The Highland Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  “The orchestra is up on the balcony, and the ceiling of the hall is vaulted, which makes the music resonate.”

  She ran her spoon around her bowl just to ensure she hadn’t missed any sweet. “Ah, that’s why they’re so clear.”

  “The musicians look to be a band of tinkers. There’s a scrawny fiddler and another who appears to be the cook’s trifle sampler.”

  Licking her spoon, Emma grinned. “And the third?”

  “Och, your ear is impressive. He’s a wee lad of no more than thirteen, but I daresay his bow work is effortless—though you’d be a better judge.” The footman removed their bowls. “I had to blink twice when I saw the bass fiddler.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause the enormous rosewood contraption is being wielded by a wee lassie. The thing dwarfs her. I can’t be completely certain from here, but she must be standing on a box.”

  “She’s keeping tempo.”

  “Aye, and who wouldn’t with a drummer who looks like a stray dog.”

  “Truly?”

  “He’s the most ragged of the lot, from his moth-eaten kilt to whiskers that haven’t been groomed in a half year or more.”

  “I wonder if he has a bird’s nest in all that hair,” said Robert.

  Laughing, Emma rubbed her fingers along her jaw imagining the man’s beard tangling with his drumsticks. “And the flutist?”

  Ciar’s shoulder bumped hers as he leaned nearer. “That fella’s almost as large as I am. ’Tis a miracle his fingers aren’t too thick. I think mine would end up covering multiple holes at once.”

  “But his do not?”

  “Mayhap he’s not quite as large as I.”

  Tapping her lip with her tongue, Emma shifted her shoulder just to brush his once again. Her heart gave a wee flutter. “I do not hear a piper.”

  “Because there isn’t one. At least not yet. But if I ken Lochiel, he’ll be saving the pipes for later.”

  Something heavy screeched across the floorboards—several somethings. Emma clasped her hands beneath her chin. “They’re moving the tables!”

  “Lassies and laddies,” boomed the steward. “The wedding party will now join Sir Kennan and Lady Divana in the first dance.”

  As rustling filled the hall, a country tune with a three-beat rhythm began. “Is the wedding couple very bonny together?” Emma asked.

  “They are stunning.” Ciar brushed Emma’s arm, making tingles tickle all the way up to her neck. “Have you met the bride?”

  Emma tapped the place he’d touched, wishing he’d do it again. “Briefly. Janet and I visited her chamber before the ceremony.”

  “Ah, then I suppose you already ken she has hair the color of fire.”

  “Aye, my lady’s maid mentioned the radiance of Divana’s tresses. D-do men like fire-red?”

  “Some do. Though there are fools who fear it.”

  Emma wrung her hands beneath the table. She oughtn’t have asked Ciar if he liked red hair. It wasn’t polite and, by his tone, she already knew he did. Emma’s hair wasn’t exactly fire-red. Mrs. Tweedie, the housekeeper at Glenmoriston, said it was auburn. And Janet insisted it was the color of cinnamon. Emma had a strong sense of fire. It was warm and could burn if one drew too close to the flame. Fire was useful, necessary, and desirable. Conversely, cinnamon was a spice. True, it was pleasant-smelling and she loved the taste, but it was nowhere as dramatic as fire.

  If only I were astonishingly dramatic, perhaps I might be more appealing to Ciar.

  “Is something amiss?” Janet whispered in her ear.

  “Not at all. Just enjoying the music.” Emma raised her chin, affecting the serene expression she’d practiced with her lady’s maid. Had her smile fallen? She mustn’t allow herself to appear fearful, aloof, or disinterested—according to her sister-in-law’s tutelage. It didn’t take a seer to realize Janet was eager for Emma to marry, though Robert seemed none too keen to boot her out of Moriston Hall.

  “Is not the tempo of a country dance a bit fast for the bride and groom?” she asked.

  “Not for them,” said Janet, lowering her voice and whispering again. “I only learned when we arrived that Kennan’s bride hasn’t enjoyed the benefit of dancing lessons as we have. In fact, she is fortunate to be alive.”

  “Oh?”

