The Highland Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Emma cradled her arm across her midriff. The healer had closed the wound with five sutures, and it throbbed with pain. “When Ciar was here, it didn’t hurt at all. Now it feels as if I’ve been prodded with a branding iron.”

  “It ought to heal nicely, given time,” said Mary Catherine. “But you’ll need to apply my honey poultice morning and night.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Betty replied from the other side of the bed.

  A rap came at the door. “May I come in?”

  Emma’s heart squeezed. She would have much rather heard Ciar’s voice echoing in the corridor than her brother’s.

  Her arm stung as she propped herself up against the pillows. “Only if you can swear to me you were civil to Dunollie.”

  The door creaked. “I believe once you’ve heard what I have to say, you will agree he received far better treatment than he deserved.”

  Emma doubted anything her brother said would be satisfactory.

  “First of all, is the wound awfully bad?” he asked, his voice filled with concern, sounding more like the brother she loved.

  “The cut didn’t go too deep, though she’ll be sore for a number of days.” Mary Catherine wiped Emma’s forehead with a linen cloth. “As long as Betty applies the poultice as I’ve directed, our lassie shouldn’t suffer fever.”

  No longer able to sit while they discussed her health, Emma tossed back the bedclothes and started to swing her feet over the edge of the mattress. “Where is Ciar? I heard horses only moments ago. Did you send him away?”

  Robert’s hands clamped onto her shoulders. “Calm yourself.”

  Emma wriggled from his grasp. “How can I calm myself when my whole life is crumbling before me?”

  “I’ll show myself out,” Mary Catherine said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Janet echoed.

  Betty’s skirts brushed the side of the quilt. “I’ll just take these soiled cloths down to the laundry.”

  Emma groaned. Were all her allies abandoning her?

  The bed depressed as Robert sat. “First of all, I apologize profusely for hurting you. What made you dash into a swordfight like that? You could have been killed.”

  “I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t challenged Ciar. I love him, and I’ll never again stand for you being belligerent toward him.”

  “Hmm.” Her brother took in a long, very audible inhalation. “It appears he loves you as well.”

  Emma’s stomach fluttered as if there were a swarm of hummingbirds inside. “Truly?”

  “So much so, he asked for your hand in marriage.”

  Dear Lord in heaven, this had to be the best news she’d ever received. She flung her uninjured arm around her brother’s neck and covered his cheek with kisses. “Oh, Robert! Please say you’re not telling tall tales. Promise me now before my heart bursts!”

  He lightly brushed her cheek. “Marriage was his idea. He was rather emphatic about it.”

  Emma clasped her hands together. “No elixir could possibly take the pain away as much as the news you just gave me.”

  “I’m glad you are happy.” He took her hand between his palms. “But I must say, if for any reason whatsoever you harbor doubts about Dunollie, I will put an end to—”

  “Doubts? I’ve never been so certain about anything in all my days.” She pulled her hand away, eager to leap out of bed. “Tell me, where is Ciar now? I must see him.”

  “I have asked him to stay away until the wedding can be arranged.”

  She sat straight as if a rod had just prodded her spine. “You did what?”

  “He must prove to me his patience in this matter.”

  “But isn’t it common for betrothed couples to visit with each other?”

  “These circumstances are a wee bit different. After all, you stole away in the middle of the night. Risked your reputation to rush to his aid. Whilst a fugitive to the crown, he harbored you. No, you both need time to think this through.”

  “I ken my heart.” She slammed her fist into the mattress. “I do not need time.”

  The bed bounced up as Robert stood. “In the interim, I shall contact the vicar, and you and Janet must commence wedding plans. There are guests to invite, gowns to make, meals to plan.”

  Guests? The only guest Emma wanted at the wedding was Ciar himself. “Then tell the vicar I want to be wed in a sennight.”

  “A sennight?” Robert asked as if her request were preposterous. “I’ll agree to no less than a fortnight.”

  Two weeks without Ciar? She’d die.

