Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Samston,” she corrected, not gazing at his mouth.

  “That he kissed ye,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken.

  “Damnation,” she muttered, feeling her cheeks warm. “I told Jane to be quiet about it. The last thing I want is one of my brothers piling into him fists first.”

  “It’s nae just yer brothers he needs to worry over.”

  “Oh, please.” She yanked her arm free and scrambled awkwardly to her feet on the uneven stones. She needed something. Height. Not having him be so very close to her. Something. “You can pretend you’re my brother, but I already have three. I don’t need another one. And if I’m to fall in love and marry, I will need to speak with men. Dance with them, even.” She put a hand to her chest. “My goodness, I might even find someone who loves me in return. Kissing might very well be involved.”

  “And yet I hear ye turned Samston away. After the kiss.”

  Blast it all. She could blame Jane for tattling about the entire incident, but Lachlan had very likely tricked the information out of her. He did that to Bear all the time. “Yes, I did. I’ve found several men to be … less than I’d hoped. You, included.”

  “That’s nae amusing, Rowena.”

  “It’s not meant to be.” Turning, she shoved him in his rather broad, hard chest. “Go away. Leave me be. I’ve chased you since I could toddle about, and now I’ve learned the error of my ways. I was a silly child who didn’t know any better. I don’t want you any longer. The only thing I do want from you, Lachlan MacTier, is for you not to interfere with my chances at romance and happiness.”

  Before she could pull her hand away he grabbed her wrist again, holding her against him. “I know ye still like me, Rowena, and I know ye’re only trying to make me jealous by bringing all those dainty fops to the Highlands.”

  “They aren’t fops. They’re just fashionable. Something about which you know nothing.” She tugged, but his grip was like iron. Other people said Lachlan had a temper, but she’d honestly never seen it. Not directed at her. “I’m not trying to do anything to you,” she continued, finally looking up to meet his lush green gaze. “Eighteen years of being ignored and laughed at is long enough. Now let me go.”

  “I’ll nae have ye looking at me like I’m nae a man,” he said in a lower tone, unmoving. “Like ye can blink yer pretty eyes and I become invisible. Ye can decide ye dunnae want me, but it’ll nae be because ye’ve decided I dunnae exist.” He glanced past her, where she’d been perched watching him flirting with Jane. “Because ye’re only pretending ye dunnae like me, Rowena. And I know it.”

  With a twist of his hand he yanked her up against him. She gasped, and his hard, warm mouth closed over hers. He wasn’t gentle at all, but then he was a Highlander born and bred. He wasn’t gentlemanly or shiny like any of the men who’d followed her north to Glengask. Power, passion, anger—Rowena closed her eyes at the sheer force of him. Lachlan MacTier, kissing her. Devouring her. And just for that moment, she wanted to be devoured.

  Abruptly he pushed her away, setting her on her feet as if she weighed no more than a feather. “Now pretend I’m invisible,” he murmured, straightening.

  Rowena stood there in the ruins of Castle Teàrlag and stared at him. If this had been a year ago—three months ago, even—she would have been … Well, it wasn’t three months ago, was it? It was today, and she had other plans. Other men coming to court her.

  “I see you just fine,” she stated, and slapped him as hard as she could. “No, you’re not invisible. And you’re not nearly as charming as ye think ye are. You had your chance. Go away, Lachlan MacTier.”

  A red mark shaped like her hand began to appear on Lachlan’s tightly clenched jaw, though he hadn’t bothered acknowledging the hit. “Very well,” he drawled. “But this isnae over with, Rowena.” He flashed a surprising grin. “Now ye’ve made it interesting.”

  He turned on his heel, and after a moment the sounds of Lachlan and his horse faded into the mist. Around her the trees whispered, and she could almost believe the broken grounds and tragic Lady Teàrlag were speaking to her. And from what she knew of Lady Teàrlag, they were in complete agreement about the deserved fate of flirts and philanderers.

  She was not about to fall into the same trap again. Not when she’d finally escaped it—him. Not when she had a half-dozen handsome young men of title and wealth all pursuing her, and not when her oldest brother had specifically arranged for her to meet three more, any of whom would benefit the clan. Lachlan was likely playing, anyway, angry that the puppy who’d tagged after him for so long had decided she preferred being elsewhere.

