She couldn’t… That Nerwood isnae half so ugly as his brothers, but he’s the third-born son, and a frightful boor to boot!
Biting her lip, she finally spoke her piece as they walked solemnly down the corridor. “I simply would like to see him for a short time, and I fear this ball shall be my only chance. My Lord Father does not welcome company, and I wish to speak to him about my feelings before it is too late.”
Aye, there it is. The lass is smitten, sure as anythin’. Lord knows what she sees in that daft grasper, but that’s surely nay worry of mine.
“A mission of romance, then?” James asked with a knowing smile. “A cause most noble, indeed.”
Though he would have hardly believed it possible, her blush deepened on her pale cheeks. The young lady put a hand to her cheek and looked about, aghast. “I—excuse me, I should not be so forward with my feelings, especially with a stranger.”
“Is that right?” he inquired, putting a hand to his square chin in thought.
“Of course!” the girl laughed. “As an unmarried young woman I should not even be speaking to you without an introduction. And certainly not in the corridor, out of sight of my father.”
Lord, what fools these English be! It seems they cannae even go about the basic interactions of man and woman without puttin’ all manner of restrictions and rituals around it.
He stopped walking, noticing a familiar door just in arm’s reach. They now found themselves in an empty nook in the manor’s corridor, the light from a fire in a nearby hearth casting its warm orange light on the girl’s comely face.
“Well, I thank ye for the instruction in English manners, lassie,” James uttered as he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, hoping that was not yet another faux pas. “As I wouldnae wish ye to be in any trouble, perhaps we’d best call this a… lesson in courtly manners, instead of conversin’ with a strange man.”
A relieved smile came to the young woman’s face. She gave an easy curtsy. “That would be very agreeable, sir, thank you.” Noticing they had stopped walking, she glanced at the door they had paused in front of. “Mister Nerwood is in the library, then?”
“This was where I saw him, at least, gabbin’ the ears right off some puffed-up lords or another.”
She moved to enter the open double doors, from which sounds of laughter and conversation were spilling, but paused and fixed James with an odd look. “Consider this one last lesson in proper civilities, then, sir, as your teacher’s thanks. Most noble English ‘lairds’ prefer not to be called ‘puffed-up.’”
“Ha!” James chortled. “Ye are a most gracious teacher, Me Lady. Now let me return the favor. Most Scotsmen, no matter how noble, prefer a ‘good day’ to the… ah, direct approach ye’ve already tried.”
The girl shared his laugh, then made ready to charge. But as James watched in amusement as she attempted to summon her courage, he saw her falter. Her hands once again began to pick at her gloves as she peered sheepishly through the doorway at the assembly of snuffboxes and brandy snifters.
Sighting an ornate mirror hanging above a nearby breakfront, she inspected her appearance, carefully rearranging herself. Her hair was adjusted, her gown straightened, her décolletage lifted subtly.
“Ye look most bonnie indeed, lass,” James said, despite his better judgment.
She fluttered her long eyelashes at him winsomely. “Do you truly think so?”
“Well, I dinnae ken the fashions down in England or France, but any Scotsman would be right pleased with what he sees.”
Steady on, James, he cautioned himself.
Her smile dissolved into a sigh, her nerves returning as soon as she glanced towards the door once again.
She’s a powerful wee thing, but she does seem most afeared, for one so determined.
“Is there a… specified way in which a young lady introduces herself to a Scottish Laird?” the girl asked, her chin quivering ever so slightly.
“Who, Nerwood?” James snorted. “There’s yer first mistake, lassie. He’s nae a Laird.”
“A Scottish gentleman, then,” she retorted.
James almost contradicted this second appellation as well, then thought better not to irk the fearsome little thing any further. He stroked his chin in thought, dismayed to find whiskers already sprouting despite having shaved just that morning. “There’s nae such a specific order to things. Scots are nae so keen on ritual as ye English, ye see. What were ye plannin’ to say to him?”
