Highlander in Love

by Julia London

  Mared didn’t know if she had a darkly exotic look, but she was rather intrigued with her fancy appearance. She really rather liked it and secretly wished for a more suitable ensemble.

  The family—save Grif and Anna, who thought it best not to attend in her condition, and Natalie, who was too young to attend—climbed into an ancient old coach they had once kept for emergencies, but now served as their primary form of conveyance, pulled by two braying donkeys, and creaked and moaned their way across Ben Cluaran.

  When they arrived they were surprised to see so many carriages and carts parked along the tree line. In the drive, a couple had just disembarked—he was wearing a formal black coat, and she was wearing a sparkling gold gown.

  “How lovely!” Ellie cried, clearly enthralled. “It’s a ball, Liam!”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered beneath his breath and stuck a finger between his collar and neck once more in a vain attempt to loosen it.

  “A ball!” Mared cried, feeling quite ill at ease all of a sudden. “He said nothing of a ball! He said a ceilidh!”

  “Have you any idea how long it’s been since I’ve attended a ball?” Ellie gushed excitedly, her gloved hand at her throat as she peered outside. “And oh, look there! See the woman in pink?”

  Mared strained to see—it was none other than Beitris, in a pretty pink ball gown, walking carefully behind her mother and father.

  “Mary Queen of Scots,” Liam muttered. “’Tis a blasted ball.”

  “You should be pleased, darling,” Ellie said gaily. “You’re well acquainted with all the dances, and Anna tells us that during your escapade in London, you did quite nicely on a crowded dance floor.”

  Liam scowled.

  “I’ve no use for balls,” Father said irritably. “I donna like the dancing or the noise.”

  “Ye’ll smile and be quite happy to attend,” Mother said calmly and looked pointedly at Mared. “I rather suppose he’d have the whole of the lochs see Mared on his arm. ’Tis what a gentleman does when he intends to take a lass to wife.”

  That was certainly not something Mared had considered, and the suggestion caused her heart to leap to her throat. She instantly clapped her hands over her ears. “Ach! I’ll no’ hear it!” she insisted as the coach rolled to a halt in the drive.

  “It is out of yer hands, Mared. Donna tempt fate,” her mother warned her as the door flew open. “A Lockhart never breaks his word!” And with that, she gave her hand to Liam, who had already bounced from the coach to hand them all down.

  The ball-disguised-as-a-ceilidh was in full swing, and it seemed to Mared as if everyone who lived in the glens surrounding the lochs was in attendance, their brightly clad bodies crowding the salons and spilling out onto the terrace that overlooked a serene Loch Ard. A quartet of fiddlers and a bagpipe were at one end of the grand ballroom, playing waltzes and Scottish reels and quadrilles. Dozens of couples danced, both in the ballroom and on the terrace.

  Footmen, dressed in the old-style Douglas livery with powdered wigs and short pantaloons, passed through the crowd, trays of little tots filled with Eilean Ros barley-bree held high above their heads.

  Mared helped herself to one tot, discreetly tossing it back as she stood against a wall, watching her mother and father dance a Scottish reel. Ellie danced with the parson of Aberfoyle, while Liam laughed with a group of Highland soldiers.

  Payton, however, was nowhere to be seen. Miss Douglas had greeted them at the door and invited them to proceed through the marble entry, to the ballroom. Curious about Payton’s whereabouts, Mared thought that perhaps he was on the terrace and considered walking outside to have a look about. But she was ill at ease in her old gown among so many people and self-consciously stayed back.

  Besides, she couldn’t possibly imagine why she might care where Payton was. She should be overjoyed there were so many in attendance this evening, for it would keep him quite well occupied. He could talk of his sheep at length to the various unmarried women here, who would undoubtedly hang on every single word, just as Beitris tended to do. How tire-some.

  And then the devil himself appeared at the terrace door with a beaming Beitris on his arm. As they strolled into the crowded ballroom, she looked perfectly happy, perhaps even a wee bit in love.

  And he looked…handsome. Diah, he looked quite handsome in his formal tails and white silk waistcoat. And content.

