Bridegroom Wore Plaid (17 page)

A woman who’d face down a courting bull might be willing to chance even greater risks in the name of something greater—more intimate—than friendship.

He dropped her hand and rose to his feet, the direction of his thoughts unworthy of them both.

Also damned hard to ignore.

“You’ll be wanting that tea tray, won’t you? I shouldn’t keep you out here when you’ve had such a fright.”

If his abrupt return to sanity disconcerted her, she hid it well. She rose and linked her arm through his. “A tea tray and maybe an afternoon in the library. I’m in the mood to read some Catullus, I think.”

Was
she
challenging
him?
“Translations or in the original?”

“The original. I prefer to puzzle out the translations on my own.”

He did not dwell on all the implications of such a statement, but escorted her up to the house. Only when she’d disappeared from view did he realize he’d never caught sight of his errant sister and her latest Englishman.

***

Four years ago, when they’d had their first summer of paying guests, Mary Fran had given herself permission to like the occasional Englishman or Englishwoman. Her own English grandmother had had no patience for prejudice, saying the rules of Highland hospitality forbade such pettiness.

“The battlefield is one thing, home and hearth another.”

Would that the distinction was as easy for Mary Fran to make. Gordie’s perfidy hadn’t helped, but it was hard to know if he’d been such a tramp out of maleness, Englishness, or his own simple venery.

Or all three.

“Might I have just a spot more tea, Lady Mary Frances?”

The spinster—Miss Augusta—held up her cup. Mary Fran poured carefully, wondering when the lecture would come. The other ladies had departed for their beds, leaving only Augusta, Mary Fran, and Fiona lingering over the teapot. Fiona had been dogging the woman mercilessly for several days, which was only to be expected.

While Mary Fran held most English in contempt on principle, Fiona was understandably fascinated with her father’s people. The child sat in a corner quiet as a mouse for once, a delicate cup and saucer balanced in her lap.

“I wanted to tell you of an adventure I had today while out with Miss Fiona,” the spinster said. “You’re going to be quite proud of your daughter.”

Miss
Fiona? Nobody save Vicar called the child that, and never in tones presaging pride.

“I am often proud of our Fee,” Mary Fran replied, but she cast the child a sidelong glance. She
was
proud of her daughter—why didn’t she ever tell the girl as much?

“I was determined to sketch the prettiest meadow we could find, and chose my spot without regard for the dangers it might pose.” The woman took a sip of her tea, not even realizing that for a mother, that single sentence would create worry.

“Danger, Miss Augusta? Were you on the goat track up to the tor?”

“Nothing so daring as that. We were in a meadow to the east of the house, a lovely place full of clover and sunshine, our picnic not even unpacked when a gentleman came calling.”

Gentleman? Who among the local landowners… unless it was someone from Balmoral. Please, God, let Fee have remembered her curtsy before the prince or his progeny.

“Another fellow out walking?” Mary Fran took a sip of her tea, only to find her cup empty. She glanced at the dregs, resenting the need to listen patiently to a woman with whom she had nothing in common.

“He was out courting. Fiona tells me he goes by the name of Romeo. Fiona did exactly as I asked her, though, and nobody came to any harm.”

“Romeo got loose!?” Mary Fran’s cup went clattering to its saucer. “Fiona? You were in a pasture with that bull? What…” She realized she was nigh shouting and got to her feet, the need to move undeniable. Fiona was so little, and that damned bull was the biggest, lustiest specimen her brothers had been able to purchase.

Mary Fran sat right back down, comprehending the phrase “weak in the knees” for the first time in her life.

“Lord Balfour says somebody opened his gate,” Miss Augusta said. “Romeo’s apparently confined with not only stout gates, but gates that are both latched and then tied shut. On the other side of our pasture was a herd of yearling ladies, and they brought out Romeo’s protective streak.”

“Oh, Fee…” Mary Fran gazed at her daughter. Fiona sat looking innocent and tidy in a clean pinny, somebody having redone her braids, her ankles demurely crossed.

She might at that moment have been just as tidily laid out in the parlor. “Fiona Ursula MacGregor, you come here to me.” Mary Fran spread her arms, needing to hold her child. Fiona took one hesitant step then swiftly closed the distance.

“Your daughter kept a cool head. She manned the gate for Lord Balfour so Romeo couldn’t get up to any more mischief. She didn’t panic, she didn’t argue, she didn’t question. You are raising a very brave and sensible young lady, Lady Mary Frances.”

“Fiona MacGregor, what am I to do with you?” Mary Fran hugged her child shamelessly. “That bull could have been the end of you.” She lapsed into the Gaelic, though it was rude before a guest. Still, a mother needed to scold in her native tongue, and to be reassured, and to tell her daughter she was loved.

When Fiona had related her great tale with many embellishments and much waving of hands—and even some snorting and pawing—she lapsed into silence, drowsing on her mother’s shoulder. Miss Augusta had slipped out somewhere along the second or third telling, leaving Mary Fran to carry the child up to bed and tuck her in.

She didn’t always tuck in her own child. One of the maids saw to it if Mary Fran were too busy, just as Miss Augusta had seen to
saving
Fiona’s life
when Mary Fran had been too busy today.

Feeling guilt about to swamp her composure, Mary Fran grabbed a shawl and took herself to the back terrace. It was nearly dark, and the stars already coming out, meaning Fiona had been up quite late telling her story, working the worry and fear of it out of her system.

And into her mother’s.

***

Augusta had figured out at an early age that she lacked something all the other girls seemed to possess in abundance. Something quintessentially feminine and appealing to the gentlemen searching for brides, something that made a woman truly care which bonnet showed off a new dress to best advantage.

