For her part, Iris was thoroughly tired of sheep. Every one of her peers seemed as thoroughly, crushingly ovine as the fluffy white beasts that dotted every field for miles around. Through some accident of heraldry or geography, the Hearthing family arms featured a lion rampant on a field of blue, and Iris had always tried her hardest to live up to that noble animal’s reputation. Even when by size and disposition she felt more a mouse than a lion.
Besides, it turned out that to be a lion among sheep was a lonely thing, and left her hungry for something greater. Ever since she had clapped her eyes on the massive, muscular figure of a Scotsman named Balthazar at one of her father’s annual balls, she had been able to think of nothing else.
How many times have I seen that colorful marvel in my dreams since that ball four years ago? How many nights have I lay awake imagining myself swaddled in the strong, masculine arms of the fierce, manly Balthazar Nerwood, third-born son of Laird McGregor?
“Very well. This is it,” she repeated, setting down her empty glass on an empty serving tray. Her heart hammered from somewhere deep within her, under layers of mantua and petticoat and corset. It had taken her nearly an hour to locate her goal from her vantage point by the window, made more difficult by the vultures that perpetually swooped in to inquire about Iris’s uncharacteristic turn as a wallflower. But now that she had sighted her quarry, she suddenly found herself frozen on the spot.
Why am I so fearful?
Iris asked herself, trying to quell the rumbling in her stomach.
I’ve sighted his telltale garment, even if the man himself is hard to identify from this distance. Now all I need do is approach Balthazar and speak to him, just as I’ve done a thousand times in my mind.
The rumbling grew stronger at this thought.
Perhaps butterflies are made more agitated when fed a diet of wine alone.
“Cousin Iris!” a voice trilled from her periphery. A great commotion of ribbons wafted into view, topped by the cherubic face of her cousin Charlotte.
Iris put on her most gratifying smile as she turned to greet her kind, if overloud, cousin. Unfortunately, she must not have accomplished as great a feat of deception as she had imagined, because the next words to come out of Charlotte’s mouth were, “Are you unwell? You have the look of having just swallowed a spider.”
She winced. “Forgive me, Cousin. The… change in weather does not agree with me,” Iris said as gently as she could manage, keeping one eye on the patch of tartan across the room.
“Are you sure it is not the grouse pies?” Charlotte asked with a wink and a hand conspicuously raised to one side of her mouth. “Whatever your Lord Father does to that poor chef must be terribly cruel. I vow, a man who cooks like this must be suffering.”
Iris laughed with surprise, breaking free of her scowl of concentration for the first time in hours.
“Charlotte, I am surprised at such rudeness! You are, of course, completely correct, as I am sure Chef would agree, but since when is it proper for a guest to show up at a ball and begin telling the truth to her hosts?”
“Well, someone ought to!” Charlotte quipped, fanning herself with a feathered folding fan. “And it might as well be an old married hag like me, as I have less to lose.”
“How is everything in London?” Iris asked, her thoughts turning away from Caledonian concerns for a welcome change.
“Oh, wracked with scandal. Erupting in political and societal turmoil. The same dull old lot, really.”
“And your Lord Husband? I trust the Duke is—”
“Iris,” Charlotte interrupted with a tsk. “If I wanted idle pleasantries, I would have approached literally anyone else here. Such banality is unbecoming a young woman of your stature.”
Iris’s cheeks grew hot. “My ‘stature’?” she snapped.
“Yes, yes, though you be little, you are but fierce, or however it goes,” Charlotte said with a wave of her hand. “And the Duke is the same as always, not that either of us gives a fig.” She reached out and took her cousin’s hand in her own gloved fingers, her eyes alight with curiosity.
“Now that we have concluded old matters, why not be a good hostess and indulge your guest for a moment?”
“Surely you cannot think you suffer from a lack of indulgence,” Iris joked, her temper cooling as quickly as it had ignited. Her cousin met her with the faintest approximation of a laugh before continuing.
“Tell me of your own adventures here in the wild North! It must be dreadfully exciting, especially nowadays.”