  “And there will be no slipping out of this house in the middle of the night. I am putting the Grant guardsmen on alert. And mind you, your arm must heal. Acting irresponsibly might possibly put everything on hold.”

  “Oh, will it now? I recall you and Janet enjoyed a great deal of interesting activities when she broke her arm.”

  “Janet’s broken arm has nothing to do with your present circumstances.” Robert kissed her temple. “As your guardian, it is my duty to see to your health and happiness. Dunollie has agreed to these terms, and I expect you to do so as well.”

  She pushed him away—albeit gently. He had agreed to the wedding, after all. “Where will he stay for an entire fortnight?”

  “That is up to him.”

  * * *

  By the time Betty returned, Emma was up and pacing the floor of her bedchamber. “Oh, thank goodness you’ve come. I’ve been ready to jump out of my skin.”

  “What are you doing out of bed?” Betty grasped her elbow. “Come now, you need your rest. Mary Catherine left a sleeping tincture to relax you.”

  “I don’t want to relax.” Emma yanked her arm away. “But I need your help.”

  “Of course, miss.” Betty chuckled. “Do you realize in a fortnight hence I’ll be calling you ‘my lady’…that is if you care for me to accompany you to Dunollie.”

  “Yes, yes, I want you to come with me.” Emma led the maid to the settee. “But Robert is having me guarded, and I simply must see Ciar. We’ve barely had a chance to talk. And my dear brother sent him away before he could properly propose. I need to hear he wants to marry me from his own lips.”

  “Believe me, if you could have seen the look on that man’s face when he was hovering over you like a mother hen, there would be no doubt in your mind.”

  “Please. I need you to go to town and tell Dunollie that I will meet him at the bower two days hence. And you mustn’t tell a soul.”

  “If Robert is guarding the house, how do you expect to visit the bower unseen?”

  Emma rubbed her hands. “I have it all planned. Dunollie will go to the bower around noon. After we’ve eaten, you and I will take a stroll, and lo and behold, who should we run into in Great Grandpapa’s old bower but His Lairdship.”

  “Oh, dear,” Betty sighed.

  “Then you’ll go to town?”

  “I’ll need a good reason. And ’tis too late to go today.”

  “Then you’ll have to do it on the morrow. And aside from meeting with Dunollie, take a message to Master Tailor and tell him I want a yellow gown.”

  “But you wore yellow to the wedding at Achnacarry.”

  “Ciar said it made me outshine the bride. Not exactly outshine, but he said the color was created for me. But this time I want plenty of lace and ribbons, and enormous sleeves.”

  “In taffeta. I think you will dazzle everyone in taffeta.”

  “Truly? Not silk?”

  “Taffeta skirts with a silk bodice. You will be stunning.”

  “I hope Ciar will like it.”

  “Och, Dunollie would be head over heels in love with you even if you arrived at your wedding wearing nothing but a shift.”

  * * *

  “Ye mean to tell me you’re taking orders from Grant?” Livingstone asked, slamming his tankard down on the bar at the Invermoriston Alehouse. “He should be kissing your backside for protecting his sister as long as you did.”


  “’Tis only for a fortnight. Once I’ve passed muster, things will be set to rights again.” Ciar didn’t expect his man to understand everything. “Go to Dunollie and fetch my mother’s ruby ring from the strongbox. Then I want you to order thirteen galleys and my cutter to sail around John O’Groats and into the Moray Firth. Wait for me at the mouth of the River Ness.”

  “What the blue blazes? Are ye expecting a war?”

  “I’m expecting to take the new lady of Dunollie home in comfort.”

  “But what of the wool shipments?”

  “They can bloody wait a few days. Now haud your wheesht. Your complaining is making me cross.”

  “I’ll never understand how men lose their heads over a woman.”

  “Beg your pardon, Dunollie, sir.”

  Ciar turned, alerted by the sound of a woman’s voice. “Betty? I’m surprised to see you here.”

  She glanced from side to side, obviously uncomfortable with being seen inside an alehouse. “Miss Emma sent me.”