The girl assumed an expression of forced delight, then recited from memory, “Oh, Mister Nerwood! I am so terribly glad you could attend this year’s ball! I have been hoping to have a chance to speak with you. Perhaps we could adjourn to somewhere quieter to discuss—”
James interrupted her with a chuckle and a wag of his finger. “Lassie, that’s nae good.”
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked, crestfallen.
“Invitin’ a man to follow ye somewhere private and ‘talk?’ Nay aspersions on yer feelin’s, of course, but Mister Nerwood could easily get the… er, wrong idea about yer intentions with an introduction like that.”
He paused, suddenly remembering something. With a cunning grin, he pressed her a bit further. “And did nae ye say somethin’ about a young unmarried lady speakin’ with a man in the absence of a chaperone?”
The girl tsked with mock haughtiness. “I’ve a lesson for you, sir. It is most uncouth to question a lady’s right to flagrant hypocrisy when it suits her. A woman’s privilege, call it.”
At the warm laughter that escaped James’ mouth after this pronouncement, the young woman’s veneer of seriousness broke and she let loose an enchantingly girlish giggle.
“Still, lass, woman’s privilege aside, ye cannae approach Nerwood like that if ye want him to take ye seriously as a… er, suitor.”
Those strong but tiny fists found their way to her hips yet again. “If my introduction will not do, pray tell, what would be more suitable?”
He considered this quandary, trying to recall how girls had approached him in the past. Reflecting on these experiences, he quickly dismissed them with a shake of his head.
I’d be thrown out on me arse if I made such a proposition to a Laird’s daughter.
Eventually he decided to hedge as best he could. “Just dinnae seem too eager. Be calm, collected. A Scotsman likes a lass who’s willin’, but he likes to be the one pursuin’ her, nae the other way ‘round.”
“Calm,” she repeated. “Collected.” The young woman took a breath to steady herself, then drew herself straight. Her demeanor was now positively icy. “Good evening,” she said to an invisible figure before her. “Mister Nerwood, isn’t it? How lovely to see you. Hearthing Manor is always open to you.”
James smiled bemusedly.
Perhaps that’s too far in the other direction.
But before he could make this assessment known, the girl nodded, satisfied with her performance. “Yes, that shall do nicely,” she said to herself before turning to give him a most collected curtsy. “Thank you, sir. You have been an excellent teacher, and I hope a passable student.”
He gave his most grandiloquent bow to the young lady, then paused in admiration as he saw her square her shoulders, take a deep breath, and without another word rush in through the door in search of her target. The young lady strode confidently through the crowd of English nobles, who were seated around low tables and drinking brandy. James was gratified to see her walk right up to a standing, kilt-clad blond man and begin speaking to him immediately.
Balthazar Nerwood. If the lassie is dobber enough to want him, they’ll be perfect for one another.
He shook his head in disbelief, turning away from the sight.
Enough of that. The clan needs me. Time for business.
James licked his hand and flattened down his long, wild hair as much as possible, straightened his shirt collar, and marched back towards the ballroom.
Shame.
He paused to cast a regretfu
l look back towards the open doorway.
She seemed too smart to be fooled by a bonnie face. I hope she ends up with someone truly deservin’, whoever that poor fool may be.
Chapter 3
A Profitable Idea
I dinnae ken these English Lairds.
James took in the view of the ballroom with a grimace. He swallowed the last of his wine and stifled a curse at the taste.
But I ken when someone’s bein’ a rude bloody bampot.
An hour of studious application of the young woman’s brief tutelage had yielded nothing but rejection for the poor Laird of Clan Armstrong. It had taken a great deal for him to decide to attend in the first place—he had only come to this ball at Hearthing Manor to forge new trade agreements for his clan. “We cannae go on sellin’ wool tae one another ‘til kingdom come,” Old Boyd had chided him. James had agreed, but the results had been less than fruitful, to say the least.
Fruitful!
James suppressed an urge to spit on the precious tile floor.