  “She was left for dead on a deserted isle. As it turns out, Clan Cameron is much in her debt. The lass saved Kennan’s life after his ship was attacked by pirates.”

  “Gracious. Bless her soul.”

  “Amen to that.” Janet flicked one of Emma’s curls. “They do make a lovely couple. Perhaps I’ll see you dancing with your groom one day soon.”

  “Sh—do not speak of such things in mixed company.”

  “Hmm.”

  Emma wasn’t thrilled with Janet’s tone. She’d heard it before, and a “hmm” could be ever so meddlesome. Did Emma want to marry? Aye, more than anything in the world. She wanted a husband and children—lots of children. But she cared not to ever spend another day away from Glenmoriston, which posed quite a conundrum. Wives, especially daughters of esteemed lairds, generally moved to their husband’s lands. The mere idea was utterly terrifying. It was difficult enough to visit a new place for a fortnight, but to leave Moriston Hall and venture somewhere completely foreign frightened Emma to her toes.

  As the music ended, she joined in the applause.

  “Will you do me the honor of granting me the next dance, miss?” Ciar asked, lightly brushing her elbow.

  “Me?”

  “Aye, you, lassie. We’ve danced before. In this very hall, mind you.”

  How could she forget? Dancing with the Dunollie laird might have been the most exhilarating moment in her otherwise unvaried life. Though Ciar looked upon her as a sister, deep in her heart Emma burned for him. In all these years he’d never feared her. Whenever he visited, it was as if the sun shone into every room and bathed her face in its warmth.

  She tried very hard to not to sigh like a lovesick waif. “I shall never forget.”

  He took her hand ever so gently, making a tingle shiver up her arm. “Then let us not delay.”

  “Thank you.” Emma wrapped her fingers around his. She absolutely mustn’t ever mistake his kindness for anything more. Regardless of how much she desired more. He was the chieftain of Clan MacDougall of Dunollie and, though she was the daughter of a great clan chief, any woman afflicted with blindness, no matter how wellborn, had nary a chance to win the affections of a great Highlander the likes of Ciar MacDougall.

  Nonetheless, she felt utterly secure as he led her to the dance floor.

  Not only secure but filled with a sense of purpose. Filled with desire. Filled with a grand sense of belonging, even though dozens of strangers surrounded her.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, squeezing her hands.

  “Aye,” she chirped. If only she could wrap her arms around his neck and tell him how much it meant to dance with him—the most wonderful man in the hall.

  When he left her in the ladies’ line, the orchestra played the introduction to a reel. Emma’s heart soared with the tempo, and she joined in with the clapping. The floor rumbled from the beat of the dancers’ shoes and the alternating tapping of their toes.

  She skipped toward Ciar and joined hands, sashaying in a circle. But her chest tightened with unease when he passed her to the corner for a turn. Confusion from twirling caught her off guard as the caller said back to home.

  “Not here, lass,” grumbled a gruff voice.

  Gasping, Emma drew her fists beneath her chin. “Ciar!”

  His confident hand took hold of her elbow. “Here we are.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not to worry,” he said, his voice filled with amusement as he twirled her around. “You’re doing remarkably well.”

  Indeed? She felt as if she were bumbling with everyone staring at her. “That is kind of you to say.”

  “Now we’ll sashay along the outside of the lines and
I’ll grasp your hands at the end. All right?”

  “If we must,” she replied, skipping along and tripping over her skirts. About to fall, she flung out her hands, only to have them caught by a pair of meaty palms. As soon as she inhaled she knew who’d saved her.

  “This way,” whispered Robert, sashaying with her to the end of the row. “Dunollie is waiting now.”

  Though she appreciated her brother’s help, Emma hated to be so reliant on others. She drew a hiss of air in through her teeth, vowing not to make another mistake.

  As Robert guided her hands to the left, Ciar caught them—his scent, his gentle touch made her recognize him at once.

  “There you are,” he said, his voice low and gentle.

  “Saved by my brother.”

  “Grant’s a good man.”

  “As are you,” she agreed as they skipped through the tunnel of dancers.

  The music ended, and Emma curtsied. “Thank you, m’laird.” She turned away, hoping Robert would escort her back to her table, but it was Ciar’s sure grasp that caught her elbow.

