Christmas in the Scot's Arms (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 3)

by Julie Johnstone

  Lord Northington tipped his hat to them and then strode by with a chuckle. Embarrassment churned in her stomach. She turned her head away, praying the cool air would lessen the redness she was sure marked her cheeks. Behind her, she heard Liam shift. She had to turn around, she had to explain, but words failed her. How could she explain her disgrace to a man she hardly knew? She was trying to work it out in her head when a horrific notion hit her.

  She faced Liam and found pity in his eyes. Knots filled her stomach. Lord Tarrymount must have mentioned something already for Liam to look at her so. She simply had to know.

  “Did Lord Tarrymount say anything about me to you?”

  He did not answer right away, but he did not need to. Wariness crept into his eyes, and her heart crashed to her feet.

  “He did,” Liam said, hesitating as if he was taking her measure, or perhaps deciding if he would say more.

  She barely resisted the urge to press her hands over her ears as humiliation crashed over her, followed swiftly by anger. She stared at the beautiful man before her. She was a blithering idiot. Feathers for brains, that’s what she had. Had he thought her a woman of easy virtue and, therefore, intended to pursue her? That made much more sense than him having a genuine interest in her.

  “I see,” she finally replied, though her words were jerky and stiff. “I hate to disappoint you, Lord MacLeod—”

  “Liam,” he reminded her with an easy smile that simultaneously made her chest squeeze and infuriated her. How could he affect her so? She had only just met him, and he had proven to be a blackguard!

  “Lord MacLeod,” she said, perfectly aware she sounded like a shrill shrew, “I am not interested in a romp, contrary to what you must have been told and obviously believe.”

  His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared as she shrugged out of his coat and threw it toward him, then turned on her heel and quickly marched away.

  For a moment, all was silent behind her, and then his footsteps were approaching quickly. She hurried onward, determined to reach her house and the sanctuary it offered. Just as she made it to her front steps, her foot slipped on a slick patch of ice—again—and she careened backward. Liam caught her and pulled her against his hard chest, then set her gently away and turned her around.

  There was a lethal calmness in his gaze, yet she could see his jaw twitching. He was angry. He tugged a hand through his hair, then spoke. “I do not think ye are interested in a romp, Cecelia.”

  “B-but Lord Tarrymount—” she sputtered.

  “Warned me to stay away from ye because of some nonsense about not being in the good graces of the ton.”

  “Oh dear,” she mumbled, horrified at how she had acted. Before she could say more, the door opened and her mother stood there gaping at her.

  “Cecelia!” Mother gasped, looking between her and Liam. “Where have you been?”

  “The market took longer than I expected,” Cecelia lied, hiding her book behind her back and shooting Liam a pleading look. A frown appeared between his brows, but he did not refute her story. “I almost fell on the ice, and Lord MacLeod here caught me.” Never mind that it had happened yesterday, too.

  The glare on her mother’s face instantly disappeared, and a smile took its place. “Lord MacLeod, you say?”

  Cecelia nodded as dread settled in her stomach. She knew how much her mother wanted her to make a good match. Once she realized Liam was not wealthy, however, Cecelia feared the worst.

  “Where are you from, Lord MacLeod?” Mother demanded. “I don’t recognize your name.”

  “The Isle of Skye, Lady…?”

  “Oh dear me!” Cecelia cried out. “Lord MacLeod, might I present my mother, Lady Thornberry. Mama, as I’m sure you have gathered, this is Lord MacLeod.”

  “Has your clan been greatly affected as most others?” Mother asked to Cecelia’s mortification, ignoring her daughter and going straight to the topic that interested her most—whether or not Liam had any money.

  Liam nodded, and Mother’s friendly smile disappeared. Her lips pressed together as Cecelia had feared. “I see,” she replied curtly. “I am terribly sorry about that. Cecelia!” Mother’s sharp voice made Cecelia cringe. “Hurry inside before you catch a chill.”