“Oh, Charlotte, you simply cannot imagine how wretchedly uninteresting everything is here!” said Iris. Noticing she was drawing stares from some nearby codgers dozing in their cups of wine, she lowered her voice and continued. “The winters here are so long and dark, and there is hardly even anyone to speak to!”
“Hardly anyone?” Charlotte asked with an arched eyebrow. “Or hardly any eligible men, you mean?”
Iris snorted. “The only eligible men in this part of the country are colder than the winters. Most of them are older than my father and frail enough they would snap in half in a mild wind.”
“Oh, really, it cannot be as bad as all that.”
“You should have been here at my last birthday,” said Iris, her already considerably boldness inflated by the wine. “There was a certain Viscount my father had his heart set on for me—I cannot recall his name, somehow.”
“And what did you find wrong with him, then?” Charlotte asked boldly. Why am I not addressing you as the Lady Whoever-It-Was?”
Iris rolled her eyes. “First, he could neither eat nor drink due to a weak stomach. And if that weren’t bad enough, the man fainted during our first dance!” She laughed bitterly. “Really, Cousin, can you imagine being married to a man like that? I should hardly call that a man at all!”
“I know a certain Duke who might differ in opinion,” Charlotte chuckled. Then the pair was interrupted by a roving band of codgers, their conversation grinding to a halt as they returned the old men’s stuttering pleasantries.
“You see what I have to put up with?” Iris muttered through a clenched-teeth smile.
Suddenly recalling her purpose for the evening, as discreetly as she could muster, Iris peered over and around the wizened heads of their supplicants for that guiding flash of red and gold.
Curse my inattentiveness, I’ve lost track of him!
“But surely that can’t be all to your life here at Hearthing!” Charlotte continued as the old men tottered off. “Are there truly no other suitable diversions near Hearthing? Why, I was sure you must be simply overrun with mad Scotsmen, especially so close to the border with our new countrymen?”
“Hardly!” Iris coughed. “Even as close as we are to some of the clans, Father will have little to do with them.”
Charlotte sighed, slowly walking towards the grand hearth with Iris in tow. “How disappointing. I had half expected you to have been carried off by a barbarous Highlander by now. It should hardly take any effort at all for a Scotsman to toss a little thing like you over the side of his horse and marry you within an afternoon.”
“They are not barbarians!” Iris protested.
Her cousin gave her a sly look out of the corner of her eye. “Ruffians, then. Vandals. Brutes. However you like to put it, Cousin, surely it’s clear that our new compatriots to the North are not half as civilized as we are?”
“Charlotte, how can you say that?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Living in drafty old castles, making war with one another over the slightest insult, wearing skirts like any peasant woman—”
“They’re called kilts, Charlotte, and they are—”
“Oh, Iris,” Charlotte laughed theatrically, her mouth wide and eyes closed. “I’m sure I must seem frightfully old-fashioned. But you can’t really think Scotsmen are the equal of our beloved kingdom? Why, I have heard stories they stuff the hearts of their enemies into that awful haggis of theirs.”
“That simply isn’t true!” Iris felt her voice raise but was powerless to fight it, caught in the wave of emotion that washed over her. She felt her cheeks redden with ire. “I have yet to meet a single Englishman who possesses a tenth the courage and masculinity of a Scotsman!”
Charlotte stopped in place and gave Iris a maddeningly confident smile. “If that is how you feel, Cousin, and you are so terribly unhappy with your lot here, why not entertain a Scotsman as a suitor?” she asked in a sweet tone of voice, her round face a mask of jovial cruelty.
“Perhaps I shall!” Iris snapped, then clutched her hands together to prevent them from flying in front of her mouth. Her words echoed in the now-quiet ballroom. Somewhere in the distance, over the sounds of the feeble musicians struggling with their minuet, she was sure she heard voices whispering on the theme of her outburst. Iris was sure her cheeks must now be the color of Balthazar Nerwood’s tartan kilt, but she kept her eyes fiercely locked on Charlotte’s, swallowing heavily.
