by Amy Jarecki
“Not at all—’tis just that you didn’t have the benefit of spending time with your mother at a tender age when all young lassies need an older, wiser woman to guide them. You were forced to become the lady of the castle at the age of twelve.” Reaching out, he patted her hand as if she were a child. “Spend some time with my sister. The two of you seem amenable. And by all means, Barbara could use a companion.”
Och, this man can muddle my mind like no other I’ve ever met. “Companion? But I thought you planned to send me home at your earliest opportunity.”
“I shall pen a missive to your father and let him know you are safe and enjoying the company of my sister. Besides, in Glasgow you are well away from the lieutenant’s clutches and where I can keep an eye on you.”
Suddenly not hungry, Mary stared at her plate. Sir Donald intended to keep an eye on her while his sister imparted the wonders of modern etiquette? Who was this pompous baboon sitting at the head of the table? Did he think he could run her life? Of all the arrogance. Yes, she probably could benefit from Barbara’s tutelage, but she wasn’t about to let on that Sir Donald’s idea had an iota of merit. If he didn’t like her as she was, she wouldn’t do anything to change for his sake. Curses to him. He’d used his good looks and charm to reel her in—to make her think he actually cared. And like a mindless imp she’d played right into his hand.
She pushed back her chair. “I would prefer to return to Dunscaith Castle immediately.”
The baronet furrowed his brow beneath his ridiculous periwig. “To be kidnapped again?”
She clenched her fists and stood. “Whether or not you believe me, I can look after myself. Now I ken the lieutenant is a threat, I’ll strengthen the guard.”
Rushing for the door, Mary berated herself. She’d never forget Sir Donald’s scowl when he saw her in the bath last eve. Shouldn’t a man at least look embarrassed when presented with a naked maid in a tub of water? When they were alone in the wood, his heated stare had made gooseflesh rise across her skin. Clearly, she’d embarrassed him in front of his sister. Clearly, he didn’t think she was good enough for him.
And why in heaven’s name did he have to barge into her chamber wearing nothing but a wee cloth around his hips? Goodness gracious, no man should be thus endowed—especially a pompous, wig-wearing baronet like Sir Donald. Good Lord, he even had bands of muscle in his chest that had rippled all the way down his abdomen. Worse, she’d been made breathless by a wee line of tawny hair trailing from his naval down beneath his drying cloth.
His body was nothing but sinful.
Mary stomped up the stairs. He wanted her to learn manners? The baronet had best learn some as well.
A man who barrels into a woman’s chamber without a stitch of clothing? And then pretends to be aloof, standing all but naked in front of his sister and the daughter of a chieftain? He should be as rife with embarrassment as I am.
***
As Mary stormed out of the hall, Don resisted the urge to comb his fingers through his hair—ah, periwig. He hated wearing bloody wigs as much as Miss Mary apparently hated their appearance. But men’s wigs served a purpose. Aside from being fashionable, they were a part of a gentleman’s costume—along with his attire, a well-groomed periwig set him apart from commoners. Not that Don gave a lick about his station in life, but his buyers did. He was able to negotiate and gain alliances because of his status and he used it not only to his advantage, but to the advantage of the cause.
He straightened his cravat. It would serve Miss Mary well to grow accustomed to the lines of society.
Mr. Kerr entered from the servant’s door. “Whatever did you say to the young lady?”
Don reached for his cider. “I suggested she learn some etiquette from Miss Barbara whilst she’s staying with us.”
“Reeeeeally?” Mr. Kerr said as if he knew Mary would have such an adverse reaction. “Honestly, I find her Highland charm refreshing.”
“Aye—for a lass who plans to remain on the Isle of Skye all her life.”
“Don’t tell me…are, are you planning to marry the lass?”
Don gave his valet a stern frown. “Of course not. God’s bones, I try to help a maid learn the ways of society in the Lowlands and suddenly everyone thinks I’m bloody smitten.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.” Mr. Kerr reached for Don’s plate. “Shall I order your coach?”
