—June 1876
Isabella stared down the stairs in shock. “Mac, what the devil happened?”
Mac’s grin remained in place as he looked up at her, but his eyes held anger. Down the hall, Morton herded the babbling group, including Daniel, toward the back stairs. The door shut behind them, halving the noise.
“Someone set fire to my attics,” Mac said. “The fire brigade managed to quash the blaze before it destroyed the entire house, but the upper floors are pretty much ruined.”
Isabella’s eyes widened. “Your studio?”
“Gone. Or at least I assume so. The lads from the fire brigade wouldn’t let me back in.”
“Is everything in the attics burned?” A small dart of pain lanced her heart. “Everything?”
“Yes.” Mac’s eyes softened. “It’s gone. I’m sorry.”
Isabella swallowed, her throat burning, and she wiped away a tear that trickled from her eye. How silly, she thought in anger. Why weep over a piece of furniture when Mac and his people were obviously safe?
She cleared her throat. “Your servants may, of course, stay here. I wouldn’t turn them out.”
“And what about the master, your ladyship?” Mac rested one arm on the newel post, unnerving in his disheveled dress. “Would you turn him out?”
“You can afford a hotel.”
“No hotel will admit me looking like this, love. I am in desperate need of a bath.”
A vision swooped at her of Mac leaning back in the zinc-lined tub in her large bathroom, his voice raised in some Scottish tune. He always sang in the bathtub, and for some absurd reason that memory made her blood heat.
“Cameron is in town,” she began.
“Ah, but he’s lodging at the Langham Hotel. Same problem.”
“I cannot imagine you have no more friends in Mayfair who can put you up.”
“Most of my friends are off in the country riding horses or shooting things. Or they’re in Paris or Italy painting the view.”
“What about Hart’s house? It’s always staffed.”
“It is the middle of the night, and I don’t want to wake them.” Mac’s raffish grin returned. “I’m afraid you are my last hope, my dear.”
“You’re a poor liar. I do hope that the gossip newspapers do not put about that you started the fire yourself as an excuse to come here. I can imagine them saying so.”
Mac lost his smile. “I will strangle them if they do. Sal and Mary almost burned to death.”
Isabella shivered, the weight of the situation pressing at her. “I know you’d never be that ruthless.”
“Oh, I can be ruthless, love. Never doubt that.” Mac mounted the stairs toward her, the acrid scent of smoke clinging to him. “Whoever did this couldn’t be bothered to care that two girls were snug in their beds not ten feet away. He didn’t worry about who else he might hurt.” Mac’s copper-colored eyes sparked with anger, but he was gentleness itself as he brushed the tear from her face. “Whoever this chap is, he doesn’t know the meaning of ruthlessness. But I assure you, my love, he will find out.”
Mac did sing in the bathtub.
A bathroom had been added to Isabella’s house by the previous owner, the room squeezed between the front and rear bedrooms on the second floor. A door from each led to it. The tub and sink had running water, fortified by a pump and cistern in the basement.
Isabella sat stiffly before her fireplace, hands clenched on the arms of her chair. Half an hour ago she’d heard Mac enter the bathroom, heard his low conversation with Bellamy, then the water filling the tub. Finally, Mac splashed into it, Bellamy departed, and Mac’s voice rose in song.
Isabella could not bring herself to go back to bed while Mac bathed himself on the other side of her door. She would sit and wait until he retreated to his own room and all was quiet again.
“And it is, it is, a glorious thing, to be a pirate kiiiing . . .”
Mac’s baritone cut out, and she heard more splashing. He should be finished by now, drat him. He’d rise from the bath, water dripping down his tall body, slickly wet as he reached for a towel.
Isabella’s hands tightened until her nails dug into the fabric of the chair. If Mac hadn’t remained such a handsome man in the intervening years, would it have been easier to turn him away tonight? She thought it might have been. Rather unfair of her.
No, she thought as Mac began to hum again. He’d be Mac no matter what he looked like. Charming, reckless, smiling, stealing her heart.
The tune was slower this time, his voice low and dark.
In bonny town, where I was born.
There was a fair maid dwellin’.
Made every youth cry, “well-away!”
Her name was Iiiis-a-bella.
Isabella jumped to her feet, stormed to the door, and flung it open.
Mac lay in the bathtub, up to his neck in soapy water, his arms resting carelessly along the sides of the tub. Little red cuts laced his hands and arms from where he’d broken the skylight to save the maids. He gave her a leisurely smile as she halted, hand frozen on the doorknob.
“The fair maid’s name was Barbara Allen,” Isabella said coldly.
“Was it? I must have forgotten the words.”
Isabella clutched the knob, her palm damp. “You’re lingering. Finish, dress, and leave my house. You’re clean enough now to find a hotel.”
“I am finished.” Mac gripped the sides of the tub and hauled himself to his feet.
Isabella’s mouth went dry. Mac Mackenzie had always had the most delectable male body, and nothing had changed. Water slicked his muscles and darkened the red-brown hair on his head and chest, and the thatch between his legs gleamed copper. He was half erect, the crown of his c**k pushing toward her as though it sought her touch.
Mac’s smile went positively sinful. He was challenging Isabella to behave like a maiden—perhaps the cruel Barbara Allen of the ballad, a standoffish beauty for whom men died. He was waiting for Isabella to scream, to have hysterics, or at least grow angry and slam the door.
Isabella arched her brows, leaned against the doorframe, and deliberately looked her fill.
Red touched Mac’s cheekbones as he stepped out of the tub to trickle water all over the floor. He put his hands behind his neck, clasping his fingers to press his arms out and back. The muscles of his body rippled like a symphony.
Isabella made herself stand still even when he began walking toward her. She caught the scent of the soap Bellamy must have brought for him, an odor filled with memories. She’d often slipped into the bathroom at Mount Street to wash Mac’s back, sitting on the side of the tub while she lathered his skin. Often these bathing sessions ended up with her being pulled into the water with him, dressing gown and all.