“Nae,” he said again, meeting her gaze. “Circumstances have changed.”
“Yes, they have.” And she needed to keep reminding herself of precisely that. It was only that their ideas of what those circumstances were seemed to be radically different. And his came with kissing.
“Why did ye stop writing me?” he asked abruptly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“When ye got to London and settled in with the Hanovers. Ye wrote me a letter every day fer better than a fortnight, and then ye stopped. Without another word. Why?”
“You never wrote me back,” she returned.
“I—”
“And it occurred to me,” Rowena continued, for her own sake as much as his, “that you never wrote me back. Poems I sent you, a million letters, notes, flower necklaces, biscuits, shells, pretty pebbles. You’d be polite and thank me, but you never reciprocated. Ever. And beginning with the first night I went to a party in London, men surrounded me. Handsome, wealthy men who sent me flowers and notes and poems. Men who were interested in me.”
A few feet from the door he stopped, taking hold of her wrist to keep her beside him. “I cannae apologize fer growing up with ye or fer seeing ye the way I did. Ye werenae the only one saying we were meant to marry, ye know. Every time ye smiled at me Bear or Arran would start in with their Lord and Lady Gray shite. And that’s when ye were eight years old. It terrified me that my life had already been planned oot withoot me having a say in it, and that I was expected to wed a wee bairn.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, its echo rising and falling in the hills around them. “I never thought of it like that,” she said after a long moment. As she looked at it now, she could see that she’d been rather relentless, but at the time—in her own mind, at least—the two of them together was a fact merely waiting for the right moment to happen.
“I loved having all of ye aboot me,” he went on. “And I adored ye. Just nae the way ye wanted me to.” Lachlan took a long look at her. “Even when ye came back. I was surprised when ye said ye were done with me. And relieved.”
“Then we can both move forward.” Rowena tried to pull her wrist free from his grip, but he only tightened his hold.
“I am moving forward. And the way I see it, ye’re obligated to give me a chance.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not obligated to give you anything.” This was easier; arguing was easier on her insides than a heartfelt conversation was.
“Ye are,” he insisted. “Ye chased me like a wildcat on a rabbit fer nearly eighteen years. Now ye can tolerate it and listen while I chase ye fer a bit.” He stroked his thumb along her wrist. “And while I kiss ye and do my damnedest to woo ye into my bed.”
She swallowed, his touch raising goose bumps on her arms. “And then what? Ye change yer mind again?”
His slow smile, rivulets of water running down his face and bare chest, made her shiver. “I marry ye.”
Even with his recent behavior and the luscious kisses, Lachlan declaring his intention to marry her stunned Rowena down to her toes. Sweet Bridget and all the heavenly angels. She couldn’t seem to stop staring at him. A thousand thoughts flickered through her mind, but nothing settled long enough for her to grab onto it.
“Dunnae ye have a thing to say aboot that?” he asked, tilting his head.
She pushed back against the hard pounding of her heart. “Six months ago I would have been in your arms and weeping with joy at this moment.”
“But ye’re nae weeping now, I notice.”
He didn’t look terribly flattered, but he wasn’t yelling, or stomping away, at least. She needed to make him understand. It would be nice if she could also convince herself enough that she would at least stop dreaming about him. “My life has changed, Lachlan.”
“Nae as much as ye’d like to think, I reckon.” With a last squeeze he released her wrist. “I can be patient. And ye can remind yerself how what ye wanted from me wasnae realistic. Because what I want from ye now is, and I think if ye look at who we are now, ye might just agree with me.”
“Fairly soon I hope you’ll realize that I do see you for who you are,” she returned. “I’m not playing hard to get, Lach. We simply aren’t compatible. I don’t want a simple Highlands life. Not any longer.”
Lachlan smiled again, less humor in his sharp green eyes this time. “Well, then. Until we come to a point of mutual understanding, I suppose I’ll keep visiting ye at night fer a kiss.”
With that he walked away, fading out of sight in the misty rain as he returned down the trail toward the meadow and Loch Shinaig beyond. She wished he were as easy to dismiss from her thoughts and feelings as he was from her sight.