“Why,” Charlotte said as she put a hand to her mouth in mock surprise, “what a happy coincidence! Isn’t that one of our Scottish neighbors just over there?” She gestured towards the end of one of the long tables near the door where from a quick glance, Iris detected the same red that had lingered in her dreams.
Her stomach churned, her head suddenly feeling light enough to be carried away on the breeze. A dozen excuses leapt into Iris’ mouth at once… but seeing the smile of victory already creep onto her cousin’s face was enough to marshal her courage.
You will not see me falter, Cousin.
She set her chin in defiance.
You may have all of London’s glamor, but here in the wild North none shall shame a lion out of pursuing what she aims for.
“Perhaps… I shall,” Iris said once more. And with a dramatic flourish of the skirts of her gown, she turned on her heel and marched towards the errant Scotsman. She detected a look of surprise come to Charlotte’s face as she turned away, but pushed it out of her mind. She had to focus on the more important task at hand.
You are not a mouse, she said to herself, closing her eyes. You are a lion. Be a lion.
She dug deep within herself to review her plan and retrieve any mislaid supply of courage.
“Oh, Mister Nerwood!” she would say. “I am so terribly glad you could attend this year’s ball! I have been hoping to have a chance to speak with you. Perhaps we could adjourn to somewhere quieter to discuss—”
Then, with an explosion of silk and lace and hair, Iris Stephenson found herself colliding into something as solid and massive as a mountain, then discovered herself to be in a heap on the ground.
Stupid girl! Look where you walk!
Opening her eyes, Iris’s heart fluttered at the sight of that red and gold lodestar right before her. That glorious, unmistakable tartan kilt folded invitingly, its intricate sporran dangling right before her eyes, revealing a handsomely hairy man’s leg. The sight was queerly compelling, rousing a hunger that she had struggled with for so long now.
Balthazar has knelt to help me to my feet! Foolish though I may be, perhaps this will do for an introduction after all. I may just evade the nunnery yet!
Iris captured her most winsome smile, stuffing it full of equal parts charm and embarrassment, and lifted her eyes to her rescuer in gratitude.
“Please do pardon me, sir, I—oh!” She stopped with a gasp as soon as her eyes fell upon the unfamiliar man’s curly red hair, his blue eyes, and dimpled smile. “Who are you?” she blurted, her heart plummeting in her chest.
It’s not him!
Chapter 2
The Other Scotsman
The assailant who had crashed headlong into James Maclean, Laird of Clan Armstrong, was surprisingly small considering the force of the collision. And, he was startled to notice, surprisingly comely.
The woman looked to be about his age, although she was quite small. In fact, she appeared to be shorter than him by more than a head, though it was difficult to assess with her crumpled on the ground. Her own head was topped with curly tresses the color of ripe wheat in the summer sunlight, one of which she brushed out of her open mouth as soon as she had recovered from her shock.
“Forgive me, Me Lady,” he couldn’t help but say, a warm smile creeping onto his face. “Where I come from, it’s proper to introduce oneself before startin’ a brawl. Even for a wee lass like yerself.”
This’s a right vixen, indeed!
James watched as the young lady’s face changed rapidly from an expression of shock to dismay to indignation. He extended a hand to help her to her feet, but withdrew it when she hoisted herself to her feet with a pout.
I cannae imagine where she’s been hid in this dreary old house, but perhaps this party’s nae such a waste of time after all…
“I apologize, sir,” she snapped, as she attempted to rescue her unraveling hairstyle. “I must watch where I am going. I pray you are not injured by my carelessness?”
“Of course, Me Lady, nae a problem. Yer humble servant is undamaged,” he returned in his most proper speech, punctuating the utterance with a theatrical bow. These English seemed to live on such ritual, as far as James was able to determine. Affairs of manners now dealt with, he allowed himself to indulge his curiosity. “Ye seem to be in a right hurry, though. Lookin’ for somebody, are ye?”
Her hair appeared more or less the same to James, but apparently it was sufficiently repaired for the young woman to give a belated curtsy as she waved off attempts to assist her from other chary partygoers. Her eyes, which James noticed were the deep brown of an old rowan tree, now darted about the ballroom.
