despite the tension of the past days, her muscles felt invigorated, her mood light.

She flipped onto her back, staring at the wood beams overhead. She flexed and pointed her toes, thinking it was no wonder she was in such high spirits. They were to go to the docks today. Cormac was helping her, and they had a plan.

Cormac. A little flare of excitement ripped through her belly.

She rolled onto her stomach, looking over the edge of the bed. He was gone. She knew a rush of disappointment and tamped it down at once. He was his own man, who surely had business in need of tending, concerns having naught to do with her or Davie.

Unfortunately, she had well over an hour to consider that fact, and she was dressed, staring idly out the window, and feeling just on the brink of impatience when he finally returned.

“We need to discuss the plan,” he said baldly, bolting the door behind him.

“And a fine morning to you as well, Cormac.” Moving from the window, Marjorie gave him her best dazzling smile.

She wasn’t about to let him sully her curiously bright outlook.

“I’d thought we were enacting our plan. Posing as a wealthy lord and his lady .

” She stepped closer to him, wondering if he was immune to the tease in her voice.

Pretending to be Cormac’s wife was already proving to be quite the diversion.

“I’ve made inquiries,” he said, looking away quickly. “I’ve identified a contact at Justice Port.”

“Did you go back to that smugglers’ boat?” Her voice grew sharp. She didn’t know which she felt more: fear for his safety or resentment that he’d leave her out of something. “Without me?”

Disregarding her question, he continued, “We will go, claiming we’d like to purchase a boy.”

“That sounds . . .” She shuddered.

“A horror. I know it, Ree.” He was silent for a moment, and just when she thought he was done speaking, he inhaled deeply and said, “But I’ve thought on this long and hard. It’s the only way.”

She turned her back to him and leaned against the windowsill. Pretending to buy a boy. Did people really do that? It was unthinkable.

His voice gentled. “Listen, Marjorie. There are many horrors out there, which I fear you’re not ready to face. You must consider this and tell me truly. Will you be able to—”

“Able to do my duty here?” Did he doubt her? She spun to face him, hands on hips. “I can be just as strong as you are. You aren’t the only one capable of subterfuge, Cormac. Just because I find this whole business dreadful does not mean that I cannot do what’s necessary to find and save Davie.”

He merely shrugged and, maddeningly, seemed to be fighting a smile.

“What is it?” she asked, in no humor to brook any more of these inscrutable shifts in mood. And to think she’d started the day so cheerfully.

His eyes roved down her body and then back up. She resented the rush of blood she felt in her cheeks. For once, could she bear his gaze on her without blushing like an unschooled maiden?

Not that she wasn’t an unschooled maiden. She’d reached her twenty-third birthday an unschooled maiden, and would likely see her seventy-third the same way. She pursed her lips into a frown.

His eyes lingered on her shoulders. “Aren’t wealthy married ladies supposed to . . . to do something with their hair?”

She’d donned one of her finest dresses, but she hadn’t given much thought to her hair, leaving it long and loose instead, as a young maid might.

And although she supposed he had a point, she was feeling contentious.

“I’m a spinster, Cormac.” The word spinster spat from her mouth like venom. “I can do what I like with my hair.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, the look on his face unreadable. “A spinster, eh?” He shook his head.

Whatever did he mean by the headshake?

She lifted her chin, feeling ready for battle. “What did that mean?”

“What did what mean, Ree?”

She glared, unwilling to let him distract her with that blasted nickname. “The . . . this ,” she said, mimicking the slow shaking of his head with wide and impatient eyes.

A smile spread slowly on his face. He scanned his eyes once more along her body.

She thought her heart would hammer out of her chest. Unreadable, unpredictable, unnerving. The man was throwing her off balance.

“Only that I find it amusing.” He shrugged. “Marjorie Keith, a spinster.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I’ll pull my hair back.”

“Not on my account.”

“Oh no, Cormac,” she said with mock sincerity. “You are absolutely correct. I mustn’t forget, I am playing the part of a wealthy lady. I shall immerse myself entirely.”

He gave her a quick nod. She imagined she saw a flicker of unease on his face, and it gratified her.

“Though, Cormac,” she said sweetly, “I will, of course, need your help.”

“You need help?”

“Oh yes, I usually have a maid for these things.” She wandered to the small mirror that hung by the bedside and, gathering her hair at the nape of her neck, studied herself intently.

“If we’re playing the part of a wealthy couple, and I find myself traveling without my maid, why then, you will need to act the part. ”

“Of your maid?” he said incredulously.

“Well . . . not that precisely.” It took effort, but she tossed off her best carefree giggle. “But the part of a dutiful husband, certainly.”

Dutiful husband. Marjorie couldn’t tell if his answering silence was fury or if it might possibly be related to the strange internal quivering she knew she felt at the prospect.

“I’ve brought my ivory comb for just such a purpose.” Letting go of her hair, she lowered her arms, and she caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. Though she’d been having a hard time reading him, she thought Cormac’s current look was decidedly not fury.

She dug her comb from her satchel and tossed it on the mattress. “I can gather my hair into a knot,” she said, willing her voice to calm. “I’ll just need you to tuck it for me.”

Reaching her arms behind her head, she felt her bodice pull tight. And though she studiously avoided looking at him, Marjorie felt Cormac’s eyes on her. Her heart pounded mercilessly. “The angle is too awkward for me, you see.”

Fighting to master her suddenly inept fingers, she smoothed her hair, winding it into a bun at the base of her neck. She swallowed hard. “Now if you’ll be so kind . . .” She nodded to the ivory comb on the bed.

He picked it up, and all she registered was his large, strong hand on the mattress where she’d been sleeping just hours before. Marjorie blinked hard. Why had she put the comb on the bed ?

She curled her fingers tightly into her bun. She’d remain composed. She wouldn’t let him see her fingers tremble.

“All you need to—”

“So how do I—”

They each spoke over the other. She laughed nervously, but Cormac remained as stoic as ever.

“Simply make sure the hair is smooth,” she said, sweeping her hand up from the bottom of the bun.

He reached out with the comb, and their hands brushed. His was warm, and she pictured the broad strength of it. She imagined that hand stroking her hair, cupping the back of her head.

“Yes, that’s it.” She cursed the breathy sound of her voice. “Now simply push the comb down, securing it . . .” She tapered off, feeling the gentle touch of his fingers.

It was such a novel thing, his touch. New and unfamiliar, yet she imagined she’d somehow recognize the feel of his hands anywhere.

She realized he’d finished and experienced a peculiar moment of loss.

“And there!” she exclaimed overly brightly. She gave herself one last look in the mirror. “I am a wealthy lady.”

She turned to face him, but Cormac was already halfway across the room. She felt her shoulders slump. Strange, surly, incomprehensible man. So much for her dutiful husband.

Husband. Marjorie’s eyes narrowed. The man avoided her gaze and instead bustled about their tiny room as if suddenly plagued by a battery of menial tasks.

A slow smile dawned on her face. Husband indeed.

If Cormac wanted her to play a part, a part is exactly what he would get.