“Thank you. I’ve business on the waterfront. Thank heavens. It seems I’m completely ineffective at talking sense into Miss Mary—mayhap you and Miss Barbara will have more success.”
“What sense is that, sir?”
“She needs to stay here. There’s a deranged lieutenant up north who wants nothing but to enslave her as his wife.”
“I’ve never quite heard holy matrimony described as slavery.”
“Aside from stealing my galley, the idiot kidnapped her right from under our noses—intended to force her to marry him. I’ve dispatched a missive to Fort William requesting the man’s dismissal. Until I’m satisfied he will no longer be a threat to Miss Mary, she is safer here.”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Kerr said with an amused grin.
Don stood and tugged down his doublet. “You are aware her father is a cripple?”
“No. Such news had escaped me.”
“Exactly.” He made his point. “Miss Mary is not safe at Castleton. There is no one there who can protect her from that red-coated swine.”
“Of course, sir.” Arms laden with dishes, Mr. Kerr paused at the servant’s door. “If it is any consolation, I’m happy to hear the lass will be staying with us for a time. I do like her spirit.”
Chapter Seventeen
After spending half the day being poked and prodded by the tailor, Mary sat on the settee in the drawing room and watched Miss Barbara wield a fan. Goodness gracious, if only she’d known a fan properly wielded in a skilled woman’s hand could be more effective than a dirk.
“There is a language to fan use,” Barbara said, only her violet eyes appearing over the ruffled edge of her weapon. She blinked, looking rather like a doe flirting with a stag. “All women must carry fans—not only to cool themselves or to appear genteel, but a fan can be used to communicate when it is not appropriate to speak one’s mind.”
Mary chuckled. “Which seems to be the majority of the time.”
“Exactly.” Barbara closed her fan and slapped it in her palm. “Now pay attention. Your fan must be carried, opened, closed and fluttered with precision and reason.”
Mary picked up one of Barbara’s fans from the table, opened it, then fanned her face with rapid flicks of her wrist. “It doesn’t seem too difficult.”
“Aye, but fanning quickly like that means you are engaged.”
Mary snapped the thing closed. “Hardly.”
“See?” Barbara twirled and sat beside her. “You must always hold your fan with the pretty side facing out—and never cover your face with it…unless you’re very serious about flirting.”
With a cough, Mary rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I don’t flirt.”
“No? We’ll have to see about that.” Barbara took her closed fan and shook it at Mary with pursed lips—of course the gesture must have meant something—most likely disbelief. She flicked the frilly thing partly open with her thumb. “For example, pressing a half-opened fan to your lips means you may kiss me.”
Mary drew a hand to her chest. “Shocking.”
Barbara’s shoulder shrugged. “Ladies must find ways to make their wishes known. If you hold your fan in your left hand in front of your face, you’re telling a potential suitor you are desirous to make his acquaintance.”
“My goodness, does Sir Donald know you’re teaching me about fan language? I thought he wanted me to sit erect at the dining table, smile, curtsey deeper and keep my opinions to myself.” And stop pulling the powder cork with my teeth.
Lowering her fan, Barbara grinned deviously. “He told me to introduce you to ladies’ etiquette. Fans are
an integral part of who we are when in public. No well-bred woman leaves her home without her fan. And you must not forget men as well as women are well acquainted with its language.”
Mary lifted her fan and slowly spread it open, displaying a painting of a couple picnicking under a tree. “Sir Donald speaks fan?”
“Aye, all gentlemen speak fan.” Barbara touched her fingers to Mary’s shoulder. “Always remember you must be discrete. If you communicate with your fan, it is only for the eyes of the person with whom you are conversing—not an entire hall filled with dignitaries.”
“Good heavens, how am I going to learn a new language?” With a sigh, Mary fanned herself slowly. “What does this mean?”
“You’re married.”
“Oh for heaven’s sakes.” She collapsed the fan and tossed it back on the table. “How do I cool myself and say I am completely disinterested in a relationship of any kind and I want to go home?”