  “I haven’t thanked you, miss.”

  She smirked. “No need. I ken I was awful. Now you are free to partner with whomever you please.”

  He urged her to walk beside him. “Perhaps you misstepped a time or two, but you danced as well as everyone else if not better. And the tempo of a reel is fast.”

  “But not unfamiliar. There were too many dancers and the floor uneven.”

  “Which makes me all the more impressed.”

  “Please. There is no need to fill me with false praise.”

  “I assure you, lass. There is nothing false in a word I utter.”

  Chapter Two

  Ciar stood in the shadows beneath the hall’s balcony and sipped a frothing ale as he watched Emma Grant interact with the people on the dais. The bonny lass never ceased to amaze him, and tonight was no different. In fact, every time he set eyes on her she grew more radiant.

  And he had no business noticing.

  Presently, peril gripped the kingdom. Queen Anne had taken to her bed and wasn’t expected to rise. With no heir, the monarchy was in crisis. Or was soon to be. Every Jacobite loyalist stood ready to march into battle, including Ciar’s army.

  He hoped and prayed this political unease would not erupt in war. When the time came to appoint a successor, surely people on both sides of the dispute would see reason. There was only one rightful king, regardless of his religion, and it was nigh time to own to it.

  At any moment the MacDougall clan might be called upon to take up arms. Men would die, and Ciar certainly had no illusions of invincibility. His kin had lost their lives fighting for the cause. Until this matter was settled, his life as well as the lives of his men were in peril, and he could do no more than appreciate the courage of his greatest ally’s sister and admire her from afar.

  Braemar Livingstone, Dunollie’s top man and closest friend, sidled beside him. “Are you enjoying the festivities, m’laird?”

  Nodding, Ciar raised his cup. “Lochiel always entertains with a grand gathering, I’ll say.”

  “No argument there.” Livingstone took a tankard of ale from a passing footman. “Any rumblings about…er…the state of the kingdom?”

  “’Tis neither the time nor place. Lochiel’s heir was married but a few hours ago, though I reckon in the coming days I’ll be summoned to the chieftain’s solar.”

  “I’d think no less.”

  Ciar swilled his ale. Over the rim of his tankard he watched as Grant escorted his sister to the floor for a strathspey—a slower, more civilized dance than a reel. Moving like a swan, Emma wore a primrose-colored gown that accented her rich auburn tresses. In truth, he’d adored that mane of hair since the first time he had set eyes upon the lass.

  She’d been no more than seven years of age when they’d been introduced, and even as a child, she was a sight to behold. At thirteen Ciar had considered himself far older, and in no way smitten. He had, however, instantly felt a need to protect the lass, though at Glenmoriston her malady never seemed to pose much of a problem. Blind since birth, Emma went about as if all of her senses were engaged. She brushed things with her fingertips to find her way. Her hearing was as acute as a doe’s. Indeed, she’d discerned the various dishes at tonight’s meal, demonstrating her keen sense of smell.

  This eve she wore her coiffure pinned up in a chignon with soft ringlets framing her face and slender neck. Her curls bounced as Grant led her through the dance.

  Pity those lovely eyes had failed her.

  “I’m looking forward to the games,” said Livingstone, interrupting Ciar’s thoughts.

  “I am as well.”

  “You seem reserved, m’laird. Is something amiss?”

  Ciar emptied his tankard. “Not at all.”

  “You wouldn’t have eyes for the Grant lass, would ye?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you were sitting beside her at the high table. You danced with her. And I clearly remember you danced with her last time we attended a wedding at Achnacarry as well.”

  “Observant of you to remember, but Miss Emma is the sister of my closest ally. The host saw fit to seat me beside her, and it was the right thing to do to ask the maid to dance.”

  “She’s bonny, except—”

  A spark of fiery heat flashed up the back of Ciar’s neck. “Except nothing. You’ll do well to leave your observations at ‘bonny.’”

  “Aye, m’laird.” Livingstone saluted with his tankard. “I believe there’s a lass across the hall who hasn’t taken a turn. Perhaps I’ll find someone to introduce me.”

  Ciar nodded toward the crowd. “Do not let me stand in your way.”

