by Amy Jarecki
“Your gown will be stunning,” Barbara said.
Mary bit the inside of her cheek. “Are you certain?” She glanced down to her breasts, which weren’t anywhere near as voluptuous as her friend’s. “I’m not convinced a plunging neckline will suit my form.”
“Oh, my sweeting, you have so much still to learn.” Barbara looped her arm through Mary’s elbow and grinned like a satisfied cat. “Do not forget I am the queen of fashion. You will be ravishing. Not a gentleman within twenty miles will be able to keep his eyes off you.”
Mary knew that wouldn’t be happening in a hundred years—not with her freckles. “You sound so sure of yourself.”
“I am. Besides, that’s why God invented stays.” Barbara glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Kerr, then opened her hand and covered her mouth for secrecy. “With Hattie’s strong arms, we’ll have your lassies up for display and looking more radiant than the crown jewels.”
Mary rapped the tart’s arm with her fingers. “You are incorrigible.”
Barbara waggled her shoulders. “I am practical.”
Unconvinced, Mary’s lips twisted. “Well, I’ll say your gown will be the fairest at the ball, and with your fair coloring and blemish-free skin, my wager is all eyes will fall upon you.”
Turning up the stairs to the townhouse, a polite giggle pealed through Barbara’s lips—goodness, she had the whole society charade down to a science. “We both will be perfectly adorned and the envy of all the women who will pale in our shadows. I have no doubt.”
Mary turned the knob and opened the door. Instantly sensing something was different, her gaze shot to Barbara.
She pointed to the table. “There’s a satchel.”
But it wasn’t Sir Donald’s, at least Mary hadn’t seen it before.
“Don’t just stand there, ladies,” said Mr. Kerr from the rear, looking a bit red in the face.
Mary quickly stepped inside, while Barbara flounced ahead with balletic grace. “Please carry our things above stairs.”
“Yes, miss.”
As Mr. Kerr proceeded to the staircase, three men stepped into the entry from the parlor. Miss Barbara’s face lit up like it was Christmas morn. “Sir Coll, where on earth did you come from?”
“Good to see you, too,” said William, pulling his sister from her path toward the Chieftain of Keppoch and embracing her.
“’Tis a relief to see Miss Mary is safe,” said Sir Kennan from the doorway, grinning like a wet-eared lad.
Mary curtseyed. “Sir Donald sent word to my father sennights ago. Did you not hear of my rescue?”
“Ah, no—” Sir Kennan looked to Sir Coll while rubbing his wrists. “We’ve been a bit tied up.”
“Aye.” William took Mary’s hand and gave it a polite peck. “It seems you weren’t the only one who needed rescue.”
“Oh, my. That sounds dreadful.” Barbara’s gaze didn’t stray from Coll MacDonell. “I’ll order some refreshments and you can tell us all about it.”
The Chieftain of Keppoch seemed equally smitten as he took Barbara’s fingers in his palms and watched her eyes as he bowed and plied the back of her hand with a kiss that lasted far too long to be proper. “Miss Barbara, how long has it been?”
She blushed like a red rose. “Six months and five days.” Tapping her fan to her lips, she giggled.
Blinking, Mary drew her hand to her chest with a stifled gasp.
She’s flirting shamelessly.
“Will you be attending the Duke of Gordon’s ball,” Barbara asked.
Mary arched her eyebrows at William and accompanied them into the parlor. So, the love interest Barbara hadn’t told Mary about was Sir Coll MacDonell of Keppoch? She liked it—though Sir Coll was as rugged as the Highlands and Barbara was anything but.
Regardless, the men’s story should prove to be riveting.
Barbara sat beside Sir Coll, though not too close. Mary watched the lassie’s fan for any inappropriate communication while William did most of the talking.
Did Sir Coll and the other gentlemen know fan language? Was Mary the only member of nobility in Scotland who hadn’t the proper education?
William explained about his meeting with Colonel Hill and lodging a formal complaint about the capture of the galley and Miss Mary’s abduction. It seemed the colonel mightn’t have been spurred to action if the lieutenant had only seized the galley—but kidnapping the daughter of a chieftain had set a fire under his antiquated buttocks.
