Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid

by Suzanne Enoch

  They promptly complied, and with her in the middle she guided them to the group sitting the farthest from Lachlan. She intentionally hadn’t looked in his direction since the men had appeared on the trail, but she was certain she could feel his gaze on her. She didn’t care, of course, that he knew who they were and why they were at Glengask. At least they’d been invited. He just appeared whenever he felt like it, which seemed to be all the time.

  When she couldn’t put off the introduction any longer, she stopped in front of where he still sat, ankles crossed, while on either side Jane and Edith stood primly. The ladies, of course, were perfectly polite and friendly. Her jaw clenched, she met Lachlan’s gaze. Such pretty green eyes, he had—and she wished them and the rest of him to the bottom of the loch.

  “James, Lord Robert, this is our neighbor,” she announced, putting as much social distance between herself and Lachlan as she could. “Lord Gray, James MacMaster and Lord Robert Cranach.”

  Slowly, almost lazily, he climbed to his feet. “MacMaster, Lord Robert,” he drawled. If he felt the need to demonstrate that he was the tallest of the three, he was wasting his time. She already knew precisely how tall he was. And that had nothing to do with anything, the aggravating man.

  “Gray.” Lord Robert inclined his head.

  “Ye didnae come all the way from Fort William on horseback, did ye?” he asked, offering his hand.

  Lord Robert shook it. “No,” he answered. “We’ve a coach a few hours behind us. I prefer to ride when I can.”

  “And I didn’t want to be left behind,” James added.

  “The—”

  “My brother Munro is, of course, fishing,” she said quickly, before Lachlan could challenge them to an arm-wrestling match or something. “With the rest of the men. Shall we?”

  “I am yours to command,” Lord Robert said grandly, gesturing with his free hand.

  Rowena’s feet barely touched the ground as she led the two men from clan Buchanan down to the shore and made the rest of the introductions. If the next fortnight went as splendidly as the previous thirty minutes, Lachlan MacTier could shout about prizes and winning them until he was blue in the face, and it wouldn’t matter a whit.

  Because while he might have bullied her into a few kisses, that only made him less a gentleman. And she wanted a damned gentleman.

  * * *

  Lachlan straightened, watching as the yellow billiards ball rolled into the top left corner pocket—precisely where he hadn’t wanted it to go. “Ya bas,” he grumbled at it.

  “Cursing at the wee thing willnae save ye.” Bear chuckled.

  “I thought you were playing red,” Arnold Peabody commented from one of the chairs at the side of the room.

  “He was,” his brother said from the adjacent chair.

  “And with that, I’m off.” Lachlan tossed the cue to Bear, who deftly caught it and offered it over to Jimmy MacMaster.

  “I mustn’t refuse, for the pride o’ clan Buchanan,” MacMaster said, taking the stick and helping Bear reset the table.

  And just like that, I’m replaced, Lachlan thought sourly, as he pulled on his coat. “I’ll see ye in the morning, Bear. Ye’ve nae forgotten, I hope, that ye gave yer word to help me drive yer damned cattle off the south field so I can get my wheat in the ground.”

  “Aye. I’ll be there.”

  “Oh, that sounds like jolly fun,” Lord Bask said, looking up from the game of faro he and Cranach and Edith’s brother Victor were playing. “Count me in.”

  While at another time Lachlan might have had something choice to say about Sassenach riding all over his fields, tonight he had better things to do. He nodded. “As ye will.”

  He could spend the night at Glengask if he chose; he’d done so countless times before. But if he did so, that would rob him of his excuse for leaving the billiards room before dawn. And he had a rendezvous to keep.

  The moment he was out of sight he changed directions, heading up the stairs rather than down. In the back of his mind he knew that by not telling Munro what he was about—and worse, by not correcting what had become the lie he’d told Ranulf—he was betraying MacLawry trust. They allowed him into this castle, into their lives as part of their family, and now he was sneaking about like a thief. He was a thief, out to steal Rowena’s virtue, her heart, and her hand.

