Christmas in the Scot's Arms (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 3)

by Julie Johnstone

  “Is this what ye do or others do?” he inquired, seeking to ensure he was not misunderstanding simply because he was attracted to her.

  She paused and offered him a startled look. “Me? Oh, no, I would never do such a thing, which I’m sure is one of my gravest flaws.”

  “I’ve a hard time imagining ye have any,” he replied, hearing the huskiness in his voice.

  Her lashes swept downward to veil her eyes for a moment before she met his gaze with her now-serious one. “You’ve only just met me. I assure you, I have many.”

  “Name one,” he challenged, reveling in the easy, honest banter.

  She pressed her lips together on a smirk. “I have spoken far more honestly than is wise. I’m not sure why.” She stared at him as if she was trying to untangle a knot and he was the knot.

  “Perhaps ye feel comfortable with me because I am a stranger.”

  A shy look swept across her face, and he decided it was his favorite so far.

  “Perhaps,” she replied, biting her lip once again. She glanced toward the door. “I better be going. I only have a short time to visit with my friend.”

  “Do ye have someone waiting on ye?” He sincerely hoped it was not a man.

  She nodded. “My mother,” she offered with a groan.

  He didn’t want to part ways with her, yet he could not think of a good reason to tarry. He suddenly found himself looking forward to his sister’s betrothal ball if Cecelia was going to be there. But would she come?

  “Why do ye not wish to attend the Rochburns’ ball?” he asked again, thinking to dissuade her from rejecting the invitation if he could.

  Splotches of red touched her cheeks, and he almost wished to take back the question to save her obvious embarrassment. “I have reason to think they would not want me there, but even if they agree to it to please your sister, I doubt I would truly be welcome.”

  He cocked his head, confused. “Why would ye not be welcome?”

  She paused, her chestnut eyes beseeching him. “Please, please do not ask. It’s so pleasant to have had a few minutes to talk to someone who does not know me. I know that sounds odd—”

  “It doesn’t,” he interrupted, meaning it. He felt the exact same way.

  She gave him a grateful look as she glanced once more toward the door. “I really must go,” she said, turning to him. Her loose hair brushed against her cheek, and she reached up and tucked it firmly behind her ear.

  “Might I call on ye?” he blurted, deciding to seize the opportunity before him.

  Before she could answer, a voice called from behind him, “Ah, Lord MacLeod!”

  Liam turned and barely stifled an annoyed groan. “Good afternoon, Tarrymount. Are ye making yer way to see Aldridge?”

  Tarrymount nodded. “Do you think we will be able to pry him away from your charming sister to go to White’s? I’d love to show you the club.”

  Liam certainly hoped not. He could not think of anything less enjoyable than spending the evening with Tarrymount, who was a pompous ass.

  “Tarrymount, might I present Miss Cartwright,” Liam said, turning to make the acquaintances of the two on the chance they did not know each other. But with just one look at Cecelia’s colorless face and pinched lips, he knew she was already acquainted with Tarrymount. And not in a positive manner.

  “Miss Cartwright,” Tarrymount said, looking almost as uncomfortable as Cecelia. “I— It has been quite some time.” He gave his cravat a vicious tug.

  “Yes,” Cecelia replied, her voice a wobbly, pained whisper that drew Liam’s gaze immediately to her. “I—” She pressed her hand to her neck, where color had flushed her skin. “I must take my leave,” she continued, her voice now stiff. She darted her gaze to Liam. “It was nice to meet you, Lord MacLeod. Please tell your sister the same.”

  Before he could reply, she had hurried away.

  Tarrymount looked to him. “Best to keep your distance from Miss Cartwright. She is not in the good graces of the ton.”

  Irritation filled Liam. “I’ve always found that when warned away from a person, it makes me that more curious to know that person. Don’t ye find that?” Liam turned on his heel, not bothering to wait for a reply. He had always liked puzzles that needed solving, and Miss Cartwright was quite the puzzle.

  Chapter Three

  The next afternoon, after haggling a good price for meat at the market, Cecelia stood in the narrow, shadowy aisle of Lexington Booksellers, running her finger down the spine of Byron’s book of poetry.

