Egan, whom Mary had convinced to go to Ross Hall for the call, refused to ride in the chaise with Mary and Zarabeth, stating that he’d join them later. He had business to take care of—Mary did remember that Zarabeth’s life was under threat?
“I think you’d ride with us, then,” Mary said as Egan had handed Zarabeth then his sister into the carriage. “If you’re so keen to protect her.”
“Ye have Baron Valentin and plenty of outriders,” Egan had returned, slamming the door once they were inside. “And Zarabeth’s two footmen on the top. Hamish and I need to meet with someone.”
“Oh, very well,” Mary said, waving him away. She was obviously displeased but also seemed used to Egan’s avoidance of social niceties.
Zarabeth for one was glad Egan would not ride in the carriage—she’d barely caught her breath from the unnerving strength of his hand when he’d helped her into the coach. Sitting across from him in such a close space would never do, not with his feet an inch from hers, his hard body taking up too much room. Zarabeth might do something foolish like launch herself at him and snuggle on his lap. Best he follow later and she ride alone in the coach with Mary, squashing the temptation.
Ross Hall lay five miles from Castle MacDonald, reached by rumbling across a river on an arched stone bridge and jolting along a winding road past stone crags that soared above them. The journey took about an hour and ended at a green park that lay behind a pair of ornate gates.
When the gatekeeper, an aging, stooped Scotsman, opened the gates to let them in, they rattled up a well-tended drive to a broad spread of a modern house with glittering windows decorated with Doric columns. Trees burnished red and gold with autumn arched over the lane, branches reaching down to brush the top of the coach. The day was clear and crisp, yesterday’s rain gone.
It all seemed so normal—a carriage taking Zarabeth to pay a call on a neighbor, servants in knee breeches swarming out of the house to meet the coach, with cushioned steps to ease the ladies’ descent. But Highlanders with pistols had surrounded the carriage as they rode across the country and Zarabeth had glimpsed riders in the trees and scrub. Baron Valentin had gone with the outriders, but he’d disappeared altogether once they reached Ross Hall.
Zarabeth and Mary were ushered inside the Ross mansion, into an arching, echoing hall whose walls were covered with paintings. Zarabeth recognized work of the Scottish painter Ramsay, along with Gainsborough, Reynolds, and Stubbs. It was elegant and restful.
Adam Ross met them, every inch the lord of the manor. He wore a knee-length kilt of Ross plaid, but his lawn shirt, watered waistcoat and dark frock coat could have been found in the clubs of London.
Zarabeth greeted him politely in response to his welcome. “Your home is most lovely,” she said in all sincerity.
“My father had an eye for architecture,” Adam said modestly. “He designed much of it.”
Servants took their wraps, and Adam led them into a high-ceilinged drawing room filled with delicate-legged furniture, a pianoforte, and more paintings. Every corner breathed wealth, and there were no drafts or falling beams in sight.
Two middle-aged gentlemen scrambled out of chairs as Zarabeth and Mary entered, and went to stand next to two matrons of the same age. Both women were somewhat plump and dressed in the very latest mode—except for their hair and eye coloring, the ladies could have been mirror images of each other.
Two misses wearing virginal pale muslin that had been trimmed with so much ribbon and braid that it was difficult to see the cloth beneath, had risen from the pianoforte and turned eagerly toward the newcomers. These ladies had ringlets hanging from their foreheads almost to their eyes, giving them the look of young fillies peering through forelocks. One girl had blond hair, while the other’s was as dark as Zarabeth’s. They had bright eyes and brighter smiles, and curtseyed deeply exactly at the same time, as Zarabeth approached. Then they glanced at each other, annoyed.
Mary made the introductions. The two debutantes stood mutely while their mothers and fathers were presented first, as protocol dictated. The young ladies’ thoughts, however, sharp and fierce, clamored through Zarabeth’s shields.
My curtsy was better. Why did the princess not smile more at me if my curtsy was better?
Is that what Nvengarian princesses wear? It looks as dowdy as anything Mary Cameron has.
I shall play first. The princess will want me to.
And both of them thinking frantically, Where is Mr. MacDonald? Why is he not with Mrs. Cameron?