  With how hot her mortification was making her, Cecelia was positive catching a chill was not a worry she needed to consider. She offered Liam an apologetic look. “I’m awfully sorry about earlier, and well—” She shrugged and cast a helpless look toward her mother—“everything. Please,” she said, lowering her voice as her mother turned to go inside, “don’t judge my mother too harshly. She has not always been so—”

  “Friendly and welcoming to strangers?” Liam supplied with a wink.

  Cecelia had to smother her laugh. “You are very kind,” she whispered. He could have been angry at her mother’s dismissal of him based solely on her discovery that he was not a catch, yet he was generous about her less than charitable attitude.

  “Cecelia!” Mother called, her tone impatient. “Now, if you please.”

  She didn’t please, not at all. She wished to linger for a moment more and stare into Liam’s beautiful eyes, which seemed to look upon her without judgment. But with a farewell wave of her hand, she turned dutifully toward the gray door. She did not have the luxury of falling for a gentleman like Liam, however wonderful he seemed.

  Chapter Four

  Liam strolled back to the Rochburns’ thinking about Cecelia and her accusation that he had thought she wished for a romp because Lord Tarrymount had said something to him. So Cecelia not being in the ton’s good graces had something to do with a gentleman, or perhaps with her having been perceived unfairly after likely failing to behave exactly as the ton deemed proper. From what he had seen of the ton so far, it seemed to be made up of pretentious, judgmental, vain people with too much money and not enough heart.

  He nodded to the butler as the man opened the door, and then he strolled through the entrance hall, intending to find Aila and see if she had managed to secure Cecelia an invitation to the ball. He wanted to see her again and spend more time with her, but her mother’s cold attitude toward him made him certain he would not be welcome to call there. That left the ball. At such an occasion, he could dance with her and possibly speak to her alone again in a quiet corner.

  He started to make his way toward the stairs to Aila’s room but paused when he saw his sister hunkered over with her ear pressed to the drawing room door. Chuckling softly, he quietly went to her and tapped her on the shoulder. With a jerk and a gasp, Aila stood so fast she nearly knocked him on the chin with her head.

  She stepped back and to the side, and scowled up at him. “Ye gave me a fright!” she accused in a whisper.

  He smirked. “Ye’d not be in the position to be frightened if ye were not eavesdropping at a door. What is it ye’re trying to hear?” As the question left his mouth, a distinctly feminine, distinctly irate voice rose from within the study and drifted toward them in murmured, indistinguishable words. A louder, clearer male voice followed. It belonged to Aila’s betrothed.

  Aila pressed a finger to her lips and leaned forward as if to hear what Aldridge would say, but the gesture was not necessary. He fairly bellowed at his mother. “Aila has made a friendship! It is her first here in England, and she is joyful because of it. I will not have you ruining her happiness with your harsh judgment of Miss Cartwright!”

  “Harsh judgment?” the duchess exclaimed. “I saw it with my own eyes. Right here in our home!”

  “Enough, Mother!” Aldridge thundered at the same time another male voice, deeper and laced with even more irritation than Aldridge’s had been, chimed in.

  “Penelope,” the man—it had to be the Duke of Rochburn, Aldridge’s father—said in a gruff tone. “I have sat back and said nothing as you joined the ranks of busybodies that passed judgment on that young lady, but I’ll not sit silent now and watch as you drive Aldridge away.”

  “I would never drive Aldri
dge away!” the duchess exclaimed.

  “Not intentionally, my dear, but unintentionally…”

  A loud sniff came from within, which Liam assumed was the duchess displaying her wounded feelings.

  “Our son,” the duke continued without commenting on his wife’s sniffling, “has only just returned from a war I let him leave for with anger between us, and now that God has seen fit to bring him home to us, and with a lovely woman he wishes to wed, I’ll not let you cause more anger and division in our family. I have learned my lesson, and you should, too.”

  “I’m not a child to be scolded, Rochburn!” the duchess wailed as a child would.

  Liam and Aila exchanged an amused look.