  Mr. Lexington cleared his throat, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, his mouth twisted unpleasantly. “Miss Cartwright, if you are not going to purchase that book, please do not keep touching it.”

  Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand, but as she brought it to her side, a bolt of determination filled her. She reached up, snatched the book off the shelf, and marched up to the counter. She plunked it down before dour Mr. Lexington. “I would, in fact, like to purchase this book,” she announced.

  Mr. Lexington gave her a surprised look. “You wish to actually buy this book? Today?”

  As the bell over the entrance behind her jingled to announce a new customer, embarrassment heated Cecelia’s cheeks. She prayed that whoever it was would hurriedly pass by the front counter. The clop clop of shoes against the hardwood floor filled the quiet store, and blessedly, the newcomer seemed to move past the counter, but how far she was not certain as Mr. Lexington started talking again, overly loud. She cringed.

  “Miss Cartwright, you did not answer me. Do you wish to actually purchase this book today, or will this be like the many other times that you have come in here in the past year, handled my books, and then left without buying a thing?”

  She glared at the odious man. If she had any money to spare, she most definitely would have bought some books. She was almost glad in this moment that she did not have the money, though, as Mr. Lexington was horrid and did not deserve her business. Still, her heart ached thinking of the ruined the book her father had paid good money to buy her. She wished to replace it, even though it would not be the one he had bought. Alas, she could not afford it.

  She cleared her throat. “As soon as I acquire the funds I will give them to you. If you would please just hold this book for me.” She eyed the only remaining copy of Byron’s book.

  “No,” Mr. Lexington snapped, snatched the book from her hands, and scowled at her. “I suggest you go home.”

  “And I suggest ye learn to treat yer customers with more respect,” came a cool, disapproving voice from directly behind her.

  She knew that voice! Cecelia whirled around and looked up into Liam’s face. His eyes, cold and filled with dislike, were fastened on Mr. Lexington.

  Her heart skipped several beats at the sight of him. “Lord MacLeod!” she exclaimed. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  His gaze softened on her. “I had a sudden, keen desire to purchase Lord Byron’s book of poetry, Hours of Idleness.”

  Cecelia sucked in a sharp breath. Was that because of their encounter?

  “You are in luck, my lord,” Mr. Lexington said. Cecelia faced Mr. Lexington and frowned at him as he patted the book with a happy grin. “This is the last copy I have in stock.”

  As the bookseller told Liam the price and Liam produced the money, jealousy and slight resentment stirred in Cecelia. She had no right to begrudge Liam for having the funds to purchase the book. Even so, tears pricked her eyes, and she quickly moved away from the counter and started toward the door.

  “Miss Cartwright!” Liam called after her. She pretended not to hear him, fearful that she could not hold back her tears of frustration and loss. Blinking rapidly, she rushed through the door and collided with Aila.

  “Oh! I’m terribly sorry!” Cecelia said, reaching out to steady Aila, whom she had knocked into rather hard.

  Aila waved her off with a smile. “I’m verra sturdy. A knock from a slight lady like ye is not likely to make me fall.” Aila
frowned. “Whatever is the matter? Ye look distressed.”

  Before Cecelia could answer, she heard the store door open behind her, and she knew, without turning, that it was Liam. She could sense it for some reason. Though it was more likely the smile of fondness that came to Aila’s face that indicated his presence.

  “What have ye there?” Aila asked him.

  “I bought a book of Byron’s poems…for Miss Cartwright.”

  Cecelia would have swooned if she were the swooning type. Slowly, she turned to face Liam. When their eyes met, she shivered at the seductive look he gave her. Or was she imagining that?

  “You bought that book for me?” she fairly whispered. An eager light filled his eyes and made her heart squeeze.

  “Aye. I could not get the picture of how sad ye looked to have ruined yer father’s gift out of my mind. I know it’s improper, but I hope ye don’t mind me doing such a thing.”

  Mind? She was so very touched and amazed, yet— “That is very kind of you. But I cannot possibly accept a gift from you, especially one so expensive,” she said, unable to keep her eyes from wandering longingly to the book in his hands.

