The Highland Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  “I would be delighted to have Miss Emma show me these brilliant blooms.” What else ought he say? After all, they were attending a gathering where one was expected to enjoy things like flowers and gardens.

  The lass started to rise, and Ciar immediately took her hand. He’d been around Grant’s sister enough to know she wasn’t one to ask for help, whether she needed it or not. “Allow me.”

  “Thank you,” she said, reaching back. “My cane.”

  Janet grasped the walking stick and shifted it away from Emma’s fingers. “You oughtn’t need it if you’re on the arm of His Lairdship.”

  Ciar eased Emma’s hand to his elbow as he arched a brow at the lady. What was she up to? Playing matchmaker? These parties were all the same. There was always someone trying to convince him to take a wife, and if Janet continued along this line, she’d end up sorely disappointed.

  “Agreed,” he said. Hell, why not enjoy Miss Emma while he was there? She was amusing, and as long as she was on his arm, no other lass would vie for his attention, which was fine by him. “I’ll be your guide.”

  “And if you should need assistance,” Janet added, “remember I will be within earshot.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” Ciar craned his neck, searching the vast garden. “Now where are these roses?”

  “Down the path to your right,” said Emma.

  Again, he slapped his thigh with his crop as he led the way. “How do you ken?”

  “I can smell them from here.”

  He sniffed; the air was pleasant but not heady with the fragrance of roses. “Are they your favorite flowers?”

  “Must I have a favorite?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Twenty paces or so on, they came to the rows of blooms. “Here they are.”

  She stopped at a vine, its branches bowed with the weight of a multitude of brilliant pink roses. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward, inhaled deeply, then cradled a flower as if she’d known exactly where it was. “This is exquisite.”

  Suddenly more relaxed than he’d been in ages, he agreed, “It is.”

  What was it about Miss Emma that always seemed to put him at ease? That she couldn’t see him? Or was it her unabashed enthusiasm for everything around her? She seemed to harbor none of the false pretenses of so many young ladies who attended parties and gatherings only to whisper behind their fans and pretend to be aloof. In fact, there was never anything false about this young woman.

  “The petals are softer than lamb’s fleece.” She breathed in again, her face rapturous as if she were capturing the essence of the rose. “And its bouquet is pure.”

  Straightening, Emma almost looked him in the eye. Hers were a haunting shade of pale blue and grew lighter in the sun. At the moment her eyes looked to be flecked with silver. “Do you know what I think?”

  “I have no idea.”

  A brilliant smile spread across her delicate pink lips. “Heaven smells of roses.”

  He couldn’t help but grin along with her. Only Emma would make such a comment with such unquestioned conviction. “So, you do favor them?”

  “Aye, but there is lavender in heaven as well.”

  “Just roses and lavender?”

  “Oh, no.” She tugged his hand and started off. “Come this way!”

  “Are you leading me now?”

  “I am. But please ensure I do not step off the path and fall into a patch of brambles.”

  “I think Lochiel’s garden is too well maintained to worry about those.”

  She pursed her lips, giving a wee snort. “Thorns, then. The roses have already managed to prick my finger as well as snag my hem.”

  Ciar shifted her hand to his elbow. “Never to worry, lass. I’ll nay allow you to tread where you oughtn’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  As they crossed beneath a trellis, Emma abruptly stopped. “Here.”

  “What—”

  “Close your eyes and breathe!” she demanded with utmost urgency.

  As Ciar obeyed, a sweet, heady fragrance enveloped him while a dreamy sense of calm pulsed through his blood. “Astonishing,” he whispered.

  “The bees are at work.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Shhh. Just listen.”

  The buzz of a bee came from above and then another from the right. A slight breeze rustled the vine’s leaves.

  Emma stood very still for a time while all the worries of the world faded. “Are your eyes still closed?”

  “Aye.”

  “Promise to keep them shut.”

  “Why? So the fairy folk can come and play tricks?” he jested.

  “Nay,” she whispered as the softest brush of a petal caressed his cheek and slowly traced a circular pattern, gradually moving over the bridge of his nose and then down to just above his lips.

  He grinned at the tickle.

  “Tell me what you sense.”

