by Caroline Lee
And a kilt.
Sure as shooting, his knees were bare to all the world to see above his boots.
“He looks positively medieval,” Phineas said with a sniff of disgust.
“Aye, but I thought ye liked history,” Roland teased, jabbing his brother with his elbow. “Do ye think he’s going to wear a mask?”
The laird answered instead, after a shake of his head. “I doubt he’ll stay for too long.”
Phineas nodded. “And he’s wearing his usual mask already, is he no’?”
Max didn’t know Lyon Prince well enough to judge if Phineas’s comment was a joke or not. The oldest Prince brother had obviously been caught in a fire at some point, and scars covered the left side of his face and disappeared under his shirt. The rest of him looked fit enough—and Max knew he was seeing much more of Lyon than he’d ever expected to, what with the skirt and all—but the man did always seem to wear a permanent scowl.
Tonight was no different.
Suddenly, the laird swung back in their direction. “Where’s yer sister? Is she ready yet?”
Soothingly, Roland patted his father’s arm. “She’s on her way, I’m certain. She’ll be dressed as a black cat.”
“Of course.” Phineas rolled his eyes. “Maxwell, I challenge ye to count fewer than four black cats tonight. And I suspect there’ll be an equal number of young ladies dressed as swans, much like our da here, though I do hope they will be better looking.”
“And dinnae forget Vestal Virgins,” Roland added with a grin, before his father could object to the jibe. “They’re my favorite.”
“Shoot,” Max said, surprised. “Do all the ladies dress identically on purpose?”
“Nay,” the laird chuckled. “But most either lack imagination, or they follow trends.”
Roland nodded. “And most willnae likely be wearing costumes at all. A masquerade is a chance to show off their fanciest—and most daring—gowns, along with their ornate masks.”
“Ye’re all caught up?” the laird inquired, but didn’t give Max a chance to answer before waving his arms expansively. “Good! This party is for ye, Mr. DeVille, after all. I want ye at my side as we welcome the guests.” He turned and bellowed, “Open the gates!”
And as he strode off toward the front of the room, Roland sent Max a grin. “Welcome to the Highlands, Max.”
Ember walked to Newfincy Castle in an effort to remain unseen, but it was no great hardship. She was used to walking—albeit not in heeled slippers—and she was too excited to mind. Her winter cloak hid the brilliant white gown from anyone who happened to glance her way and allowed her to slip in one of the rear entrances, so she didn’t have to worry about knocking on the big front door where all the fancy carriages were disgorging lords and ladies and honored guests.
Ember had been in the castle many times making deliveries and checking on servants who needed help, so it was second nature to slip in the back, remove her cloak, hurry down the long corridor, and climb the stairs to the main floor. There was even another entrance to the ballroom which allowed her to slip in behind one of the pillars, allowing her to observe unnoticed.
The room was stunning!
The laird’s servants had outdone themselves; the entire ballroom was decorated to look like an indoor meadow, with green wall-hangings and potted trees and flowers on every surface.
Ember took a deep breath, inhaling the riotous mix of fragrances, and smiled.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the laird’s voice boomed from halfway up the stairs, where he stood, dressed as some kind of bird. He’d taken off his mask, although Ember suspected there was little doubt who he was, even with it on. “Allow me to welcome ye all to Newfincy Castle! The Oliphants, and my family, are delighted ye are here!”
Around the room, the guests burst into polite applause, although there were a couple men—possibly already drunk—who roared the clan’s motto in good spirits.
“Now, ye ken ye’re here to welcome a special guest, aye?” Laird Oliphant gestured another man forward. “This is Mr. DeVille, who’s come all the way from America at the behest of my cousin Andrew, to manage Prince Armory’s interests in the Highlands. He’s a fine young man, who has decided we’re no’ all that bad either!”
As the guests laughed, the guest of honor climbed the stairs to stand a few steps below the laird. Ember couldn’t tell much about him, other than he was well-built—although anyone standing beside the portly laird would appear well-built—and dressed as a cowboy.