With difficulty Zarabeth focused on her conversation with their parents, making the correct responses at the correct times. One family was the Bartons, the other the Templetons. They were both Scottish-born but spoke English without a trace of the Scots accent Zarabeth had come to love. She sensed no danger from them, only rather empty thoughts about how rich Adam was and hope that Egan proved to be just as wealthy. A good match for their daughters would be something to boast of.
The daughters were Faith and Olympia—golden-haired Faith belonging to the Bartons, and dark-haired Olympia to the Templetons.
“Your gown is lovely,” Olympia said to Zarabeth. She was the one who’d thought Zarabeth’s dress dowdy. “It must be trés rigueur.”
Zarabeth ignored her mangled French and answered politely. “You are too kind.”
“I have read all about Nvengaria,” Faith said. Her thoughts clanged that she’d found the subject too dull for words and had quickly left off. “I have never been there. I would prefer to go to Paris instead.”
“Paris is a fine city,” Zarabeth agreed.
They were all seated, Adam still playing host, though with a slightly pained expression. What was Mary thinking? His thoughts spun past her. They are dreadful.
Zarabeth learned from the jumble in the young ladies’ heads that neither of them had any intention of leaving until she landed the famous Egan MacDonald, a handsome laird with a large estate, in marriage.
The girls had no idea how handsome. From the conversation that followed, Zarabeth concluded that neither Olympia nor Faith had ever met him. Zarabeth hoped no one could read her thoughts, because they strayed many times to the vision of Egan rising from the bath, wet and gleaming, the mirror letting her see every inch of him.
Every inch.
If she did not control herself, she would wear a permanent foolish, rather dazed look on her face, coupled with an inane smile. Egan was shredding every morsel of self-control she had.
Mary engaged the Edinburgh guests in lively conversation, while Adam sipped tea and wished the Templetons and Bartons far, far away. His brother, Piers, had escaped, stating he’d go to Glasgow and make some inquiries for Egan. Coward, Adam thought with envy. Inquiries about what, Zarabeth could not discern.
When called on to perform at the pianoforte, Olympia rather surprisingly offered to let Faith go first. Mrs. Templeton was pleased—the gesture showed Olympia’s generous nature. Olympia’s thoughts said: I play so much more skillfully than Faith does. I shall seem even better after they hear her mess.
Faith began her piece, a rather clanging version of a Mozart air. Mary listened to the tune with sparkling eyes and an excited flush. Adam cringed and hid it by rapidly drinking tea. The Bartons were proud, the Templetons sneering at Faith’s effort.
Faith finished and bowed, and everyone clapped. Olympia glided to the piano with her nose in the air, opened her music, and began.
She played marginally better than Faith, but ruined the effect by beginning to sing. Her off-key treble warbled up and down, trying to grab notes that the most practiced opera sopranos had trouble reaching. Adam shot abruptly to his feet and strode to the window.
Overcome by emotion, Mrs. Templeton thought happily.
A strange sound reached the drawing room, echoing outside in the hall. Mary jumped and nearly spilled her tea, and Adam remained fixed in place, his thoughts like a chiming bell. Oh no, he wouldn’t.
It came again, a roar like a bear. Olympia fal
tered a few seconds at the pianoforte, then plunged determinedly on.
The double doors of the drawing room burst open the next moment to admit Hamish MacDonald in a riding kilt and muddy boots. He stopped in the doorway for effect, then shouted, “All hail Egan, the laird of Castle MacDonald.”
Chapter 6
The Mad Highlander
Olympia’s piece crashed to a halt. Mary rose, her hand at her throat, but the guests came to their feet and looked around in eager anticipation, Zarabeth with them.
Hamish stepped aside, and Egan dashed into the room, brandishing the sword of Ian MacDonald that usually hung in the Great Hall. Zarabeth took one look at him and collapsed onto the sofa, hand tight against her mouth. But no one noticed her laughter because they were too busy staring at Egan.
He wore a dark hunting kilt and dirt-streaked linen shirt, and his boots were caked with mud. His hair hung loose and wild, and he’d painted his face and neck dull blue.
No, Mary’s thoughts groaned. Oh, no.
