Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Aye, m’laird.”

  “Horse feed?” Arran asked as the wagon rolled off in the direction of Mahldoen.

  “Aye. Sassenach nags dunnae ken how to live on sweet Scottish grass, it seems.” Ranulf sent him a sideways glance. “How’s yer shoulder?”

  “I’ll nae be wrestling Bear fer a few days, but it’s nearly healed.” He shrugged to demonstrate. Considering that the ball Charles Calder, the Campbell’s grandson, had put through him had been meant for his heart, he felt lucky just to be above ground.

  “Good. Are ye going fishing with the rest of ’em?”

  “Nae. Mary’s staying in bed this morning. I mean to keep her company.”

  “Ye should, since ye’re the one put her there.” Ranulf turned back for the house, and Arran fell in beside him. As strained as their relationship had been over the past weeks, with a Campbell peace and Mary pregnant they’d been slowly repairing the damage. Sometimes, though, it felt very like walking across melting ice.

  “I had a glimpse of someaught this morning, and I thought ye should know aboot it,” Arran said, lowering his voice below the noise of the busy stables behind them.

  “I’m listening.”

  The deerhounds, Fergus and Una, galloped up from the stable and fell in on either side of them. He scratched Una’s head, and the dog’s wiry tail slapped him on the thigh. “Lachlan came strolling oot of Winnie’s bedchamber. And he was grinning like the devil.”

  Ranulf slowed. “Did he see ye?”

  “Nae. I ducked back around the door when I caught sight of him.”

  “Hm.”

  “That’s all ye have to say?” Arran scowled. “I nearly throttled him right there.”

  “He told me a few days ago that Rowena was a sister to him, and that he’d nae offer fer her. And I’ve some likely lads coming in to meet her. So aye, I say ‘hm.’ They’ve nae precisely been friendly.”

  “I’ve noticed that. And a few months ago I wouldnae have batted an eye to see him there. But … it didnae seem a brotherly grin to me.” And that was why he’d nearly assaulted Lord Gray before he decided to do a bit of investigating first.

  “If it wasnae Lachlan, I’d boot him oot on his arse fer being anywhere alone with her,” Ranulf said after a moment. As he looked toward the loch, he narrowed his eyes against the morning sunlight. “I misstepped where ye were concerned, Arran. This time I’m inclined to be more patient.”

  To hear his confident oldest brother admit to being wrong about anything was rare enough. In this instance … Arran swallowed. “I’ll keep an eye on Lachlan, then, but I’m inclined to think we shouldnae tell Bear.”

  “Aye. I agree with ye.” The marquis resumed his walk to the house. “And I wish ye’d told me aboot Cairnsgrove before I invited him here.”

  “I would have, if ye’d told me who was on yer list.” Arran lifted an eyebrow. “Anyone else I should know aboot?”

  “Robert Cranach and Jimmy MacMaster.”

  That surprised him. “Buchanans? Ye are serious aboot finding Winnie a husband, then.”

  “I’ll nae have her weeping over Lachlan any longer. Or going back to it, if she loses her senses again. I want her to be happy.”

  Arran nodded. “If ye need Cairnsgrove, ye could always set him after Bear.”

  Glengask snorted. “That’d be interesting.”

  “Aye.”

  Chapter Six

  “Nae, it’d be no imposition at all,” Lachlan said, washing down a fine haggis with an appalling watered-down wine. “I’d be pleased to show ye Gray House, Lady Jane. It’s nae as old as Glengask, but as it was built during the middle of a row with clan MacDonald it’s a grand sturdy old fortress.”

  “Is it haunted?” Sarah Parker asked.

  “Don’t be silly, Sarah,” her sister Susan admonished.

  “Oh, aye, it is,” he replied. “And it’s nae the only one.”

  “Is that true?” Sarah squeaked, looking across the picnic table at Rowena. “Glengask is haunted?”

  Rowena sent Lachlan an annoyed look. “There are stories, of course, but I’ve never seen anything.”

  “That’s nae what ye used to say.” Lachlan had given his word to avoid brawling with any of her male guests; he’d never said he would leave her be. “I recall many a stormy night when ye came running into the billiards room to say old Dougall MacLawry was striding aboot yer bedchamber, playing on his drooned pipes.”