  Gulping against the lump in his throat, he dismissed Livingstone with a wave of his hand. “How is she? Is her arm paining her overmuch?”

  “Oh, no, the cut on her arm is the least of her woes.”

  Woes?

  He slammed his fist into his palm. “I’ll bury my knuckles in Grant’s face if he has done anything to upset her.”

  “Heavens, no. I believe there has been quite enough masculine bravado, if I may be so bold.” She leaned in and cupped her hand to her mouth. “Miss Emma wishes to meet you in the bower just after noon on the morrow.”

  “She—?” His stomach somersaulted…about five times. “Do you think that wise?”

  “No one seems to care overmuch what I think. But she feels your meeting will remain a secret if you slip inside early. She intends to take a walk with me after her nooning.”

  He laughed from his belly. “She is brilliant, is she not?”

  “Determined for certain.” Betty shook her finger beneath Ciar’s nose. “Mind you, I’ll be watching. There’ll be no liaison whatsoever.”

  Ciar gave the maid a wink. If only she knew.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Since his best suits of clothes were stowed away at Dunollie, Ciar spent the morning in the tailor’s shop being pinned and prodded.

  Finally able to lower his arms and breathe, Ciar used his brooch to refasten his plaid at the shoulder. “What are the damages?”

  “Let’s see here.” The tailor slung his measuring ribbon around his neck and headed for his writing table, where he dipped his quill in the ink pot. “A shirt of first quality muslin, one pound fifty. A kilt in red-and-green tartan with white thread accents will be quite dear, I’m afraid.” He dipped his quill. “Three pounds. Then you asked for matching flashes, hose, and a velvet doublet—”

  “Dark green, mind you.”

  “Yes, of course—it will be a suit of clothes fit for a king.”

  Ciar chuckled. “A Scottish king.”

  The tailor jotted his notes on parchment along with prices, then summed the lot. “That will be seven pounds, thirty pence. Payable when the work is complete.”

  “My thanks.” Ciar bowed. “I shall leave you to it.”

  “Very well. Good day, sir.”

  At last the time had come to make his way to the bower. Thank heavens Emma’s lady’s maid had visited him at the alehouse, else he might have had to lay siege to Moriston Hall to see his betrothed.

  Curse it all.

  In truth, Ciar would have liked to have finished the fight with Grant—to have taken him down a notch. They’d been friends since birth. Their fathers were fast allies, as were their grandfathers and on down through generations of ancestors. A typical Grant, Robert had always been quick-tempered. Though, in truth, his temper was the only fault Ciar found in the man.

  He walked from town into the forest that skirted the river. In no way would he use the road and take a chance on being spotted by one of Grant’s spies. Better yet, the sun was shining, making him step lightly.

  He paused to pluck a few blushing pink foxgloves. Closer to the river, he found daisies in full bloom as well as corn marigolds. The only other time he’d ever picked wildflowers he’d been a wee lad trying to impress his mother. Until he’d met Emma he’d rarely paid much attention to flowers.

  The sound of the falls began to rush as he neared the bridge. Staying hidden in the brush, he peered up and down the road. When he spotted no one, he dashed from his hiding place and sprinted across the bridge, through the scrub, and didn’t stop until he was safely hidden by the stone bower walls.

  Ciar laughed as he turned full circle. There he stood, a man of eight and twenty behaving like a lad of sixteen.

  Fancy what a wisp of a woman had reduced him to. Yet there was no other place he wanted to be at the moment. His skin tingled with anticipation. He needed her in his arms. He absolutely had to know she was safe and happy and thoroughly, undeniably, utterly in love with him.

  Ciar paced, checking his pocket watch every half minute. The bower was a round, medieval-looking shelter. An empty brazier stood in the middle, surrounded by wooden benches. If he had to guess, a great number of clan stories had been passed down in this place. He took a length of leather thong from his sporran and tied it around the flowers to make a posy.

  It was half past noon. She ought to arrive any moment. Had she tripped and fallen? Did Robert prevent her from venturing outside? Was her wound causing too much pain?