It would have been a more profitable evenin’ stayin’ home and countin’ cobblestones.
One after another, he had approached the English lords to introduce himself. And one after another, they had rebuffed him, condescended to him, ignored him, and talked over him. A dozen of them scarcely let him get that far, even—as soon as they caught sight of him, before he could even get within five paces, they turned tail and fled the ballroom as though he had been waving a claymore over his head in the altogether.
“Yes, you must be terribly important,” he echoed to himself in a mocking tone, the last words he had managed to extract from the Earl of Something still stinging fiercely in his memory. “Sheep, is it? You know what they say about Scotsmen and sheep! Ha ha!” It was all James could do to restrain the impulse to show Lord Something just what a Scotsman was capable of when properly insulted.
Now that the music had stopped and the wretched old men were beginning to clear off to their own miserable castles, James was left even more alone by the window. Unless he understood these English even more poorly than he thought, there would be no trade opportunities, no market for Clan Armstrong’s resources.
I just dinnae ken how to talk to these stuffy English popinjays!
James lamented. His mission a miserable failure, he had resolved to at least consume as much of Lord Hearthing’s stores as possible before returning to Armstrong Castle in defeat.
Sorry, Boyd. The clan’s money troubles will have to go on a bit longer.
He reached for the wine bottle on the nearby table. Finding it empty, he growled at the wig-topped manservant who stood at attention nearby.
“Oi, any more of this swill? Or are ye only here to keep the Scotsmen from makin’ off with the lassies and settin’ the place afire?”
He chuckled as he watched the bent old man scamper off, then caught sight of himself in a grand mirror on the wall. Until this day, James had always taken some small pride in his appearance. Tall since his boyhood, he had grown into a proud, strong man. Though but a young man, he had never failed to command the respect and admiration of his clansmen, and represented them now in his finest Laird’s attire. And from what Sophia McDonald had told him, he was as handsome in the face as any lass could wish for.
Ugh. Sophia McDonald. Dinnae have enough to drink to start ponderin’ that situation.
Then a strange thought came to James’ head, bubbling to the surface of the stew of wine and resentment.
If only I had gotten a bit more advice from that strange young lassie, whoever she was. She could have even introduced me to some of her noble friends.
He smiled at the thought.
Daft, for certain, but she couldn’ae be worse company than her countrymen.
A crash from across the ballroom roused him from his reverie.
Speak of the Devil…
James’ smile grew broader as he saw the source of the commotion was the same red-clad blonde girl who had tutored him in manners previously. Now, though, she appeared to be in a state of disarray, judging by the gentle sway to her gait and the broken glass at her feet.
James chuckled at the sight.
At least she’s still on her feet. Surely that’s progress from an hour ago.
James cleared his throat loudly, catching the eye of the woman from across the room. As soon as her gaze landed upon him and he waved her over, he saw tears flood those bright brown eyes and spill over onto her red gown. Before James knew what was happening, he was walking over to her, arms jerking forward, outstretched in sympathy, then back behind his back.
“I take it Mister Nerwood wisnae receptive to yer overtures?” James asked, surprised to find his voice full of nothing but compassion.
The young woman took the neckerchief James didn’t realize he had removed and was offering to her. She dabbed it under her eyes. “We—we spoke,” she explained between sniffs. “I introduced myself, saying just what I intended.”
“And?”
“And he was… polite. Courteous. But I may as well have been a serving girl, or…or a household dog!” She blew her nose into James’ neckerchief with surprising force.
James noticed the servant had reappeared at his side, an open bottle of wine in his trembling hands. Barely looking at the man, he snatched the bottle and poured the pitiful girl a fresh glass. “Me mother always said misery should never be drunk alone,” he said as he offered it to her. “What happened after that?”
“After? Hah!” she barked as she gratefully took the glass from James and downed a healthy draught. “I was so nervous after seeing his reaction that I could barely get a word out. My lips may as well have been fixed shut with glue.”
