Kresley Cole - [MacCarrick Brothers 03] Read online

  “So I take it we have an engagement for dinner,” he said between bites.

  Seventeen

  When Ethan tossed the core away, she looked as though she would cry, and for some reason he almost felt guilty. He gentled his tone. “Come with me, Madeleine. I promise your apple will be a worthy sacrifice.”

  Even now, dressed as she was, she seemed so out of place in La Marais. She was tired, but her hair shone in the street fires, and her eyes were bright, not like the sunken eyes of the denizens all around them. She appeared so fragile, yet she had no reaction to the shots fired at regular intervals not more than a couple of blocks away in any direction.

  “I still have to go home to let my friends know I didn’t get hurt,” she said. “They’ll be worried.”

  “So you plan to wade into a dangerous area in order to inform your friends that you’re safe? That’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not dangerous,” she scoffed.

  The mere idea of her down here at night was insufferable. “Do you no’ hear the guns going off?”

  She gave him a look that said he was daft. “Well, it’s not as though they’re aimed at me. If you’re afraid, then stay here until I return.”

  Little witch. “I’m no’ afraid—”

  “Then you won’t mind waiting here. You can’t tell me Corrine and Bea were worried and then expect me to ignore their worry.”

  At another time, he might have been impressed with her loyalty and concern for her friends. Now, it only irritated him. “If you think I’m letting you go down there alone, you’re mad.”

  She put her hand on her hip. “And what will you do about it?”

  He lunged forward, seizing her elbow, and began dragging her back up the hill.

  “MacCarrick, I live here. I only want five minutes.” She cursed him in French. “You can’t order me about, Scot!” Her hard little boots connected with his shins.

  He grated, “Damn it, Madeleine, we’ll send them a message from the hotel.”

  “No one will deliver a message to La Marais after sunset!”

  “They will if I pay them enough.” He considered throwing her over his shoulder, but he risked opening his stitches. When she still resisted, he said, “We’ll send them food as well, then. Would that sway you?”

  She eased her scuffling. “How much food?”

  “I doona bloody care. As much as you like.”

  She got a gleam in her eye that he thought he’d soon be growing familiar with. “I will hold you to—”

  A woman cried out from just behind him. Ethan shoved Madeleine back as he twisted around. In a murky alley, a prostitute was pressed up against a wall, studying her nails and feigning moans as one man took her from behind. Another man awaited his turn.

  When Ethan turned to Madeleine, she shrugged at the sight of people having intercourse just feet from the two of them, with the same indifference she’d demonstrated the first night he’d met her.

  He couldn’t imagine all the things her young eyes had witnessed.

  Stitches be damned. “I doona want you here,” he said simply, about to sling her over his shoulder, but the waiting man strode forward from the shadows and addressed them in a strange tongue. Argot, Ethan thought, the French cant of criminals. The man pointed to Madeleine with raised eyebrows.

  She gave a bitter laugh and muttered, “He wants to know if you’ve finished with me.”

  A haze fell over Ethan’s vision. He dimly heard her answering retort, speaking argot herself. The bastard thought Madeleine was a whore, thought to use her in a filthy alley….

  Ethan yanked her behind him as he pulled his gun. The man took one look at Ethan’s expression and drew his own pistol. Too late. Ethan had already drawn, cocked, and aimed.

  Madeleine glanced out from behind his back, then touched his shoulder. “Don’t, MacCarrick.” Her voice was urgent. “Allons-y. Let’s go. I’m ready to go with you now.”

  “Why should I no’ kill him?”

  “Because his gang will come after me and my friends. You didn’t want me here, and now I want to go with you. Please, Scot….”

  At length, he backed them away, keeping his gun raised and the man in sight until they’d turned the corner. He finally stowed his gun, wincing in pain. His wound had started to throb.

  “Do you always carry a pistol?” At his brusque nod, she said, “Why?”

