Other than those boors, another time she might have enjoyed the festivities and meeting new people, but worry for Da combined with her not-so-long ago losses shrouded her, dampening her spirits.
She should be home with him, but duty to the clan must come first. Always.
Did she possess the character and strength, the fortitude, to be a good chieftain? To put aside her personal wants for the benefit of the tribe?
She must, at all cost.
As a woman, she couldn’t afford to show any hint of softness or weakness.
Lydia rotated her hips slightly, causing the gown’s skirts to sway. A gown perfect for waltzing. For certain, dancing—one of her favorite pastimes—was prohibited until her mourning period ended.
She hadn’t indulged since that fateful ball at the Wimpleton’s when Flynn learned of his father’s death.
Perhaps if she kept to the shadows, she might avoid tattle and enjoy the other couples who took to the floor at the Valentine’s ball in three days.
Catching her contemplative expression in the mirror, she scoffed.
Who did she think to fool? Nothing about being here was proper, except, perhaps, acting as her da’s emissary.
How was he anyway?
She fretted about his health daily. However, she’d be home inside a week, and then she’d have a candid conversation about both their futures.
If he did, indeed, intend to name her his successor, better he do it sooner than later. That gave everyone, including her, time to adjust.
Maybe Uncle Gordon would stop his darkling sulks too.
If he continued to pout, he’d find himself bereft of his steward position. A surly, uncooperative overseer wouldn’t do.
She’d grown disgusted with his barbed comments and sly looks.
God’s toenails.
He should count himself fortunate Da had agreed to take Mum’s illegitimate half-brother in when he’d been arrested for petty theft all those years ago. Her parents had hoped Uncle Gordon would follow in Leath’s and Colin’s footsteps. Da never said so directly, but his somber gaze often revealed his disappointment in his wife’s nephew.
Satisfied her hair, jewels, and attire would pass muster, Lydia dabbed perfume at her throat and behind each ear.
A soft knock preceded Esme poking her stunningly coiffed head in the door. A huge smile covered her face when her gaze lit on Lydia. “Oh, you are ever so lovely, Lydia. Like an exotic orchid. You’ve quite recovered from your headache?”
Lydia’s artfully arranged hair hid a spoon-sized lump. She crooked her mouth and collected her feathered fan and black gloves. If she was an orchid, Esme was a most perfect rose. “I pale in comparison to you, dearest. And yes, if I don’t touch where my head struck the carriage, I’m quite well.”
Esme fairly glowed in her virginal white gown, but the red roses embroidered along the hem, across the gold satin beneath her breasts, and along her sleeve’s edges, reflected the fire in Esme’s coppery hair. She wore rubies in her ears and at her throat and the most elegant red and gold, beaded slippers.
Even her lips glowed crimson.
Lydia donned a glove, wiggling her fingers into each finger hole. She rather hated wearing the silly things. They made her all thumbs, and she was forever taking them off to nibble a sweetmeat or other dainty. And then she forgot to put them on again.
Her browned hands would send the whole of the Polite World into apoplexy should they have seen them.
“How’s your leg this evening, Esme?”
“Much better. The swelling around my knee is nearly gone, but I have a bruise as wide as a fat hog’s behind on my thigh.” Esme raised her hem to her shapely knees and stuck her foot out revealing intricate red clocks at her heels.
Not an ounce of bashfulness in the girl.
Chuckling, Lydia pulled on her other satin glove. Esme did have a colorful way of speaking. The bold Scots found her mannerisms amusing, but Lydia fretted the stuffy haut ton mightn’t be as easily charmed.
“Are you ready?” Esme peered around Lydia’s chamber, taking in the rustic stone turret and diamond-paned windows. “This is quite an ancient castle, isn’t it? Very rustic, but also quite intriguing. Are there any ghosts lurking in the corridors or turrets, do you think?”