  His eyes seemed to probe her very soul. “I’m sure a lady who is not like others of the ton would not let a few foolish social edicts stop her from accepting a gift she knows is harmless.”

  Cecelia stared at the book, which she had been in the habit of reading every night before bed since the day her father had given it to her. She swallowed hard, warring with herself. She desperately wanted to accept the gift. It was harmless. But to accept it would be improper, and not adhering to the rules of etiquette was exactly what had landed her in her current situation.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Aila exclaimed. She took the book from Liam’s hands and thrust it at Cecelia. “Accept it, and consider it a gift from me, not my brother.”

  Cecelia acknowledged Aila’s gesture with an inclination of her head, but she kept her gaze on Liam. “Can you afford such a gift?” When his eyes widened and he and his sister exchanged a swift look, Cecelia regretted her blunt question. “I beg your pardon. I should not have asked. It’s just that I have heard of the struggles in the Highlands.” And his sister had said he was just barely a lord.

  Again, Liam and Aila exchanged a look, and as Aila opened her mouth, Liam shook his head at her. Had she been about to confess their clan’s financial woes?

  Liam smiled at Cecelia. “I appreciate yer concern. Please…let me do this for ye.”

  “His pride is involved now,” Aila asserted.

  “Oh!” Cecelia exclaimed. She feared if she did not take it, she would make him feel poorly about his likely lack of funds. She grasped the book Aila had been holding out to her and brought it close to her chest. “Thank you,” she said, her voice catching on a swell of emotion that clogged her throat. “I’m not sure how I will ever repay you.”

  A devilish smile came to Liam’s lips. “Ye can repay me by allowing me to escort ye wherever ye are going next.”

  Slowly, Cecelia nodded. “I am going to see my same friend as yesterday,” she said.

  As Liam held out his arm for Cecelia to take, Aila said, “And I still have a bit of shopping to do. Cecelia, it was nice to see ye again, and Liam, I will see ye back at the Rochburns’.”

  Cecelia did not miss the curious look Aila gave her brother, but before she could contemplate it further, Liam spoke. “Shall we?”

  She nodded, took his arm, and tried to ignore the gooseflesh that raced across her skin the moment they touched. As they started down the street toward Elizabeth’s, Cecelia felt she had to apologize for the way she had rushed away yesterday when Lord Tarrymount had appeared.

  Stealing a glance at Liam, she said, “I’m terribly sorry if I seemed rude yesterday when Lord Tarrymount appeared. I, er, could not afford to linger and visit,” she fibbed, hating herself for the lie. She held her breath with the fear that perhaps Lord Tarrymount had made mention of her disgrace and Liam would now know she was lying. Yet, if Lord Tarrymount had spoken ill of her, surely Liam would not be with her now.

  He regarded her quizzically for a moment, and her belly clenched with the certainty that he knew of her disgrace.

  “That’s quite all right,” he said, and she could not stop the relieved exhalation that escaped her. “Tell me, Cecelia, besides reading Byron, what do ye like to do?”

  She had the sudden, irrational desire to speak the truth and see if he looked at her with the wariness all men other than Blackmore always had. “I like to race horses. I like to take off my stockings and shoes, and feel the water on my feet. I like to laugh too loud and speak of politics.” The more she confessed the faster her footsteps became. “I like to speak the truth, which has gotten me in a great amount of trouble in the past. I like to eat hearty meals, and basically, I like all manners of things a proper lady should not like. Or should not admit to liking, at least.”

  She stopped and was startled to realize they were already standing in front of Elizabeth’s home. Cecelia carefully pulled her arm away from Liam’s, feeling utterly foolish for her rant. Whatever had come over her? Whatever kept coming over her when this man was near? He was a stranger, yet he made her want to admit such personal things, things she ought not tell anyone.

  She faced him and half expected him to be looking at her as if she were a raving madwoman. One corner of his mouth quirked up into an actual smile. He had a beautiful mouth.

  “Ye’re a verra interesting lady, Cecelia. Unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “I’m sure I’ve horrified you,” she asserted, clutching the book he had given her and turning her head away in embarrassment.

  When his finger came under her chin, she let out a soft gasp. He made her look at him once more. “Ye have intrigued me, not horrified me. I assure ye.”