  Mared ignored the fluttering in her belly and determined that he and Beitris were perfectly suited to one another. A pretty lass. A handsome laird. Mared could congratulate herself now—she’d done quite well in pairing the two of them.

  If only he hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t touched her like that. If only she hadn’t kissed him back.

  When a footman walked by with a tray of barley-bree, she took another tot.

  It helped soothe her uneasiness, left her feeling warm and fluid.

  When the quadrille ended, Douglas handed Beitris over to Mr. Abernathy, the smithy’s son. Then he turned and looked directly at Mared, startling her.

  He moved in her direction. He had spotted her so damnably easily, she thought, as she lifted her chin and smiled at him with serene indifference as he approached.

  He was not the least bit deterred. When he reached her—one corner of his mouth upturned in something of a lazy smile—he bowed. In response, Mared sort of slid a bit down the wall and rose up again in her version of a curtsey.

  “Miss Lockhart, how good of ye to attend our affair,” he said, his gaze taking in her gown and hair.

  “Aye, and thank ye for the invitation to yer ball, which ye cleverly concealed under the pretext of a ceilidh.”

  One dark brow rose high above the other; his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Pretext? I beg yer pardon, but ye are mistaken. This,” he said, turning slightly and looking at the crowded room behind him, “is indeed a gathering with a wee bit of dancing to enliven the evening. Is that no’ the definition of ceilidh?”

  “I believe a ceilidh is more an informal affair than a full-fledged ball, milord.”

  He grinned. “Semantics. One canna give a Scot a tot of whiskey and no’ expect him to kick up his heels, aye?”

  She couldn’t help chuckling at the truth in that statement. “I think it quite impossible, aye.”

  “Then having partaken of a tot yerself,” he said, nodding at the two empty glasses on the chair beside her, “perhaps ye might like a turn about the dance floor as well?”

  “Ye know me better than this, sir. I willna dance for yer amusement.”

  “Then dance for yer own amusement,” he said, holding out his hand to her.

  She shook her head and looked away.

  “Come and dance with me, Mared,” he said softly. “It would be discourteous to refuse yer host, aye?”

  A waltz was forming on the strings of the fiddle, the distinctive wail of the accompanying pipes pounding out the rhythm behind Payton, and she glanced at his upturned hand from the corner of her eye. “They’ll think ye’ve lost yer mind, dancing with the accursed.”

  He leaned closer. “Mared, leannan,” he said, using a term of endearment as he touched her hand, “surely ye have gathered by now that I donna give a damn what any of them think. Dance with me.” And he smiled.

  All right, then. There was simply no denying that magnetic smile—she was lost. The whiskey and the lure of the pipes propelled her forward, and against her better judgment, she awkwardly slipped her hand into his and felt quite helpless when he smiled warmly at her, as if they shared some intimate secret. He put her hand on his arm and covered it with his broad palm, then led her onto the crowded dance floor, boldly ignoring the many critical eyes that turned toward them.

  True to his word, Payton seemed not to notice or care. He swept a low bow.

  She curtsied properly, smiled when he put his hand steadfastly on her waist, took her hand firmly in his other. She might be lost, she reasoned, but she might as well make the most of it, and with a giggle, she put her hand lightl
y on his shoulder.

  The music started up in earnest; Payton grinned, twirled her to the rhythm of the music, pulling her close to his body, his hand going around to span her waist. This close to him, she could smell his cologne, the musky scent reminding her of that kiss in Glen Ard, the feel of his mouth on her skin, and his thigh between her legs. Much to her horror, she blushed.

  He smiled knowingly. “What are ye thinking?”

  The question took her slightly aback—could he read her thoughts? Could he possibly know how vividly she recalled that day and that kiss? Flustered by his smile and the gleam that went deep in his gray eyes, Mared did what she always did when she felt threatened. She assumed a certain nonchalance.

  “Can ye no’ guess? I was wondering why ye would have Lockharts to a silly ball. ’Tis no’ the Douglas way.”

  “Aye, ’tis no’ the Douglas way, because the Lockharts, particularly when they travel in a pack, can be a wee bit…fiadhaich.”

  Mared laughed, for the Lockharts thought the same of the Douglases—that they were a wild, unruly lot.

