Highland Rogue, London Miss. Margaret Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 wife, I should learn more about your family. As it is, all I know is that your father was an earl and your older brother is the heir. Have you any other siblings?”

      Of all subjects, his family was the last one he ever wished to discuss. Unfortunately, she had made a point that he couldn’t refute—she should know something of his family history. “I had three more brothers—Marcus, who was the second oldest, then Claudius and Julius. Marcus died in the war with France, Claudius died of a fever in Canada and Julius fell from his horse and broke his neck when he was sixteen. I had a sister, but she died in infancy before I was born.”

      If he were looking at any other woman, her expression at that moment might indicate sympathy. However, since it was Esme, her furrowed brow probably meant she was simply memorizing the information.

      “And your oldest brother’s name is Augustus?”

      “My father had an unfortunate love of Latin and Roman history.”

      “So he called his fifth son Quintus.”

      “Yes.”

      “A name you dislike quite intensely, to judge by that expression.”

      “Not just the name. I had little love for my father—and he for me.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      She actually sounded sincere.

      “Don’t be,” he said sharply. If there was one thing he didn’t want from Esme McCallan, it was pity. He didn’t miss his family. He’d always been too different from them—too spirited, too full of life to exist in their staid world of hunting and shooting, exchanging tales of fish caught, pheasants downed and stags sighted. He’d yearned for something different—life in Town, a vibrant, colorful, exciting existence. Expensive. Sensual. Seductive. “I found ample compensation as I grew older.”

      “With women, I suppose.”

      He very much doubted Esme would ever understand why a man would try to console himself in the arms of a woman, even if it provided only a fleeting moment of pleasure and forgetfulness.

      He couldn’t even imagine Esme naked in a man’s arms, kissing him, stroking, making love with sighs and moans and whispered endearments, writhing and passionate, crying out at the moment of climax.

      Actually, he could.

      Which was a very disconcerting discovery.

      “How old is Augustus?” she asked, startling him out of his stunned reverie.

      “Forty-five.”

      “Which makes you …?”

      “Thirty.”

      She nodded thoughtfully, and he noted that she didn’t seem to find it impossible that he could pass for a man fifteen years his senior.

      What did it matter if she thought he looked older than he was? “His wife is twenty-seven. It’s fortunate you can easily pass for that.”

      She didn’t seem the least bit upset by his observation.

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