Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid

by Suzanne Enoch

  “So you’re Lord Gray,” a sweet voice commented from his right, and he turned his head. A pretty lass with honey-colored hair rode beside him on one of Glengask’s spare mounts.

  “I am,” he returned. “And ye would be Lady Jane Hanover, aye?” he said, deciding Winnie’s rules didn’t apply to him.

  “Aye,” she answered, and giggled. “Is it true you’re … unattached, then?”

  So Winnie had been talking, then. This could be tiresome. “Aye. I’m free as a bird, lass. Always have been.”

  Oh. I thought … Well. Never mind. “I certainly don’t wish to intrude on your privacy.”

  She was polite, but clearly his so-called connection to Winnie had been discussed, and he seemed to be the injured party. Blast it all. But then again, he supposed the misconception could work in his favor, if all the lasses wanted to offer him comfort. But not if they thought him some wilted, dour flower. “There was nae an understanding between Winnie and me,” he retorted. “I’m eight years older than she is, fer Saint Bridget’s sake.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  When she blinked at him, Lachlan blew out his breath. Being linked with Winnie MacLawry was certainly nothing new. It wasn’t Jane Hanover’s fault. And at least he and Winnie had straightened it out between them. The news would reach the houseguests and the rest of the clan before long—hopefully. “As a matter of fact,” he went on, putting on a smile, “I may well be longing to meet a likely lass.”

  Her nose crinkled as she smiled back at him. “I think you may be a bit of a rogue, sir.”

  “Aye. All Highlanders are rogues. Have ye nae learned that?”

  “I’d been wondering if the MacLawrys were the rule or its exception.”

  Lachlan laughed. “Both, I ken.”

  A higher-pitched, sweeter echo of his own laugh drifted back to him along the trail. At the front of their herd shiny Samston pointed at a pair of foxes scampering through a patch of heather, his commentary evidently clever enough to amuse Winnie. The fellow then reached out to catch Black Agnes’s bridle and guide the mare around a fallen tree limb.

  Well, that was ridiculous. Winnie had walked and run and ridden this path for eighteen years. She could certainly navigate a downed branch. Aside from that, Black Agnes had a temper, and the fool might well find himself without a pinkie to lift in the air when he drank his tea.

  “Who is this Samston?” he asked, frowning as Winnie thanked the fellow for his unneeded assistance, actually using the word “chivalrous.”

  “The earl?” Jane returned, following his gaze. “His name is Adam James. He has four properties in Somerset and Derbyshire, and they say his income is somewhere in the vicinity of eight thousand a year.”

  That told him almost nothing, but that was how the Sassenach measured a man—by his property and his money. “But what sort of man is he?” Lachlan tried again. “What do his friends think of him? Does he have friends?”

  “I … Yes. He’s considered to be quite the catch. For the past few weeks he’s been paying particular attention to Winnie. I think she likes him, but she said he keeps asking about her dowry. That’s made her quite cautious, I think.” She drew in a breath beside him. “If I may ask, why do you care? I mean, if you—”

  “Her brothers are nae too keen on having Winnie wed to a Sass … an Englishman who’ll take her away from the Highlands,” he broke in, before she could jump to the conclusion that he was jealous or something. “I’m curious over whether Samston’ll pass muster.”

  “Oh. That makes sense, I suppose.”

  “Aye.” Of course it did. He would have to tell Bear about the dowry nonsense. Winnie could certainly do better than a fortune hunter. Lachlan cleared his throat. He was here to prove something to Winnie, not to talk about her. “So, Lady Jane Hanover, what do ye think of the Highlands so far?”

  Her smile reappeared. “It’s breathtaking. Winnie says the weather can turn ferocious in a heartbeat, but at this moment it’s lovely.”

  “It’s never the same twice,” he responded, nodding to himself. It was the sort of place that dug itself into the bones and sinew of its people. He, for one, found it vital to be here.

  “Jane, you mustn’t keep Lord Gray all to yourself,” another female chirped.

  Now this was more like it. A lad could enjoy having several pretty lasses brawling over him, even if they were delicate and English. Winnie could say that she found him disappointing, but in his experience she was the only one to do so.