  Women and whisky, he nearly growled, but doing so would be utterly inappropriate. “Ah…the sweetness of honey, a feather mattress with new linens, aaaand…”

  As he opened his mouth, sweetness spread across his tongue. “Mm.” The sound came out lazily as if he’d been abed all day.

  “Name a person who is not drawn to the alluring nectar of the honeysuckle and I’ll show you a person who hasn’t lived.” Good Lord, she was confident for a lass who’d been cloistered in Glenmoriston all her life. “Now tip up your chin and open your eyes.”

  Ciar slowly opened his eyes and saw only the yellow trumpet-shaped flowers framed by green. “But they’re so small.”

  “Does a flower’s size matter?” Throwing her arms wide, Emma turned her face to the trellis, her smile radiating with sunshine. “See why I cannot decide which I love better?”

  “You are remarkable.”

  Suddenly serious, her brow furrowed. “Why is that?”

  “Because you have such a unique perspective. No tutor of mine ever led me beneath a trellis and asked me to close my eyes.”

  “’Tis a pity. There is so much to be experienced with senses other than sight. At least, for me.”

  “I reckon you’re right.” Ciar again placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Where to now? Is there lilac in bloom?”

  “Nay, silly, ’tis too late in the season.”

  A yap came from the other side of the hedge, then another.

  Emma gasped. “What—?”

  “Haste,” Ciar said, spotting Janet under the arbor, now deep in conversation with her stepmother, Lady Lochiel. The two women were completely ignoring him. Thank God. Deciding there was no harm in slipping out of sight for a moment, he led Emma around the hedge.

  They found a lad rolling in the grass with two black dogs, one a pup at an awkward, nearly grown stage.

  “Do you like dogs?” Ciar asked.

  “Like them? I absolutely adore them.”

  “Come,” he said as he led Emma toward the boy. “Are your hounds friendly?”

  The lad looked up, shading his eyes from the sun. “Aye, sir. If ye are friendly to them.”

  Uninvited, Emma promptly sat, tucking her legs and skirts to the side. “What is your name?”

  “Sam. Me da’s the coachman.”

  The younger dog climbed onto Emma’s lap, planted two white-socked paws on her chest, and licked her face. Giggling, she wrapped him in an embrace. “This one is awfully familiar.”

  Ciar kneeled beside her, ready to take charge if need be. The dog’s exuberance was a bit overbearing, but the chime of Emma’s laughter made him hesitate. Had he ever heard her make such a happy sound?

  Sam slung his arm over the larger of the pair. “The pup’s name is Albert. And this is his ma.”

  “Like Albert the Great?” Emma asked, hugging the overgrown, squirming ball of fur, stretching to keep her face away from his overactive tongue.

  “Not exactly.” The lad scratched the bitch behind the ears. “He was the runt of the litter. I’ve sold them all except this fella.”

&nb
sp; Emma raked her fingers through the dog’s thick coat. “How many were there?”

  “Six.”

  Albert circled and made himself comfortable amongst the volumes of the lass’s skirts and rested his head on her knee. “Och, he’s precious. I care not if he’s different from his littermates. He has mettle in his bones. I can sense it.”

  Ciar scratched the little fella behind the ears. “It looks as if you’ve found a friend.”

  “Emma!” Janet called.

  Hopping to his feet, Ciar strode to the hedge’s end. “We’re here, m’lady.”

  As Janet stepped around the foliage, her lips formed an O. “Leave it to my sister-in-law to find a dog, or a lamb, or a baby goat, for that matter.”

  “The pup’s for sale, m’lady,” said Sam. “They’re water dogs. None smarter. Ken how to paw the water to attract fish, they do.”

  Emma’s face brightened. “Truly?”

  Janet sniffed. “I can only imagine riding back to Glenmoriston with a young dog in tow. He’ll run after every rabbit he sees. And you can tell by his feet he’s not yet fully grown.”

  “How old is Albert?” asked Emma.

  Sam stood. “Nine months, near enough.”

  Emma smoothed her fingers down Albert’s coat. “Well, I think he’s perfect.”