How…interesting. Weren’t cowboys rough and dirty men, who lived in the wilderness with their cattle? But Mr. DeVille had been sent by a millionaire to oversee an important business, so surely he was just as refined and sophisticated as the Prince brothers.
His costume choice—complete with an outrageously large cowboy hat—must be a joke toward his American status. That had to be it.
As the laird finished speaking, the musicians started to play, and with much gaiety, the ball officially began.
Despite her ensemble, Ember was content to stand in the shadows of the pillar, beside a large potted tree, and simply enjoy the pageantry of it all. She counted five women dressed as cats, one of them dressed in an orange-and-black gown with a striped mask. The rest wore simple tails attached to ballgowns as their only nod toward a costume. There were quite a few medieval knights—one in a full suit of armor, who didn’t look as though he could walk at all—and other lordly costumes from antiquity.
She was fairly certain she recognized one of the laird’s sons—the scholarly one was dressed in Egyptian garb—and a few others. But it was the servants who were easiest to pick out, as they wore their standard black, and she recognized most of them from her time in the village.
None of them would recognize her of course, and there was something exhilarating about that knowledge.
She could, if she wanted to, move out from behind the pillar, interact with these men and women, and none would know it was her. There was power in that realization. And power in the knowledge she was dressed as if she belonged there.
Oh! There was Vanessa, dancing with a man in elegant evening wear and a simple black mask. She glowed in the fancy electric lights the laird had installed, and Ember noticed more than a few people pointed to the shoes on her stepsister’s feet.
It was working!
Ember had known Vanessa would draw attention, and thus her shoes would as well. Perhaps soon, Ember would be able to convince Mr. DeVille to begin production on a new line of products.
Bonnie was dancing as well, although she didn’t seem all that happy about it. She kept glancing over at her mother, who made impatient little shooing motions with her hands. Machara was watching her daughters dance and was preening with delight. Bonnie, on the other hand, looked as if she’d much rather be standing behind a pillar—or hiding in the laird’s library—than be the center of so much attention.
It was all so dazzling, Ember stood for what seemed like hours, watching it all. The lights! The colors! The music! She hadn’t imagined anything like this.
Balls like this—even masquerade balls—were for people who weren’t like her. People like the Princes and Laird Oliphant and Mr. DeVille. People with money and sophistication and influence.
But if she stepped out from behind her pillar, not a single one of them would realize she didn’t belong there.
Vanessa swept by at that moment, laughing gaily. Her partner was dressed as a Templar Knight, so at least he could move freely in his armor. Through his visor, even Ember could see he was smiling as he spoke to her stepsister.
And then…the knight—whom Ember was beginning to suspect might be the second Prince brother: the charmer—spun Vanessa to a stop very near Ember’s hiding spot. It was clear, from the way he placed his hand against Vanessa’s lower back and steered her toward the shadow of the potted tree, that he was looking for some privacy.
As Ember slipped around to the other side of the pillar, she overheard the knight s
ay to her stepsister, “Please, lass. I must ken yer name!”
Vanessa giggled flirtatiously and brushed her gloved fingertips against the edge of her pink mask. “Does that no’ defeat the purpose, milord?”
“The purpose?” he murmured, leaning closer.
Ember’s stepsister didn’t seem to mind. “The purpose of a masquerade, milord. I could be anyone under this mask, could I no’? A princess, or a serving maid.”
“Whoever ye are, sweet lady, ye are beautiful.” The knight lifted Vanessa’s hand, but instead of placing a kiss on it, cupped her palm to his cheek, which made her sigh with pleasure. “I would ken yer name, so I might find ye again.”
It seemed to Ember it took her sister a few times to get her mouth working, and she understood why. If this was indeed Roland Prince, he was certainly the charmer everyone had claimed.
“I—I am an Oliphant, milord.” Vanessa’s voice was breathless, as she leaned toward him. “Ye can find me at the inn.”
