How to Train Your Highlander

by Christy English

  “Does she, now?” Mary sipped at her tepid tea. “And where might this room be?”

  “On the second floor, miss. In the guest wing. Shall I call a maid to take you there?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Billings. When my mother summons, I had best make haste.”

  Mary Elizabeth downed the last of her Darjeeling, wishing fervently for something stronger. But hard drink had never done more than take the edge off for her, and when dealing with her mother, she needed all her wits about her.

  “Good day to you, then,” she said, nodding to Grathton and to Billings, straightening her skirts as she stepped into the hall. She checked her hair in the downstairs mirror and saw that it was falling from its pins, as it always seemed to do. She sighed and left it alone. For once in her life, her mother would have to accept her as she was.

  Still, Mary Elizabeth had to shore herself up with the thought of Harry and a pleasant evening to come spent at his side as she climbed the stairs slowly, as if headed to her doom. She was not far off. Her mother had an edict to impart, and even Alex was not present to soften the blow.

  Mary Elizabeth found the blue sitting room that Billings had mentioned. The door was standing open. Without knocking on the jamb, Mary stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  “Good day, Mother,” she said, focusing on the intention of remaining civil, no matter what her mother said.

  Lady Anna turned from the window, where she had been gazing out over a sheep-dotted lawn. The sea was not far distant from this side of the house, and Mary Elizabeth could hear the soothing sound of it through the open window.

  “Is it? I understand the Duke of Northumberland has offered for you, and you have refused him,” her mother said.

  As always, Lady Anna did not stand on ceremony or greet her pleasantly but stood glowering at her, her beautiful rose-colored gown bringing out the soft-golden highlights in her hair. Mary Elizabeth sighed before she answered. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never look as beautiful as her mother did without even trying.

  “No, ma’am,” Mary Elizabeth answered. “I have not refused him, as such. But I have not accepted him either.”

  “Such an offer does not last forever,” Lady Anna said.

  “This one might,” Mary said. She could not resist the urge to be flippant. “A marriage must last forever, or so Father Malcolm tells me.”

  “Do not try your winsome ways with me, Mary Elizabeth. I am not your father.”

  Mary did not speak again, but let the silence lengthen. She thought perhaps to take her leave, as she had nothing more to say, but her mother was not finished with her yet.

  “Daughter, I came down here to help you persuade the duke to declare himself. Now that he has done so, I feel my work here is done.”

  Mary Elizabeth felt hopeful, but only for a brief moment. Her mother spoke on.

  “I had hoped that you and the duke might reach an understanding without my intervention. But as it stands, I see that, as usual, my good intentions have been thwarted. As you refuse to marry His Grace, you’ll go back to London until you choose someone to marry. You may suit yourself in your choice, as long as Alex approves of him and he has a pulse and a decent purse.”

  Mary Elizabeth felt the light go out of the day. She wished that, just once, her mother might speak to her as a human being, instead of issuing orders and edicts like a god on high. She bit her tongue until she tasted blood, so that she would not curse her mother to her face. The first wave of her temper washed over her and passed by, leaving only pain in its wake.

  “I love you, Ma. I wish you loved me. I wish you would accept me as I am and leave me be.”

  Her mother’s granite facade softened, and Mary Elizabeth felt a second hint of hope rise. The hope did not last long, but her mother’s words offered more comfort than she had expected to find.

  “I do love you, Mary. I will always love you, whatever you do.” Her mother took one step forward, and Mary Elizabeth held her ground, wondering for one mad moment if her mother might reach for her and take her hand. Of course, her proper mother did nothing of the kind, but for the first time since Mary Elizabeth had been a little girl, she looked as if she wanted to.

  “But you are a woman grown, and as such, you must take your place in the world, as I did when I was your age.”

  “You ran away with Da when you were my age. You caused a scandal among your own kind and have lived in the Highlands ever since.”

  Her mother smiled, and Mary Elizabeth watched as the hard woman she thought she knew softened a little more. “I love your father. I loved him then. I ran away with him because he was my choice, and my father would not give his permission for us to wed. I want only the same for you.”

  “For me to run off?” Mary Elizabeth asked, knowing she was not so foolish as to hare off across the countryside alone on horseback, as her friends Catherine and Prudence had done.

  “No. For you to find the man who holds the key to your heart. You will never find him among the men of Glenderrin. You did not find him in Edinburgh. Perhaps you will find him in London, if we give that city a bit more time.”

  “Ma, I was in London almost two months. I found nothing worth seeing there.”

  Her mother touched her then, very lightly, on her cheek, but drew back almost at once, as if the softness of her daughter’s skin burned her fingertips. “You will return there and give it a few more months. There is bound to be someone worth marrying.”

  “No, Ma. There’s not.” Save for Harry, she thought to herself.

  “You will return there tomorrow anyway.”

  “Without going home for the Gathering?” Mary Elizabeth asked, not quite believing that even her mother could be so cruel as to deny her the fabric of her family at the yearly call of the clan.

  “No, Mary. London for you, until you marry.”

  “Ma, you’re being daft.”

