The Lass Who Lost a Shoe (Highlander Ever After Book 1)

by Caroline Lee

  The sight which met her pushed the stranger’s touch from her mind almost instantly.

  Her sisters were stunning!

  “Oh, Bonnie! Vanessa! Ye look…”

  Vanessa preened. “Beautiful, I ken.” She ran one slim hand down her pink-gowned hip. “I am certain to catch the eye of one of the Prince brothers.”

  “But the heir willnae be there, will he?” Bonnie asked quietly, looking uncomfortable in her golden gown. “He rarely leaves the auld castle.”

  “The Beast of the Oliphants? He’ll be there tonight,” Vanessa promised. Then, with a little giggle, she swept into a twirl on her stockinged toe. “Is this gown no’ simply resplendent? I am sure some lord will fall head over heels for me tonight.”

  “I dinnae doubt it,” Ember assured her, exchanging an indulgent look with Bonnie, amused by her stepsister’s vanity. “But speaking of heels…”

  “Do ye have them?” Bonnie asked eagerly.

  With a flourish, Ember presented her stepsisters with their shoes.

  “Oh, Ember,” breathed Bonnie reverently, holding her gold slippers up to the light. “They’re…”

  “They’re perfect!” squealed her sister, already seated on one of the chairs to work her foot into the shoe. “They’re going to draw so much attention when I waltz—I cannae wait!”

  Ember allowed her sisters’ praise to wrap around her, her lips curling into a smile once more. “I’m excited as well.”

  Before either sister could respond, their mother swept into the room. “There ye are, Ember. Have ye dropped off the shoes? Excellent.” She didn’t wait for confirmation before continuing. “Come with me. I have something I need to discuss with ye.”

  Shooting Bonnie a bemused grin, Ember shrugged and followed her stepmother as Machara led her down the hall to Ember’s small room. It had been a storage room at one point, but after Da’s death, when her stepmother began to make her true feelings for Ember known, it had become Ember’s space. There was barely enough room for a small bed and a cast-off wardrobe, full of equally cast-off gowns she’d managed to mend into serviceable states.

  “What is it, Stepmother?” she asked, reminding herself to be polite. No good would come if the woman suspected her plan to sneak out after they left in the carriage.

  “Inside, please,” Machara demanded imperiously, and Ember complied, turning to ask what this was about…just in time to receive a door slammed in her face.

  “What—!” she cried out, as she stepped back to avoid a nose full of splinters.

  There was no way she could miss the sound of a key turning in the lock.

  “Stepmother!” She lunged for the knob, yanking on it. “Baroness, what are ye doing?”

  “I’m locking ye in, ye stupid girl. Did ye think I wouldnae learn of yer plans to attend the ball?” Her voice was full of scorn. “I willnae have ye showing up there and detracting the Princes’ attention from where it belongs: on my Vanessa.”

  Oh Lord in Heaven, that’s what this was about? “Stepmother, I dinnae want to attract attention. No’ from the Princes, no’ from the Laird, no’ from anyone.”

  Except, maybe, the stranger downstairs—

  Nay, focus!

  “I swear, I just want to see the castle all decorated, all the finery. I want to see my sisters dancing, and my shoes, the shoes they’re wearing. They’ll—” Choking off a sob, Ember pressed her forehead to the wood. “Please, Stepmother,” she whispered.

  But there was no sound from the hall.

  Machara had taken the key and left, without even listening to Ember’s promises and pleas.

  She was alone. She was alone and locked in and had lost her chance to go to the ball.

  Except, she had her satchel, did she not? Perhaps there was something she could use…

  As she stepped away from the door and turned toward the lantern to catch the light, her eyes fell on the bed, and onto something she hadn’t noticed before, spread across the coverlet.

  It was a gown, but not just any gown.

  Ember’s breath caught in her throat, and her fingers shook as she reached her hand out toward the silk concoction. It was a gown straight out of a fairy tale.

  The white wasn’t merely white, but seemed to glow with some inner light. The logical part of her brain said the waft and weave was responsible, but another, larger part, breathed “magic.” Across the gown’s white bodice and skirts, tiny beads—pearls, maybe?—picked out a design she couldn’t quite recognize.