  He could tell them what he intended, he supposed, if he couched it in the proper terms. After all, Glengask had invited men in for exactly the same purpose. But firstly he had enough pride to want to be certain he would succeed before he risked being laughed at or, worse, turned away. Secondly, if any of the MacLawry brothers realized his intentions, they’d be within their rights to bury him in his own wheat field.

  Outside Rowena’s doorway he slowed, looked about for servants and errant guests, then lowered the handle and slipped inside, closing the door silently behind him.

  “I can’t believe you actually think I’m going through with this.”

  Rowena sat in one of the chairs before the fireplace, an open book in her lap. She hadn’t changed out of her evening gown; evidently she didn’t want him seeing her in her night rail again, which was a damned shame.

  “I do think ye are,” he returned, walking over and dropping into the adjacent chair.

  “You nearly came to blows with Lord Samston. The agreement was that you would behave yourself.”

  “The agreement was that I wouldnae start a fight. I didnae. He did, and I still didnae bloody his nose. Even after he insulted ye. Because ye asked me nae to do it. So give me some damned credit fer that, at least.”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t necessary. No one but Jane knew he was insulting me.”

  “I knew. And more importantly, you knew,” he returned, emphasizing the word. “And I imagine he’ll nae do it again, so dunnae expect me to apologize.”

  “No, that would be too much to expect.” Rowena sighed.

  He leaned over and took the book from her lap. “Culpepper’s Medicine,” he read. “So ye’re a physician now? Or were ye pretending to read so I wouldnae think ye’ve been sitting here, thinking of me?”

  Retrieving the book, she set it on the end table at her elbow. “This is silly, Lachlan. And it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “If it doesnae mean anything, why are ye trying so hard to weasel oot of it?”

  “I’m nae—not—weaseling out of anything. I’m just … I’m trying to tell you that a few kisses aren’t going to sway me. And more than that, every time you intend to sneak in here for no good reason, you’re risking your friendship with Bear and everyone else. And with me.”

  “That’s fine. I dunnae want to be yer friend.”

  Her gray eyes, flecked with orange-reflected firelight, blinked. “You don’t?”

  He shook his head. “Nae. Friends are fer tea parties and mud throwing and games of billiards. I want more than that from ye, Rowena.”

  Abruptly she stood up and walked to her bed and back again. “Lord Robert’s very charming.”

  “Of course he is,” Lachlan returned, not bothering to hide his scowl. “I could be charming and ask ye to please write my name on yer wee dance card and lift my pinkie when I drink tea if all I wanted was fer ye to think me a gentleman.”

  A brief smile touched her mouth and then vanished again. “I would never think you a gentleman.”

  “I walked into that one,” he conceded. “But ye used to think me a gentleman.”

  “That was before I knew what one was, Lach. You’re too late now.”

  He pushed to his feet, as well. “If I’m nae a gentleman, then, there’s no sense dancing aboot ye.”

  Rowena took a half-step backward as he advanced on her, and he immediately slowed. Whatever he wanted of her, having her turn around and scream for help wasn’t any part of it. When she stopped and lifted her chin, her gaze trailing from his eyes to his mouth, he couldn’t help smiling.

  “This isn’t amusing,” she declared, her fists clenching and
unclenching.

  “I’m nae amused. I’m pleased.”

  “Pleased? Why are y—”

  “Because ye’re nervous, ye fierce lass,” he murmured, and took one long step forward.

  He touched his mouth to hers. Rowena kept her lips tightly closed, but instead of insisting she cooperate, he only changed tactics. Feather-light, he brushed at the corners of her mouth, advancing and retreating until her lips softened with a sigh that drove sensation all the way down to his cock.

  “Rowena,” he breathed, and closed on her again. Cupping her face in his hands, he teased at her mouth, the tug and pull between them almost palpable. When she slid her arms over his shoulders, he couldn’t help smiling again.

  “Stop that,” she mumbled, kissing him back.

  “Nae.”

  Eventually she would come to her senses and push him away. So as much as he wanted to continue touching her, with a last nibble at her lower lip he backed away. As well as he knew her, or thought he knew her, he couldn’t read the expression on her face. He wanted to know what she was thinking—and more importantly, feeling—but for likely the first time ever he had no idea where even to begin.