  “He’s quite sweet, I’m sure. However, now is not the time.” Janet grasped Emma’s hands and pulled her up. “My dear, I’ve just had a word with Lady Lochiel, and she is ecstatic to have you give a recital tomorrow evening.”

  “So soon?” Emma cringed.

  “Aye, and you’ll be marvelous as always.”

  “But there are so many people here. They might not…”

  “Not what?” Ciar asked, a bit of heat flaring up the back of his neck.

  The lass huffed. “They might not approve of me.”

  Every muscle in his body clenched. He hated superstitious dimwits. “If anyone says an untoward word, I will personally invite them outside and readjust their priorities.”

  “This is your extended family,” Janet added. “My kin love you just as yours do in Glenmoriston. I promise, there is nothing to fear. This is your chance to shine.”

  With the word “shine” Emma’s face brightened as she turned toward Ciar. Then she smiled as if the sun had broken through the clouds.

  He patted Emma’s shoulder. “I’d truly love to hear you play.”

  “Y-you would?” she whispered, sounding utterly hopeful.

  “My word is gospel, remember?”

  “Very well.” There was quite a bounce in the lass’s curtsey. “My apologies, Dunollie. I must practice on the keep’s harp at once.”

  Albert rubbed against his leg as he bowed. “Not to worry. I was on my way to meet with Lochiel. I suppose I cannot put it off all day.”

  Chapter Four

  As they sat on the field’s sidelines the following day, Emma turned the leather-clad ball over in her hands while the game progressed just beyond. “I don’t believe I’ve ever held a shinty ball before. ’Tis lighter than I imagined.”

  “The inside is hewn of cork,” said Betty right before she shouted, “Stop them! They’re on yer flank!”

  “Are we losing?” Emma asked, leaning forward with the sound of the players’ grunts and thundering footsteps coming nearer.

  Janet’s knitting needles clicked. The only person who knitted more than Emma was her sister-in-law. “No one has scored yet, dearest.” How could she knit at a time like this? Clan Grant had joined with Clan MacDougall and were facing the Camerons.

  “Do you not care who wins?” Emma asked.

  “I cannot possibly.” The needles stopped. “If I pick the visiting team, I’d incite my father’s ire for certain. And with Robert out there I simply cannot comprehend cheering for the home.”

  “But you’re a Grant now. ’Twould be mutiny if you chose the Camerons.” Betty’s voice rose with her every word.

  Nudging her maid, Emma squeezed the ball. It molded perfectly into her palm. “You appear to be rather fanatical about shinty.”

  “Scotland’s only true game, it is.” Betty rapidly clapped. “Bash him over the head with your caman, Dunollie!”

  “No!” The ball fell from Emma’s grasp. “Ciar MacDougall would never do a thing like that.”

  Emma had attended enough shinty games at home to gain a general sense of the play. Only men were allowed on the field. They smacked a little ball around the grass with mallet-like sticks, and the only rule was there were no rules. Needless to say, it tended to be a bit rough. At Glenmoriston one of the men had suffered a broken ankle only two years past.

  “Well, he gave the lout a good shove, all the same,” Betty replied.

  Janet patted Emma’s arm. “Did you enjoy your stroll with Ciar yesterday?”

  “Very much. And I think I may have taught him a thing or two about flowers.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s right behind you!” shouted Betty, not following the conversation at all.

  Emma fished for the ball with her toes. “Of course he has an appreciation for blooms. He just hasn’t ever seen them as I have.”

  “Then I wish you could take half of the folk in the Highlands on garden tours. ’Twould enrich them ever so.”

  “Stop him!” Betty shrieked. “Now. The good Lord didna make ye a colossal brute for naught!”

  Emma trapped the ball between her arches. “Och, Betty, I do believe you’re taking this match far too seriously.”

  “Aye? ’Tis the laird of Dunollie who is leading this mob of ruffians.” Betty’s excitement grew infectious. “Score!”

  “Well done, Robert,” cried Janet.

  Bending forward, Emma collected the ball. “Robert scored?”

  “Indeed he did,” said Betty. “But only after an assist from the MacDougall laird.”

  “I think the two men work well together. After all, they’ve been friends since they were lads.”