  Her laughter pleased him, and he gave her a knee-weakening smile that somehow had her feeling completely outside of her body. In the glow of that smile, he pulled her closer, so that their bodies were touching.

  She did not resist him but demanded, “What are ye doing? Ye’ll create quite a scandal dancing so close to the wretched daughter of Lockhart.”

  “Hush,” he said low. “I enjoy the feel of ye in my arms. There’ll be no derision of ye tonight, no’ even from yer own lips. Let them think what they will, but let them know that ye will be a Douglas soon enough.”

  A Douglas…Mared reacted to that by suddenly rearing back, pushing against the arm that firmly anchored her to him. “Let me go,” she said sharply.

  “What is it, then?” he asked impatiently. “Do ye still foolishly deny what will be?”

  “Stop it,” she said, looking away. “Ye willna provoke me into making a scene.”

  “Bloody wee fool,” he muttered, and easily pulled her closer. “I’ve courted ye, I’ve tried my damnedest to make it easy for ye—”

  “’Tis no’ a matter of trying,” she said angrily as a feeling of helplessness began to rise in her throat. “’Tis a matter of being forced against my will—”

  “Then I suggest ye no’ be so free with yer word of honor, Mared.”

  “Ye think I was free to give it?” she insisted incredulously. “Do ye think a woman is ever free? I do as every woman I know must do—I bow to the will of my father and my brothers!”

  “For God’s sake, will ye stop yer complaining!” he said irritably. “Ye will do as yer father wisely decides because ye are too foolish when left to yer own devices! I offer ye a good life, but ye are too stubborn to see it.”

  “Ye donna offer, ye command!” she shot back.

  His expression grew dark, and he tightened his hold on her hand. “Donna provoke me, Mared. My patience is at an end and I’ll no’ stand for such impertinence or willful disdain as ye show me now once we are married.”

  “Indeed? And pray tell, how do ye think to stop it?”

  His expression turned even darker; he clenched his jaw tightly shut and yanked her closer. He refused to look at her, just twirled her one way, then the other, until the music thankfully drew to an end, and at last, he stepped away from her and bowed. She inclined her head and turned to walk stiffly beside him.

  But he was not through with her—he put an unyielding hand to her elbow and guided her none too gently toward the doors that opened onto the terrace.

  Mared opened her mouth to protest, but he quickly cut her off. “Ach, no, donna speak! Ye despise me, ye’ve made it perfectly clear, but ye are to be my wife, whether or no’ either of us can abide it,” he said tersely. “I’ve always thought ye a bonny lass, a bird with a bonny countenance, but this evening, I find ye shrill.”

  She gasped indignantly and tried to wrench her arm free of his grasp, but he held firm. “Then let go of me!”

  “Stop acting the child! I’ve a gift for ye, Mared. In a moment of abominable weakness, I had a gift made for ye.”

  “Oh no,” she moaned heavenward.

  He made a sound of disgruntlement, but dropped his hand from her elbow when they reached the balustrade where guests at Eilean Ros stood to view the expansive gardens lit by rush lights below. “Ye’ve made it all so very difficult,” he snapped. “Why ye will no’ accept what is—were I a Lockhart, I’d no’ stand for yer impertinence,” he said as he reached into his pocket.

  “Were ye a Lockhart, there’d be no need for this discourse at all.”

  He frowned darkly at her and pulled something from his pocket. “I had this small token of my esteem made so that ye might come to understand that I intend to honor ye, Mared,” he said, and holding out his hand, he opened his fingers.

  The gift—an expensive, thoughtful gift—knocked her back on her heels. Mared put her hand to her throat as she stared down at the luckenbooth. It was shaped like a thistle, cast in gold and studded with emeralds around a diamond, the Lockhart colors. Along the bottom it was inscribed with the Lockhart motto, True and Loyal. It was exquisite, intricately carved.

  She’d never owned anything like it and was touched by his thoughtfulness, yet angered by his extravagance, too, and wondered how long a valuable piece of jewelry such as this would feed her entire family.