  “We’re having a conversation, Edith,” Lady Jane returned, her expression more amused than annoyed. “You’re welcome to join in.”

  Edith slowed the dainty black mare she’d brought north with her. She’d be lucky if the beastie didn’t break a leg just descending to the bottom of the gorge. “Whatever are you conversing about, then?” she asked, with a too bright smile.

  “Aboot the lovely day with which we’ve been favored,” Lachlan drawled. She wouldn’t do for a tumble; Edith seemed entirely too desperate for a man, and he’d likely never escape if she got her hands on him. “A fortnight ago we had snow flurries.”

  Edith nodded, as attentive as if he’d been telling the location of hidden gold. “Are you a clan chief? Like Lord Glengask?”

  “Nae. I’m a chieftain.”

  Her smile remained fixed in place. “What’s the difference?”

  “I have say over the MacTier sept—branch—of clan MacLawry. I have relations and cotters who answer to me, and I answer to Glengask.” And he could argue with Glengask over some disagreement, though that happened only rarely. Ranulf had a vision for his clan, and Lachlan highly approved of it.

  “Oh, so you’re his lieutenant.”

  It was far more complicated than that, but clearly the Edith female with her tightly pinned brunette hair only wanted to know how much power and influence he held. Which was a great deal, but not in as obvious a fashion as the Marquis of Glengask. “Aye,” he said aloud. “Someaught like that.”

  “And Glengask’s brothers are chieftains?”

  “Nae. They enforce Glengask’s law.”

  “Law? Goodness, that sounds very fierce.”

  He glanced forward again. Now that they’d entered the gorge they found themselves among trees and a splendid set of rocky falls running down the center. The trail curved around boulders and glades, and at the front of the group Winnie and the yellow-haired lord slipped from his sight.

  That wouldn’t do. However he felt about her romantically, the one thing her brothers and he knew above all else was that Rowena was to be protected. And that meant both her physical safety and her reputation. “Excuse me,” he said, and nudged Beowulf in the ribs.

  The big bay picked up his pace, and in a moment he was directly behind the two lead riders. The other men present kept themselves occupied with the other lasses; evidently they meant to let the earl have a go at Winnie first, before the next fellow moved in. Very civilized, it was.

  The pair in front of him slowed, and he drew Beowulf in to match their pace. He could only make out one in three or four words Winnie spoke, but that was enough for him to decipher that she was telling Samston about the local myth surrounding the gorge, how the wives of Highlands warriors killed in battle could be heard at night wailing, how their tears had formed the steep-sided valley.

  Lachlan moved in a bit closer. He’d heard the story countless times, but Winnie had a way of telling it that could make him wonder whether the distant wailing sounds he heard some nights were bagpipes or long-dead, mourning Highlands lasses.

  “You are quite romantic, aren’t you?” Samston commented. “And you pretend to be so practical.”

  “I’m both, I think. At least, I don’t think that being one precludes the other.”

  “Precludes,” was it? Since when had she begun using such fancy words? Clearly it was something she’d learned in London, along with her new accent. For a lass who’d thought romance meant throwing flowers at the back of his head, that was qu
ite a statement.

  It was odd, though, seeing her lowering her eyelashes at the earl, turning her head just so in order to best show off her lovely neck. This was a play that he’d become accustomed to acting in himself. But not once as they rode deeper into the gorge did she even send a glance in his direction. She’d said that she was finished with chasing him about. Now, abruptly, he believed her.

  He should have felt relieved, he supposed, that he no longer had to tiptoe so carefully among the MacLawry males, that he didn’t have to watch what he said, be careful not to compliment her, in order to avoid waking up married. If she hadn’t said that she found him disappointing, he likely would be feeling relieved now. But she’d insulted him and his manliness, and he didn’t much like that. If he’d ever so much as tried to be charming to her, she’d be singing a different tune right now.

