“You do make it sound plausible,” she returned slowly, though she still doubted that anyone would have accepted an eight-year-old girl forced to leave London for boarding school and a seventeen-year-old young man determined to join the army to provide for the two of them. She and Gabriel would have had no London residence, no other London relations but old Lattimer—who, from what she read, hadn’t been a very pleasant fellow, anyway. “Of course it’s all moot, now that I’ve been missing for a fortnight.”
Mrs. Giswell took a breath. “May I speak honestly, my lady?”
“Of course,” Marjorie replied with a frown. “Always.”
“Very well.” The companion folded her hands in front of her. “You have no friends in London.”
“I—”
“Other than a governess or a companion here and there, I mean. No one of quality or influence.”
This was beginning to sound like one of Graeme’s speeches. She wasn’t certain she could bear to hear it all again today. “We have been trying,” she reminded her companion.
“Indeed we have. My point is, no one knows where you’ve gone or when you’re expected back. Not even your brother. As far as he’s concerned, you’re still in London. If you appeared on his doorstep tomorrow, he would have no cause or reason to believe you’d been delayed somewhere against your will unless you told him so. As far as anyone in London is concerned, if they’ve noticed your absence or inquired at the house as to where you might be, you’re at Lattimer Castle and have been for the past fortnight.”
Marjorie stared at her. Mrs. Giswell had it all figured out. If no one knew she’d gone missing, no one could even suggest she’d been ruined. A few people here knew, but they and their opinions mattered even less to London than she did. In addition, they’d have little reason to suspect that Ree Giswell and Lady Marjorie Forrester were one and the same. She wasn’t ruined—except, of course, for the fact that she was.
“You see? Everything can be managed. As soon as this abominable Sir Hamish Paulk leaves the area, so will we. And no one will be any the wiser. Except for us, but we won’t be telling anyone.”
She should have been relieved. She could return to London in no worse a position than she’d been in when she left. But she didn’t feel relieved, because part of Mrs. Giswell’s logic had stabbed at her—the assertion that not a soul in London knew or cared to know where she’d gone.
Not a single soul in an entire town cared a single fig about her, her well-being, her life, or her death. No one. “No one cares,” she said aloud.
“Well … no, but they aren’t yet acquainted with you. We will make them care. In another year or two, well before you’re ready to be put on the shelf, your absence will cause an uproar and make unmarried men weep in worry that you’ve given your hand to someone else.”
She couldn’t quite imagine that even in her wildest daydreams. If three months of effort hadn’t even netted her a wave, she could hardly expect to warrant weeping two years hence. For goodness’ sake, she’d grown up accustomed to being more or less alone, but even that was different than being present but utterly ignored.
A young fist pounded on her door. “Ree!” Connell called. “Are ye in there? I’m nae to come in unless ye say, because Dùghlas told me if ye see a lass naked ye have to marry her.”
Mrs. Giswell gave a delicate snort. “He isn’t wrong about that.”
And Marjorie knew someone who’d seen her naked nightly over the past few days. “I’m dressed, Connell. You may enter.”
Her door swung open, and the eight-year-old strolled in together with the pair of foxes and a big yellow cat. He wore a kilt, as well, a smaller version of Graeme’s. “I see ye’ve noticed,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “I look very fine.”
“Yes, you do. Quite handsome. You may well catch some lass’s eye.”
At that he frowned, stalking forward. “I dunnae want to catch a lass’s eye. I’m too young. And the Lion’s Den is a hoose of bachelors.”
And would apparently remain so, in part because she was an idiot and hadn’t somehow seen that she could enjoy a future with Graeme back when he’d first demanded that she wed him. He hadn’t mentioned marriage since, of course, or love at all, but he had said he wanted her to stay. Here, in the middle of nowhere. How could she call this an improvement over civilized, sophisticated London?
“… amnae a heathen, Mrs. Giswell,” the boy was saying. “I washed behind my ears just this morning. Graeme said we must look shiny fer all the folk who come so far to see us.”
“Shiny, hm?” the companion repeated skeptically.