The front door opened. As she turned to look, Lord Robert Cranach stepped out beneath the narrow overhang on the portico. “There ye are, my lady,” he said, smiling. “A group of us have gotten up the courage to play charades. I declared that ye must be on my team.”
Putting the smile back on her face, she ascended the shallow front steps and went inside, handing her wet raincoat and hat to Cooper and stepping back into her proper lady’s shoes. “I’d be delighted.”
Now that was a proper activity for ladies—and gentlemen. Not putting up tents in the rain or dragging in cartloads of logs for caber tossing. Lachlan MacTier wasn’t her elusive knight. He wasn’t even a gentleman. He was a barbarian Scot in a world that had little patience for his kind any longer.
Robert Cranach was the future of the Highlands. Ranulf wanted clan MacLawry to be part of the future, as well. Her making a match with Rob could help her brother accomplish that. Aside from all that, he was handsome and sophisticated and a gentleman. As she was no longer a burrs-in-her-hair Highland lass, he was precisely what she needed. What she wanted.
He would never drag her about through the rain or maul her in a tent. And he would take her to the theater and not argue with her at parties. Yes, he was perfect. And so it didn’t matter a whit if for another day or two she allowed Lachlan to kiss her in the evenings. Hopefully that would be enough to convince them—him—that they would never suit, that a match between them had only been a silly girl’s dream.
After that, he would have to listen to reason. If he didn’t, she would have to tell Ranulf what was going on. And she truly did not want to do that. For all their sakes.
* * *
“And ye’d be Lord Gray, I reckon,” the red-haired lass said, taking a seat in the chair next to the one Lachlan stood behind.
“Aye. And ye’d be Lady Bridget Cameron, if I’m nae mistaken.”
“Och. Smart and handsome.” She favored him with a broad smile. “Ye arenae mistaken. My cousin Florence is making eyes at the MacLawry’s brother Munro, but I reckon ye’re even more bonny than he is.”
Lachlan glanced down the long table, where Rowena sat flanked by Gregory Mackles, Lord Arden, on one side, and Lord Robert Cranach on the other. Arden was one of the MacLawry chieftains and well known to be overly fond of his drink, but then he wasn’t the problem, anyway.
“Thank ye, lass,” he said aloud, when she looked up at him and lifted a curved red eyebrow.
“So ye may be asking yerself,” she went on when he declined to say anything more, “how it is that one of the Cameron’s nieces, of the age one-and-twenty, remains unwed.”
It hadn’t occurred to him to even think the question. “And ye’d answer by saying what?”
The last of the ladies found her seat, so all of the men standing like sentinels about the table could finally seat themselves. If a fellow waited for the lasses before he sat down in some households, he’d have only scraps for dinner. Ranulf sat at the head of the impossibly long table, with Charlotte at his right elbow. His own chieftains sat scattered about the place settings, strategically placed in case of trouble.
The Cameron and his wife sat to Ranulf’s left, while the MacDonald and his daughter were just beyond Charlotte. Once the Stewart and the Campbell arrived the arrangements would become m
ore complicated, and he was glad it wasn’t up to him. No, that was for Ranulf and Rowena to figure out—which brought his attention around to her again, not that it was ever far from her.
“I’d answer by saying that my uncle gave me a list of six lads to meet here at the MacLawry’s wedding. He said my making a match with any of them would please him.”
The Cameron seemed to have only nieces—at least a dozen of them—and so far he’d managed to have them marry into at least seven different clans. Lachlan supposed that was one way to ensure that clan Cameron would never be attacked. “Did yer cousin receive the same list?”
Her spectacular brows knitted together. “Aye. And my other three unmarried female cousins. But ye dunnae want them. Their mother is Irish.”
“Ah. Thank ye fer the warning.”
“I likely shouldnae be telling ye such things, but ye were the one on my list I most liked the looks of.”
“Well. I’m flattered, then.” She was pretty, actually, and if his intentions toward Rowena hadn’t reversed themselves last week he might have expressed more enthusiasm. As it was, she immediately became another obstacle between him and Rowena’s bedchamber.
“I hear ye’re the one arranged the games,” Bridget went on, tugging at the front of her yellow gown, evidently to give him an even better view of her substantial bosom.
“I did,” he returned. “With Lord Munro and Lady Rowena.”