Sir Kennan told tale about their capture when he and Sir Coll had tried to take back the galley in Glenelg.
Barbara affected a sufficiently mortified expression, her fan coming to life and touching her heart. Good heavens, she was still flirting. Sir Coll’s reaction was a subtle rise of his eyebrow and a white-toothed grin plastered from one ear to the other. All the while, Sir Kennan continued on, explaining how William had managed to secure a pardon from the colonel and spring the pair from the “pig’s pen” in Glenelg where they were imprisoned.
The story finished with more antics dealt by the redcoats in Trotternish. Fortunately, through all their adversity, they still managed to arrive with a shipment of packing salt before the ship for the Americas sailed.
And to Barbara’s obvious delight, in time to attend the ball.
“What happened with you, Miss Mary?” asked Sir Kennan. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see your bonny face.”
Mary blinked. Goodness, the lad was smiling at her with unmistakable fondness etched across his features. But he wasn’t yet twenty, was he? “Fortunately, Sir Donald came upon me when he did.”
“Came in firing his musket, did he?” asked Sir Coll.
A fire flared in Mary’s cheeks. “Actually, no. Late at night I slipped out the back of the tent and fled to the river. When I fell, Sir Donald caught my wrist just as I was about to be swept away by a swollen torrent.”
“You escaped?” Kennan’s eyes grew wide and full of awe. Perhaps someone appreciated her perseverance. “I’m impressed.”
If only Sir Donald would be so moved.
“And how long will my brother be away in Edinburgh?” William reached for his cup of peppermint tea.
“Are you aware he was called to the Court of Barony—very untimely if you ask me.” Barbara picked up the plate of cakes and offered it to Sir Coll. “But he promised to return in time for the ball.”
A door slammed and footsteps clomped from the rear entry. Mary’s stomach leapt. Only one person walked the halls of the townhouse with such a bold stride.
Stopping in the doorway, clad in a pair of trews, doublet, bonnet and looking as if he’d ridden like hellfire and brimstone, Sir Donald grinned at her with a smile that sent rays of sunlight streaking throughout the chamber. “Such a relief. Miss Mary is up and well, and the three men I’ve worried about for sennights are all gathered together at once. Good Lord, this sight was well worth spending an entire night riding the Glasgow-Edinburgh Road.”
Mary clasped her hands tight in her lap to keep from springing from her seat, dashing across the floor and making a fool of herself. Breathless, heart hammering, she returned his smile. “Welcome home, Sir Donald. It is ever so good to see you.”
There. Let no one say I am a brash Highland lass without proper manners.
Donald nodded, a glint of approval in his eyes as he crossed the floor, took up her hand and kissed it—hot breath, a hint of spice, gentle lips. “You are looking well, Miss Mary.”
Their gazes locked.
Mary’s mouth grew dry while her breasts swelled taut beneath her stays.
“We’re nearly ready for the royal ball,” said Barbara, breaking the crackle of energy. “You will simply love our gowns.”
Releasing Mary’s hand, Donald regarded his sister. “I trust they will be elegant yet modest.”
Mary’s face grew hot. “I can attest to the elegant part.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Hattie untied the strips of rags and pulled them from Bar
bara’s hair. Blonde curls sprang from the cocoons as the chambermaid unwrapped each one. She primped the ringlets framing the lass’ face while Mary perched on the chair and practiced her fan language. She tried not to use the diagrams spread on the table before her, but checked her accuracy after each subtle movement. With practice, her movements had become more delicate—according to Barbara.
The young mentor inclined her head away from Hattie’s comb. “If I were you, I’d just clonk my brother over the head with your fan. Sometimes Donald needs a good whack, I say.”
Mary buried her face behind the darned thing and laughed. Goodness, Barbara could tickle her funny bone. The ironic thing was there was nothing Mary would rather do. Of course, Sir Donald had been congenial since his return two days past, but he’d been in meetings with everyone under the sun—had scarcely taken a meal with Mary and his guests, and when he did make an appearance in the dining hall, he was distracted by his gazette or missives, or anything rather than Mary. For all she knew, her fan would be better served used to shoo away the pigeons from the windowsill.
