“Well… “

He picked at the skin around his nails, and she reached for him again, squeezing his fingers to quiet him. “It's all right, Paddy. I won't be angry. Please, though. You must tell me.”

“He looks like all the other men. Just some middling lord. But then I saw the coin purse tied at his waist. And I remembered, I'd seen him that day, too, the day Davie was took. I didn't do nothing wrong,” he added quickly. “I swear it. But even if I don't do no cutpursing no more, don't mean I don't have eyes, and this were a big, brown pouch, sure filled with coin. I saw it that day, and I saw it again yestreen. I'd swear it was the same man, both days.”

“What'd he look like?” she asked steadily. Energy crackled to life, zipping up her spine and to her fingertips.

She was onto something. Paddy was a sweet boy, and he'd turned his life around, but he had seen some tough times and had a nose for trouble like no other.

“He… “ Paddy shrugged. “He looked like other men.”

“He looked like other men,” she repeated. “So, an average-looking man? Was he the one who hit you?”

“Aye.” Paddy reached up, running his finger over his scab. “He thought I was after his purse.” Was he? She'd need to think on that later. First, she needed to find out what Paddy knew. The pertinent clues that he didn't even realize he knew. She leaned closer to start her interrogation.

Cormac leaned in the doorway watching Marjorie tend some alley rat. He folded his arms at his chest, marveling at her spirit. If he'd expected her to cower at home in fear after the incident at the docks, he realized now he'd been gravely wrong.

The news he'd gathered at the docks gave him hope that this Davie still lived. He'd come to Saint Machar to question the other lads, but blast it if she hadn't beat him there. He fought the aggravating sensation that once again he found himself following in her wake.

Westhall Manse. His eyes scanned the kitchen, a grim chamber bearing sooty walls and the smell of charred meat.

Manse indeed.

His eyes went back to Marjorie. She hadn't seen him yet, so engrossed was she with the boy. Clearly she'd come for her usual charity work. He realized he'd never asked her exactly what that work entailed. He watched as she gingerly swabbed the boy's cheek.

So good, so true. That was Marjorie. She'd always been thus. Full of vinegar she might be, but she'd always been kind to the core. Most lasses would've been broken after Aidan's kidnap. But Ree was made of stronger stuff. She'd turned her pain into something else, directing it to good and charitable works.

He watched her take the boy's hands in hers. Her manner was easy, unthreatening, like he might be with a skittish horse. The expression on her face was heartbreakingly tender. The two of them sat before the fire, and a warm, orange glow played over her gown, casting deep amber shadows beneath curves that he suddenly longed to touch, to trace, to cup in his hand.

Marjorie sat in a grim, reeking kitchen, yet somehow she still managed to appear elegant. She still managed to be the most beautiful creature he'd ever laid eyes on.

Cormac shook his head. He needed to focus on the task at hand. Such foolish, boyish notions were not for him. He came for a reason: to question the other lads. Not to get swept away by base urges or by feelings that threatened to unman him.

Still, he stepped toward her helplessly, eager to prolong the moment. He wanted to overhear the gentle words she'd be speaking to the boy. He felt a stab of anguish, mourning the boy he'd been.

“So out with it,” she was telling the lad. “What did you discover at the docks?” Cormac's stomach fell. It wasn't the tenderhearted Ree caring for this alley rat's wounds; it was the brazen one. Charitable she might be, but he'd never known the woman to step down from a challenge, and it was that woman who'd be the death of him.

He marched over to them. “I told you I'd find the boy for you.”

“Cormac.” She looked up with wide eyes.

She was clearly unsettled to see him, and he felt oddly gratified. The woman could use a good dose of apprehension. She had entirely too much pluck. It was what had led to the fight at the docks. The memory recalled his surliness with a vengeance.

“Westhall,” he said flady, looking around him, gathering his wits. “Not much of a manse, is it?”

“It suits our needs.” She dabbed the boy's injury one last time. “That's all for you, Paddy.” The lad glanced nervously between them, lifting his chin at Cormac's answering glare. Damned if the gesture didn't put him in mind of Marjorie. Much to his aggravation, the boy looked to her for direction.

“It's all right, sweet.” She patted his knee. “You can go. And thank you.” Her quiet smile for the boy made Cormac even angrier. “What are you about, sending mere lads to investigate for you at the docks?” he asked the moment the boy disappeared from the kitchen.