  Beside him Jane shivered. “What are drooned pipes?” she whispered.

  “Drowned pipes,” Rowena said in her careful accent. “Dougall was my five times great-uncle. The story is that he spied the Campbells riding down on Glengask and grabbed up his bagpipes to warn the castle. A Campbell scout snuck up behind him and cut his throat and threw both Dougall and his pipes into the loch.” She gestured at the wind-rippled water behind her. “His warning was heard, though, and the castle stood.”

  “And to this day on stormy nights he sounds his pipes to alert the castle,” Lachlan finished. “So they say.”

  “My heavens,” Sarah breathed. “That’s terrifying.”

  “It’s romantic,” Jane Hanover countered. “Unless you’re not a MacLawry. Which I am.” She smiled. “Or I will be in a few days, anyway.”

  “Is he only seen in your bedchamber, Winnie?” Susan Parker put her hand over her heart.

  “Yes,” she answered, before Lachlan could even open his mouth to reply in the negative. Rowena sent him another hard glare. “My bedchamber was once his,” she lied.

  “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “Is he the only spirit here?” Sarah Parker had her eyes squeezed almost shut in clear dismay.

  From the opposite end of the table Bear pounded his mug against the table, though how he’d managed to obtain beer when the rest of them had to suffer through the damned Madeira, Lachlan had no idea. “I had a ghost hound sleeping across the foot of my bed just last month,” he declared. “Cold as death, it was.”

  The ladies gasped. Except for Rowena, who looked truly dismayed. There she was, trying to make them all look civilized, and Glengask Castle itself stood against her. Lachlan gazed at her for a long moment. She adored ghost stories. He knew that for a fact. But in front of her Sassenach friends, she chose to pretend otherwise.

  “Ye’re daft, Bear,” he heard himself say. “That was yer own wet coat, and ye know it.”

  Jane laughed, and the rest followed suit just like the sheep most of them seemed to be. Lachlan barely noticed, though. His attention remained on Rowena, at the surprise in her tempestuous gray eyes, and the slight curve to her lips before she hid her mouth behind a delicate napkin.

  “If ye want a tale,” he went on, “ye should have Owen tell ye aboot the old Jacobite tunnels below the castle.”

  “They’re nae Jacobite tunnels,” Bear corrected. “There’s nae a Jacobite in ’em.”

  “What are they, then?”

  Munro grinned at Sarah Parker. “Escape tunnels. In case the English army comes calling. If ye need to flee, head fer the kitchen pantry. Then, if ye can brave the rats and spiders and ghosts, ye’ll find yerself oot in one of the canyons close by.”

  “But can’t people get in through the tunnels? That doesn’t seem very secure.”

  “The outside entrance isnae easy to find,” Lachlan continued, glancing again at Rowena to see that she’d relaxed now that her Sassenach friends weren’t being regaled with barbaric, fanciful tales. “It’s impossible to find, really, unless someone’s shown it to ye. Dunnae worry; even if we werenae at peace, ye’d all be safe here.”

  “Precisely,” Rowena added. “Have you decided which games you’ll have for the gathering, by the way?” she asked him.

  At least she was speaking to him, if only because he’d helped her out. “Nae. Fer all yer Sass—friends here, I thought a horse race and mayhap the stone put.” Considering he actually hadn’t given it a moment of thought since she’d ordered him to help organize the games, that seemed fairly tam
e and gentle.

  “May anyone enter these contests?” Samston asked, practically the first noise he’d uttered in better than a day.

  “Aye,” Lachlan answered. “If ye’ve the courage to attempt it, we’re all willing to watch ye fail.”

  The earl’s cheeks darkened. “I’d wager a hundred quid on my King against any Highlands nag.” He sent a pointed glance at Rowena.

  That settled that. Lachlan stood. “Oot of the tent, ye frilly fop,” he growled. “Where there’s more room to beat ye senseless.”

  “Lachlan!” Rowena said sharply. “I will not see a brawl over horse insults.”

  From her expression she knew precisely what had angered him, and that sent his blood boiling. She knew she’d just been insulted, and because she was pretending to be English, he was supposed to ignore it. Not bloody likely. “Dunnae trouble yerself,” he snapped, striding around the table toward Samston. “I’ll nae pummel him until I’ve dragged him oot of sight over the hill.”