  Ember allowed her satchel to hang down her back once more, then wiped her palms down her thighs, afraid to dirty the gown. But her hands itched to hold it, and as the sound of the carriage leaving the courtyard echoed up through the open window, she lifted the silk ball gown with a reverence usually only reserved for metal.

  It was gears!

  The design, picked out in tiny seed pearls, were gears, hundreds of them, all interconnected and looking as if they could work together.

  If she had designed a gown, it would be this one. It matched the design she’d engraved on her shoes—

  The shoes!

  Sucking in a breath, Ember held the gown out in front of her and looked down. The thing was sized to her perfectly and would do wonders to set off her dark red hair. But…the skirts were lopsided, cut too high in the front.

  Nay. The gown is cut high to reveal the shoes.

  In this gown, her red shoes would be fully on display, and a large part of the masterpiece.

  Was this gown for her?

  It had to be.

  But who would leave it for her? Especially now she was locked in without a chance to attend the ball?

  Her gaze landed on the box at the foot of the bed. It was small, the kind Vanessa received from the modiste’s when she accepted delivery of new gloves or a chemise. Ember carefully draped the gown over her arm and reached for the lid.

  She sucked in a dazzled breath. Nestled amongst the tissue was an exquisite white mask, decorated not with feathers, but with gears—real metal gears, painted white. It was perfect for a masquerade where one’s ballgown and shoes were designed with a mechanical sort of motif.

  But that wasn’t the last of the gifts from her mysterious benefactor.

  There, dangling on a blood-red ribbon, lay a key.

  Slowly, Ember’s gaze turned to land on the door.

  And she smiled.

  Chapter 2

  “Excellent work, Grisel. I see the gown and mask were in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.”

  “Of course. And did ye see her hide the key after she used it? Bright lass, eh?”

  “Wass’n there? Och, wee peepins!”

  “Grandmother’s right, Evangeline. Can ye no’ turn the ball a bit so we can all see what’s happening? I’d like to watch the ball as well.”

  “All of ye quit yer complaining; I’m trying to watch.”

  “Broca, be kind. Willa, here. Can you see now? Good. Now, let’s check on our young cowboy, shall we?”

  “I dinnae ken, Max.” Roland squinted and tipped his head to one side, studying Max’s costume. “A cowboy? Is that no’ a little too on the nose?”

  One side of his mouth pulling into a lop-sided grin, Max DeVille shrugged into his leather vest, then adjusted the fit in the mirror. They were standing in the dressing room off Roland’s suite—imagine having an entire room just to dress in—as they prepared for this ball Roland’s father had insisted on throwing for him.

  “Listen, mister, you said it was a costume ball, right? So I’m wearing a costume. Besides, those enthusiastic servants of yours scrubbed my denims so deep, there’s no dirt left at all.” He bent his knees, then quickly straightened again. “Look at that—the damn things can bend.” Shaking his head in mock sorrow, he blew out a breath. “It’s a shame when a cowboy’s dungarees don’t stand up on their own. My father would be mortified.”

  Roland chuckled. “From what ye’ve told me of the auld bastard, he deserves a little mortification. B
ut are ye certain ye wish to wear that get-up to the masquerade? I could find something more comfortable for ye.”

  “More comfortable?” Max turned and planted his hands on his hips as he studied his new friend incredulously. “You’re dressed in King Arthur’s cast-offs, and you think I need to be more comfortable? How do you expect to dance in that?”

  “Och, this isnae complete plate armor.” Roland smacked his fist against the breastplate he wore. “I can move around just fine.” The way he waggled his hips left no confusion as to what kind of moving he meant. “The ladies willnae mind me being a bit harder in some places than usual.”

  Chuckling, Max crossed the room, stopping to pound a fist into his friend’s armor-covered shoulder as he went. “You look like a relic, friend.”

  “And ye look like a savage American, newly arrived in our fine Highlands.”

  “Och, weel,” Max quipped, trying his best to mimic the thick accents he’d gotten used to in his time on Oliphant Land, “I suspect I’ll no’ fit in, nae matter how I look.”