  When she shifted he tensed his muscles, ready for either a slap or a kiss. Instead of touching him, though, she finally broke her gaze from his and walked past him. As he turned to watch she reached the door and faced him again.

  “Good night, Lachlan,” she said, and lowered the latch.

  “That’s all ye have to say?” he returned, just remembering to keep his voice down. The idea that he was sneaking about the house would still take some getting used to, apparently.

  “We have an agreement, and I satisfied it. Now go, before Bear comes by and takes an axe to ye.”

  “I’m nae satisfied, Rowena, but I’ll do as ye ask.” He stopped directly in front of her. “I reckon ye’d best put my name on yer wee dance card fer tomorrow night as well, because I will be dancing with ye.”

  She swallowed. “I’ll give ye a quadrille.”

  Lachlan put his hand over hers where she held the door handle. “I’ll have a waltz.”

  “I promised the waltz to Rob.”

  “‘Rob,’ is it?” he said softly. “It’s yer party. Have yer fiddler play two waltzes. One of ’em’s mine.”

  “Lachlan,” she said, lowering her head.

  “Yer word, lass.”

  Finally she blew out her breath. “Fine. Ye’ll have a waltz. Now go away.”

  Her words might have sounded annoyed, but her tone didn’t quite match. And neither did the way her gaze lowered again to his mouth, as though she couldn’t quite stop herself. And then there was the way she’d forgotten to speak like a Sassannach, something he wasn’t about to point out to her. Not when he could hear her sweet brogue again.

  “All right, then. Oidche mhath. Good night, Rowena. And dunnae ferget, I’ll be back up here tomorrow night, after yer soiree.” Releasing her hand, he let her pull open the door.

  “You’re still not a gentleman, Lachlan. And a gentleman’s what I want,” she whispered at his back as he slipped into the hallway.

  “It isnae,” he returned, and headed out for a cold, uncomfortable ride home.

  Chapter Seven

  “Are ye looking for someone?” Rob Cranach asked, moving through the soiree crowd to hand over a glass of tepid lemonade.

  Rowena blinked, then took a long swallow of the tart liquid to give herself a moment to think. Her brothers—and Lachlan—had let her drink whisky on occasion, and she could have used a glass tonight. Last night she hadn’t even fallen asleep until almost dawn, and then the next three hours had been interrupted by dreams of Lachlan dancing with her and kissing her and doing some other things that were rather hazy and nebulous, but as she recalled felt both wicked and very pleasurable.

  And then all day she’d seen no sign of Lachlan at all. She knew Bear and some of the other men had ridden the two miles to Gray House to help him clear stray cattle from one of his fallow fields, but Bear was back in time to lead a ride out to Madainn Srath so he could regale everyone with the tale of Lady Teàrlag.

  It was frustrating. All day she’d gone about with a retort ready on her lips, a response to his final comment last night, and then he’d failed to appear. He knew full well she would be walking with Lord Robert, that she might even have requested his help with setting up the rarely used formal ballroom at Glengask—not that he would know anything about proper soirees.

  Of course Gray House was a significant property in its own right, and he had the last planting of the year to see to. But the timing, she decided, was likely intentional. He knew she would have something to say to him, and that if he was present he would compare unfavorably to the suave and charming Rob.

  “Lady Rowena?”

  Oh, and now Lachlan had her distracted again. Silently she added that to her list of grievances against him. “I’m sorry, Rob,” she said aloud. “I’ve never organized such a large party before. It has me a bit at sea.” It sounded plausible at least, though in truth she should probably be spending more time than she was worrying about the soiree.

  “Well, ye have nothing to worry about, my lady,” he said with a smile. “I’ve been in Mayfair ballrooms that couldn’t hold a candle to this one.”

  “Thank you for saying so.”

  Jane came skipping up, her older sister in tow. “Winnie, tell Charlotte we can have as many waltzes as we want.”

  “I didn’t disagree,” Charlotte said with a grin. “I only said having a dozen waltzes may see us mistaken for a bawdy house.”

  “This house has been a great many things,” Ranulf put in, joining them, “but it’s nae ever been nor is it ever going to be a bawdy house. One waltz, Rowena.”