  Placing his cup on a tray, he wove his way through the bystanders toward the door while the dancers applauded at the end of the piece.

  “Dunollie, where are you off to?” asked Grant, his sister on his arm.

  Ciar couldn’t help but notice how a lock of long, auburn hair had escaped from the lass’s chignon. He rubbed his fingers together, longing to feel if it was as soft as it looked. “I was about to step out for some air.”

  Emma pulled a fan from her sleeve and cooled her face. “’Tis rather warm, is it not?”

  “Would you care to join me?” Ciar asked, arching an eyebrow at her brother, who appeared agreeable.

  The lass smiled brightly enough to match the glow from the chandeliers above. “That would be lovely.”

  “I must rejoin my wife,” Grant said, beckoning a maid from her perch along the wall. “Have you met Betty? She’s my sister’s lady’s maid and an excellent chaperone.”

  Ciar’s jaw twitched as he bowed. “My pleasure, madam.” Odd. The invitation had been extended to them both. Grant was so overly protective, it wasn’t like him to let Emma take a turn around the courtyard with a man, even a fast ally. What was he up to? Perhaps his friend’s priorities had changed since he’d married Janet.

  Betty had a square but affable face and wore a linen coif atop her head that bobbled when she curtsied. “M’laird.”

  He gave Grant a pointed look over his shoulder before he took Emma’s hand and placed it in the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”

  The lass’s skirts swayed as she walked with her face turned to the skies. “I love this time of year.”

  “The long daylight hours?” he asked.

  “Ahem.” She coughed a bit. “I wouldn’t notice if it were day or night, but the weather is fine. Even in the evenings I scarcely need a cloak.”

  He could have kicked himself. She was bloody blind. Of course she didn’t notice the fact sunset hadn’t occurred until after ten. “Are you chilled?”

  Her bottom lip quivered with her next inhalation. “Not terribly.”

  Even in July, Scotland’s night air most likely cut through the silky fabric of her gown. Fortunately, several braziers dotted the courtyard, their fires providing not only light but warmth. He
led Emma toward one not surrounded by people. “This ought to help. But we must stand far enough away to ensure your gown isn’t ruined by a spark.”

  Inclining her ear toward the fire, she stretched out her hand. “’Tis nice.”

  “Aye,” he mumbled, not paying a lick of attention to the flames. That blasted lock of hair glistened like copper with the dancing of the fire. Ciar slid a finger beneath the curl and let it slide across his palm.

  Softer than silk.

  She smoothed her hand over her head. “Is there a breeze?”

  His gaze flickered to the curl. The night was oddly still. “Aye,” he fibbed. Ciar spotted Betty sitting on a bench a good fifteen paces away.

  “Lochiel’s gathering is planned for a sennight. Ye ken everyone must travel so far for a wedding. We certainly did,” the lass continued. “And Robert intends to stay for a fortnight on Janet’s behalf. She misses her kin ever so.”

  “That’s understandable. Do you enjoy visiting the Cameron lands?”

  The corners of Emma’s eyes crinkled as she scraped her teeth over her full bottom lip. “May I be forthright?”

  “Please.”

  As she released a long sigh, her shoulders relaxed. “Visiting anywhere is quite an ordeal.”

  “Oh?” he asked. “You always seem to be enjoying yourself.”

  “I try to make the best of circumstances, though in truth I’m forever bumping into things. And I cannot go anywhere without clinging to someone’s arm. It is annoying.”

  He reached out to give her shoulder a squeeze, his hand stopping halfway. He was a single man, standing in a courtyard late at night with a marriageable woman. Embracing her, no matter how well-intentioned, might be misunderstood. “I can only imagine. But you do manage quite well at home.”

  “As long as Mrs. Tweedie doesn’t move the furniture, I’m able to move about as I wish.”

  Ciar busied himself with checking his pocket watch while he envisioned the lass walking straight into the rear of a settee, tumbling over it, and landing on the seat, sprawled on her back. “How inconsiderate of her.” As he returned the watch to his waistcoat pocket, a sparkle of silver caught his eye. “Och, you’re still wearing the medal of Saint Lucia.”