She’d attributed her lack of enthusiasm for shopping or swilling tea by the hour to having spent a great deal of her early years with her father. In the secret depths of her youthful heart, she’d hoped her husband might be the one man who could stir her to passion—about marriage, about bonnets, about wifely duties, about anything the other girls took such delight in.

Mr. Post-Williams had been ardent, he’d been impassioned, he’d been persistent as the devil and also conscientious regarding his tooth powder, so Augusta had capitulated only to be disappointed again.

Disappointed worse than ever.

Lord Balfour was going to disappoint her too—not in the same way of course—but unlike all the men who’d clamored for Augusta’s hand, Balfour stirred her passions.

She was out of bed when the birdsong started, eager for their outing. He’d been a gentleman in each of their encounters, whether in private or surrounded by family, but he’d been a
friendly
gentleman. An
affectionate
gentleman, even.

Which was occasioning great, foolish giddiness on Augusta’s part.

She
wanted
him
for
her
own.
Wanted him reading her poetry as he’d read to Genie, who’d been oddly subdued by his gallantry and patience.

Augusta wanted his smiles and quiet asides; she wanted his devotion to family and his boundless physical vigor. She wanted his restless, penetrating mind and his humor, and more than anything in her life, she wanted to know him intimately.

This was
very
bad of her,
very
foolish. She desperately hoped she could keep from acting on such mad notions, but the intensity of the feelings consuming her was nigh overwhelming. Fortunately, Balfour showed no signs of reciprocal inclinations, and this was a relief. Augusta had no doubt Uncle would toss her off her property in Oxfordshire if she interfered with Genie’s prospects.

She wouldn’t interfere, but she would steal a few hours with the earl for herself. She’d have his smiles; she’d have his companionship; she’d even have the occasional opportunity to take his arm or hold his hand.

He was a hand-holder; she’d gathered that much. Lovely quality in a man, but not one she’d ever found in the effete and proper Englishmen who’d kept her company in the past. Balfour was different in so many ways.

Or maybe,
she
was different.

Augusta dressed quickly and considered this possibility. She was older, she’d suffered some bad years, she’d fashioned a meaningful life for herself with very few raw materials. Maybe her hand was more worth holding now, at least to a man who had more on his mind than fabricating tales of having gone walking with the Queen.

She laced up her old half boots—the comfortable ones—pinned up her braid, and slipped out the door to the terrace.

She caught sight of his lordship—Ian—standing in the early morning light at the edge of the terrace. He had a rucksack strapped to his back, but he was bareheaded and bare-handed, his kilt a subdued pattern of gray, red, and black. He smiled as he caught sight of her and held out his hand to her.

This morning, being different was going to be wonderful indeed.

***

Augusta Merrick was in surprisingly good condition, or she was too sensible to lace her stays to the ridiculous extremes that passed for fashion in the South.

Ian was taking her up the easy way, nonetheless—the long way—the only way that didn’t require the nimbleness of a goat, nerves of steel, and some fervent prayers to the gods of weather.

It did, however, require him to hold her hand, to help her over the various rough patches in the goat track, to keep a hand on her waist when the path widened enough to let them walk side by side.

Just for this morning, he’d given up chastising himself for desiring his intended’s cousin. As a married man, he was going to have to discipline himself to look and not touch, perhaps to not touch even his own wife.

The thought coincided with a cloud passing before the sun, turning the summer air chilly in typical Scottish fashion. The Almighty was nothing if not subtle in His humor.

“How much farther to the top?”

She wasn’t even out of breath, and they’d been climbing gradually but steadily for nearly an hour. “Not much farther. Let’s rest a bit, shall we?”

She looked around and picked out a boulder from among the many possibilities.

“Do you come up here often?” As she spoke, she was unpinning her braid, which had been threatening to lose its moorings. Lifting both arms shifted her breasts gently under her shirtwaist, forcing Ian to focus on the sky.

“Not as often as I did as a boy. The view is magnificent, but the time to make the climb becomes harder and harder to find.” The
view
was riveting, in fact.

“You attended university in Edinburgh, didn’t you?”

Down came the braid, a thick dark rope long enough to reach her lap.

Bloody damn… He pulled his gaze away from the blue hair ribbon twined around the end of her braid, the little bow resting right over her…

“I studied law in Aberdeen.” He didn’t sit right beside her, but took the next boulder over, downwind, so he could catch her lilac scent without being too obvious. “The MacGregors were put to the horn and denied the use of their very name by action of law. The Clearances were conducted by operation of law. The sovereignty of Scotland was obliterated by passage of laws. I thought it behooved a prudent Scotsman to acquaint himself thoroughly with this business of the law.”

“England’s sovereignty was obliterated too.” She held up one of her half boots and upended it with a vigorous shake. Ian wrenched his mind away from the memory of her bare toes. “The Acts of Union were simultaneous and a Scottish monarch put on the throne of the United Kingdom of Great Britain.”

She did this. She argued with him, argued history, politics, animal husbandry. They’d argued all the way up the hillside, and he’d never enjoyed a woman’s company more—with his clothes on.

“Give me your pins, Augusta.”

They’d also dropped any pretense of using titles and polite address with each other. She graced him with an enigmatic smile and passed over a handful of hairpins. He sidled around to stand behind her where she sat.

He gathered up her braid and coiled it neatly at her nape. “So why don’t we call this wonderful island of ours Great Celtland or Great Pictland? Why did we name it after the English heathen of yore?”