  “I will cease the scolding when you cease acting like a child,” the duke replied to his wife’s declaration in a stern tone. “Miss Cartwright will receive an invitation to the ball because it will please Aldridge’s bride-to-be and therefore our son, which will please me. I daresay the young lady has learned her lesson, if there ever was one to teach her. I for one, am not certain there was.”

  Silence reigned for a minute, and Liam and Aila exchanged a long look. Whatever had occurred with Cecelia, it seemed she had at least two men who championed her.

  “I’ll do as you command,” the duchess said in a dramatic tone, “but don’t blame me if the ton snubs your betrothed because of her choice in friends.”

  “I’m positive, Aila will manage the snub, if she should receive it. She is a Scot and, therefore, has a backbone of steel.”

  Liam grinned at Aila. “I like him,” he whispered to his sister.

  She nodded as the duchess spoke again. “I better go see about the invitation, then,” the duchess said with a sigh.

  “Excellent, Mother.”

  “You should tell Aila about Miss Cartwright, though, so that she is prepared to be snubbed.”

  “I do not believe anyone would dare,” Aldridge countered. “They all know if they did such a thing, they’d have to face you, and are you not the Ice Duchess?”

  Liam had heard enough. Cecelia was going to be invited to the ball, and that was what mattered to him. And from what Aldridge had said, it seemed that what had occurred with Cecelia had been overblown. Liam took Aila by the arm and guided her upstairs to her bedchamber where they might talk in private. Once the door was shut, they faced each other.

  Aila quirked her lips, as was her habit when she was contemplating something. “What do ye suppose occurred with Cecelia?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve no notion. Why would I?”

  Aila smirked at him. “Well ye did insist we go to that bookstore today for ye to buy her a book, and then ye did have time alone with her, did ye not?”

  “I did,” he agreed, not ready to speak of what he and Cecelia had discussed.

  Aila’s smirk deepened. “I’ve never known ye to buy anything for a lass, or be concerned for one. Other than when she is trying to trap ye into marrying her, that is.”

  He scowled at his sister. “That’s true enough, but I am not worried that Cecelia is trying to trap me into marriage.”

  “Because she has no notion ye have money and land,” Aila said flippantly.

  “Aye,” he replied.

  Aila’s gaze locked with his. “Why did ye not correct her erroneous belief?”

  “Because it is nice to be able to get to know someone and judge her reaction to me based solely on who I am. Can ye understand?”

  “I can.” His sister studied him. “Do ye wish me to ask Richard exactly what occurred with her, so ye may be properly informed before perusing her further?”

  He shook his head. “If there is a tale about her to be told, I’d rather get it from her lips.”

  Aila grinned and hugged him. “I knew ye would say that! I cannot wait for the ball tomorrow night! I’m more excited for ye than for myself.”

  He usually did not care for large social gatherings where he would have to spend a good portion of his time avoiding scheming lasses, but Cecelia would hopefully be there, and she’d not be scheming to get him. He found the prospect very appealing.

  The next night, the Rochburns’ ballroom buzzed with hundreds of guests, but Liam was only concerned about one—Cecelia. An hour into the party to celebrate Aila and Aldridge’s betrothal, Cecelia still had not made an appearance. As Liam stood by a column with a champagne flute in his hand and a scowl firmly on his face—to ward off the marriage-minded mamas who kept casting hopeful glances his way—his patience was wearing thin. His mood darkened as he began to suspect Cecelia was not going to come. The only question was why.

  As he contemplated this, he watched a mother take hold of her daughter’s arm and stride toward him with purposeful steps. She whispered in her daughter’s ear, and by the time they reached him, both mother and daughter had matching gleams in their eyes. He did not doubt that their interest in him lay in his land and money and not at all in who he truly was.

  The mother and daughter gave him coquettish smiles. “Lord MacLeod, we met you the first day you arrived in London,” the mother said. “I’m sure you recall.”

  He honestly did not, but he nodded, not wishing to injure their sensibilities.

  “This is my daughter, Francis. She is a lovely dancer.”

  “I’m certain she is,” he replied, looking beyond the women toward the entrance in the hope of seeing Cecelia. The mother before him made him think of Cecelia’s mother, who had clearly dismissed him the moment she had thought him without wealth. Cecelia had seemed embarrassed by her mother’s behavior, and his instinct told him that Cecelia was different.