“Your clan will be very proud of you, Connell,” Marjorie interrupted, before Mrs. Giswell and her narrow definition of proper appearance and behavior could hurt the boy’s feelings.
“Thank ye, Ree. And now ye’re to come with me. Graeme said to fetch ye to see the lads march up the hill, all in the Maxwell tartan and with bagpipes.”
Graeme had thought of her? Her heart lifted a little, as silly as it was. Barbarian or not, he’d said he liked and admired her. That meant something to her, whether it should have signified or not. As for how she felt about him—she couldn’t even decide whether to face north or south. All the rest was too much, too unexpected, and too far removed from a lifetime of dreams for her to make any sense of it or her feelings at all.
“It was nice of Graeme to think of me,” she said aloud, trying not to linger over his name. “I know he has a great many things on his mind today.”
“Aye. He told me to stay close by ye and watch over ye, because he couldnae take the time to do it.”
Oh. “Well, of course not,” she said briskly as those few words sent her world tumbling down around her again. “Lead the way.”
A lady didn’t show an excess of excitement or distress. A lady did not weep in public, even if her heart had just been broken into tiny fragments. A lady always maintained her composure, because in crisis others would look to her for clues as to their own behavior.
How long had those words guided her life? A decade? More? She could scarcely remember a time when she didn’t recite various versions to herself, mostly to reassure her that she’d behaved properly in the face of some challenge or other.
Today, though, as she descended the stairs and walked outside in the gown she’d chosen because she thought Graeme would like seeing her in it, the words felt hollow. She smiled as a large group of women hurried past them toward the meadow, receiving excited grins and waves in return. On the inside, though, she wanted to race back to the house and throw herself on her bed to weep.
She’d met someone whose attention and companionship she genuinely enjoyed, someone hard and wild and at the same time gentle and intuitive. And because she’d dared to keep hold of her own plans and he, his, he’d evidently decided he was finished with her. As if his opinion was the only one, and the correct one. As if the nearly empty Highlands had more to offer her than a whirlwind life in London.
And what had he offered her as an incentive to stay, anyway? An admission that he liked her against his will? A suggestion that he liked her, but meant never to love her? Given the fact that she was still being kept there because he’d commanded that she not be allowed to leave, she supposed she should expect to be shackled to the bed again the next time he disagreed with something she said.
Ha. Oh, being angry was a great deal more pleasant than feeling sorry for herself. Graeme could try to avoid her, but the next time they crossed paths she had several choice things to say to him, impossible, arrogant man.
Chapter Fourteen
Easily more than two hundred men, women, and children gathered in the meadow, more people than Marjorie had seen in one place since she’d left London. They all faced the same direction, toward the scattering of boulders and birch and oak and aspen at the far end of the green space.
At the distant, thready wail of a single bagpipe, Connell clutched her hand and squeezed, his face a vision of tense excitement. “This is it,” he wh
ispered, practically shaking.
A second and a third bagpipe joined in, raucous and discordant, until abruptly the three twined together in a strong, fast-tempoed harmony. Male voices yelled something in Scots Gaelic—a deep, primal roar that made the hairs on the back of her neck lift.
Then the deep rumble of drums joined the pipes, a slow, low thud that seemed to match the beat of her heart and resonate in her chest. Through the light fog hanging between the trees, a figure emerged, followed by a second and a third and then a dozen, then more. Goose bumps lifted on her arms at the sight of fifty men dressed in red, black, and green plaid kilts marching forward, heavy-looking broadswords in hand.
The big man in the lead raised his sword over his head, and that roar sounded again. Long red-brown hair lifted in the breeze, gray eyes challenging the crowd. Graeme Maxton. In his full kilt, draped across his chest and over one shoulder and down to his knees, accelerating into a trot with warriors following behind him, he looked like an ancient Celtic god.
The gathered crowd, Connell included, answered the challenge, and as the two groups met the warriors jabbed their swords into the ground to be greeted with cheers and handshakes and hugs and sloshing mugs of beer and ale.
She had no idea what it meant or symbolized, but it looked magnificent. Before she could ask Connell, he dragged her forward into the crowd. “Come on! We have to greet Graeme!”
