Highland Rogue, London Miss. Margaret Moore

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      “That’s not like him,” MacLachlann unnecessarily observed as he leaned back against the shelves holding Jamie’s law books. “Was he meeting someone?”

      “I don’t know,” she repeated, silently chastising herself for her ignorance. “I’m not informed of all the appointments my brother makes.”

      MacLachlann’s full lips curved up in an impudent grin and his bright blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “What, the mother hen doesn’t know every move her little chick makes?”

      “I am not Jamie’s mother and since Jamie is a grown man with a fine mind and education that he has not wasted, no, I don’t keep watch over his every move.”

      Her words had no effect on the wastrel, who continued to grin like a demented gargoyle. “No? Well, he’s not with a woman, anyway, unless she’s a client. He never indulges in that sort of thing during the day.”

      Esme’s lips tightened.

      “So there’s something else the mother hen doesn’t know, eh?” MacLachlann said with a chuckle that made her feel as if she’d stepped into some kind of low establishment where all manner of indecencies occurred—probably the sort of place MacLachlann spent most, if not all, of his evenings.

      “My brother’s private life is not my concern,” she said, sitting up even straighter and fixing MacLachlann with a caustic glare. “If I made all his business mine, I would know why he ever hired a rogue like you.”

      The sparkle in MacLachlann’s blue eyes changed into a different sort of fire. “Is that supposed to hurt, little plum cake?” he asked, thickening his brogue and using an epithet she hated with a passion. “If it is, ye’ve missed the mark entire. I’ve been insulted in ways that’d curl the toes of your thick-soled boots.”

      Tucking her boot-clad feet under her chair, Esme turned her head toward the square-paned window that overlooked the soggy inner garden and didn’t deign to answer.

      She must speak to Jamie about MacLachlann’s insolence. If MacLachlann wouldn’t treat her with the proper respect, there had to be other men in London who were equally capable of finding out information. Her brother need not employ MacLachlann for that purpose, even if he had gone to school with Jamie.

      With a self-satisfied smirk, MacLachlann strolled over to the desk and, with one long, ungloved finger, tapped the documents she’d placed there. “I wonder what your brother’s clients would say if they knew his sister was as good as a partner in the business? That it was a woman who wrote the contracts, wills, entailments and settlements and did most of his research for him?”

      Esme jumped to her feet. “I merely help him compose the first draft of such documents and find legal precedents for him. Jamie always writes the final documents and checks everything I do. If you dare to say or imply otherwise to anyone, we’ll sue for slander. And if you write it anywhere or tell any member of the press who reports it, we’ll sue for libel—not that you’ll be able to pay any damages.”

      “Settle down, Miss McCallan, and put your law-book mind at ease,” MacLachlann replied in his most patronizing manner. “I won’t tell anybody about all the work you do for your brother.” His customary smirk left his face for the briefest of moments. “I owe him too much.”

      Just what? she wanted to ask. Jamie had never told her exactly where or how he’d encountered MacLachlann in London. Jamie had simply brought the obviously inebriated man home, let him sleep in the spare room and then given him employment as a sort of investigative associate. Naturally she’d had questions, most of which Jamie declined to answer, saying only that MacLachlann had fallen on hard times and was estranged from his family. Only later, through snippets of conversation between the two men, had she learned that MacLachlann had disgraced his family with his wastrel ways.

      She’d also discovered, through firsthand observation, that he could be very charming when he wished to be, especially with women, who then responded as if he’d somehow turned their minds to porridge.

      Not hers, of course. She was far too wary and sceptical to be swayed by his shallow charm, should he ever have attempted to sway her with it.

      She glanced at the gilded clock on the mantelpiece and saw that it was now nearly 4:00 p.m.

      “Impatient, are we?” the wastrel inquired.

      “You may have nothing better to do than loiter,” Esme declared as she started for the door, “but I do. Good day.”

      “What, you’re going to leave me here all alone?” MacLachlann demanded with bogus dismay.

      “Yes, and gladly,” she snapped as she opened the door and nearly collided with Jamie.

      “Ah, here you are, then, the pair of you and no blood spilled,” her tardy brother said with a smile, his stronger accent telling her that despite his apparent good humor, he was upset.

      “I finished the documents you wanted,” she said, curious about what had happened, although she would never ask such a question with MacLachlann in the room. Hopefully she could find out later, when she and her brother were alone. “I discovered an interesting precedent in a case from 1602, concerning a sheep whose ownership was disputed due to lack of an earmark.”

      Jamie hung his tall hat on the wall hook by the door. “I’ll deal with Mrs. Allen’s suit tomorrow,” he said, running his hand through his close-cropped brown curls as he went around the scarred and ancient desk they’d found at a used furniture shop. “And while I thank you for bringing the papers, I have another matter with which I hope you’ll both assist me.”

      A swift glance in the wastrel’s direction proved he was no more keen to have anything to do with her than she was with him.

      “Sit down, Esme, and let me explain. You, too, Quinn, if you please,” her brother said, nodding at the chair.

      Regarding her brother with a combination of curiosity and dread, Esme did as he asked. She again perched on the edge of the chair, while Quinn sat on another equally small chair and tilted it back so that all the weight rested on the back legs.

      “You’re going to break that chair if you lean back in such a fashion,” Esme charged.

      “Care to make a wager on it?” MacLachlann replied with that mocking grin she hated.

      She didn’t give him the satisfaction of answering.

      “I’ve asked you both here,” her brother began as if neither one had spoken, “because I need your help with a matter that requires legal expertise and discretion, as well as a certain amount of subterfuge.”

      “Subterfuge?” Esme repeated warily.

      “Surely you’re not so naive as to believe the practise of law doesn’t occasionally require some creative espionage,” MacLachlann said, “at least when it comes to finding out facts that some people would prefer to keep buried.”

      “I understand there may be facts that need to be ferreted out, but subterfuge sounds illegal,” she protested.

      MacLachlann СКАЧАТЬ