Barbara held up an ivory box. “You should apply a dusting of face powder ’Twill blend those freckles.”
Mary’s smile fell and her eyebrows pinched. “I thought you said you liked my freckles.”
“I do, but for every day. This eve we are attending a royal ball.” Barbara leaned over with the box and managed to place it on the table without falling off her perch. “Just a wee dusting so you do not appear like a harlot.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mary tried to affect her most exasperated expression. Easy for her to say. Miss Barbara looked like she belonged in the king’s court, and Mary? Well, if she were in London they might mistake her for a milkmaid—though a rather slender sort of milkmaid.
Taking the box, Mary moved to the mirror and examined the powder stuck to the underside of the puff.
“Put a cloth across your gown afore ye use it,” said Hattie. “Ye wouldn’t want to muss that fine pink taffeta, miss.”
Mary did as instructed and gave her face a once-overonceover.” Peering closely, the powder did make a significant difference. She could scarcely see the most prominent freckles crossing the bridge of her nose.
“Give us a look,” said Barbara coming up behind.
Mary turned. “Well? Too much?”
Flicking her fingers across Mary’s cheeks, Barbara gave an approving hmm. “’Tis just the most subtle application needed. And my pearls are perfect with your gown.”
“Hopefully someone will notice.”
“Donald will for certain…and if he doesn’t I ken the duke will.”
“Is he not married?”
Barbara fanned her face with her gloved hand. “He was married, but the duchess left him for a convent in Flanders. ’Tis well known Lord Gordon is a rake.”
Mary nearly swooned, unsure if her reaction was from shock or that her stomacher was cutting into her abdomen making it difficult to breathe. “Truly? You’re taking me to the manse of a rake?”
Tossing her curls, Barbara looked at Mary with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “His lustful reputation aside, he’s a duke—though he’ll notice every woman in the room, mind you.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Once—at Edinburgh Castle when he was Governor. Fortunately I was very young at the time—nowhere near as…ah…voluptuous as I am now.” The neckline of Barbara’s silvery-blue gown dipped so low it amply displayed her breasts. In fact, the lace trim barely reached her shoulders, revealing so much flesh it was difficult not to stare.
Swiping a hand across her eyes, Mary averted her gaze. “You don’t say?”
“Aye. He held the castle for King James as long as he could after William’s ‘Glorious Revolution’.” She spat the words as if they were served with a bitter tonic.
“Then what happened?” Mary asked.
The lass huffed. “Not sure—I suppose that’s about the time the duchess left him.”
“So then he’s a Jacobite?” Mary quickly covered her mouth.
Barbara’s gaze flicked to Hattie while she cleared her throat. “Mayhap. No one kens who’s on what side anymore.” She rapped Mary’s shoulder with her fan. “Remember no one utters the word Jacobite south of the Great Divide—’tis treasonous.”
Mary pursed her lips. A number of remarks came to the tip of her tongue. Though Hattie was loyal to the family, it was best not to speak of the cause around anyone in these parts.
Barbara regarded herself in the mirror and patted her ringlets. “I do believe we will be the two best dressed lassies at the ball.”
Mary bit the corner of her mouth. Truly, her pink frock with its gold damask embroidery embellishing her stomacher and full, virago sleeves was splendid—made her feel pretty all the way down to her three silk petticoats and pink satin slippers. But in her eyes, she paled in comparison to Sir Donald’s sister. “Your gown is simply stunning.”
Barbara flicked one of the satin bows at Mary’s elbow, sticking her tongue out the corner of her mouth. “I was thinking the same about yours, silly. I wish I had ginger tresses, too.”
With a sigh, Mary ran her fingertips across the mounds of flesh swelling above her own bodice. “You don’t think I’m a wee bit too exposed?” She wasn’t quite as bare as Barbara, but still, she felt almost naked.
Barbara pushed against her stomacher, adjusting her own well-formed cleavage. “My dear, this is the best opportunity Glasgow has had in two seasons to find a suitable husband. Our wares must be properly, though discretely, presented—which I believe we have accomplished with utmost expertise and attention to detail.”
“What about Sir Coll?”