  The Earl of Samston didn’t seem to find the notion of Winnie being romantic as threatening as Lachlan did, because the shiny fellow only inclined his head and edged his grand English horse closer to Black Agnes. For a moment Lachlan hoped the feisty mare would take the chestnut’s right ear off, but she only snorted and tossed her head. Even the lass’s horse was turning Sassenach.

  “How far from here is your estate?” one of the Parker sisters, Susan, he thought, asked him brightly, drawing even with him.

  So much for the proper English rule of not speaking to a man unless a lady had been formally introduced. He had met most of them in passing over dinner, though, so perhaps that counted. Or perhaps the rules had changed in the nine years since he’d visited London.

  “Gray House is two miles south and west of the main house at Glengask,” he answered.

  “But I thought Lord Glengask owned all this land.”

  More talk about the English obsessions with power, property, and wealth. “He does. His property curves about mine and goes on north and east. My property is more westerly.”

  “Oh. It’s fortunate that you’re all allies then, isn’t it?”

  Allies and fourth cousins. “Aye,” he answered noncommittally.

  “Are you a clan chief, like Lord Glengask?”

  He narrowed one eye as the beginnings of a headache began pushing at his skull. “Nae.”

  “Oh. What about Lord Munro? Bear, I think you call him? Is he a chief?”

  For all that the Sassenach viewed Highlanders as devils and barbarians, the lasses seemed eager enough to know which of them was more marriageable. “Someaught like that,” he said. Bear might have come along this morning, after all. The fact that he hadn’t—well, every man for himself.

  Finally they all reached the lower end of the gorge, just above where the stream danced over a series of weather-flattened boulders and plunged down to the lower slopes past the village of Mahldoen, the more southerly of the two main Glengask villages. It was a picturesque place, and he wasn’t surprised that Winnie had chosen to show it off to her new friends.

  He swung down from Beowulf, but before he could reach Winnie to help her down, Samston slid his arms around her waist and lifted her out of the sidesaddle. The earl set her down, but didn’t release his grip. Instead the two of them stood looking at each other as if the rest of the landscape had ceased to exist.

  Whatever the devil Samston was about, Lachlan didn’t like it. Her brothers wouldn’t, either. Men didn’t paw at their wee sister, especially Sassenach men who asked about her dowry. If she wasn’t still trying to make him jealous—and it certainly didn’t seem that way—then she was in well over her head. She knew how to play at wooing, how to pretend to faint at a lad’s feet or to trip and fall into his arms, but those were only girlish tricks for attracting attention. Once she had that attention, she would have no idea what to do next.

  Samston would know, though, and that was the problem. “We should’ve brought fishing poles,” Lachlan said loudly, and stepped forward to push between the two of them. He could pretend to be thickheaded and oblivious if it served him to do so. “We might’ve caught dinner fer the house.”

  “We’ll be here for several weeks,” the earl commented from behind him. “Perhaps the gentlemen might go fishing another time. As for today, I much prefer spending it in fairer and gentler company.”

  “Very prettily said, Adam,” Winnie put in, a smile in her voice.

  Lachlan snorted, this time not covering his annoyance at the smooth-talking Samston. “Aye. Declaring a lass to be more bonny than fish is gallant, indeed.”

  When he turned around, though, the look Winnie sent him wasn’t the amused, exasperated one with which he was familiar. Rather, she looked genuinely and deeply annoyed. He half expected her to slap his face and order him to leave.

  Instead she faced her new friends and spread her arms. “This is one of my favorite places,” she said, “and I’m so pleased to be able to share it with all of you. Please don’t mind Lord Gray; he still thinks gas lighting is magic.”

  Everyone laughed. In fact, they seemed to find it all a bit more amusing than the comment warranted. He’d been teased before, and he was generally good-humored about it. After all, he gave as good as he got. But this didn’t feel like teasing. It felt like an insult, and she’d never done that to him before.

  He stood back as the Sassenach made their way to the edge of the fast-moving stream. When they were all occupied with the view, he edged up behind Winnie. “So we’re nae to be friends either, are we?” he murmured.

  Her shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t turn around. “Stop insulting my friends,” she whispered back. “You’re not as charming as you seem to think you are, Lachlan. I apologize if I damaged your pride by not being in love with you, but that’s your own fault.”