“The Oliphant Inn. Excellent,” he murmured. And then he stepped forward, forcing Vanessa to step back or risk plastering herself against him, and soon enough, both of them were now behind the potted tree.
An excellent position for hanky-panky, if that’s what they were up to, but not ideal for Ember. In desperation, she slipped around the other side of the pillar, trying not to be caught back there with her sister and her new beau.
How awkward. And crowded.
So she stepped out from the shadows, lifted her chin, and met the eyes of the cowboy.
That sounds quite exciting, does it no’?
But they weren’t in the wilds of America; they were in a ballroom in the heart of civilization. And although he was dressed as a cowboy, Mr. DeVille was a wealthy manager, come to set the factory to rights.
And the man who could help her by agreeing to produce the shoes which would give her back her freedom.
So when he took a step toward her, she didn’t turn and run; not that she could, in these fancy shoes. Instead, she lifted her chin, took a deep breath, and tried to remember how to be charming.
“Would you care to dance?” the cowboy asked her in a deep drawl. His expression, under the plain mask he wore, was serious, but he held his hand out to her as if he never expected a denial.
So she placed her hand in his and allowed him to sweep her into a waltz.
He held her stiffly—either he was completely proper or was as unaccustomed to dancing as she was—and kept his attention on the music. Still, dancing with the guest of honor made Ember feel almost giddy, and also, quite warm. Her hand and back tingled where he touched her, but that was likely because of the excitement of the moment.
“They’re all looking at me,” she said suddenly, then pressed her lips together in embarrassment.
Behind his mask, his dark eyes seemed to soften at the edges as he glanced down at her for the first time. “And why wouldn’t they? You’re the prettiest lady in the room.” The way he stated it, so assuredly, made her warm. “I couldn’t believe you didn’t have a partner already; that’s why I had to scoop you up.”
“How positively American of ye,” she murmured.
He chuckled, a warm deep sound, which made him seem more human and less like a refined businessman.
“I like you,” he drawled, as they swept into another turn. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your name?”
Remembering the way Vanessa had demurred and knowing the repercussions which would come if her stepmother ever learned she’d been at the ball against the woman’s wishes, Ember lowered her chin. “That would defeat the purpose of the mask, would it no’?”
The cowboy hummed. “And since it’s such a nice mask, I wouldn’t want to do anything to offend it. Your gown, and that mask…I’ve never seen anything like it. Are those gears?”
“Aye, sir.” One corner of her lips tugged upward, and she realized, despite the high stakes, she was thoroughly enjoying herself. “I have somewhat of a mechanical bent.”
“Really? Me too.”
“Aye, I ken it, Mr. DeVille.”
“You know my name, but I don’t get to know yours?”
“Ye’re the guest of honor,” she pointed out. “Everyone on Oliphant Lands kens who ye are.” And although she knew many of them, they only knew her as her stepmother’s drudge, not as a lady in an intriguing white gown. “And I have been hoping to meet ye.”
“Really? Because of my charm?”
She had to chuckle at that. “Because of yer position. I have a business idea—a proposition—now that ye hold such an important role.”
“Oh.”
He seemed disappointed, and she opened her mouth to reassure him, although how, she didn’t know. But at that moment, the waltz ended, leaving them both a little surprised. She lowered her arm a few moments too late to join in the applause, and saw him shake himself, as if he’d been in a stupor.
Movement off to the side of the ballroom caught her eye. There, near the potted tree she’d hid behind, stood Machara, and Ember recognized her body language well enough to know the older woman was livid about something.
It didn’t take long to understand, as Machara’s hand shot out and closed around Vanessa’s arm, pulling her out from behind the pillar. Ember’s stepsister was looking a little rumpled, but the knight, who stepped out of the shadows after her, was grinning.
Oh dear. What had the two of them been up to back there?