“The original Keep’s ruins are across the loch, and I imagine if any spirits are roaming about, it would be over there.” Lydia finished tidying her dressing table before looking up and giving Esme a reassuring smile. “I’ve never explored them though, nor have I ever heard mention of any unusual goings on here.”
“America doesn’t boast anything as old or majestic as this. At least not where I live.” She scrunched her nose and shuddered. “We’re famous for those horrid witch trials.”
“Yes, I’ve read about that nonsense. I cannot imagine why people allowed themselves to be so deceived.” Lydia opened the door and waited for Esme to finish gawking.
Esme flitted out the door and heaved a great sigh. Her shoulders slumped as she fidgeted with her ivory handled fan. “I confess, I’m nervous as a mare in season. I’ve never attended a grand affair.”
Lydia looped her arm through Esme’s and guided her down the stately passageway. Likely generations old, beautifully woven tapestries detailing castle life hung suspended along the walls. Who had the men and women been who created the masterpieces? Alasdair’s relatives?
“Really? I would’ve thought you’d have plenty of opportunities in Salem.”
“I was too young before Papa died, and when Mama fell ill shortly thereafter, I spent the next two years attending her.” Esme shivered and briskly rubbed her hands over her arms. “This place gives me chicken skin.” She glanced warily up and down the severe passage. “It’s cold and almost eerie. Are you quite sure there aren’t any spirits loitering about?”
Lydia laughed softly. “It is a bit daunting, and I admit, I prefer Tornbury’s coziness, but Craiglocky possesses its own appeal.”
“You still didn’t answer my ghost question,” Esme grumbled. “I felt certain someone has been watching me. My nape hair has been standing on end all day.”
Probably McLeon. A more besotted man, Lydia had never seen.
A few minutes later, they paused at the great hall’s entrance.
Guests mingled about the room, a few chatting and laughing before the enormous, stately fireplace. Others sat upon the needlepoint covered benches before the mullioned windows, and several small, animated clusters gathered here and there.
A celebratory atmosphere permeated the hall, and Esme gave a tense giggle.
“My, everyone looks splendid, don’t they? And the Highlanders are so dashing in their dress kilts.” Her gaze fell on Douglas Mcleon before she quickly glanced away. “Lydia,” she whispered beneath her breath, “did Mr. McLeon just wink at me? Awfully bold of him, I must say.”
Drawn to Alasdair’s commanding form the moment she crossed the threshold, Lydia hadn’t noticed. Such anticipation brimmed in Esme’s eyes, however, Lydia couldn’t crush her cousin’s hopes.
“I shouldn’t be the least surprised,” Lydia said. “He’s been most attentive. And he’s quite a handsome devil, isn’t he?”
Not as handsome as Alasdair.
Although not handsome in Flynn’s polished, jaw-dropping manner, Alasdair’s arresting strength and size, nevertheless, shouted masculinity. His tawny hair—much too long for London’s glittering parlors—suited him, and devilish humor usually glinted in his startling bluish-gray eyes, the sky’s color over the ocean at dawn.
His was a raw, untamed, manly beauty, and why the devil she continued to ruminate on it—him—vexed to her carefully plucked eyebrows.
Still, a whoosh of unexpected delight tripped across her shoulders when he and Mr. McLeon excused themselves from the
group they’d been conversing with.
More than one attractive lady’s face puckered in momentary displeasure, before their pert noses elevated, and they turned their attentions to dazzling the other gentleman at their elbows.
Confused disappointment swiftly replaced her bewildering elation when Alasdair crossed to speak with his father rather than join Mr. McLeon as he strode in her and Esme’s direction.
Mr. McLeon bowed gallantly, his focus trained on Esme. “From the way the room suddenly brightened, I ken the moment ye fair lasses entered.”
Esme’s muffled snort earned her his face-splitting grin.
“You are full of hogwash, Mr. McLeon, for I saw you whispering in that stunning brunette’s ear.” She inclined her red-blonde head briefly. “And you no more noticed our entry than a dog knows a tick’s latched to its arse.”