  Besides, “Savage American” fit him much better than the life he’d been leading since this Prince brother had taken him under his wing.

  As Roland stepped in front of the mirror to adjust the fit of his helmet, Max reached for the hat he’d worn on the steamship from New York. It had been the trip of a lifetime, and sometimes he still felt as if he were living a dream. Imagine him, plain old Max, rubbing elbows with actual lords—lairds—and ladies. Taking tea and scones and making small talk in a real castle.

  Roland Prince was a good man, and as friendly as Max himself was. He’d taken Max under his wing, and the two had become fast friends. But as the second son of the laird, Roland had responsibilities and training of his own Max couldn’t even imagine.

  After tonight, after this introductory ball was out of the way, he was looking forward to settling into a routine at Oliphant Engraving. He’d already toured it, many times, and felt he understood the process well enough to handle the big picture and leave the mechanics—gears and levers and the little fiddly engraving—to men who were better suited to handle them.

  He was itching to get started.

  With a firm nod, Max settled his hat—a genuine cowboy’s hat—atop his curls. He’d enjoyed the fun Roland had shown him these last weeks, but he was ready to get to work.

  “Ye ken I’ll no’ be the only knight here tonight, aye?” Roland asked, clanking his way toward the door. “Knights and such are prime choices for a masquerade, especially when ye live in a drafty auld castle with suits of armor moldering in every corner.”

  He knocked his fist against the wallpaper in his bedroom as Max followed him through the door but didn’t stop on his way to the corridor.

  Max, knowing Newfincy Castle—which the locals pronounced to rhyme with infancy—had been built only two generations ago and contained every modern convenience his own father’s house had back in Wyoming, snorted. “Yeah, that sounds like you, Roland. Willing to pour yourself into a moldering suit of armor, just to save your family the necessity of buying a new costume. You probably didn’t even clean it out first, did you?” he drawled, making a show of lifting one of Roland’s arms. “Is that mouse shit in your armpit?”

  With a mild curse, his friend yanked his arm out of his grasp and made a show of smoothing down the armor. “It is no’ mouse shite, thank ye verra much.”

  “Ah. Bat shit then? From the moldering?”

  “Och, ye’re impossible. I had this breastplate scoured last time I had to wear it to a masquerade, I’ll have ye ken. Aye, I’ve worn the costume already, but no’ to an Oliphant Ball, and I could no’ pass up the chance to do so.” His visor was still up, so Max could see when he winked. “The ladies love a man in uniform.”

  “I’ll bet. Because of the hardness,” Max managed with a straight face.

  Another wink. “Aye.”

  All the Oliphants—hell, probably most everyone in the Highlands—knew this particular Prince brother was a charmer. He was handsome too, even more handsome than Max’s older brother, Roy, Jr., who’d prided himself on his golden good looks. But where Roy, Jr. had been cruel to young Max, it was hard to imagine Roland being anything but kind and amiable.

  Max had arrived in Scotland with a carpetbag and a letter of introduction from Andrew Prince, his friend from Everland, Wyoming. The older man was the wealthy owner of Prince Armory back in the states, but Max had been surprised to discover he’d also owned a business abroad.

  Apparently, generations ago, the Oliphant lairds had planted a stand of walnut trees and founded an engraving school. Three generations ago, the laird’s daughter had married a man named Prince, which led to the current laird and his sons bearing the last name “Prince.” It had also resulted in the grove of trees going to Andrew Prince, despite him living in America.

  The older man, with a shrewd business sense, had known limited supply would drive up prices of his already sought-after custom firearms, so he’d begun to produce the rifle stocks and revolver handles from the few walnut trees he had cut down and dried each year. And since the Oliphant engravers had developed a reputation across the continent for their art, he’d built a small factory to create and decorate the receivers and plaques and custom grips for his firearms.

  The fact the components had to be shipped across the Atlantic only made the eventual custom firearm that much dearer. A genuine work of art, which he was paid top dollar for. And Prince had also been willing to pay Max DeVille—a man he trusted—to travel to Scotland to oversee and manage Oliphant Engraving so the older man could focus on his grandchildren and new wife in Everland.