  “This is ridiculous!” The earl jumped to his feet, but only to begin moving backward away from Lachlan’s approach.

  “We had a deal, Lord Gray.”

  Rowena’s statement stopped him in his tracks. Clearly she would use this as an excuse to avoid kissing him, even if he’d only leaped to defend her honor. Taking a deep breath, he jabbed a finger into Samston’s chest. “We value our horses here,” he rumbled, “and we dunnae insult another man’s … property unless we’re willing to defend our idiotic commentary with our own blood. Keep that in mind, ye fool.” Turning his back, he walked around the table and resumed his seat.

  A long, awkward silence ensued, and of course Rowena would blame him for that, as well. This would have all been much easier if she still thought he walked on water. Even Bear looked mildly surprised, but then the mountain didn’t know Samston had kissed his sister and been rebuked.

  “So ye two are going to race, then, I take it?” Bear finally said. “Because if ye’re putting a hundred quid on yerself, Samston, I’ll take that wager. Against both of ye.”

  Lord Bask, one of the other Sassenach, then decided to join the race himself, though he was a bit more polite with his bragging about his Arabian, Lucifer. Half the black horses in Mayfair were evidently named Lucifer or Satan, but then Lachlan supposed it made a soft lad feel powerful, to say he rode the devil.

  “Could there be a lady’s race?” Lady Edith asked.

  “Aye. Fair warning, though—Rowena and her Black Agnes have won at the last two games. And those were MacLawry games. We’ll have half a dozen clans here, this time.”

  “I meant to ask you, Winnie,” Jane broke in with her customary good humor, “why did you name a white mare Black Agnes?”

  Rowena smiled. “She’s named after Black Agnes Randolph. She held her keep against the English army even with her husband off fighting elsewhere. The Earl of Salisbury left without breaking Dunbar Castle’s walls after five months of trying. Lachlan’s own mother was called Agnes after her.”

  “So she’s a heroine,” Jane said with a nod. “But not a ghost.”

  Bear shook his head. “Two hundred years ago Parliament ordered Dunbar dismantled so nae two stones lay together. But they say Black Agnes still roams the hillside where it once stood.”

  “Goodness.” Sarah Parker sighed with a smile. “Perhaps I should have asked if there’s anywhere in the Highlands that isn’t haunted.”

  After that the conversation returned to fishing and the dance that Rowena was apparently arranging for tomorrow night. Lachlan hadn’t heard a word about it until then, and he hadn’t been invited, either, but he’d be damned if he’d miss a chance to show Rowena he could dance a jig as well as any English aristocrat.

  “We have more guests arriving,” Bear said, his gaze on the road that wound down by the loch before it climbed up the long hill to Glengask. “Two men, on horseback.”

  It wouldn’t be any Campbells, then, because even with a peace between the clans none of them would dare arrive in such small numbers. And the clan MacLawry chieftains were all bringing family and whoever they’d chosen to compete in the games. Lachlan turned his gaze back to Rowena, to find her watching the figures on the road, as well.

  “James MacMaster and Robert Cranach, do ye reckon?” he said quietly.

  She blinked. “You know about them?” she whispered, leaning across the table toward him.

  He wanted to kiss those slightly parted lips, feel her soft breath on his face. “Aye. Do ye figure they’re more like Cairnsgrove, or Samston?” he returned in the same tone.

  “Hush.” Rowena glanced toward the end of the table, where Cairnsgrove chatted with William Peabody. “Perhaps all I care about is that neither one is you.”

  Well, that cut deeper than he cared to admit. Lachlan forced a smile. “If that was true, lass, ye’d already have chosen a man. And ye havenae, so this race isnae over.”

  “I’m not a trophy to be won.”

  “Nae. Ye choose the winner. Just dunnae ferget, I’m in this race just as much as any other of yer shiny lads. And I dunnae mean to lose.”

  That was the complication, though—she was the MacLawry’s only sister, and Ranulf had left the choice up to her. A hundred years ago, fifty years ago, even, and he would have simply stolen her away in the night, thrown her over his saddle, and found a priest to declare them handfasted.

  Now, though, he was supposed to be a gentleman in a contest with other, more practiced gentlemen. And he already had a black mark against him, simply because he hadn’t realized until a few days ago that she’d become a lovely, desirable young woman.