Chuckling and shaking his head in disbelief, Mr. McLeon’s eyebrows vaulted to his hairline, and Lydia gave a rapid glance around.
No one had heard Esme, thank goodness.
“Esme, a lady doesn’t use that word in public.” To soften her reprimand, Lydia leaned in and murmured, “Though I quite agree with your assessment.”
Esme pursed her lips, impishness fairly leaping in her eyes. “I beg your pardon. Our entry was as unremarkable as a parasite on a canine’s posterior.”
McLeon’s loud guffaw drew several guests’ attention, and even Alasdair sent a fleeting glance in their direction, a ghost of a smile playing round his mouth’s edges, before he pointedly directed his attention to his father once more.
Lydia’s spirits deflated faster than a cooling soufflé.
What did she care that he obviously intended to ignore her tonight? Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen him yesterday either. Not since their arrival, actually.
He avoided her.
What had she done to pique him?
She edged her chin upward.
Never mind.
She wasn’t here for entertainment anyway, most especially not of the gentlemanly type. Her interest in Alasdair McTavish was purely mercantile. He possessed a skill necessary to Tornbury and naught else mattered.
Yesterday, her meeting with the laird had gone well—very well, truth be known—and he’d assured her he’d provide his assistance until summer.
Perhaps longer.
He hadn’t specified which man he had chosen for the interim war chief, but he’d also promised two score of his finest soldiers would be at her disposable for an extended period.
That knowledge had lifted a considerable burden, and she’d thought she might actually enjoy the next few days. Her wayward gaze strayed to the room’s opposite side once more.
Alasdair’s aloofness oughtn’t to sting. But he was so easy to talk to, she could be perfectly candid with him in all things.
What had she done to put him off?
Flicking her fan open, she peeked over its feathery edge at his broad back, the cloth of his evening jacket pulled tight across rippling muscles. Everything had been quite genial and comfortable until she’d bade him present her letter to the laird.
He hadn’t spoken to her since.
A minute frown pulled Mr. McLeon’s brows together as he followed her focus. “Don’t fash yerself, Miss Farnsworth. Alasdair’s been a disagreeable brute since the laird told him he’d either make himself available to train yer regiments, or he could take his leave of Craiglocky.”
Chapter 7
Good God.
Lydia only just managed to prevent her jaw from sagging wide. As it was, she gasped loudly, earning her concerned looks from Esme and Mr. McLeon.
Why had Ewan McTavish made such a preposterous stipulation? Had Alasdair protested the assignment?
Perfectly wonderful. Now she’d have to deal with a reluctant, and perhaps uncooperative war chief along with everything else she had to juggle at present.
Gordon would likely dance a jig in delight, crowing I told ye so the entire while. Someone ought to put him in his place, and she was in precisely the mood to do so.
She didn’t need any more dissention at home, and she was of half a mind to impose a similar ultimatum to Uncle Gordon. Either he committed to restoring Tornbury Fortress to her previous power and status, without selfish motives, or he could take himself off permanently.
Craiglocky’s laird climbed the dais, and the chatter hushed a trifle. “Dinner is served, ladies and gentleman.”
Mr. McLeon extended both his elbows. “May I escort ye lovely lasses to the table? I’ll be the envy of every man present.”
“But where’s Lady McTavish?” Lydia craned her neck, looking for Yvette. Witty and intelligent, she’d been exceedingly kind to Lydia on her previous visit.
“Ah, her ladyship is confined to bed until her bairn comes.” He looked down at Esme. “Ye are seated to my right, Miss Adams, and ye, Miss Farnsworth are seated between Mr. Brownly and Alasdair.” He winked. “Brownly is a chatty flirt, but he be harmless.”
How did he know where they were seated? Had he perused the seating arrangements in advance?
He was smitten, though no good could come of it.