Egan tossed the aside the sword, which landed with a clatter on the floor beyond Adam’s large Chinese rug.
“’M I late, Mary?” Egan asked in a voice that vibrated the windows. “We were chasing brigands across the hills and lost the time.”
His accent was thick, almost unintelligible. He pivoted in a swirl of plaid and made for the guests. “Wha’ have we here, naow?”
He peered first at Faith, who stood wide-eyed against her mother, and then Olympia, who’d frozen at the pianoforte.
“Are ye playin’ a song, lass?” he bellowed at Olympia. “Dinnae stop. I like a tune t’ tap me feet tue.”
“Egan,” Mary said faintly.
“Goe on,” Egan said to Olympia, putting his wild blue face level with her sheet-white one. “Is it a ballad t’make m’cry, or a reel I can hop tue?”
“It’s Handel,” Olympia stammered.
Egan straightened up, looking puzzled. “Is that Scots?”
“He was German,” Olympia whispered. “I think.”
Mary quickly stepped between Egan and the pianoforte. “My brother does like his little joke.” Her laugh was strained. “Go and change, Egan. Your playacting has amused us.”
Egan ignored her, spinning to the tea table. “Is that whisky ye have?” He lifted the teapot, removed the lid, and sniffed. “Och, it’s tea. Adam Ross, why have ye filled yer pots with tea? Have ye run out of the best malt?”
Adam coughed into his handkerchief and didn’t answer.
Egan snatched up a plate and a huge hunk of teacake then swirled to an empty sofa, giving Zarabeth a broad wink as he passed her. He climbed onto the sofa and perched on its back, his muddy boots planted on the cushions while he ate.
“Look, Mary,” he said proudly, lifting Adam’s fine porcelain. “I’m usin’ a plate this time.”
Mary rushed to the French doors and swung one open. “Perhaps we should go into the garden, Mrs. Templeton, Mrs. Barton? Mr. Ross’s gardens are some of the best in Scotland.”
“But we’ve seen them already,” Faith began. Her gaze was riveted to Egan, her expression not as horrified as it ought to have been.
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Cameron.” Mrs. Templeton bustled over. “Come along, Olympia.”
Olympia said, “Yes, maman,” in a sweetly compliant voice, but her thoughts were rebellious.
Egan stuffed the last of the cake in his mouth. “Yer quite right, Mary. ’Tis a fine day. I’ll come wi’ ye and show ye how t’ toss the caber.” He flung down the plate and ran for the door, nearly colliding with Mrs. Barton. “Yer pardon, ma’am.” He swept her an exaggerated bow, indicating she should precede him. The lady scurried out into the garden with Faith and her husband, Egan close behind them.
Hamish followed them all slowly, his hands behind his back. Zarabeth and Adam remained alone in the room. As soon as the party had moved a sufficient distance into the garden, Adam collapsed onto a chair, threw his head against its back, and laughed loud and long.
Zarabeth ceased trying to hold in her mirth and joined him in laughter, her arms around her shaking sides. “Wherever did he get the blue paint?” she asked when she could breathe again.
“My gardener’s painting the sheds,” Adam answered, wiping his eyes. “I never thought he’d do it. Mary will never let him hear the end of it.”
“You knew Egan would dress up like this?” Zarabeth asked in surprise, and some wistfulness. She’d love to be a close enough friend to Egan to hear of his schemes.
Adam shook his head. “He threatened to last night. Said if Mary insisted on parading debutantes in front of him, he’d dress up like a wild Highlander to scare them off.”
“I do wish Mary would have brought young ladies more … thoughtful,” Zarabeth said, trying to choose a charitable word. “Perhaps a little older as well.”
Adam nodded in fervent agreement. “Aye, Egan needs a courageous woman, one who can put up with him and his Highlanders and live at Castle MacDonald. The place is a rundown ruin.”
Zarabeth sat up and poured Adam and herself more tea, biting back a sharp retort. She felt defensive of Castle MacDonald, indignant that Adam in his fine house would scoff at it. “It suits my needs,” she said firmly. “Egan will fix things now that he’s home. He is a wealthy man, I believe.”