  Just as the thought entered his mind, she appeared like a vison from a fantasy, encased in a white silk gown that made her look rather like a snow fairy. Her black hair was piled on top of her head with tendrils of curls clinging to her creamy neck. He followed the expanse of beautiful, inviting skin down to the swell of her chest, which was modestly covered with white lace, and his blood heated. Her large brown eyes shone from her delicate face. She appeared defiant yet nervous at the same time. The contradiction was fascinating. She was the most beguiling creature he had ever beheld.

  He stepped toward her, as if pulled by an invisible string, when a hand came to rest upon his arm. Annoyed, he looked to his right and into Francis’s disbelieving face and her mother’s annoyed one. Devil take it. He had completely forgotten the women beside him, lost as he was to the spell Cecelia cast over him without trying.

  “Lord MacLeod, did you hear me?” the mother asked.

  “I’m sorry to say I did not. Would ye mind repeating it, Lady…?” There was no hope to hide that he did not remember her name.

  “Lady Dentington,” she said, her voice pinched. “I said, Francis would be perfectly thrilled to dance with you, unless you do not care to do so.” The woman arched her eyebrow all the way to her hairline.

  Lady Dentington had cornered him, and he was the clot-heid who’d let her. He was certain that she had overstepped the social customs of London by being so bold, but he was also certain that she did not care. Sometimes being honorable was troublesome, and this was assuredly one of those times. He clenched his teeth as he extended a hand to Francis. He knew from Cecelia that it was not the English custom to refer to one another by their Christian names, but apparently when a mother was determined to catch a man for her daughter, etiquette was disposable.

  As Francis took his hand, he sought out Cecelia once more. Where was she? She had moved from the entrance. The notes of the dance started, and he maneuvered Francis to the dance floor as he continued his search for Cecelia. On the first turn, while half listening to Francis chatter on about all the things she was more than capable of—such as enduring, without complaint, the cold Highland winter on the barbaric Isle of Skye—he found Cecelia in another man’s arms.

  He narrowed his gaze upon them. He was acquainted with Lord Egerton. Liam had not liked the man upon meeting him, and he liked him even less in this moment as his hand pressed into C
ecelia’s back. Liam noted her eyes first widen, then narrow. He thought seriously upon striding across the ballroom and wrenching the man’s hand off her and possibly giving him a nice, hard jab in his overly long nose, but that would likely make the fools of the ton talk more about Cecelia. He did not want to do anything to harm her, but if that man’s hand moved any lower…

  Suddenly, Cecelia stepped away from Lord Egerton, said something, and then turned and moved off the dance floor with her head held high in a display of pride that made Liam want to grin.

  As soon as the dance ended, he delivered Francis to her mother and started toward Cecelia. As he closed the distance, he watched her and her mother exchange what appeared to be words of disagreement, given their strained faces, and then another gentleman was in front of Cecelia and off she went again toward the dance floor as Liam weaved in and out of guests to get closer to her. When she next came off the dance floor he was going to intercept her.

  He leaned against a column by a potted plant, and when another mother looked his way, he scowled, not feeling a hint of remorse when he noted her indignant gasp. Behind him, he heard a rustle, and as he looked to see who it was, his sister stepped up beside him.

  “I’ve been watching ye,” Aila said in a teasing voice.

  “Are ye not supposed to be mingling with all the ladies and gentlemen ye will be living among?”

  Aila shrugged. “Watching ye watch Cecelia is much more fun. I’ve never seen ye besotted.”

  “I am not besotted,” he growled, though he suspected he could very well be, if he allowed himself to be. “I’m intrigued. There’s a difference.”

  “Ye look besotted,” Aila continued. “Why do ye not ask her to dance?”

  “There has not been a chance,” he replied, a tick starting in his jaw as Cecelia’s current partner moved his hand dangerously low on her back. “Aila, I may have to hit a man this night. Will ye be angry?”