She was about as subtle as Rowena had been at age fifteen. That was when her strategy had begun to alter, as he recalled. Instead of loud pronouncements and grabbing onto him, she’d taken to sighing and feigning various injuries, sending him coy glances and pretending to be caught unawares while reading a book or arranging bouquets of flowers. She’d wanted him to notice her, and while he could say that he’d intentionally failed to do so, the clarity with which he remembered their every encounter was startling.
And of course the lack of response on his part had been deliberate. One returned glance, a kind note of thanks, or even noticing that she looked fetching, and he would have been hooked like a fish. However much he wanted her now, he had a good idea if he’d been trapped against his will he would have begun despising her before he ever discovered how truly delightful she was as a grown woman.
“I mean to enter the lady’s horse race and some of the dancing. Will ye come and watch me?”
“I’ll be there.” Not for Bridget Cameron, though.
He looked over at Rowena again, to see her chuckling at some nonsense spewing from Lord Rob. What the devil did Ranulf think he was about, letting a Buchanan anywhere near his only sister? The MacLawrys didn’t need any alliance badly enough for him to offer her up to anyone as part of a deal.
At the end of dinner Arran stood, lifting his glass. “I’d like to propose a toast,” he said. “To a peaceful gathering of clans, and to Lord Glengask and his Lady Charlotte.”
Everyone rose. “Glengask and Charlotte,” Lachlan repeated with the rest of them, and downed the rest of his wine.
Once the ladies left the table he saw no reason to remain behind, particularly when Rob Cranach began some tale about wool prices. And there sat Glengask, who hated Cheviot sheep and all they represented, listening with a polite smile on his face. Aye, Rob could tell a story, and he had a trace of a Scots accent and a residence in Fort William. In Lachlan’s opinion, none of those things made him a Highlander.
He pushed to his feet. “Excuse me,” he said crisply. “I need a bit of air.”
When he left the huge formal dining room, though, he headed for the drawing room rather than the nearest door or window. He’d been half jesting when he’d told Rowena he meant to dog her footsteps, but as she never left his thoughts, she might as well not leave his sight, either.
“Ye’ve come to join the lasses, have ye?” Lady Bridget cooed from the open doorway. The feminine chatting and laughing beyond her sounded like a flock of dainty-voiced geese. He didn’t much want to go in there, either, but Rowena was inside.
“Aye,” he returned. “The lot in here are prettier than the hounds in the dining room.”
Bridget laughed. “Do ye truly want to chat with a flock of hens, though, Lord Gray, or would ye rather cozy up to one bird in particular?” She tugged down on the front of her gown again, nearly exposing her breasts to his view.
“If yer gown doesnae fit ye, lass, there is a fine seamstress in An Soadh.”
Reaching out, she caught hold of one of the silver buttons of his waistcoat. “Why dunnae ye take this dress off me, and we’ll see how well ye fit?” she breathed.
Lachlan took a breath, grateful for a moment that she hadn’t grabbed hold of his kilt. A few years ago he wouldn’t have thought twice about agreeing to a quick tryst with her. Rowena was occupied and so wouldn’t know he’d been elsewhere, and Bridget wasn’t interesting enough to tax his mind or his heart. It would certainly help ease some of his frustration.
With a smile he took her hand, drawing her fingers away from his buttons. “Ye seem a bonny lass, Bridget,” he drawled. “There’s another lass who owns my heart, though, and I’ll nae have another.”
Her return smile looked forced, but Bridget Cameron nodded and stuffed what she could of her bosom back into her dress. “Ye’re a handsome lad, Lord Gray. If this lass should disappoint ye, well, I’ll be aboot fer a time. I’ll keep my bedchamber door unlocked fer ye.”
Inclining his head, Lachlan stepped past her into the drawing room—and found himself face-to-face with Rowena. Damnation. Had she overheard any of that conversation? With his luck, she’d heard just enough to decide he needed a swift kick in the man parts. “Rowena.”
“Lachlan.”
Bridget moved past them, and Rowena shifted sideways to give her room. Her gaze, though, remained fixed on his face. “The other lads are still at the table,” he said, trying to calculate her mood. He always used to be able to tell what she was thinking; there was something … fascinating in not knowing what she might say or do next.