  Her mother’s face hardened again as if the softness Mary had seen there had never been. “Insulting me will not help your cause, Mary Elizabeth. You will go to the center of the empire and live until you find a man worthy of your love, since you feel the duke is not the man for you.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Well, you have the rest of the day and tonight to decide. If you do not accept his suit, you will leave tomorrow with Alex and Catherine.”

  Mary Elizabeth wanted to scream in frustration. She wanted to throw the ugly porcelain shepherdess that sat on the table near her hand. She wanted to rail at her mother, to insult her in earnest, to scream at her until she made her see reason. But Mary Elizabeth knew from the shouting matches of her sixteenth year that her mother was implacable once her mind was made up.

  Mary Elizabeth sighed, letting a long breath out. Her anger went with it. Her mother did love her. She had said so. Though she had a funny way of showing it. But then, she was English after all.

  “I love you, Ma” was all Mary Elizabeth said. She kissed her mother’s cheek. She took in the sweet hyacinth on her mother’s skin before she walked away.

  * * *

  Mary Elizabeth went to the stables, where Sampson stood in his stall, eating warmed bran and oats. She petted his neck, then slipped into the stall with him to hide. When he was done eating, she got out his fancy currycomb and went over his coat, making him shudder with pleasure. He checked her pockets for sugar and found all three lumps she had hidden from him. She petted him awhile, even after he was a glossy as an Arabian. He must have sensed that she was out of sorts, for he let her.

  Harry found her close to teatime, and stuck his head above the stall door. Sampson whinnied when he saw him, but moved so that Harry could not come inside.

  “Let him in, ye wee bugger,” she said, and Sampson moved just enough for Harry to slip through the door.

  “What are you doing in here, Mary? It’s a
lmost teatime.”

  “I’ve been currying Sampson. And he’s been a gentleman all afternoon.”

  Harry patted the horse’s neck, and Sampson allowed the liberty. Mary Elizabeth was glad that these two would have each other when she went away.

  She was not some dramatic lady, to flee at the first sign of trouble. Nor did she discount ever marrying Harry. For if she ever married a man, English or otherwise, it would be him. But she would not be dragged into a wedding as if she had disgraced the family by falling into the family way. Nor would she allow her mother to dictate the terms of her life to her anymore. That time was done, and forever.

  So she was leaving for the Highlands in the morning. She would not tell Harry, for he was silver-tongued and would talk her out of it. At the very least, he would want to go with her, which would be as good as an engagement. She wanted time alone, to think beside the burn. She wanted to be among her own kind and remember who she was. If she still loved him then, next to the loch behind the castle, then she would wed him.

  Mary Elizabeth could only hope that he would still want her then. But it was not for her to dictate to Harry any more that it was for her mother to dictate to her. If he loved her now—and she was certain he did—he would love her when she was ready to marry. He was no flighty Englishman, to take offense at her caution and refuse to marry her to spite himself. Or so she told herself as she leaned her head against his chest and pulled him to her.

  He was no longer dressed in the garish red coat of the morning, but wore indigo superfine with buff breeches. His waistcoat was threaded with silver and the same blue of his coat, which brought out the sky blue of his eyes.

  “You’ve spoken with your mother again,” he said.

  “I have.” She did not tell him of her mother’s plans to send her away on the morrow. She knew he would only fall into a temper and ruin both their days. He might even confront the Lady of Glenderrin and cause a ruckus that only the duchess might sort out. All the while, it mattered little what her mother said or Harry thought. She needed to go home and think with a clear head before she decided once and for all the course of the rest of her life.

  His house was filled with the evidence of that choice. She had seen London, and how the entire city bowed and scraped when they saw the ducal carriage driving by. She could only imagine how that bowing and scraping would increase if Harry were actually in that carriage with her.

  There were myriad things about being a duchess that she did not know. Some of them she could learn, with his mother as her teacher. Others, she would never know, and likely never do, even if she lived to be a hundred. She thought of her children, more than half English, growing up in the South, surrounded by privilege, but without ever knowing what it was like to be a true part of a clan. If she married away from home, her children would not have her childhood. If she married Harry, her sons would be taught to hate her own people and her daughters to fear them. She would never teach them this, nor would Harry, but the English ton would.

  Harry did not speak, but let her lean against him and think. When she was done listening to the sweet sound of the beat of his heart, Mary Elizabeth pulled back and smiled at him.

  “Shall we go take a cup of tea with your mother?” she asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  His smiled pierced her heart, and the thought of leaving him, even for a month or two, made her ache. But she knew herself and knew that when she saw him again, she must give him her answer. Her mother was right about one thing at least—Harry Percy was too fine a man to leave dangling for long.

  “Will Her Worship mind that I smell of horse?”

  He laughed and touched her lips with his. He lingered over her, and she drank him in, for the true water of life lived in that man’s kisses.

  “She will mind, as will all the other ladies.”

  “Perhaps I should change, then,” Mary Elizabeth said.

  “I will do the same,” Harry offered.

  “I will even wash behind my ears,” she said, trying to outdo him, watching the smile play across his lips.