“I did no such thing.” She stood, outraged. They were closer than he'd realized, and she had to tilt her face up to hold his gaze. He felt the maddening urge to cup the back of her head.

“Paddy went to the docks of his own accord,” she said sharply. “I was merely asking him what he'd learned. You said yourself that I was right, that Davie is alive and out there somewhere.”

“Aye, but I didn't mean you should be the one to chase him down. It's a man's job.” Her face was blank for a curious moment, and then Marjorie startled him by laughing. “You don't know me very well if you think I'll just sit by and wait for you to save Davie.” She was right. He'd underestimated her. He had no idea whom she'd become. He found he wanted to know.

Instead, he only stepped closer. “That's exactly what I think.”

Someone entered the kitchen, and she pitched her voice to a low, angry whisper. “Don't misunderstand me, Cormac.

I appreciate your help. But if you won't let me be a true partner to you, then I will be forced to pursue this on my own as well.”

Someone cleared their throat. “Pardon, mum?”

“What?” she and Cormac snapped in unison, still staring daggers at each other.

“Lord Murray was looking for you.”

Cormac's eyes narrowed. “Who's Murray?”

“Archie Murray.” She told him in a tight whisper. “A friend.”

Archie. He recognized the name from the conversation he'd overheard. It was the man who'd supposedly sworn to help her. “Is that the fop who lets you lead him about by the nose? What does he want?”

“Archie is no fop!”

“Well who is he, then? Some pretty lordling? Can he protect you?” Cormac felt chagrin at the nobleman he'd never be and shame at his inability to protect his own loved one so many years ago. The raw emotions made his words come sharp. “Answer me.”

“He appreciates the work I do.”

“You

haven't answered the question.” Some foreign emotion burned through him, turning his blood to acid.

Jealousy? he wondered distantly, and dismissed the thought at once. It was vexation he felt. That was all. Marjorie was a vexatious, exasperating, uncooperative, senseless woman. “Who in hell is he?”

“He's training to be a physician surgeon,” she announced proudly. “He offers his help each week, tending to the physical ailments of the poor folk of Saint Machar.”

“A student?” he scoffed. “And what? He'll throw books at the smugglers and dock men? You honestly think this Archie will be of help to you?”

“Yes.”

He turned to stalk out. “Then to the devil with both of you.”

“The devil,” she called after him. “Why, Cormac, I'd thought that was you.” Chapter 11

“Archie!” Marjorie exclaimed, sweeping into her uncle's drawing room the following morning. The day was overcast, and watery light filtered in through the windows, but Archie's easy countenance perked up the dreary room.

He came to her side, taking her hands eagerly in his. “Marjorie, my dear.”

“Archie, what an unexpected surprise.” He was so tall and lean, and his long, thin hands were always so chilled.

She paid mind to not letting her smile flag.

Her maid bustled in close behind, bearing a tray of refreshments.

“Ah!” Face brightening, he let Marjorie's hands slip from his. “Your lovely maid.” Marjorie could've sworn she heard Fiona mutter, “Now there's a gentleman.” She frowned. Fiona was right. If only Cormac would show her a warm greeting once in a while. She surreptitiously scanned the room, but he was nowhere in sight.

Good. She'd seen him only once since their conflagration in the Westhall kitchen, and the silence between them had been deafening. He didn't want her help, and it goaded her. The man was brooding, and he was just as stubborn as he'd ever been as a boy.

Archie gravitated toward Fiona and the tray of food. “Shortbread. How delightful. There's nothing better than a bit of mid-morning sweet.”

Fiona blushed.

Marjorie wandered to the tray, eyeing it blindly. Could it be that Cormac wanted her to stay away because she'd mucked things up so horribly in the past? With Aidan, and now again with Davie?

She must've made some inadvertent sound, because Archie turned to her as he swallowed his shortbread, concern clear on his face. “Marjorie, my dear. You must tell me how I can be of service.” She took in the sight of him. Upright, clean-shaven, well-dressed… the man practically glimmered with principle.

Would that she could preoccupy herself with a man like Archie.

Blasted Cormac.

She harrumphed. Blast that she even thought about blasted Cormac.

Well, she didn't give a tinker's curse about his censure. She'd work to find Davie on her own. Still, it wouldn't hurt for him to see her efforts and successes. She pitched her voice a little louder, in case Cormac was within hearing range. Even though she hadn't seen him, she suspected he was lurking somewhere close at hand. “Oh, Archie, it's always so nice to see you.”