She nodded. “You should’ve gone with Bridget Cameron,” she said finally, her voice low.
“Nae. Ye can decide ye dunnae like me, but I’ll nae make it that simple fer ye.”
“So I’m the lass who owns your heart? I can understand lust, I suppose, but now it’s your heart? After one week?”
“Is that it?” he returned, moving closer to her and deciding he’d made some progress if she at least believed he wanted her. “Ye reckon I’ve fallen fer ye too quickly? Would ye believe Lord Rob if he said he loved ye? Ye’ve only known him fer three days. I’ve known ye since the day ye were born.”
“But you never liked me until this week.”
“I never thought of ye as a woman grown until this week,” he corrected. “Do ye think I would’ve worn bonnets and drunk tea from wee cups, or let ye win foot races or teach ye to shoot a pistol or come aboot every day if I didnae like ye?”
She brushed at one eye. “You’re friends with my brothers. Of course you came by.”
God’s sake, she was stubborn. But then, she was also worth the effort. “Lass, do ye know why I didnae answer yer letters?”
“Why not, then?”
“Because I didnae want to break yer heart.” He took another step toward her. “If ye wrote me today I’d answer ye, because now I can say all the things ye wanted me to say before. I see ye now, Rowena. I truly, truly do. I’ve always loved ye. Now, I’m in love with ye.”
He’d expected it to be much harder to say those words. But they came very easily, really, as though they’d been waiting in his chest, in his heart, for a very long time and they’d just dislodged themselves.
“I … I don’t want to have this conversation right now.” Rowena’s cheeks had paled, and he reached out to steady her.
“Lass, are ye—”
“Don’t touch me, Lachlan. I can’t—”
“Lachlan!”
They both froze at the flat sound of Ranulf’s voice coming up the hallway. Lachlan
turned to face the marquis. It was time he stopped tiptoeing about. His intentions were honorable, after all. “Ranulf, I—”
“Enough,” Glengask snapped. “That’s twice ye’ve made her run off.”
Lachlan glanced over his shoulder. Rowena was gone, disappeared somewhere into the depths of the hen-filled room. “It was just a damned conversation.”
“Evidently,” Ranulf continued in the same low, controlled voice, “Rowena adored ye fer so long that she doesnae know what to do with ye or any other man now. I’ll nae have these antics going on with all the clans here looking fer trouble—and looking at my sister as a way to make an alliance. She’s marrying Lord Robert Cranach. That should end any confusion.”
A cold, deep pain settled sharply into Lachlan’s chest, robbing him of breath and thought. He’d almost managed to convince her that he was sincere. Another day, two days, and he would have had her for himself. “Nae,” he muttered, not certain the word was even audible.
“Aye. It’s time. And it’s done.”
Chapter Nine
“Fairy tales?” Jane repeated, her brow furrowing. “Like the one with the girl in the red hood and the wolf who ate her grandmother?”
“No. Like … like the girl who’s always loved the prince, and just after she realizes that it’s silly and naïve and half-witted to love someone who doesn’t even know who she is, it turns out that he does know who she is, and he wants her to be his princess.” Rowena tried to slow down her breath, but that did nothing to slow the fast beating of her heart. If there was one person’s opinion she wouldn’t listen to right now, it was her own. “Could that be true?”
“Well, how does the prince know who she is? Is she a maid in his house? Because I don’t think a prince would marry a maid.”
“Jane, they just … They know each other.”
“Oh. But is she a peer?”
“What does that matter, for heaven’s sake?”
“You asked if the fairy tale could be true.” Jane took a drink of her tea, eyeing her over the rim of the cup. “It can’t be true unless the girl and the prince are at a similar level socially. Unless the girl is very rich, and the prince is very poor.” She set aside her cup. “If, for instance, she’s an orange girl he sees peddling her fruit as he rides about his kingdom on his magnificent stallion, then it can be a fairy tale, but it can’t be true. If, on the other hand, the girl is the sister of the prince’s closest friend, then I don’t see why he couldn’t suddenly be struck on the head and realize she’s grown up to be a lovely lady of wit and virtue, and he loves her and wants to marry her.”
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