  “I’d no’ take ye from the Lockharts,” Payton said gruffly. “I mean ye to stay close to yer family’s hearth. I quite clearly understand that while ye may be Douglas in name, ye’ll always be a Lockhart at heart.”

  “Oh,” she murmured and lifted her gaze, saw a glimmer of affection in his eyes that made her heart tilt a little. She looked at the luckenbooth again.

  “Take it, lass,” he said, his voice noticeably softened.

  Mared wanted to take it; she wanted to hold it in her hand, to feel the weight of it and the warmth of his sentiment, but somehow, taking it seemed almost traitorous.

  As if he understood her reluctance, Payton clucked and put his hand beneath her elbow as she stepped back. He pulled her closer, so that they were almost touching, so that she could feel the strength of his body all around her. “Donna deny me this,” he said quietly. “I’ve no use for a Lockhart luckenbooth if ye willna have it.” He reached up and casually slipped two fingers into the bodice of her gown.

  His fingers skimmed her breast, instantly warming her flesh—Mared bit her lip to keep the little mewl of titillation from escaping her. She looked up at him as he pulled the cloth of her gown from her skin and smoothly pinned the luckenbooth so that it rested just over her heart. His hand lingered there with his gaze for a moment as he admired it before looking into her eyes.

  His gaze was smoldering, as if something was burning beneath the surface of him, and it vaguely occurred to her that perhaps he felt what she did—a burning. Flames melting her from the inside out.

  But Payton pulled his hand free of her bodice, then slid his other hand down her arm, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. He bowed his head and gently pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth.

  Frozen, Mared stood with her gaze locked on his neckcloth, at a loss as to how she might understand such a gentle kiss, alarmed by the fire he left singeing her lips.

  He let go of her and stepped back, a gentlemanly distance. Mared touched the luckenbooth he had pinned to her breast as she watched him lean against the balustrade, his arms folded…

  And then he was falling backward as the balustrade abruptly gave way.

  Mared shrieked and reached out to him, but Payton had lost his footing and disappeared, along with the stone railing.

  Her shriek brought people running. “Get back, get back!” a man shouted; someone grabbed her shoulders, roughly pulling her back. “Go there, to Ellie,” Liam said and pushed her toward his wife as he rushed forward to the end of the broken terrace, shouting at the other men to have a care.

  Mared was
pulled into the ballroom by someone, and her mother and Ellie miraculously appeared by her side.

  “What’s happened, what’s happened?” Mother asked breathlessly as Ellie stood on tiptoes and craned her neck to see outside along with dozens of other ladies.

  Mared’s hands were shaking so badly she had to grip them together; she imagined Payton lying on the flagstones below, his neck broken. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands into her abdomen to keep her fear from bubbling up. “I donna know, I swear it,” she said through gulps of air. “He…he leaned against the balustrade, and it gave way. I tried to reach him, but he—” She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t say that he fell, that she had killed him with her curse.

  Her mother put a comforting arm around her. “There now, mo ghraidh. It was an accident.”

  “There he is—he’s quite all right!” Ellie cried, the relief apparent in her voice. I can see him standing just there, on the terrace.”

  “He’s alive?” Mared asked shakily.

  “Of course! He’s moving…his coat seems to be torn, and there is a bit of mud on his trousers, but he’s speaking to those around him.”

  “Lucky he is,” one woman said loudly, “to have survived the curse.”

  Mared’s blood ran cold—she recognized the voice as belonging to Mrs. Dahlstrom. Beside her, her mother stiffened and tightened her hold around Mared’s shoulders.

  “It looks to me as if he’s survived a bit of rotted wood and crumbling stone is all,” Ellie said haughtily.

  But Mrs. Dahlstrom was not put off and glared at Ellie. “Ye be English, Mrs. Lockhart. Ye donna understand the secrets of the Highlands.” With that, she cast a cold glare at Mared.

  But Ellie was not so easily dismissed and stepped in front of Mared. “That is true, madam. But I understand superstition and ignorance when I hear it, and really, the laird is quite all right,” she said. She turned her back on the woman and faced Mared. “Come, darling, why don’t we find a place to sit until the commotion is over? Perhaps have a tot of the barley-bree?”