  But he was correct about one thing; she was not going to be able to continue pretending that he was invisible. Not after that kiss. Not when for a bare second she’d remembered how much she’d once longed to be kissed just like that, and by him. “Damn ye, Lachlan MacTier,” she muttered, letting her own brogue loose for a moment. “It is over. It is.”

  Chapter Five

  The Viscount of Cairnsgrove arrived just before sunset. He came in a coach, two younger people who looked enough like him that they had to be his brother and sister emerging after him. Rowena watched from the window of Bear’s bedchamber as the trio stepped down to the drive to be greeted by Lord Glengask himself.

  She always enjoyed seeing members of other clans meet Ranulf; their courtesy and occasionally their shaking hands were enough to tell her how much respect even the roughest, most fearless Highlanders had for the MacLawry, as they all referred to him.

  Niall Wyatt’s hand didn’t shake as he held it out, but he did bow quite low. The two younger ones, both with the same blazing red hair as the viscount, looked ready to faint. Other than noting they showed Ranulf the proper respect, though, most of her attention remained on Cairnsgrove.

  The clan Watson colors were blue and green and yellow, and he did wear a scarf of those colors. Other than that, though, he might have been mistaken for any ginger-haired English gentleman—beaver hat, superfine coat of dark blue, tan buckskin trousers, a blue and black waistcoat, and a fine, shiny pair of shoes.

  “Well, he’s a pretty one,” Bear observed, stripping off his riding coat as he joined her at the window. “That’s Cairnsgrove, isnae?”

  “Yes. Ran wants me to meet him.”

  “Does he now? And how do ye feel aboot that, piuthar?”

  “I feel … curious.” The idea that she was gazing at a man of whom Ranulf approved—even if Lord Cairnsgrove was his second choice, overall—felt very odd. Her brother approved of almost no man when it came to the lad’s suitability to be her spouse. And he’d brought in men who actually enjoyed London, or at least didn’t shun the place. It was very unlike her oldest brother.

  “So ye’ve truly thrown over Lachlan, then?”

  Rowena sent her brother a glance. She could tell him that Lachlan had kissed her and that she’d slapped him, but wars had begun with less provocation. Aside from that, it was easier just to pretend it had only been the events of some last, mad daydream, the remnants of a wish she’d once carried about with her.

  Lachlan didn’t truly want her, anyway. It was only that she’d bruised his pride and he’d reacted like a ham-fisted brute. Yes, the kiss had rattled her, and continued to do so, but only because it had been unexpected. And because it had been so different from the chaste, passionless one she’d shared with Samston. Of course she hadn’t realized that first kiss had been passionless until Lachlan had mauled her.

  “Winnie? Are ye in there?”

  She shook herself. “What, Bear?”

  “Ye’re truly finished with Lachlan?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” Taking a breath, she left the window. “Well, I suppose I should go meet our newest guests,” she said, smoothing at her blue and brown muslin gown.

  “Aye. And I hope ye can keep yer eyes open long enough to finish the chat.”

  Rowena slowed her exit. “Do you know him, then? Or are you just being contrary?”

 
Bear nudged her into the hallway. “A bit of both, most likely,” he said with a grin, and closed his door on her.

  Well, that wasn’t at all helpful. Of course if he’d been keeping her in mind Ranulf had very likely selected someone who didn’t share many of the same likes or hobbies as her brothers. Someone calm and safe who might actually have the time and inclination to allow her into his life, to show her affection and not decide after eighteen years of ignoring her to try to kiss her to death when she’d finally become wise enough to turn her back.

  The Wyatts sat in the firelit morning room, Ranulf and Charlotte chatting with Cairnsgrove while Jane and Edith and Arnold Peabody peppered the younger two with questions about the weather in Edinburgh.

  Jane sent her a curious look, but for the moment Rowena settled for smiling at her friend. They could figure out later just what had happened today. Keeping the smile on her face, she walked up to stand beside her brother.

  “You must be Lord Cairnsgrove,” she said, facing the viscount. “Ranulf said you were coming for the wedding.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he answered, taking her hand and bowing over it. “Niall Wyatt, at your service.”

  Well, that sounded very chipper. She dipped a curtsy. “Rowena MacLawry, at yours.”