  It was humbling to Max, but exciting as well.

  Yeah, Max had arrived in the Highlands as only a simple cowboy, but thanks to weeks under Roland’s tutelage, he was a bit more now. He owned more suits than he could wear in a week—though they were modest compared to Roland’s, which suited Max just fine—and now even owned two fancy hats.

  What was a man to do with two fancy hats, when he had only the one head?

  “Ye said those trousers of yers could bend, aye?” Roland called over his shoulder. “Bend them a bit faster; we’re late. I told Father I’d have ye downstairs before the doors opened. If ye’d just agree to stay here with us…”

  “I’m not a castle sort of guy; you know that.” Max hurried to catch up with his friend. How’d the man walk so fast with all that armor on? Well, he had said he could dance with it on, hadn’t he? “I’m perfectly fine staying at the inn until my house is finished.”

  One of the first things he’d done, after determining the Highlands were a place he could stay on a permanent basis and be happy, was commission a house to be built for him. It would be modest, which suited him fine, but with the opportunity to add on to it in the future, if necessary.

  But the idea of adding on to the house necessitated having someone to share it with, and if Max were honest with himself, he was more than ready for that. He’d lived over half his life in Everland, and within the last few years, had seen all his friends fall in love and get married.

  There was no one for him back home, but he’d been promised the Highlands were full of beautiful “lasses,” and he was looking forward to meeting more of them.

  But even as he considered who he’d likely dance with that night, his mind went back to the girl he’d bumped into just a few hours ago. He’d been staying at the inn for a while now and had noticed her a time or two because of her uncommon loveliness when she smiled. She wasn’t one of the normal servers in the dining room, or he would’ve seen her up-close before that evening.

  She’d been wearing a cap, which shadowed her face, but when she’d met his eyes, he’d been enthralled by that pretty blush which had swept up her throat.

  And when he’d taken her hand…? Well, it was hard to forget the jolt of awareness which had passed through him.

  “There ye are, laddie!” boomed the laird of the Oliphant Clan, Ewan Prince. He was big
, bearded, and good-natured, and was currently dressed as a…chicken?

  “What are ye supposed to be, Da?” Roland asked, as he jogged down the last few steps. “A pheasant? A grouse? An albino peacock?”

  The older man harumphed and fluffed some of the feathers sewn around his expansive middle. “I’m a swan, ye young dobber. Everybody kens swans are expected attire for masquerades!”

  “For young ladies, Father,” came the voice of Phineas, Roland’s younger brother, as he stepped up to their little group. “Swans are held in high regard as costuming choices for young ladies, due to the generally accepted truth of their mating for life.”

  “Young ladies mate for life?” asked Max, confused.

  Raising a brow, Phineas murmured, “I hope so. But I meant swans mate for life. It is apparently verra romantic.”

  “Well, I can be a romantic, can I no’?” snapped their father. “And ye’re supposed to be…what? One of yer antique gentlemen ye’re so fond of reading about?”

  With a haughty tilt of his chin, Phineas corrected his father. “I am dressed in the regalia of Ramesses the Second, pharaoh of the Nineteenth Dynasty.” Then he seemed to deflate a bit. “Well, not his actual regalia. That was only recently discovered and isnae even on display yet.”

  Roland leaned over to whisper overly loud to Max, “Phin’s a bit obsessed with history.”

  Max eyed the man’s legs. “I can see that. Is that a”—he cleared his throat—“um, well, it looks like a really long loincloth?” He’d seen a few Shoshone wearing them back home.

  “I endeavor to accuracy,” Phin told him solemnly. “And if ye think I’m bad, ye should see Lyon.”

  As one, all four men turned to the far end of the ball room. Max figured, had this been a true medieval castle, there’d likely be a giant fireplace or something there. But since this was practically the twentieth century, instead, there was a series of huge windows adorned with fancy blue draperies.

  And in front of them, stood the laird’s heir, his arms crossed in front of his chest, wearing a scowl which would scare piss from a stone.