  So when a criminal mistakes my woman for a whore, I can kill him. He shook himself, trying to throw off the surge of protectiveness that welled within him. His woman? She was a means to an end.

  She tilted her head at him. “I don’t understand why you were afraid of gunfire when you have a gun—and obviously know how to use it. In any case, I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you.” She frowned. “Well, probably not. Unless it inconvenienced me to step in or I had something better—”

  “I was no’ bloody afraid,” he grated again. I suspect I’m going to throttle her before all this is done. “Damn it, just come along….”

  When they arrived at his hotel, the brasserie downstairs was still open, but Ethan didn’t want to take her in there. He didn’t care if people stared at his face—he was used to it—but he didn’t want her analyzing him, discerning his reaction.

  “We’ll eat in my room,” he said, clasping her hand and leading her to the stairs.

  Instead of protesting vehemently, she gazed up at his scar. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it?” No furtive glances for her.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Wouldn’t it you?”

  She shrugged, and they ascended in silence to his floor. Inside his room, she whistled and turned in a circle. “Pricey. Nothing but the best, then?”

  He rang for a waiter. “Why no’?” he said, carefully shrugging from his jacket.

  She’d just returned from surveying the balcony’s view when a liveried waiter arrived to take a bill of fare. The man handed the single menu to him to order, but Ethan waved him to Madeleine.

  She accepted it with a regal inclination of her head, sitting at the room’s polished dining table. “Do you speak French?” she asked Ethan as she skimmed the offerings.

  “Nary a word,” he lied. “Only Gaelic and English.”

  “Lobster,” she immediately told the man in French, casting Ethan a furtive glance. He gave her a blank look in return. She amended her order to six lobster entrees with accompaniments—soups, cheeses, pastries, fruits, salad.

  “And if you box up half of the order and have the porter deliver it to an address in La Marais, my…husband will add a forty percent gratuity.”

  “La Marais?” the waiter said, choking on the words.

  She sighed. “Seventy percent.”

  While Madeleine scribbled the address on the bill of fare, Ethan told the waiter, “Bring up champagne while we wait.” To Madeleine, he said, “Feel free to choose the vintage, lass.”

  In French, she ordered, “Whatever’s most dear.”

  With a bow, the man departed. When he returned directly with the champagne, poured, then left once more, Madeleine seemed content to drink and explore the room.

  Ethan sank back into a plush armchair, content to watch her opening drawers, investigating closets, even rooting through his bag. Sionnach, he thought. She again reminded him of a fox, so wary, so sly.

  She touched all the fabrics in the room, brushing her fingertips lovingly over the counterpane, even over his trousers in the closet press, seeming unaware of what she was doing. He, however, was quite aware and wanted her to run her fingers over those trousers like that when he was in them. She effortlessly made him randy as hell.

  When she ambled into the bathroom, he leaned forward to keep her in view. She eyed the plunge tub, which was big enough to swim in. “Unlimited running water?” she asked, coveting it with her eyes.

  “Aye. You’re welcome to it.”

  He thought he heard her mutter, “You mean, you’ll let me avail myself.”

  By the time the food arrived a sho
rt while later, she was visibly tipsy, which wasn’t surprising considering how thin she was. The sizable table proved too small for all the fare, so she had the server spread out the plates on the room’s thick Brussels rug for a picnic.

  Once the man left, she sat on the floor, with the dishes all around her. Ethan shrugged and eased down with her, careful with his injury.

  “Casual as ever,” she remarked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, reaching for a lobster dish, but she changed her grip on her fork to a dagger hold.

  He raised his palms in surrender, his gaze flickering over her small frame as he said, “You obviously need it more than I do.”

  She couldn’t seem to decide if that had been a cutting comment or a statement of fact. He couldn’t either. “Tell me what you meant,” he said.

  “You acted so familiar with me that night in the carriage.”

  “Aye, it happens when two people have intercourse.”

  She glared at that. “No, you acted as if we’d been together for years—just a night among many between us.”