“Unfortunately, that sentiment has not yet been invented.” Barbara twirled her fan in a circle. “But I think returning to Skye at the moment would be rather dull. At the very least, we have to take you to a ball—you ken they are the most fashionable, most glorious and splendid way for your sponsor to introduce you to Scotland’s eligible suitors.”
“Like gatherings?”
“A bit. The idea comes from the French Court.” Barbara sighed as if Hattie had cinched her stays too tight as well. “Royal balls are lavish displays of wealth and superb etiquette.”
Mary squinted and pinched her eyebrows together. “How many royal balls have you been to?”
Barbara affected an exasperated expression. “I daresay only one.”
Mary slapped her fan in her palm. “Well then, perhaps I needn’t worry about adding ball etiquette to my retinue of expertise.”
“’Twould be a folly, for every maid who understands the nuances of behavior at a ball can handle herself anywhere.” Barbara took a bit of parchment she’d brought with her and smoothed it open on the table. It displayed a list of fan gestures together with a description of what each one meant.
Mary studied the document. “You mean silently flirt anywhere?”
Batting her eyelashes, Barbara nipped her bottom lip. “I mean, to be in control and to have the suitor of your dreams eating from the palm of your hand.”
“Och, with Da being a cripple and a younger brother and two sisters to worry about, I’ll most likely be a spinster the rest of my life.”
“Is there no one who strikes your fancy?”
Mary crossed her arms. “No one.” Aside from a pompous baronet who thinks he needs to put on airs.
“Then my brother is a larger nincompoop than I thought.” Barbara tossed her fan on the table and stood. “While you’re here, we must make the best of our alliance. Besides, ’tis summer. There will be endless opportunities for you to be introduced to society.”
Mary eyed her. “You hardly look older than I. What is your age, pray tell?”
“I’ll be twenty in September.”
“Twenty? Goodness, I’m more than a year older.” Mary stood and took Barbara’s hands. “And you, is there a noble suitor in your sites?”
“Perhaps one.” Barbara sighed—goodness, the lass certainly had perfected sighing. “But he’s nay from Glasgow.”
“Oh, that is good news, indeed, because the noblemen around Glasgow seem ridiculously pompous.” Mary giggled. “Do I know him?”
Barbara shook her finger. “I’m not telling.”
“Why ever not?” Spinning back to the settee, Mary wielded a fan, slashing it through the air like a dirk. “You’re helping me…perhaps I can help you.”
“’Tis only a fanciful dream.” The lass’ shoulders actually dropped. “Donald doesn’t want me to marry a Highlander.”
“Pardon me?” Mary planted her fists on her hips. “The baronet is a Highlander.”
“You ken how brothers are—especially elder ones. They think they know what’s best.”
As the eldest, Mary could only imagine what it would be like to have the Baronet of Sleat ordering her about more than he already had. “Perhaps they’re as opinionated as fathers.”
***
Overhearing the lassies’ conversation, Don stood by the door and rested his hand on the latch. Of course elder brothers were as opinionated as fathers—especially when a young lass had no father to look after her affairs. As the heir to the baronetcy, he’d had no choice but to become Barbara’s guardian. And bless it, she was too young to marry.
He opened the door before he overheard anything else. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
“Donald,” Barbara said, dashing toward him and kissing his cheek.
Miss Mary flourished a fan from her perch on the settee. “Sir Donald, your sister has proved to be a wealth of information. She has thoroughly educated me in the art of fan language.” She pressed the handle to her lips indicating she wanted a kiss.
Blinking rapidly, Donald’s face burned as he shot a glower at his sister. “Fans?”
Barbara twirled one of her perfectly manicured curls around her finger. “No proper woman ever leaves her home without a fan in hand.”
“What happened to your wig?” Miss Mary asked, touching her finger to the tip of her fan—a request for a private audience.
Don rolled his eyes to the ceiling and pretended not to notice. “I hate the damnable things. I only wear them when I’ve business dealings.”
“I think you look rather dashing with all those curls cascading over your shoulders,” Barbara said.