Pity the poor bastard who would try such a thing with this wee thing. Like as nae he’d get his hand bit clean off.
Then she shot James an accusing glare. “I behaved just as you told me to, sir. I was calm, collected, cool in demeanor in every way.”
Nonplussed, James protested, “Aye, I told ye to be all that… but there’s a vast difference between ‘cool’ and ‘cold as ice’!”
“Wasn’t that what you advised me to do?”
“I just wanted to keep ye from fallin’ on yer face again, lass!” James laughed. “And if ye were truly that chilly, there’s nae a chance in Hell Nerwood or any other Scotsman would pursue ye. Bloody fool probably thought ye were sellin’ somethin’, else thought ye terribly haughty.”
Seeing the look of distress that came to the young lady’s face, James attempted to clarify. “It’s true what I said, that we dinnae like a woman who’s too forward. But too calm and collected isnae good, either. Scottish women—the best of them, that is—are less icy and more… loose.”
James was immediately sprinkled with secondhand wine from the young woman, who had devolved into a disbelieving cough mid-sip.
“Perhaps that wisnae the best choice of words. Easygoing. Carefree. Happy-go-lucky, do ye ken?”
Wiping the corners of her mouth with the now-damp neckerchief, the girl repeated these instructions with little enthusiasm. “Carefree, not collected. Happy-go-lucky, not cold.”
“Aye, exactly.”
“You could have been clearer with that instruction, you know,” the girl said as she glumly took a sip of her wine to replace the one she had lost. “Before I made a fool of myself.”
“Alas, it seems ye found a man who’s nae better a teacher than he is a student,” James grumbled. He reached out an open hand. “Pass me the bottle, love. Mum had a few things to say regardin’ men bein’ drunk alone, as well.”
“Has your evening at tonight’s ball been as dispiriting as my own, then?” Iris asked in a tone that clearly communicated the impossibility of such a thing.
He poured himself a generous glass of the too-sweet stuff, downed it with a grimace, and poured another. “Aye, I fear so. If ye were treated like a household dog, they see me more like a stray, or a wolf—insult me, ignore me, treat me like a bloody curiosity, anything
to get rid of me.” James reared back to spit, but once again caught himself in time, instead growling, “There’s nae much I can do for me clan if these English wouldnae so much as give me the time of day.”
A quiet sense of calm settled over the strange pair, so different in looks yet similar in mood. The ballroom was now empty save for a few stragglers who had ceased even pretending interest in the couple, and for a handful of servants who were hurriedly cleaning up the debris of the dance from the floor. These last were harried by a thin man with thinning hair and a tone suggesting he was in imminent danger of catching fire.
James and the girl let their gazes linger on the air between them. Though their eyes did not meet, he was sure she realized as well as he that their breathing had synchronized pleasingly. At first James was sure he could hear the blonde woman’s heart beating, but eventually he realized it was the sole of her fine shoe tapping anxiously on the floor.
And what is that smell?
James wondered as he enjoyed the quiet moment.
Like flowers, but nay flowers I’ve ever smelled before.
Again, he found himself unable to conclude that it was anything other than his companion. Though he had long loudly derided perfume as wasteful frippery, somehow this scent seemed more compelling than any he had encountered before, and he felt himself breathing it in more heavily.
“It seems we are perfectly matched, then,” sighed the girl at last. “In our failure, that is,” she hastily amended.
James raised his glass with an air of celebration. “Shall we share a drink, then? To failure?”
She smiled wearily, raising her glass as well. “An English lady who cannot entice a Scotsman, and a Scotsman who cannot interact with Englishmen. Truly, a failure for our age.”
Their glasses clinked, but James froze before taking a drink. In a flash, the germ of an idea that earlier had taken purchase in James’ brain sprouted, growing into a fully-formed blossom of a scheme before he could blink. He frowned in thought, then his face broke into a wide grin as he took in the contours of this peculiar plan.
Highlander's Fallen Angel : A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 29