  Ranulf took Charlotte’s hand. “Will ye two excuse us fer a moment? I need to introduce my betrothed to yer bràthair and piuthar.”

  “Of course, Lord Glengask,” the viscount returned. “They are both quite excited to be here. Glengask and the MacLawrys are rather mythical in Edinburgh.”

  Once they’d gone, Cairnsgrove faced Rowena squarely. “I hear you just returned from London. I find Town a bit tedious, I admit, but I do enjoy the theater. Were you able to attend any plays?”

  He hadn’t a trace of a Highlands accent, she realized. In fact, if she hadn’t known he had an estate just outside of Edinburgh she would have thought him just up from London, himself. “Yes, I was,” she answered, then felt a warm shiver go up her spine. When she glanced sideways she wasn’t surprised to see Lachlan stroll into the room with Bear, Arran, and Mary.

  Blast it, why couldn’t he just stay away? Moss-green eyes met hers and didn’t look away. She did, though. He could just go attempt to mesmerize someone else.

  “We were able to see Hamlet,” she continued, returning her attention to Cairnsgrove, “and the evening before we left London we attended the premiere of Speed the Plow.”

  He clapped his hands together. “Splendid choices. Who was your Hamlet? The one I attended last year featured a fascinating performance by a lad—oh, what was his name—Andrew Wilsby. That was it. Such a nuanced portrayal, for a moment or two I feared he’d actually gone mad before my eyes!”

  “I don’t recall the name of our Hamlet,” Rowena said, keeping the smile on her face. “But it was a fine performance. Do you go to London often, then?”

  “Every chance I get. Theater in Edinburgh is, well, adequate, I suppose, but it’s certainly not London.” He laughed. “But then, what is? Oh, that’s your brother, isn’t it? How good to see you, Lord Arran.”

  Arran walked up to shake hands. “Niall. Have you met my wife? Mary, this is Niall Wyatt, Lord Cairnsgrove. Niall, Lady Mary MacLawry.”

  The viscount’s face flushed. “Oh, you’re married now? I had no idea! I—Congratulations, of course. To both of you. Lady Mary, very pleased.”

  As sheltered as Rowena’s upbringing had been, she knew a broken heart when she saw one. And Niall Wyatt’s heart had just broken. For heaven’s sake. Evidently Ranulf wasn’t as all-knowing as he pretended, because while Niall did favor a MacLawry, it clearly wasn’t her. She took a breath, then put a hand on his arm. “Lord Cairnsgrove was just lamenting the dearth of good theater in Edinburgh,” she said aloud. “I admit, as fine as some of the soirees were, I think going to the theater was perhaps my favorite part of being in London. Everyone was so … glittery.”

  Cairnsgrove visibly shook himself. “Indeed. And everyone intends on being seen coming or going, because otherwise they’re left sitting in the dark in their best finery.”

  Lachlan chose that moment to circle around behind the viscount. Forcing a laugh, Rowena tightened her grip on their guest’s arm. “Very true, my lord.”

  “Oh, please, do call me Niall.”

  “Niall it is, then.”

  For the next hour before dinner she pretended to flirt with a man who was clearly more interested in her brother than he was in her. And as she told him about Arran and Mary’s meeting and their elopement, she became aware of two things: firstly, she actually had a great deal in common with Niall Wyatt, who’d lost his heart to someone who would never return his affections; and secondly, she was pretending to flirt only because Lachlan was present.

  He’d said he wasn’t finished with her, which was ridiculous because she’d stated the exact opposite thing to him the day she’d returned to Glengask. And during that conversation, which he’d initiated, the scoundrel, he’d made it very clear that he had no interest in her. What the devil had happened over the past few days to so change his mind, except for the fact that he’d seen other men take an interest in her?

  It all would have been laughable, some kind of theatrical farce, except for that kiss. The kiss that had made her forget for the barest of moments that she’d sworn never to fall into her old habits again, never to become infatuated again with Lachlan MacTier, because he wasn’t worth the heartbreak. And that hadn’t changed. It couldn’t change, when he was only pretending to pursue her because now other men wanted her. Not the man whose arm she currently held, but other men.