Whatever it was, Machara wasn’t pleased. She raised her hand to gesture to Bonnie, who looked almost relieved when her mother motioned her toward the front entrance. As Vanessa was pulled away, she glanced over her shoulder at the knight, who still seemed amused by the whole thing.
Were…were they leaving? Ember’s heart began to pound in her chest. If they were leaving, that meant they would be back at the inn soon, and her stepmother would discover she wasn’t there!
Her mind already frantically calculating, she stepped away from the cowboy, who was still watching the musicians. If Machara and her daughters had to wait for the carriage to be brought around—and their cloaks, although it was warm outside—then they’d be here a bit longer.
Ember might have a chance of beating them home.
But only if she ran!
Mr. DeVille turned to her. “I’d like to dance with you again, if you don’t—” He cut himself off abruptly when he got a good look at her. “Why are you shaking your head at me?”
“I’m sorry,” Ember said quickly, genuinely meaning it. “I have to go!”
“But—”
She didn’t have time to hear him out. Instead, her heart already frantic, she turned and hurried for the back entrance, hoping she wasn’t making too much of a commotion. Once out of the ballroom, she gathered her skirts in her hands—thank goodness they were cut high in the front, so she didn’t have to worry about tripping—and began to run.
Taking the back stairs two at a time, she almost didn’t hear the footsteps behind her.
“Wait! Please! What’s the rush? Miss? Miss!”
It was the cowboy, following her!
Blast!
She didn’t have time to explain to him her hurry, much less who she was and why she wasn’t supposed to be at the ball in the first place. Rounding the corner to the kitchens, she ducked her head and flew past the cook and her helpers.
And Mr. DeVille still followed. “Miss! Can I help you?”
Such a gentleman!
Her cloak was still hanging by the back door, and she snagged it on her way past. But the steps leading into the kitchen garden were shrouded in darkness, and she had to slow her descent. In doing so, her left shoe slid from her foot.
She was already three steps down when she realized it and was turning and pick it up when Mr. DeVille burst out of the backdoor. “Miss!”
Double blast!
No time to explain, and no time to go back for the shoe. Besides, she’d be faster without it. Without stopping, Ember bent and slipped the other sho
e from her right foot, then grasping it tightly in her hand, bolted into the darkness on stockinged feet.
She had to be home before Machara discovered where she’d been, or she’d be scrubbing the privy for weeks, or worse!
Only once during her flight did she glance over her shoulder. She caught a glimpse of Mr. DeVille, in his outrageous cowboy hat, standing silhouetted on the backsteps, holding her other shoe in his hand.
Chapter 3
“Good morning, sisters. May I call this meeting to order?”
“It worked! I cannae believe it worked!”
“Of course it worked, Broca. Narrative causality, you know. Mr. DeVille is absolutely intrigued by his mysterious dancing partner and will have to track her down and try the shoe on every lady he meets.”
“Are ye certain, Evangeline? That seems like such a silly way to find a wife.”
“Are you questioning narrative causality, Willa?”
“Quiet, both of ye! Seonag, can ye tune this thing any better? The picture needs to be sharper!”
“W’fer?”
“Because it’s all blurry, and that willnae do, because he’s in the bathtub! Hurry! I can see something poking out!”
“Those are bubbles, Grisel.”
“Ye’re looking better than I’m feeling.”
At Roland’s words, Max scrambled for a towel, but none was in reach. “Don’t you know how to knock?” he growled, instead cupping his hands in front of himself under the water.
“I did,” Roland declared cheerfully, as he plopped down on one of the benches in the bathing chamber and eyed Max in the tub. “Was yer head underwater?”
“Possibly.” Max had to admit that having a separate chamber for bathing—with real, hot running water—seemed a major improvement over his father’s house. He might’ve spent some time submerged, just for the fun of it. “What do you want?”
“Tsk-tsk. That’s no’ verra welcoming.”
“I’m lying here in rapidly cooling water, holding my own genitalia. How do you expect me to act?”