“He hasn’t always been,” Adam said, not noticing her disapprobation. “His branch of the MacDonalds lost much after the ’45 and took a long time to recover—most Highland families did, including my own. Egan invested the money he made in the army—prizes and such, plus selling his commission—and he was canny enough to make plenty of blunt. But Castle MacDonald is eight hundred years old. His tenants’ roofs are snug and tight—Egan sees to that—but there’s buckets all over the castle to catch the rain. There’s not enough money for it all, but none of the MacDonalds will stand for leaving the castle and living in an ordinary house.” Adam glanced around his modern, comfortable drawing room.
“Why don’t you live in a castle?” Zarabeth asked in curiosity, lifting her teacup. “Your house is lovely, but built fairly recently, was it not?” The structure could not have been more than thirty years old, forty at most.
“Ah, the Rosses had a castle,” Adam said, his expression dimming. “Not far from here, up against the mountain.” He gestured out the window, where a craggy hill reared its head in the distance. “It was destroyed, brick by brick, and the foundations crushed. No laird will live again at Castle Ross.”
“Why?” Zarabeth sensed pain in Adam’s fleeting thoughts. “What on earth happened?”
Adam set his teacup in his saucer and gazed at her with frank gray eyes. He was a handsome man, one who liked his comforts, she already understood, but she felt from him the same kind of raw courage that lurked in Egan and his family.
“At Culloden my great-grandfather killed the son of a noble English family, and that family retaliated,” Adam explained, unhurried. “My great-grandfather himself died in the battle, but troops came to Castle Ross afterward and turned his wife and servants out into the cold. My grandfather was only a small boy at the time, and they didn’t even give him a blanket to keep warm. The English pulled down the castle, shot canon at it for fun, and when they finished, not one stone was left standing on top of another.”
Zarabeth’s defensiveness of Egan’s home dissolved into shock and sympathy. “Oh, Mr. Ross, I am so sorry. What happened to your grandfather and his mother? Where did they go?”
Adam shrugged, though Zarabeth felt his anger at the plight of his family so long ago. “Egan’s family took them in—the first time Rosses and a MacDonald helped each other. My great-grandmother lived on with them, and my grandfather grew up in Castle MacDonald. Eventually, the English family who’d exacted their vengeance on us died out themselves. My father studied in Edinburgh and became a brilliant engineer. He invented a new sort of valve and made a bit of capital at it. I’ve made some contributions to the engineering world as well, papers and such. The Rosses are
now scientists instead of fighters.”
He glanced around again, the place the height of comfort and elegance. The beautiful plastered room with its paintings and mirrors was a sharp contrast to Castle MacDonald, which was all gray stone or whitewash and beams. This room was warm all the way through, unlike the drafty castle.
And yet Adam wore a wistful look, as though he’d trade all the luxury for his ancestors’ home in a heartbeat.
“You are brave,” Zarabeth told him in a soft voice.
Adam brought his gaze back to her, his handsome smile flashing. His thoughts chimed loud and clear—Ah, she likes me. “You are kind to say so. Most people tell me how lucky I am to have all this.”
“You are lucky.” Zarabeth set down her teacup. “But I know that a gilded palace cannot mend all the hurts in the world. It is only a place, filled with things.”
Adam sent her a thoughtful look. “Tell me how it is that you, a foreigner, understand, when all my neighbors, good Scots like me, have no idea?”
Zarabeth gave him a shrug, hiding the pang in her heart. “Perhaps because I have lived in a gilded palace, and learned that one can be more content with a simple hearth.”
Adam grinned again. “Ah, I believe you and I will rub along well, young lady. Shall we join the others? And promise not to laugh?” He came to Zarabeth and guided her to her feet with hands as strong as Egan’s.
“Poor Egan,” Zarabeth said. She slid her hand through Adam’s sturdy arm and let him lead her to the door. “We must endeavor to save him.”
“From a fate worse than death.” Adam chuckled, and they went out into the gardens.
* * *
The water in the bucket was freezing cold as Egan sluiced it over his face and arms in the courtyard of Castle MacDonald. The blue paint stubbornly adhered to his skin, resisting his attempts to scrub it off.
Highlander Ever After: Nvengaria, Book 3 Page 7