  When a twig snapped outside, he pressed himself against the wall and held his breath…until Emma stepped through the archway.

  A ray of sunlight captured the coppery highlights of her hair. Standing in the threshold, she held her head high and remained very still, radiant in the light as if she were an angel. With a quick inhale, she turned her head his way. “You’re here,” she whispered.

  “Aye, lass.” Taking her hands, he pulled her behind the walls and into his arms. “Only you would have sensed my presence.”

  “I’d find you anywhere. You smell like cedar, spice, and a wee bit of magic.” She rose on her toes as her arms wrapped around him. “Och, only you can make me swoon even when you’re paces away.”

  “God, I’ve missed you.”

  Before she could reply, he covered her mouth with a kiss. As she melted against him, he ran his hands up her spine and allowed himself to devour her. Dear God, he’d craved to have her in his arms every moment since he’d found her missing at Gylen.

  “Ciar,” she sighed, dropping her head back while his mouth explored her neck, her delicate cheekbones, her eyelids, until he nuzzled her ear. “I’m so happy.”

  Forcing himself to calm his ravenous desire, he laced his fingers through hers and took a step away. “Why are you happy, mo leannan?

  “Because you are here with me now. And because…”

  Ciar grinned at her blush. “Because?”

  “Of what Robert said.”

  How could he be so daft? He’d been so overcome by the sight of her, he’d forgotten the most important part of his duty. Lowering himself on one knee, he swept the posy from the bench and took one of her hands in his palm.

  He cleared his throat, gazing at pure beauty. “Emma Grant, you have shown me things about the world around us that I never would have stopped to notice. And yet they are such important things. Like the heavenly scent of honeysuckle. You have enriched me mind, body, and soul. You, my love, have made me a better man, and I cannot imagine existing without you.”

  A tear splashed on her cheek, accompanied by her blissful laugh.

  His chest swelled at the sound. “Will you do me the honor of agreeing to be my wife?”

  She nodded before she managed to find the word. “Aye.”

  He took her palm and pressed it against his cheek, then kissed it reverently. “You have made me the happiest man in all of Christendom.”

  “And I am the happiest woman.”

  Remembering the posy, he stood and placed
it in her hand. “I picked these flowers for you—a gift I thought would escape suspicion when you return to Moriston Hall.”

  She lightly brushed her fingers over the petals. “Exquisite.”

  “The first I found on my journey to the bower is a spray of foxglove. It reminds me of your cheerful nature, your kindness, of how you see the good in all that surrounds you.”

  She smiled, her finger lightly tracing the foxglove petals. Of course she distinguished them from the others.

  “The corn marigold reminded me of how beautiful you look in yellow, for there is no other color that brings out your radiance.”

  Her eyebrows arched with her giggle. “Yellow,” she whispered.

  Oh, how he loved her expressions. “And the daisies are happy as are you, both inside and out, and their petals resemble the velvet of your skin.”

  She hid her nose in the bouquet. “Och, mayhap you’ve exaggerated a wee bit.”

  “Nay.” He kissed her forehead. “For no flowers or words can express how deeply my love runs for you.”

  “Oh, Ciar, I’ve been praying you’d say those words.”

  “Every time they came to my lips, I bit them back. But now that I’ve cleared my name, I am free to shout how much I adore you from every peak in the Highlands.”

  Her fingers brushed his chest and meandered up to his lips, and he smiled broadly to show her the happiness in his heart. “I think just whispering in my ear will suffice.”

  Pulling her into his arms, he pressed his lips to the delicate appendage. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  “And I return your love with all my heart.”

  “I cannot believe I am banned from seeing you until the wedding.”

  “Robert is being unbearable. We’re hardly speaking.”

  “I’m sorry for that.” Ciar led Emma to a bench. “He cares for you. He’s worried that I will not be a worthy husband.”

  Emma threw her shoulders back. “He’s wrong.”

  “I ken. But I think brothers are even stubborner than parents when it comes to marrying off their sisters. I reckon that’s why he has dragged his feet and you’re not already wed.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Which, might I say, is very good for me.”