  He didn’t like it, at all. But unless or until he came up with a better solution, he would have to play her game. Luckily he wasn’t above cheating—or anything else that would help him win.

  * * *

  Half an hour after the pair of riders disappeared around the side of the hill, a trio of men came walking down the path to the loch. Most of the male guests had returned to fishing, but not all of them. Not the one she most wished would go somewhere else and give her time to think.

  It had to be Munro who’d told Lachlan about her newest prospective suitors. Ranulf would never have thought to do so, and Arran wouldn’t on principle. Glaring at her brother’s broad back as he whipped his fishing pole about wouldn’t do her any good now, however. Neither would scowling at Lachlan where he sat between Jane and Edith beneath the canopy and apparently tried to learn how to embroider. Either he was a terrible student, though, or he had most of his attention on the newcomers, as well.

  Dash it, why wouldn’t he go back to fishing? It had all likely been his idea, anyway.

  But he sat there well within hearing—likely still just causing trouble because she no longer found him irresistible. That excuse, though, didn’t make quite as much sense as it had before he’d kissed her at Castle Teàrlag. Before he’d grabbed her up in his arms just as she’d imagined since she’d turned fifteen and her stating she would marry him began to mean something more … romantic. Something sexual.

  Her cheeks heated, and she took a sip of Madeira. Just because she’d had those thoughts about him didn’t mean she couldn’t now have them for anyone else. For heaven’s sake, she’d been ready to fall in love with Samston, until she’d realized that he cared for her wealth more than he did her heart. She’d been excited and hopeful upon meeting Cairnsgrove, even if that had only lasted for ten minutes or so.

  Now, she meant to be cautiously hopeful and wise. Ranulf preferred Lord Robert Cranach. Six months ago she would therefore have chosen anyone but Lord Robert—if, of course, she hadn’t already been set on Lachlan. Well, she wasn’t set on Lachlan any longer, and Ranulf had only asked instead of ordered.

  The tall, imposing man in the middle of the other two couldn’t be anyone other than the Marquis of Glengask. To his right, the man was slighter but stout, with wheat-colored hair and a wide jaw. He wasn’t as handsome as Lachlan, though in all honesty few men were.
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br />   Rowena turned her attention to the man on her brother’s left. The first thing she noticed was his long black riding coat and the way it flapped against the back of his worn black riding boots. Could a coat be romantic? It did seem poetical, at least.

  Beneath the coat he stood taller by half a head than his cousin, his face longer and narrower and his eyes a very pleasing warm brown. He wore his dark gold hair close-cropped and neat, and his gaze moved from her to Ranulf as the men conversed.

  As the trio reached the canopy, she stood, hardly noting as the rest of the ladies present did the same. What she did note was that she very much hoped the man in the black riding coat would be Lord Robert Cranach.

  “Rowena,” Ranulf said, gesturing at her to approach, “I’ve added two more guests to yer list. I hope ye dunnae mind, piuthar.”

  “Of course not, bràthair. The more, the merrier.”

  “Good.” He indicated the shorter man. “Then Rowena, may I introduce ye to James MacMaster? James, my sister, Rowena.”

  “Very pleased, Lady Rowena,” he drawled in a light Highlands accent. But then he spent time in London. Ranulf had told her both Buchanan men did.

  She curtsied. “Likewise, Mr. MacMaster.”

  “And this is Lord Robert Cranach, younger brother to the Marquis of Helvy. Rob, my sister.”

  The black riding coat sketched a very elegant bow. “My Lady Rowena. Ye truly are as lovely as all the gossips say.”

  The Highlands touched his voice as well, but clearly he’d spent a great deal of time elsewhere. Belatedly Rowena inclined her head. “Lord Robert. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  He smiled. “I’m going to be forward, because I see all these lads here looking at ye. I hear you’re holding a dance tomorrow night, and I would very much like a waltz with ye, my lady.”

  Oh, this was much better than she’d expected. “I shall put your name on my card, then.”

  On Ranulf’s other side, Mr. MacMaster gave a loud sigh. “I knew this would happen. A lass casts her peepers on Rob, and the rest of us may as well be goats.”

  Rowena laughed, aware that she likely sounded a little giddy. She certainly felt that way. “Well, if you’ll each lend me an arm, I will be happy to introduce you to everyone.”