  And when he arrived tomorrow, if Lord Robert Cranach of clan Buchanan found her interesting, and not just because she was fond of the theater, then she was ready—quite ready—to fall in love with him. The sooner the better.

  * * *

  “Well, how many lads is Glengask pushing at Rowena, then?” Lachlan slammed a dart into the target on the wall so hard it rattled loose his earlier bull’s-eye and sent it to the floor.

  “I’m nae counting that one,” Bear commented, pointing at the red-tailed dart resting on the polished wooden floor. “Yer total is fer the darts in the target at the end of the round.”

  “I dunnae give a damn if ye count it or eat it,” Lachlan growled. “Why’s yer brother throwing men at yer sister? I thought he didnae mean to force her into an arranged match.”

  “He doesnae mean to. I dunnae think so, anyway. Ask him. Or ask Winnie. But stop trying to murder the dart board.”

  “Arenae ye concerned fer yerself?” Lachlan persisted, hurling his last dart only to have it dig into the paneled wall a good four inches from the board.

  “Fer myself? I’m nae marrying her. Have ye gone mad?”

  His jaw was beginning to ache from being clenched so hard. “I mean, Ranulf tried to marry Arran off to Deirdre Stewart, and now he’s got Rowena aimed at a Watson. What’s to—”

  Munro barked a laugh. “Cairnsgrove would rather have Arran aimed at him, I wager.”

  “That’s beside … Wait. What?”

  “Niall Wyatt couldnae take his eyes off Arran all night. Did ye nae notice? I’m just glad he prefers scrawny MacLawrys.”

  Of course he hadn’t noticed; he’d been too occupied with glaring at the way Rowena hung on to his arm. And if Arran was scrawny, then he was skin and bones. Of course compared to Bear, they were all scrawny. But that didn’t signify at the moment. “Cairnsgrove doesnae mean to offer fer her, then?”

  Bear shrugged as he moved in front of the board. “Dunnae. He might; the Watsons could use the alliance. I suppose it depends on whether Winnie would go along with it or nae. In Ranulf’s mind it might be perfect, marrying his sister off to a man who’ll nae put his hands on her.”

  “That’s idiotic.”

  “What’re ye getting all heated up aboot, Lach? And get yer damned pitiful pieces oot of the way so I can throw.”

  Stalking up to the wall, Lachlan yanked his darts free, p
icked the fallen one up from the floor, and threw himself into the chair Munro had vacated. There were times he found Bear’s blunt assessments refreshing; clan politics could be maddeningly complex, and the youngest MacLawry brother had a keen eye for seeing through shite. This morning, though, Bear was simply being thickheaded, and Lachlan was halfway to being convinced it was intentional.

  “Is Ranulf forcing Rowena into marrying, or nae?” he insisted. “Ye should take a damned interest, Bear, because ye could be next.”

  Bear’s throw nearly caught himself in the foot. “What the devil are ye talking aboot, man?”

  “Arranged marriages. Arran, Rowena, and ye. Half the clans are sending someone here to witness Glengask’s wedding. Have ye nae thought he might have a lass in mind fer ye among all those guests? He’s bringing in lads fer Rowena. Or one lad, anyway.”

  “Three lads fer Winnie, I ken,” the mountain said with a frown. “Cairnsgrove’s nae but the first. James MacMasters and Lord Robert Cranach are due here this afternoon.”

  “Clan Buchanan,” Lachlan finished, recognizing the names. He hadn’t met either man, but the mere fact that they had been specifically invited, presumably for Rowena’s perusal, was maddening. Infuriating.

  He could admit that perhaps he’d been a bit foolish to think he could sway Rowena back to being in love with him with one kiss. The slap had told him that. Even so, with Samston out of the race he’d figured to change her mind fairly easily. But then Cairnsgrove had shown up, all pretty clothes and Oxford accent and talk of the theater.

  If not for Samston being an idiot and Cairnsgrove riding sidesaddle he might have lost her twice now. His luck was not going to continue. And two more suitors, both selected by the brother Rowena adored, would be arriving today. “Where’s Rowena?”

  “I dunnae. She and that Jane Hanover were up nearly till dawn gabbing aboot someaught. She’s likely still asleep. Who do ye think Ranulf means to send me after? Nae Bethia Peterkin, I hope.”