“I think they’re ridiculous.” Dropping the fan, Mary regarded it with a dour frown. Did she mean she wanted to be friends or had the damned thing slipped from her fingers?
Unable to just let the thing sit there, Don picked it up and tossed it on the table—atop a slip of paper with diagrams of fan language. “Where on earth did you find this?”
“The book shop has dozens of them.” Barbara snatched it up, folded it, then tucked the accursed parchment into her stays. “How on earth do you expect ladies to learn anything if not for books and gazettes?”
He threw out his palms in exasperation. “When I suggested you instruct Miss Mary in etiquette, I meant things like table manners, how one behaves at the symphony—”
“Or a royal ball?” Barbara asked, with far too much mischief in her eyes.
“Precisely.”
Snatching the fan, Miss Mary shook it at him, her eyebrows angling downward. “Then that’s why I need to be aware of fan language. Goodness gracious, what if I did something like open the miserable thing too fast and some poor sop thought I wanted to marry him? I must know what I’m saying if I am forced to attend an event with a fan in my hand—as Miss Barbara stated, no self-respecting lady should be seen in society without one.”
Don groaned. He wouldn’t win such an argument with two strong-willed women combining against him. The only thing to do was to change the subject lest he succumb to death by fans. “I believe we are in for a bout of fine weather.”
“Dear brother, you do ken when ’tis time to call a truce.” Barbara winked at Mary. “’Tis a boon the weather has turned—I so love sunshine.”
The tension that had mounted in Don’s shoulders eased a bit. “Perhaps we should plan an outing.”
“Perhaps we could do some target practice?” Mary slowly opened the fan in her left hand—an overtly provocative gesture for such an innocent lass. “Though I like the idea of using these lacy things as weapons.” She looked up, her azure eyes taking on the darkness of the midnight sky. “They’re much more subtle, are they not?”
Chapter Eighteen
It had taken Balfour a fortnight to gain an audience with Colonel Hill. Fort William’s commanding officer had been away on a peacekeeping sortie while the lieutenant waited, pacing the wall-walk of the miserable fort. Christ, he could see Cameron lands across Loch Linnhe—just sitting there all peaceful-like. He could set his sights and fire the cannons—show th
em exactly what he would do to men who defied him.
Thank God Almighty he’d finally have his say this day. He’d be decorated for certain—given a new regiment to ride roughshod over anyone who crossed him.
Two dragoons accompanied him into the colonel’s study. Holding his hat under his arm, Balfour saluted. “Sir, I come to you with grave news.”
“Is that so?” The old man did not return the salute, but rested his quill in its holder and reclined in the chair behind his writing desk. “Come, lieutenant. I haven’t all day.”
Balfour stammered a bit. The colonel hadn’t dismissed the soldiers, nor had he offered a seat. “I caught the Baronet of Sleat breaking the law. The miscreants held a gathering at Dunscaith Castle. A clandestine Jacobite meeting it was, with a number of galleys in the bay, including three with eighteen-oars, clearly breaking the law.”
The colonel clasped his fingers atop his stomach. “And one of those boats belonged to Donald MacDonald.”
“Aye—another to Ewen Cameron, and the last to Robert Stewart. And they told me it was a MacDonald Clan gathering.”
“If there were so many chieftains at the gathering, why did you target Sir Donald’s galley?”
Taking a step forward, Balfour placed his palms on the colonel’s desk. “He’s the leader of that band of upstarts—led his regiment into Killiecrankie and Dunkeld after that.”
The old man issued such a heated frown, Balfour immediately straightened and drew his hands back to his sides. “True, but that was five years ago.” The colonel tapped his chin. “Since, I’ve known the Baronet of Sleat to be a peace-loving businessman. One who has traded with the fort—brought in precious supplies in the midst of winter when others didn’t dare.”
Glancing between the two soldiers, Balfour spread his arms wide. “Are you daft?”
His gaze heated, the colonel pushed himself to the edge of his chair. “Mind your station, sir.”
The corporal to his right moved his hand to the manacles suspended from his belt.