  Sometimes it felt that way….

  “Here. I’ll let you have this to eat,” she said, solemnly handing him a garnish. Then she took her first forkful, rolling her eyes with pleasure.

  Though he would have thought she’d inhale her food, she savored each bite as if it would be her last. She had a sensual, tactile way of eating that was…stirring. When she ate juicy strawberries and clotted cream, he ran his hand over his mouth. When she licked the cream from her fingers, he uncomfortably shifted the way he sat. Any male could easily imagine her actions in a different light. Finally, he could take no more.

  “Enough,” he said as he levered himself to his feet. “You’re going to make yourself sick.” He clasped her hand to help her up.

  She reluctantly let him. “But I haven’t eaten more than a regular meal.”

  “Which is still much more than you’re accustomed to right now.”

  When he led her, grumbling, to a seat at the empty dining table, she stared over her shoulder at the food. He again experienced that tightness in his chest, the same he’d felt when she’d been about to cry over her apple.

  “Lass, there’s more where that came from. You doona have to behave like it’s your last meal.”

  She laughed without humor. “Spoken like a man who’s never missed one.”

  Eighteen

  The Scot hadn’t even raised a brow when tray after tray of food had arrived—fruit, pastries, lobster, salads, and a trio of desserts. Surveying all the dishes she’d just enjoyed, she realized he’d been right—the apple had been such a worthy sacrifice.

  Yet Maddy had been suspicious when he’d wanted to dine in his room and had almost fled with the ring. Then she’d concluded that he didn’t want to be in the restaurant because of his face, which was understandable, considering how extensive the scar was. She couldn’t believe he’d hidden his true appearance from her that first night—willfully hidden it, even as he’d taken her.

  He brought her glass of champagne to her seat at the table. Though she was already light-headed, he’d drunk nothing. She’d noticed before that he seemed to favor one side, and now he sat gingerly on the bed as though he was in pain.

  “You told me you’ve lived alone since you were fourteen,” he said. “I’m curious to know how you pay for rent and food.”

  “You mean, if tonight’s performance was any indication.” She’d lost more than she’d made—until the Scot had given her a diamond! Unfortunately, it would be difficult to sell promptly for its true value. And she needed money immediately. But then, she’d already snared a gold watch from his bag and some silverware from the dinner settings.

  He wisely said nothing to her comment. She wasn’t keen on answering his questions, but she figured she’d have to until she could either eat more or pocket more of the silver. “Sometimes I deal cards and sell cigarettes at a café near Montmartre.” She shrugged as she drank. “If not that, then I run a shell game at fairs or bet the mutuels on the side.”

  “I saw the book by your bed. Doona tell me you consider yourself a Bohemian.”

  “Not at all. The book is recent and set in a neighboring quarter. I was merely picking up tips on getting things for free. I have no sympathy for them, even the ones who are poorer than I am.” She absently murmured, “Do you know how hard you would have to work to be poorer than me?” Shaking her head, she said, “Many of them purposely leave their wealthy families to come starve in La Marais.”

  “Quin told me your mother and stepfather live in St. Roch. Did you no’ do the same by leaving?”

  “My reason for leaving St. Roch had nothing to do with pretension. And it’s a matter I don’t wish to discuss.”

  “What kind of woman lets her daughter live in the slum?”

  Maddy set her glass down and rose, turning toward the door.

  He lunged for her wrist, moving swiftly for such a big man. “Just wait,” he said, gritting his teeth as though in pain.

  She glared at his hand. “I’ve told you I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I will no’ bring it up again.” He released her and she swished back to her chair, resuming her drinking. “But I wonder that you’re so inclined to leave when you’ve no’ even heard why I’m here.”

  “Yes, your ‘proposition.’ I’m quite certain I know what it is. You as much as told me so that night.”

  “Aye, I’d thought about setting you up as my mistress. And it seems you might have waited in London until I returned, if this life was what you faced.”