  “Ye didnae damage my anything,” he retorted, just remembering to keep his voice down. “Ye’re behaving like a simpering sheep. Did ye lose yer wits along with yer Gaelic?”

  “I’m trying to present the fair side of the Highlands to influential peers. And you’re being a big, brawly … you.” She shifted, then stepped backward to stomp on the toe of his boot. Hard. “Go away.”

  “I’m guarding ye.”

  “My brothers didn’t find it necessary to trail after me today, so there’s no reason for you to be here, either.”

  “Those four lovely lasses with ye give me a pound of reasons, lass.”

  Finally she faced him, her chin lifted and her arms folded over her chest. “Then why are you standing here refusing to stop talking to me?” she enunciated.

  He glared back at her, his gaze lowering to her soft-looking lips as they flattened in obvious annoyance. Or was it some kind of cynical amusement, because she thought she’d bested him? He’d always been able to decipher her moods without any trouble at all. Why couldn’t he do so now? And why was he arguing with her when a handful of lasses stood just a few feet away waiting to be charmed?

  It was the first time she’d ever stumped him, the first time she’d ever stood toe-to-toe with him as if the consequences didn’t matter to her—because they didn’t. Her stormy gray eyes practically crackled with … something. Something fiery and not at all simpering or fainthearted. Or English.

  Lachlan took a step closer to her before he’d even realized it. Then a hand touched Winnie’s shoulder from behind, sweeping down her arm to catch her hand. “Come, Rowena,” Lord Samston drawled, turning her back toward the water. “Tell me what these flowers are called.”

  Blinking, Lachlan caught himself up again. The earl didn’t treat Winnie—Rowena—like a child. No doubt she found that flattering, but it was fairly obvious that Samston sincerely didn’t view her as a bairn. None of the Sassenach gentlemen did. To them she was a lovely young woman of title and privilege and wealth, the only sister of the most powerful man in the Highlands.

  Were they seeing her inaccurately, or was it him? Given the way his gut had reacted to her just then, he had a good idea that it was him. That perhaps—just perhaps—he’d made a mistake in turning her away before he could become acquainted with
the lady she’d claimed to be.

  He could tell himself that it was for the best, that going after her and then deciding they weren’t compatible would cause an irreparable rift between him and the MacLawrys. At this moment, though, the foremost thought in his brain was that he didn’t like seeing another man touching her. Not at all.

  Chapter Three

  Ranulf paced.

  Rowena stopped in the doorway of her brother’s office to watch him for a moment, walking in measured steps from the bookcase to the window and back again. With him thirteen years her elder and their father dying when she was too young to remember anything but a thick black beard tickling her cheeks, her brother had been more of a parent than a sibling to her. And seeing him any less than completely composed was both rare and disconcerting.

  “You wanted to see me?” she asked.

  Turning in mid-step, he nodded. “Aye. Have a seat, will ye?” he said, continuing past her and shutting the door, closing them in.

  Her uneasiness rose another notch. “Everyone’s been behaving themselves, I hope. I chose very carefully which friends to bring north with me.”

  “I know ye did; Charlotte and Lord Hest hadnae an ill word to say aboot any of the Sassenach. Thank ye fer that, piuthar.”

  She sat in one of the two chairs facing his sturdy desk. “You’re welcome. Bear hasn’t killed any of them then, has he?” Or perhaps she should be asking about Lachlan’s behavior. He’d certainly been rude and unfriendly yesterday. It was very unlike the image of him she’d carried about for most of her life.

  A brief smile touched Ranulf’s face as he moved to the window. “Nae. Everyone’s still alive. I ordered Munro to behave himself, though I am somewhat inclined to send him away to Edinburgh, just to be certain.”

  “You can’t force him to miss your wedding,” she protested. “I only invited the ladies to make a balanced party, so it wouldn’t look like…” She trailed off, blushing.

  “So it wouldnae look like ye were bringing suitors to Glengask to see who best fit the family?” he finished, lifting an eyebrow. “Ye think I didnae see that the second ye arrived?”