  “Such largesse, my lady. My mother will be honored.”

  Mary Elizabeth laughed, as he had no doubt meant her to, and let him lead her out of Sampson’s stall. The horse tried to block her passage, but let her by when she crooned to him.

  “I’ll see you again, wee beastie, by and by.”

  She let Harry take her hand, and looked over his grounds and gardens, trying to imagine that she belonged with him there. For the first time, it was not as hard to do as she had feared it might be. When Billings opened the front door for them, she climbed the stairs two at a time, so as not to miss all the chocolate-filled cakes. Harry was close on her heels and kissed her again before releasing her to the darkness of the guest wing.

  “Be there in ten minutes, and I’ll give you something,” Harry said.

  Mary Elizabeth laughed out loud. “Show me your telescope,” she said.

  “I’d do that for free.”

  “I’ll think of something else, then. But show me the stars tonight.”

  “I’ll have the telescope set up in the garden.”

  “No need. I’ll come to it.”

  “It’s in my room.”

  Mary smiled, a flash of wickedness running down her spine. “Is it, now? And do you have a sofa as comfortable as the one in your library?”

  Harry’s blue eyes had darkened to indigo with desire. She wondered for a moment if he would seize her then and there, his guests below be damned. But he did not.

  “I do.”

  “I’ll definitely come to you, then.”

  She did not wait for him to answer her, but strolled away, swinging her hips. She looked over her shoulder to laugh at him and saw he was still watching her. She blew him a kiss and kept moving, for as beautiful as Harry was and as much as he made her fill with desire for his touch, she had a powerful hankering for a chocolate puff, too.

  Twenty-four

  Harry spent the rest of the evening in a valiant effort not to watch Mary Elizabeth Waters every waking moment, and failing.

  She seemed more at ease among the ton gathered in his home, almost as if her last talk with her mother had freed her somehow, almost as if she was trying on being English for size. Of course, she would never be English, which was part of her charm. She did not behave as any duchess he had ever known, and it seemed unlikely that she ever would.

  Thank God.

  She was unfailingly warm, and while she did not suffer fools gladly, she did not treat anyone gathered in his mother’s drawing room with disdain. She was kind to the young pups who had accompanied their sisters to see the Recluse Duke. She talked hunting with the older gentlemen and gowns with the ladies, going so far as to show the Earl of Grathton’s sister, Lady Sara, a secret pocket where she hid one of her smaller daggers.

  Lady Sara blanched a little, but even the sight of cold steel could not horrify the gently reared girl completely, for the force of Mary Elizabeth’s personality seemed to soften even that. Harry watched his mother smile benevolently on his chosen wife, and he knew that he would stop at nothing to make her his.

  How to persuade her was the question. As a duke, he had rarely had to ask for anything in his life. Before he had needed a thing, his people had provided it without question, knowing his desires beforehand. His needs were simple, as were his wants. A simple man, he had thought himself, until he first set eyes on the woman of his life.

  Life did take odd turns when you least expected it. A Scottish girl becoming necessary for his next breath was just one of those turns. Better not to question it.

  Mary Elizabeth made an elaborate effort to yawn. Her mother, brooding beside the duchess, seemed to notice it and to despair. Harry hid his own smile behind his hand as Mary tripped out of the drawing room early, off to bed. He knew, of course, that she
had no such destination in mind.

  With the sky still lit with the last of the gloaming, when all of the ladies had followed Mary Elizabeth’s example, Harry settled the remaining gentlemen in the smoking room with the billiard tables and the ever-steady Billings at their disposal before retiring himself. He thought to sneak by Mary Elizabeth’s room to bring her to his own, but he decided to use his tooth powder first, on the likely chance that he could not resist canoodling with her, at least a little.

  He stepped into his sitting room and was surprised to discover not Philips, his valet, but Mary Elizabeth reclining in one of his wingback chairs.

  “I thought you’d never get here,” she said, smiling at him.

  She had not changed out of her gown, which for once was a charming confection any debutante might have worn, made of soft-peach silk and rosettes of silk and lace. But Mary Elizabeth wore it as she wore all her clothes, with a casual elegance that no one else could duplicate. Mary Elizabeth rose from her chair and crossed the room to him, rising up on her toes to kiss his cheek. She smelled of flowers, as she always did, and the scent lingered in his nostrils even after she had drawn back and wandered away again.

  He watched her as a lion might his prey, trying to tamp down his lust and failing. There was something about seeing her strolling in his rooms, where she had no right to be, strolling among his things, where no woman had ever been before, that made him want her more. He had not thought that possible.

  For the first time in his life, the feeling of possessiveness came over him, and he began to understand what the poets wrote of and why men died for love—and killed for it. Had some other man stepped into the room in that moment in an effort to take Mary Elizabeth away from him, all his civilized manners and common sense would have fallen away, and he would have killed the man where he stood.

  Harry took a deep breath, trying to dispel his unreasoning lust along with his sudden mad bloodlust. His man chose that moment to step into the room from the bedroom beyond, and Harry felt himself reach for a weapon that was not there.