  “I didn’t want to be your mistress. That would mean I would have to repeat the actions of that night.” She shuddered. “I think I might rather die. The only way I’d ever endure that again is in marriage—”

  “Then it appears I’ll be marrying you,” he grated.

  She gave him a look of pure disgust. “I have had a day like no other, MacCarrick. I really don’t need to sit here and listen to this.”

  “What if I told you I came here specifically for you? To collect you and take you to Scotland to wed?”

  “I’m in no mood for your jesting.” She stared at his impassive face with dawning horror. “Oh, Lord, you’re…serious. Marriage is what you’ve decided needs to be done with me?” In a panicked tone, she said, “I only mentioned marriage because I was certain you’d violently balk again!”

  He glowered at that, then seemed not to know how to proceed, running his hand over the back of his neck.

  “You actually thought I’d welcome your proposal?” she sputtered in disbelief. The arrogance! “You looked at my ‘hovel’ and thought I’d weep with joy and consider you my savior. Should I fall to my knees?”

  “I think no,’ else all that silver stowed in your skirt pocket will clink about like chimes.”

  She quirked an eyebrow. She didn’t get detected often, and she’d been careful tonight. He was good. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  To his credit, he didn’t press that subject, instead returning to the proposal. “It would make sense that you might be pleased to receive any offer of marriage.”

  “You told me you would never be moved to marry.” She made her tone woeful. “Oh, if only I’d listened! Then I wouldn’t have tried to trap you seconds later.”

  “Things have changed. Recently I was injured, and it brought my life into focus. I have a title, and I’ve realized I need an heir, so I must marry.”

  “What’s your title?”

  “I’m an earl in Scotland. The Earl of Kavanagh.”

  “Planning to make me a countess?” she breathed with wide eyes. “How novel! I’ve never heard that one in Montmartre.”

  “It’s true.”

  “And why would you choose me?”

  “None of my options seemed enticing, and then I thought of you. After I asked around and learned much about you, I determined we would suit. You’re known to have a steady, practical personal
ity, and to be intelligent.”

  “You could make a much more advantageous match.”

  “You underestimate your charms.”

  “No, I don’t. I know I’m pretty and intelligent, but I have no connections—and no dowry. In case you haven’t gathered, I’m abysmally poor.”

  “I have no need of connections and have more money than either of us could possibly spend in a lifetime. I can choose my bride based only on if I find her pretty and intelligent.”

  She quirked an eyebrow at that. “Why do you think I would actually have you?”

  “You told me at the masquerade that you wanted to marry a man with money. I have money. You told me you wanted an expensive ring, and I’ve given you one worth a small fortune. You’ll be a countess and have more wealth and homes at your disposal than you’ve dreamed of.”

  Homes and wealth? Countess? Was this odd Scot genuine? Hadn’t she just begged for one break? One pause in the endless series of heartaches?

  And then this MacCarrick just happened to show up at her door, proposing?

  No! Gifts don’t fall from heaven like this! Not for me. Something is off!

  “All you have to do is leave Paris with me. I’ll wed you in Scotland.”

  “Why not marry here in la ville lumière?” In a dry tone, she said, “You’re clearly such a romantic, and this is Paris…”

  “Because I’m the laird of my clan, and I’m expected to marry at the MacCarrick seat with a grand wedding for all the clan to enjoy. And marrying in front of witnesses from my county in Scotland will help ensure my children inherit without challenge.” When she remained unconvinced, he quietly said, “Money, protection, a life of ease are all within your grasp. Marriage to me is that repulsive a proposition?” He absently dashed the back of his hand over his scar.

  “Yes, and before you begin thinking it’s because of your face”—he dropped his hand, seeming surprised he’d been touching it—“I’ll ask you to hark back to your behavior that night. You ruined what could have been, should have been, wonderful. I thought I had a firm grasp of what cruelty was, but you educated me further.”