Page 72 of Miss Devoted
“Michael is family,” he said, pressing his lips to Dorcas’s temple. “We will not allow him to fight a battle with the bishops alone. Let’s hear what the ladies have to say.”
Dorcas remained right where she was. “You won’t tell me not to meddle?”
MacKay wanted to. He wanted to tell her to stand aside and let her husband do the meddling, while she cheered him—and a few stalwart cousins and in-laws—on from a safe distance.
“Michael is your brother, and you feel as if you failed him once before. I could not stop you from taking his part if I commanded four Highland regiments, two rummage-sale committees, and all the game girls in London.”
Dorcas gave him a squeeze and kissed his cheek. He lived for those squeezes and those wifely pecks, and for the naps and sweet nights and quiet breakfasts. She was his to love, and if Michael Delancey had caused his sister to fret, MacKay would get Delancey’s situation sorted as soon as may be.
“I love you,” Dorcas said quietly. “I love you so very much.”
“And I love you. Do we suspect Mrs. Fremont of having lost her heart to St. Michael?”
“We live in hope,” Dorcas said. “She has the quietly determined look of a woman very much on her mettle.”
“Let’s see what she has on her mind.”
While the civilities were observed and the teapot duly saluted, MacKay assessed the visitors. Mrs. Buckthorn had lost some of the restless, prowling quality that certain unattached, mature ladies acquired. She had either found a suitable target for her energies, or the approaching Season had taken the edge off her discontent.
Mrs. Fremont, on the other hand, had shed the demure, retiring façade of the subdued widow. She was attired in a luscious deep green velvet ensemble, her eyes sparkled, and her hair had been arranged in one of those half-up, half-down coiffures that accented the curve of a pretty cheek and drew the appreciative male eye to a graceful neck.
MacKay’s mind presented the theory that the lady was attired for battle, and her words confirmed his conjecture.
“Michael Delancey is in a ruddy, damned lot of trouble,” she said, “and I will burn in hell before I’ll allow him to face that trouble alone. You are his family. If he hasn’t confided in you, then I’m here to rectify that oversight for him.”
Mrs. Fremont was rousing the troops, in other words.
“We’ve been concerned for Michael for some time,” MacKay said. “It isn’t good for a man to be alone, particularly when he’s in difficulties.”
Dorcas cocked her head. “Genesis 2:18. When did you take to quoting Scripture?”
“I’m quoting common sense. Say on, ladies. To the extent it’s humanly possible, Michael won’t ride into any ambushes without allies.”
Mrs. Fremont speared MacKay with the sort of look that brooked no foolish gallantries. “We need you, and Michael needs you, but the situation doesn’t stop there.”
Dorcas held out a plate of shortbread. Mrs. Buckthorn took a sweet, Mrs. Fremont did not. “We’re all ears,” Dorcas said. “You have our complete attention.”
Mrs. Fremont began her tale, and by the time she finally fell silent, MacKay did not know whether to curse or cheer.
“What can we do?” Dorcas asked. “What can we possibly do when Michael won’t defend himself, and he’s committed a hanging felony? We can take the children, of course, and have them on the way to Scotland before nightfall, but what can we do for Michael?”
MacKay took her hand. “I suspect Mrs. Fremont has a few ideas.”
Mrs. Fremont beamed at him, such a blend of approval, benevolence, and unholy mischief that if MacKay hadn’t felt its impact himself, he would never have thought her capable of it.
“As it happens,” she said, “I am just full of ideas, and not a one of them involves violence.”
“I will master my disappointment,” MacKay said, “and keep my claymore in reserve.”
Mrs. Buckthorn took another piece of shortbread. “We were hoping you’d say that. Shall we order a second pot?”
MacKay called her bet and offered a wee dram all around. The ladies rose to that challenge as easily as any Highland regiment would have—or maybe even a bit more easily, truth be told.
The weather argued with itself for the rest of the day, alternating snow with sleet, dreary calm with biting wind. By the time Michael reached the fashionable bachelor’s abode in St. James’s, his feet were blocks of wet ice, his hips ached, and a dull headache had begun to pound at his temples.
Today was Thursday, and this was the last call Michael needed to make before keeping his usual appointment with Psyche. The thought of her—sweet, fierce, determined, and dear—had kept him trudging onward when exhaustion, and despair, would have dropped him in his tracks.
“Have you a card, sir?” a snooty butler inquired as Michael stood dripping on a pristine parquet floor.