The lass winked. “He’ll be in attendance, will he not?”
Shocked, Mary stifled a giggle by clapping a hand over her mouth. Little good that did—she still snorted. Holy Moses, for a lass of nineteen, Barbara surely did seem wizened. Though Mary was beginning to wonder if her friend’s bravado was more talk and show. That very morning when Sir Coll had appeared to break his fast, Barbara had turned into a blushing, tongue-tied nymph.
Regardless, Mary was relieved to have her companionship. She offered her elbow. “Shall we?”
Sipping sherry in the parlor with Sirs Coll and Kennan, Sir Donald had his pocket watch in hand when the two women arrived in the doorway. But when he looked up, it slipped from his palm and dangled from its chain.
Drop-jawed, his gaze swept down her body, then back up and met her stare, his eyes growing darker by the second. Had his brief once-over paused at Mary’s cleavage? By the tingling, her breasts seemed to think so.
Holy Moses, Mary’s knees wobbled. How on earth could the man grow more beautiful every time she laid eyes on him? Tall and exquisitely clad in a navy velvet cape lined with satin. Everything was perfect from his starched lace cravat, velvet doublet, satin breeches and hose secured just below the knee with ribbon of gold. Of course, he wore a ceremonial sword at his hip and a dirk angled across the front of his belt. He looked bonnier than a portrait. And this time, the long periwig of tawny curls cascading over his shoulders made him more masculine, more regal, and with the dark glint in his midnight eyes, more commanding.
Mary shivered right down to her toes.
“Sir Coll, Sir Kennan, you look as if your grooms spent an entire day on your costumes,” said Barbara moving toward the other two men, but Mary couldn’t pull her eyes away from Sir Donald if she’d wanted to.
Collecting his pocket watch and slipping it inside his doublet, Sir Donald’s tongue moistened his bottom lip before he slid his foot forward and bowed deeply. “Miss Mary you are a vision to behold.”
Me? Dear Lord, no man should be clad thus. How am I supposed to think when he is near? He took her hand, the midnight of his eyes growing darker still. “I hope you are planning to dance with me this eve.”
She gulped and gave a single nod.
Again he bowed, though this time he pressed warm, moist lips to the back o
f her hand. She caught the delicious spiciness of his scent as his breath caressed her flesh. If only he would steal a kiss from her this night—one as passionate as the one he’d given her in the bedchamber a week past—his hand on her breast—
“Do you not agree, Miss Mary?” asked Barbara.
As if floating, Mary turned her attention to her friend’s expression. “Ah, of course.” How else could she respond?
Sir Kennan stepped forward, bowed and kissed Mary’s hand as well. Though a practiced peck, the gesture from the younger man wasn’t half as impassioned or welcomed as the kiss from Sir Donald.
“You look stunning,” said the Cameron heir. “Both of you ladies are beautiful beyond all imagination.”
Mary waited for Kennan to draw his hand away. Then Sir Donald moved in beside him and offered Mary his elbow. “The coach awaits. Shall we?”
Everything seemed so surreal, like a fairytale.
The coach ambled along the cobbled street while Mary’s shoulder rubbed against Sir Donald’s powerful arm. Even through the layers of taffeta and velvet, the strength in his arm felt like solid rock. On her other side, Sir Kennan sat with his hands folded, smiling at her.
Barbara and Sir Coll sat on the bench opposite, Don’s sister looking like she’d just eaten the best plum tart ever. William sat on his sister’s right, his arms crossed as he watched out the window.
Mary regarded the Cameron heir and wrung her hands. Why on earth was Sir Kennan smiling her way? He was two years younger for heaven’s sake. “I do believe we should have had two more ladies in our party,” Mary said, wishing Lilas was there—goodness, her younger sister would die if she knew Mary was in a coach sitting between two of the brawniest Highlanders in all of Scotland. Not to mention, Lilas would be an ideal dance partner for Sir Kennan—or mayhap she’d fancy William. Though quiet, Donald’s younger brother certainly was comely to look upon.
The carriage’s movement smoothed. “We’re crossing the bridge.” Sir Donald pointed out the big window in the door. “Can you see the river?”