  That would free her from her promise to Lachlan. Even so, she felt oddly disappointed, and that was without Lachlan even being present. “Well, now you’ll have us mistaken for Parliament,” she stated. “Three waltzes.”

  Her oldest brother looked at Charlotte. “How many times might a man dance with his betrothed in his own house, leannan?” he asked her.

  Charlotte cleared her throat. “Three times. But only two waltzes.”

  Ranulf swung his head back in Rowena’s direction. “Ye see, someone who gives me a straight, honest answer. Two waltzes. But ye’d best have yer fiddlers play one now.”

  “I shall escort you,” Rob said, offering his arm.

  She wrapped her hand around his sleeve. “Ranulf knows the fiddlers prefer being called violinists,” she commented. “He’s very stubborn, though.”

  “He’s made a good life for his clan,” Lord Robert returned. “He can call them whatever he chooses, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Like her brothers and Lord Cairnsgrove, Rob and James MacMaster had donned their plaid for the evening. All her female friends from London seemed to find men wearing kilts naughty and exotic, but to her this was just what Highlanders wore. She could admit that Rob and her brothers, at least, made it look very handsome, indeed. The Buchanan yellow, green, and red was bonny, but it was odd and … disconcerting to think that she might soon be trading the MacLawry black, white, and red for other colors, for other loyalties.

  She caught the attention of one of the violinists on the overlooking balcony and requested a waltz. Then Rob led her out to the center of the floor, put his hand on her waist, and they began to dance.

  The dance floor filled. Ranulf and Charlotte, Arran and Mary, Bear and—oh, dear—Jane. Nearly everyone had left their seats, and she began to breathe a little more easily. As she was the only MacLawry female present this was her responsibility after all, and it would be so until Charlotte and Ranulf were wed. And then, well, she would be unnecessary here—except for the alliance she might secure with her own marriage.

  That wasn’t entirely true, of course, because she could never feel useless or unneeded where her family was concerned. She was the only sister of the MacLawry, after all, and nothing separated the MacLaw
ry siblings. Nothing.

  “I wish I’d been in London to see your debut, my lady.” Rob smiled at her. “I had business in Inverness that took longer than it should have.”

  “Do you go to London often?” she asked. A Highlander who could waltz, treat her with deference and respect, and who didn’t view London as the lowest pit of hell. It was marvelous, really.

  “I try to go at least twice a year,” he returned. “This is the first Season in four that I’ve missed.”

  “What was your business in Inverness, if I may ask?”

  “Sheep. Wool, actually. I oversee the sale of raw wool to the mills on my brother’s behalf. And this year, well…” He paused, lowering his voice and moving a breath closer to her. “This year I negotiated a majority ownership of the two largest mills in the city for clan Buchanan.”

  “Well. Congratulations,” she said, burying her uneasiness at the mention of sheep. Clan MacLawry didn’t raise sheep, except for the handful of the Highland breed they kept for their own mills and their own use. Sheep meant cotters pushed off land to make room for grazing. It meant emptying the Highlands of her own people. And that was everything the MacLawrys stood against.

  Ranulf knew the Buchanans made most of their wealth from mutton and wool, though. And he’d selected both Robert Cranach and James MacMaster as possible suitors for her. Therefore, the Buchanans had something he wanted or needed for the clan. He wouldn’t be promoting an alliance, otherwise.

  “Ye have a very serious look in your eyes,” Rob noted, as they continued twirling about the room.

  “Do I? That happens so rarely.”

  He chuckled. “Good.”

  She wasn’t certain what he meant by that, but she smiled anyway. This, a lovely party with her new friends, a waltz in the arms of a handsome man who paid attention to her and complimented her—it felt perfect.

  And then she saw him, and nearly stumbled over her own feet. Lachlan MacTier. The rest of the Highlands men wore kilts, but not him. Not tonight. No, tonight he’d donned a long-tailed jacket of dark gray, tan buckskin breeches, and polished black Hessian-looking boots with yellow tassels. His shirt was snowy white, his waistcoat black and gray, his cravat crisp and neat. He looked … Rowena twisted her head to keep him in view as she wove about the dance floor.