“’She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless sk—”
“That’s Lord Byron. I summon Shakespeare,” she interrupted, and some of the vultures laughed at the odd fellow out.
The jostling became worse. Just as she was beginning to consider using her bag as a weapon, a space opened around her miraculously. Persephone glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see a dragon looming behind her. Rather, it was the Scotsman, his arms outstretched as he shoved would-be suitors away like rag dolls.
“The lass wants ye to make way,” he stated. “Dunnae make her ask ye again.”
Well. Public acts of heroism it was, then. When Claremont accompanied her, the earl liked having all the hangers-on about, so he could be certain they all saw that she left in his company. She took a half step sideways and wrapped her free hand around one muscular Scottish arm. “Thank you,” she said, offering up a smile and silently praying that she wasn’t in the process of making a horrible mistake. Another horrible mistake, rather. Turning this man away could well take a battalion of elephants, which she didn’t happen to have anywhere handy. But she did have friends and admirers about, and she had a good … feeling about this Coll MacTaggert. Or it could be as simple as the fact that she’d been enjoying looking at his fine form for most of the evening, but he had proven helpful thus far.
He gave her a nod and continued plowing a path through the lingering theatergoers until they reached the corner, where her coach waited. She tugged on his arm, and he stopped. “I have a coachman wait here for me each evening,” she said.
Of course, she’d suggested he see her home, but that had been mostly meant as a jest, a small bit of carnal excitement brought about by this wild, kilt-wearing mountain of a man before her, with a little part gratitude added in for someone finally ridding her of Claremont. The earl was more persistent than a mosquito.
This moment would be the test, though. Would he let her leave, or insist on accompanying her? MacTaggert, as he’d named himself—despite Charlie Huddle informing her that he was actually Lord Glendarril—wasn’t at all pretty like James Pierce, the Earl of Claremont. Rather, his slash of straight brows, the confident, open expression of his face, unruly dark hair, and amused green eyes spoke of something Claremont had likely never before encountered as a rival—a man. A very handsome, muscular, virile-looking man. One who was either mad, or simply untroubled by the amount of influence Lord Claremont wielded and the trouble he could cause.
“Is that yer way of sending me off to Hades?” he asked in his thick brogue, one of those brows lifting.
She found herself listening to the sound of his voice, studying the inflection of his words, and told herself it was because she was about to begin rehearsals to play Lady Macbeth and that it had nothing to do with the way his deep voice seemed to reverberate into her bones.
“More politely than that, but yes, it is. I do thank y—”
He pulled open the door and shifted to offer his hand to help her inside. “Ye’d best be off before the hounds catch yer scent again, then.”
Another surprise. This evening had presented her with basketloads of them. Persephone stepped up, but remained standing in the doorway to gaze at him. “You aren’t offended? I mean, I did imply that we might have a more … personal connection.”
MacTaggert shrugged. “Ye knew ye had a nest of vipers out here waiting for ye, and ye saw me hit Claremont. That’s math even a Highlander can do, I reckon.” He grinned. “Besides, now I’m a puzzle to ye, and ye’ll nae be able to stop thinking about me.”
She smiled back, her heart easing as she realized she would not have to do any further clever acting this evening to rid herself of yet another suitor. “You are rather memorable, MacTaggert.”
“That I am.” He closed the door for her as she moved back and seated herself, but he was tall enough to still be able to look in the window. “I’m nae some eunuch or fancy boy, either, and ye are a lass to make a man’s heart beat faster. But I fell into being a gentleman tonight, and I’ll nae be looked at in the same way ye saw Claremont, so I’ll bid ye good evening and sweet dreams. And dunnae be surprised if I come looking for ye tomorrow.”
Well. A man who simply stated what he wanted and didn’t attempt to purchase her affections or her body. He was also clearly a man who could physically take whatever he wanted, and he hadn’t done so. An interesting balance, that, and because she did find it intriguing, she would be wise simply to nod, bid him goodnight, and leave, thankful that she’d escaped unscathed twice tonight. Earls, viscounts, Englishmen, or Scots—they were all trouble.
And though this trouble had done her a good turn, he filled at least two of the spaces on her list of people to avoid. Firstly, he was a man, and secondly, he was a man with a title. Even more troubling—she found him attractive. If she hadn’t, she would never have begun flirting with him backstage. Definitely trouble. “I cannot stop you from looking,” she murmured, leaning toward the open window and attempting to ignore the excited goosebumps lifting on her arms, “but finding me is another thing entirely.”
He nodded, stepping back. “I reckon I know where to begin. And mayhap when I find ye, ye’ll tell me the tale of Mr. Jones.”
“Because you’re not a poacher?”
“Because if there is such a man, and if ye dunnae ken where he is, then he’s an idiot.”
“Then I shall save poor Mr. Jones the bother of being insulted, and inform you that I, the poor unfortunate, am a widow.”
The Highlander grinned again, the sight making her heart give an odd, unexpected thump. Good heavens. He looked like—she didn’t even know how to describe it. An angel of God, perhaps. One of the fit warrior angels who slayed demons and dragons. “My condolences, Mrs. Jones,” he drawled.
Before she could do something idiotic and admit that there never had been a Mr. Jones at all, the coach thankfully rolled into the street, and she lost sight of him in the darkness. A few of her admirers usually chased the coach for a street or two, but tonight the road behind the vehicle remained empty. Perhaps they weren’t willing to risk annoying the Highlander, and she certainly couldn’t blame them for that. Her only surprise was that they’d all had that much sense.
“The usual twice around Burton’s park?” the coachman asked from up above her head.
Persephone shook herself and leaned toward the window again. “Yes, Gus, thank you. We can’t be too careful.”
“I’ll make certain you get home safe, Persie.”
“I don’t know what I would do without you, Gus.”
“You’d have a bit of a walk. That’s for certain.”
Laughing, she opened her portmanteau and pulled out a plain blue muslin dress, a matching blue bonnet, and a hairbrush. Then she tugged the coach’s curtains closed, musing that Claremont had either not cared that she supposedly had a husband, or he’d deciphered that any actress who wished for a modicum of respectability stuck a Mrs. in front of her name, whether she had a Mr. waiting for her at home or not.
Ah, respectability—that fickle thing—seemed even more foolish once a lady realized how easily it could be purchased, and with such a simple lie. But she had realized it, and she’d also figured out the simplest way to keep all those lusty men at the theater’s back entrance from discovering where she lived: a silly wig.