The thought of her with Freith caused a hot wave of fury to rise in Callum. It consisted of jealousy and rage, and a possessiveness that almost frightened him. She wasn’t his, he reminded himself—as much as he wanted her to be his. And besides, he suspected she was quite able to take care of herself.
Callum was distracted however, and he spun her about a little too vigorously as they took the corner. Before he could apologize, he felt something wriggling in his jacket pocket.
The mouse!
He had completely forgotten it. The little creature had stayed quietly in hiding all this time, but now it seemed that it had reached the limit of its endurance.
Before he could reach in to soothe it, the mouse leapt from its confinement and ran down the leg of his breeches, then sprang to the floor and scampered across it.
Never in his life could Callum have imagined that something so small and harmless could cause such pandemonium. Women began screaming and jumping about, while the men who weren’t doing the same were either looking around in bewilderment or clumsily attempting to capture the mouse. It was far too swift for any of them. Before Callum could begin to move to block its escape, his little friend had reached the doorway and vanished.
Amidst the shrieks and shouts, and the jarring notes as the orchestra came to an abrupt halt, Callum turned and met Penelope’s eyes.
She looked amazed. “Did that mouse just come out of your pocket?”
Callum thought about fibbing, but there seemed no point if she had seen it. “Yes. I put it in there at Aunt Jennie’s to save it from Bothwell, and then I forgot about it.”
“Bothwell?” she asked faintly.
“Her cat.” He leaned in closer, suddenly concerned, “You are not afraid of them, are you? They are harmless enough. Unless they make their home in your pantry, of course.”
The noise around them had settled down, and a woman Callum assumed to be the hostess was reassuring people. Callum wondered if he should confess, but even as he considered it, Penelope took a firm grip on his arm.
“Best not to,” she warned him quietly. “You are in enough trouble as it is, MacKenzie.”
The orchestra began to play again, more out of tune than ever, but neither Callum nor Penelope moved to resume their dance.
“I’m sorry. It was instinctive. I have so many pets at Bonnyrigg, creatures I have rescued and tried to nurse back to health. Some of them can’t care for themselves, so I keep them safe.”
She watched him, fascinated. “What sort of pets?”
“A blind squirrel,” he said easily, knowing them all by heart. “A wee fallow deer whose mother died. Five lambs and a crow with one leg.”
Penelope stared at him a moment more as if she was having trouble believing him, and then suddenly she began to laugh. At first she tried to stifle the sound with her hand, but when she couldn’t, she made haste to leave the room, and worried and confused, Callum followed her out into the hallway.
A lady in a bright-red wig gave them a sympathetic look. “I don’t blame you for being frightened, my dear. A mouse! ’Tis a fearsome thing.”
Penelope didn’t pause. She climbed the staircase, only pausing halfway to gasp for air as she continued to shake with laughter. Callum climbed, too, staying close in case she needed him, until they reached the landing. There was a hallway andone of the doors was open, and she went inside. Callum saw that it was a bedchamber, which did not seem appropriate, but he thought that at least they could be private now.
He closed the door and sank down into a chair while he waited for Penelope to recover herself.
It seemed to be taking a while, but he was happy to wait. He thought that perhaps her laughter wasn’t just about him and his mouse, but a culmination of many things that had been weighing upon her. Her emotions had reached a tipping point and she was letting them out. Which was agoodthing in his opinion—better to laugh than to cry.
Penelope had thrown herself onto the four poster bed and buried her face in the pillow, but he could see her shoulders shaking. After a time, he said, “I get the sense that gentlemen in London do not keep pets.”
She lifted her head and wiped her eyes. Her face was flushed and alive with humor. “They do,” she said shakily, “but perhaps not quite so many. A dog or a cat. Certainly not a—a crow with one leg.” Then she took a deep, steadying breath and sat up. “Callum, you truly do amaze me.”
He brightened. “Do I?”
She looked at him again, opened her mouth and then closed it and shook her head. “It wasn’t a compliment,” she said gently.
“Oh.” He tried not to be downcast. “It is because I lived my early years in the forests of Scotland,” he said. “My father always had some injured animal or other to care for, and I followed in his footsteps. If my wife does not like it... Well, I could not marry someone who did not.”
“You are kind,” she said firmly. “I would not want to take that from you. There is already so much unkindness in the world.”
“I cannot allow something to suffer when I can alleviate their pain.”
She nodded. Her hair had fallen out of its arrangement, and the silk flowers were hanging drunkenly over one ear. And yet Callum thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