Someone handed her a mug, and she drank a generous swallow as they made their way forward. If she was to greet Graeme as a lady should, a quantity of beer would be vital.
“My L … Ree,” Mrs. Giswell chastised from somewhere behind her.
Marjorie took another drink. “When in Rome, Aunt Hortensia,” she said over her shoulder.
She turned forward again—and nearly slammed into Graeme’s broad chest. He looked down at her, his jaw clenched. “Miss Giswell.”
Now she felt like a green schoolgirl all over again, facing a popular Adonis and with no idea what to say. She gulped down more beer. “Is this a commemoration of a particular battle?”
“Aye. Bannockburn. Our clan marched with Robert the Bruce and helped rout Edward the Second.”
“Sent him fleeing back to England,” Connell piped in, “his damned tail between his legs!”
That elicited another cheer, and Connell pumped his fist at the sky. Stifling a smile, Graeme glanced at her then quickly away, before he hefted his brother up to sit on his shoulders. “Bannockburn!” he bellowed.
“Bannockburn! Robert the Bruce!”
In a second the Maxton brothers had moved past her to mingle with the rest of the crowd.
“They’re celebrating the victory of a clan that finds them disgraceful,” a low drawl came from directly behind her.
Her spine stiffened. Turning, she pasted on her best, most ladylike smile. “Sir Hamish.”
The Duke of Dunncraigh’s close friend and chieftain gazed down at her. Even if she hadn’t known how much trouble he could mean for her, she wouldn’t have liked him. He dressed more English than anyone else she’d met here, but something about him made her skin crawl.
“Miss Giswell. This is yer first Scottish fair, I assume?”
“Yes, it is. If you’re about to offer to show me about, I would prefer that my guide be less cynical about the gathering.”
He narrowed one steel-gray eye. “The truth isnae cynical. It’s naught but the truth.”
She needed to keep her mouth shut. A lady didn’t argue, and particularly not with someone who seemed intent on beginning trouble. If Graeme were forced to step down as clan chieftain here, Hamish Paulk would step in, and his own power and influence would increase as a result. He wanted Graeme gone. And Marjorie was very conscious that she could be the means by which it happened.
“No response to that? Then walk with me, lass.”
Marjorie reluctantly wrapped her fingers around the forearm he offered her. She was a tutor, a governess. She didn’t rebuff men who outranked her. “Since you persist, I have to assume you have some information you want to impart to me. Or you’re attempting to discomfit me for some reason,” she went on conversationally. It wasn’t a rebuff, but she didn’t have to be cowed by him, either.
“Ye’re an uppity lass, I see,” he said, leading her to where a half-dozen ladies sat beneath a canopy kneading freshly dyed wool yarn. “My niece is an uppity lass, too. It got her betrothed to a damned Sassenach duke, but it also got her booted oot of clan Maxwell on her arse. Her and a thousand of her kin.”
She nearly stumbled, and covered by bending down to adjust her newly repaired shoe. From what Graeme had told her about Gabriel’s war with Dunncraigh, the niece in question had to be Fiona Blackstock, her brother’s betrothed. And this man was her uncle—and therefore soon to be an in-law of the Forresters. Of hers.
“Does the Duke of Dunncraigh often banish members of his own clan?” she asked. “How many could he possibly have remaining?”
“More than enough to teach that Sassenach and damned Maxton a lesson or two aboot humility and their proper place in the world. And ye can tell him I said that.”
For a horrifying second she thought he meant she could inform Gabriel, and that he’d figured out who she was. In the next moment she realized he meant her supposed employer, Graeme. “I’m certain that’s none of my affair,” she offered as smoothly as she could. “I’m only here to tutor Connell, and the other two as needed.”
A young lady about Brendan’s age approached to give her a shy smile and Sir Hamish a nervous, rough curtsy. “M’laird. And ye’re Miss Ree, aye? Is it true ye’ve come all the way from London?”
“It is,” Marjorie answered. This could be a tricky conversation. With Hamish standing there, she would have to be doubly careful about revealing her life in England.
“Have ye ever seen Prince George? The Regent, I mean?”