  She had no notion what to say to that, but her stomach fluttered with pleasure at his words. Just as a smile tugged at her mouth, Jonathan turned the corner to appear at the end of the street. She stiffened. She most definitely did not want to encounter that blackguard with Liam nearby where he could overhear the exchange.

  Bobbing a quick curtsy, she blurted, “I must go!” She bit her lip at the surprised shock that swept across Liam’s face, but over his shoulder, she could plainly see Jonathan’s eyes narrowed upon her. Without wasting another moment, she rushed up the same steps she had yesterday and left Liam exactly where she had the previous day. If he had not thought her a lunatic before, he likely did now.

  Her heart hammered as she knocked on Elizabeth’s door, and she fairly barreled her way into the home when Elizabeth’s ancient butler, Cooper, opened the door.

  “Miss Cartwright, are you quite well?” he asked, his silver eyebrows arching.

  Ignoring the butler for the moment, she rushed to a small window beside the door, pulled back the covering just a bit, peeked out of it, and felt her stomach clench as Jonathan passed by Liam without speaking. Clearly, they did not know each other. Liam stood on the walkway staring at the door for one more long moment before he turned away and departed.

  Oh, she was most certainly not well. She had not been truly well in quite a long time, and she was starting to lose hope that she would ever be so again.

  Behind her, Cooper loudly cleared his throat. Cecelia released the covering over the window, turned slowly to the butler, and offered him an apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew.” She could not very well say she was avoiding one of the lying scoundrels responsible for her downfall and spying on him.

  Cooper inclined his head, taking her excuse without so much as the blink of an eye. “Lady Burton has been fretting that you were not going to be able to slip away to visit her today, since you are later than normal. She’ll be so happy that you’re here.”

  A large lump formed in Cecelia’s throat. Elizabeth, though thirty-odd years older than Cecelia, had become her closest friend and confidant since Cecelia’s father’s ruination and then h
er own. When Father had died, Lady Burton had just been taking up residence in her London townhome. She had moved here from Yorkshire, where she said she had been summarily snubbed since her husband’s death. Lonely, she had come to London hoping to meet people who had a more open attitude toward her past as an opera singer, yet she had found herself in the same predicament she had faced in Yorkshire. She was not considered “good enough” to befriend by those in the ton because she had one been an opera singer before she married, and she was looked upon skeptically and thought of as “too good” by those who came from a class similar to the one from which she hailed because she did have money thanks to her beloved husband.

  Cecelia had soon found herself alone, too, and they had struck up a friendship until Mother had forbidden it, fearing that if anyone learned of the close acquaintance, it would make matters worse with the ton. Cecelia had not wanted to defy her mother’s wishes and cause her more anxiety, but she did not want to give up her friendship with Elizabeth, either.

  “Are you ready to proceed into the drawing room, Miss Cartwright?” the butler asked.

  Cecelia blinked, realizing she had been lost in her thoughts. “Oh, dear me. Yes, Cooper. Thank you.”

  As they moved away from the front entrance, a fresh, piney scent hit Cecelia, followed by an earthier scent she recognized as rosemary. The rosemary stirred memories of happier times when Mother had insisted on decorating their house for Christmastide as her mother and her mother’s mother always had. It was not fashionable to do so nowadays, but in that one instance, Mother had tilted her nose up to the de rigueur. No longer did her mother do this, of course. They did not have the money, nor did Mother have the spirit of cheer. Oh, how Cecelia wished this Christmastide she could give Mother a bit of her happiness back, and selfishly, Cecelia wished for a smidgeon of her own.

  She cast her gaze around the entrance hall, searching for the source of the smells. To her delight rosemary and a plant that she did not recognize decorated the staircase banister. As Elizabeth had moved into this townhome after Christmastide last year, Cecelia did not know if decorating for the holiday season was a tradition for her or not. But today was the sixth day of December, and since Cecelia had been to Elizabeth’s home yesterday—and the home had not had any greenery adorning it then—Cecelia suspected that the marchioness must also have the odd habit of decorating for Christmastide and had done it after Cecelia had departed the day before. However, these decorations were early and Mother would say they were bound to bring ill luck.