  Janet’s needles resumed their clicking. “Indeed.”

  Betty gasped. “Oh, dear.”

  Emma’s fingers tightened. “What happened?”

  “We need the spare,” shouted Robert, sounding as if he was running.

  “Some Cameron lad smacked the shinty ball halfway to the river,” said Betty.

  Footsteps padded the grass, and a masculine scent approached. It was laced with the overtones of musk and wool. “Miss Emma,” said Ciar, making a swarm of butterflies take flight in her tummy. “I believe you’re the keeper of the standby.”

  “I am, sir.” Her hand trembled as she held it up. “You are playing quite well.”

  “Your brother scored the only goal.”

  Rough fingers brushed hers as Dunollie took the ball, making a delightful gooseflesh trail up her arms. “Robert only scored because of your finesse.”

  “It does take a team,” he said, his voice husky.

  “Resume play!” bellowed a man.

  Emma sighed. “Has someone gone to fetch the other ball?”

  “A lad,” said Janet. “The same one with the dogs.”

  The memory of a sloppy tongue licking her face made Emma warm inside. “I adored Albert. If only we didn’t have a long journey to Glenmoriston, I would have insisted we take him home.”

  Janet gave her shoulder a pat. “Perhaps we can convince Robert to buy you a dog when we return.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “In the meantime, you are performing tonight. You had best go inside and prepare.”

  “Now?” Betty balked. “What about the game?”

  “She must be a vision of beauty as well,” Janet insisted.

  Emma nudged her sister-in-law. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you are as bonny as your music, and I want all of Achnacarry to see it.”

  * * *

  After the evening meal, servants began moving the furniture to make way for Emma’s harp performance.

  “Come, sit beside me, Dunollie,” said
Lochiel, beckoning him to the front row of chairs arranged in front of the dais. “We’ve a great many things to discuss.”

  Ciar took a seat right in the center. “It seems the kingdom has been in a state of unrest for the past year.”

  “’Tis more like the duration of Anne’s reign, if you ask me.”

  Chuckling, Ciar watched as footmen turned the dais into a stage with a lone chair and both full-size and Celtic harps.

  The old laird pulled out his snuff box. “There will be a meeting of the Highland chiefs in my solar tomorrow morn.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Ciar replied. “Any news of the queen’s health?”

  “Only that her illness hasn’t improved. ’Tis just a matter of time now.”

  “Who kens.” Shrugging, Ciar continued, “She fell ill one year past, and they all thought she was headed for heaven’s gates then.”

  Lochiel sneezed into a lace handkerchief. “True. Though even one’s good fortune eventually runs its course.”

  Ciar tuned out the laird’s comment as his attention was drawn away by the hush of the crowd.

  From the side door, Emma entered on the arm of her lady’s maid.

  “Bonny lass,” whispered Lochiel.

  Before they reached the chair, Emma stumbled over a fork the footmen had missed when they cleared the stage. The poor lass blushed scarlet, but she quickly regained her composure, grasped the back of the chair, and sat.

  “Thank you, Betty,” she said quietly before she turned her attention to the harps.

  Emma seemed unaffected by the crowd while the maid situated the smaller Celtic harp on a footstool. No one made a sound while Emma moved her hands over the strings.

  “‘The Selkie,’” she announced right before her fingers began to strike the strings in the happiest rhythm Ciar had ever heard. Both hands plucked multiple strings at once, making the instrument sound as if an entire orchestra were playing.

  Even Lochiel tapped his foot.

  Though Emma didn’t announce the second tune, every Scotsman west of the divide knew it to be “Blind Mary,” one of the Highland’s most popular folk songs, though a melancholy one.

  Ciar had never heard the song performed with such passion before. Her performance was personal and visceral, conveying more feeling than the most heartfelt sonnet. Halfway through, Emma picked up the tempo, turning sad notes into elated music that reminded him very much of the lass herself. She moved with the song as if the harp were an extension of her life, as if she were telling her story to the audience and taking them through the garden on a journey of discovery using every sensation except sight. She slowed the tempo only at the very last, ending on a chord so breathtaking, no one in the entire hall dared breathe.