“The woman who employed me once sent me for fresh daisies. His coach drove right past me, stopped, and then a pale, plump hand stuck out the window. ‘A flower from a flower,’ a lisping voice said.”
The girl put both hands to her mouth, her brown eyes wide. “What in the world did ye do?”
“I removed a flower from the bouquet, put it in his hand, and curtsied. I never did see his face.” For once she felt gratified to have been a lady’s companion. At least it made her present, faux employment seem plausible, and she could share a tale here that she never would have dared repeat in London. Not when she’d been doing everything possible to forget every bit of her life before the last three months.
“Och, I’d have fainted dead away!” the girl exclaimed. “I’m Isobel. Isobel Allen. Ye must come meet my ma and my sister. They’ll nae believe that ye gave a flower to Prince George!”
Smiling and supremely grateful, Marjorie released Sir Hamish’s arm and took young Isobel’s. “If you’ll excuse me, sir. I know you have more important things to do than show a child’s tutor about the fair. Thank you for your indulgence.”
“Oh, I’ll show ye aboot,” Isobel took up, giggling as she waved at a gathering of young misses. “But ye’ll have to talk aboot London until yer tongue falls oot.”
If there was one thing she did know, it was London. “I would consider that a fair trade,” she returned, chuckling.
Over the next few hours she was fairly certain she met every single cotter, fisherman, farmer, drover, and shepherd—and their families—for five miles around. People kept putting food and drink in her hands, and she even spied Mrs. Giswell dancing a reel with Robert Polk to the exuberant sounds of fiddles, fifes, drums, and bagpipes. She received dinner invitations to a dozen houses, and one marriage proposal from a very inebriated shepherd everyone called Goat. She cheered the foot races, laughed and applauded for the pie eating and an impromptu caber toss some of the men set up close by the river.
As Isobel hurried off to congratulate her mother for baking prize-winning shortbread, Marjorie turned around to find Brendan Maxton behind her. “Brendan,” she s
aid, inclining her head. If he’d decided to announce to all and sundry who she truly was, she didn’t think he could have picked a better—or worse for her—moment.
He narrowed one eye, cocking his head. “I saw ye making Isobel Allen laugh. She doesnae laugh when I’m aboot her. What did ye say?”
Goodness. From his hard, wary expression he was waiting for her to tease him. At this moment she couldn’t think of a worse thing to do. “She seems to enjoy stories,” she said slowly, considering. “But I would recommend that you not cast yourself as the hero. Perhaps tell her about how Honker the goose had you all running about a few days ago and you ended up tangled in twine. And then congratulate her on her mother’s baking ribbon. Then you might even ask if she’s thought about entering any of the competitions.”
“Ye’d best nae be bamming me,” he muttered.
“I’m not. Try it. What have you to lose?”
It was more likely she would have something to lose if he failed to impress, but she wasn’t about to mention that if he wasn’t. The sixteen-year-old nodded and backed a half step away from her before turning on his heel and walking away.
That felt like a fairly earth-shaking conversation, and her first thought was that she wanted to tell Graeme about it. In the next heartbeat she remembered that he didn’t wish to speak with her. Immediately the day seemed less bright, the wind colder, and the conversations with people who actually seemed pleased to make her acquaintance, less … joyous. Stupid, stubborn man.
“What was that aboot?” the stupid, stubborn man himself asked in a low voice just to her left.
“Oh, are we speaking now?” she returned sotto voce, keeping her gaze on the group of young, unmarried people practicing making marriage knots and laughing over the degrees in difficulty of untying them again.
“Dunnae push me, Marjorie. What did Brendan say to ye? Ye lied the last time, but this isnae just aboot ye, ye ken.”
“Don’t push you?” she repeated, a day’s, a lifetime’s worth of frustration and disappointment bubbling over. “Where were you when Hamish Paulk decided to show me about the fair? I thought his presence here was the entire reason it wouldn’t be safe for me to leave. Was that a lie? Because you wanted me to stay and didn’t have the spleen to tell me so until this morning? And then you stomped off because I won’t give up my own plans?”
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