“Indeed,” she said in a distracted tone. “I mistook you for someone else.”
James scoffed, silencing himself as best as he was able when that adorable scowl leapt to the young woman’s face once more.
“Have I said something amusing, sir?” she asked, her hands perching on her hips as menacingly as a short young woman could manage.
“Nay, Me Lady, forgive me,” James coughed. “I just find it difficult to believe I was confused with another man in this company.” He swept his outstretched finger across the room, indicating the crowd of identical old Englishmen and ladies. The revelers fervently avoided looking at him, as they had all night, but instead busied themselves with their food, conversation, and what they somehow referred to as dancing.
“It is impolite to point, especially in mixed company,” the girl said, seemingly without thinking. James smiled as he dropped his finger.
As she continued to collect herself, James took an opportunity to inspect the girl for any damage beyond her hair. He could hardly see her limbs beneath the wide panniers of her gown, though he had caught a brief glimpse of a well-turned calf as she scrambled to her feet with ease and haste.
Her red gown had all the hallmarks of the usual English tackiness, though admittedly this small, feminine pugilist wore it better than most. Perhaps it was the way the gown curved invitingly in all the feminine places—though she seemed younger than he, her hips bulged with womanly power, and her…
Be a gentleman, James, he chided himself. Ye’re here for business, nae for oglin’ the Lords’ daughters.
Forcing his gaze to ignore the young lady’s dramatic décolletage and move on to her face, he smiled as he noticed the constellations of freckles on her full cheeks.
Though the lass is quite pretty, indeed. Nae like the old boots most of these English tadgers seem to have hidden away.
As his eyes alighted on hers, he saw they were giving him much the same thorough once-over that he had just given her. Then her gaze fell upon his own eyes, and he caught a glimpse of the intense heat that burned at the bottoms of those deep, earthy pools. James blinked, expecting her to avert her eyes from his, but was pleasantly surprised once again at the boldness of this fierce little mouse.
“I—indeed,” she stammered, her fists losing purchase on her hips, eyes softening as they lingered on his. Abruptly, sh
e looked away with a blush. “I fear I was fooled by your appearance at a distance. I was looking for another Scotsman I expected to be in attendance at the ball.”
“Another Scotsman?” he asked, puzzled. Then his memory returned an unpleasant answer. “Ye cannae mean ye are lookin’ for Bal—”
“Do you know Balthazar, then?” she asked, her eyes bright and hands clasped with eagerness. “I mean, Mister Nerwood? Have you seen him here tonight?”
James groaned in frustration.
Nerwood. Of course she’s lookin’ for Nerwood.
“Is there something the matter?” the girl asked, suddenly solicitous.
James laughed bitterly. “Nay, lass, naught is wrong. If it’s Mister Nerwood ye’re seekin’, I’ve a good idea where he can be found.”
“You do? Where?”
“Aye, I saw him just over…” James trailed off, realizing he had little idea how to give directions in this dim, ugly English house. “Well, nae far. Maybe it would be best if I escorted ye to him, then?”
The girl composed herself once again, hands clasping one another like a proper young English lady. In a dispassionate voice she replied, “Thank you, sir, that would be most suitable.”
Gesturing towards the door, James followed his companion out of the ballroom and into the corridor, shaking his head in disbelief.
What are ye doin’, James Maclean? Ye’ve crucial business to conduct, the clan’s dependin’ on their Laird, and here ye are playin’ guide to an empty-headed gentleman’s daughter? Though, then again, she does seem a bit less ignorant than most of them.
He cocked his head to one side, suddenly stricken by the peculiarity of this interaction. “It’s nae me business, Me Lady,” he asked as they walked towards what he hoped was the salon where he had last seen Nerwood, “but what could ye be wantin’ with Mister Nerwood, exactly?”
The young lady’s hands began plucking at invisible threads at the ends of her gloves, and the milk-white skin on her face grew flushed at the question.
Highlander's Fallen Angel : A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 28