“I do apologize for Alasdair’s churlish behavior.” Mr. McLeon led her to her seat first. “He’ll come ’round. He’s just obstinate, and of late a mite techy. I think a change of scenery would do the surly sot good.”
He made no attempt to quiet his voice as he delivered her to her assigned seat beside Alasdair’s.
He speared McLeon a heated glower as he stood. “Aye, I could use a break from yer ugly face, to be sure.”
McLeon laughed as he guided Esme away.
Over her shoulder she gave Lydia a worried look, and Lydia managed an encouraging upward tilt of her mouth.
For pity’s sake.
The world wouldn’t end just because Alasdair was in a masculine sulk.
She’d deal with far more important and much more difficult situations as laird. Ironic that men criticized women for being so emotional, yet from what she’d observed, males far more often let their passions rule them.
Sinking onto the chair, she murmured, “Thank you, Alasdair.”
At first he didn’t respond, simply pushed her chair in then stood behind her, his strong hands still gripping the posts. Tension radiated off him in strained waves.
His gusty sigh warmed her scalp.
“I’ve been a rude ar—um, cull. Forgive me, please.” He came around and slid into the chair beside her, giving her a sheepish grin. The boyish action, the humility behind it, caused a queer pull against her ribs.
“No one likes being forced into something, Alasdair. Would you like me to speak with the McTavish, and suggest he ask someone else?”
Who? No one was more qualified that she knew. Unfolding her serviette, she canted her head slightly and surveyed the burly Scots assembled along the table’s length.
How well trained was Douglas McLeon?
Alasdair followed her lead, draping his cloth square across a broad thigh. “Nae. I’ve been promised a much-coveted reprieve once I’m finished.”
“Oh, and what might that be?” She returned Seonaid’s cheerful smile and friendly little wave.
He relaxed against his chair, one hand atop the table and the other resting on his kilt covered thigh. His muscled knee and calf drew her naughty focus once more. Why must he have such spectacular, light golden-hair covered legs?
He flicked a large, callused finger upward, rotating it. “Six months away from this damp, moldy clime. Truthfully, I mightn’t ever return. Just spend the rest of my days soakin’ in the sun along some tropical shore or barren desert.”
“You’re not serious?” Lydia stopped fussing with her silverware to gape. “You might be restless and discontented at present, but you
love Scotland as much as I do. You could never leave her permanently.” She grinned and poked his trunk-like arm. “You favor your whisky, Scotch pies, and haggis too much.”
“While ye speak truth, lass, there also be hellish memories here I’d rather leave behind.” All trace of the usually glib Highlander disappeared as he twisted his mouth in derision and stared across the hall.
His sarcasm couldn’t disguise the hurt lacing his words.
What had happened to him that left such a profound and lasting scar?
The chattering and laughing of his family and clan snared her attention momentarily. The McTavish clan laughed much more than Tornbury’s.
“You would be missed, Alasdair. Quite terribly, I think.” Everyone adored him.
He turned his penetrating gaze on her, now the color of the sky after a summer thunderstorm. “Would ye miss me, lass?”
Like the sun’s warm caress on a winter’s day, I would.
The simple question oughtn’t to have sent Lydia’s pulse to tripping or dried her tongue to such an extent she required a sip of wine to moisten her mouth. Fine then, a gulp. Which she choked on indelicately, causing a humiliating and robust round of coughing.
Face flaming from the concerned looks darted her way, she swallowed several times. When she dared speak once more, she bent a trifle closer. “Everyone would miss you, Alasdair, and I confess, I’d hoped you’d be the one to come to Tornbury.”
Not grudgingly or as the result of a bribe. She slumped slightly in her chair, catching Uncle Gordon’s curled lip from the corner of her eye.
Lairds didn’t slump.
Up went her spine, stiff and straight. She edged her chin upward too.
“It’s true Tornbury isn’t all that different from Craiglocky”—it was, actually—“but at least you’d be away from whatever haunts you here.”
Passion and Plunder Page 5
