Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid

by Suzanne Enoch

  He looked as well and properly dressed as any English gentleman present—better, in fact, than most of them. She hadn’t even known that he owned Sassennach clothes, or that he would ever deign to wear them if he did.

  Before Robert Cranach could question why she was staring, mouth agape, the waltz ended. Belatedly she joined in the applause, then smiled at her partner. “That was lovely. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, my lady. It was my pleasure.” He glanced from her to Lachlan and back again. “A rival, I presume?”

  “Lachlan? Heavens, no.” She deliberately waited until Lord Gray was in hearing before she continued. “He’s always saying he’s like another brother to me.”

  “A brotherhood of Highlanders, I reckon,” Lachlan countered. “I apologize fer being late, Rowena. We planted half the south field before I realized the cattle werenae coming in through the fence. They were coming doon the stream bed and up the far side. So I’ve a bonny new fence along the bank, now.”

  She wanted to say she hadn’t even noticed he wasn’t there, but it sounded petty even in her own head. Aside from that, planting a field only to have it trampled and eaten could be a disaster—not just for Lachlan, but for his cotters and the miller and all the related shopkeepers and on and on. Ranulf always said the smallest of disasters could cause much larger ones.

  “Well done, then,” she said instead.

  “It’s nae as exciting as a soiree, but it couldnae wait until tomorrow.” He took in the white-and-gold-decorated ballroom. “I hope I didnae miss all the good dances.” Sharp green eyes met hers.

  “Only the first four,” Rob answered for her. “I see your brother is looking at me rather pointedly. Will ye excuse me, lass?”

  “Of course.”

  “So Glengask was looking at him, eh?” Lachlan said, mimicking Rob’s lighter accent with surprising accuracy. “I dunnae suppose Ranulf has looked at anyone else half as pointedly tonight.”

  Rowena turned her back and went to find Jane. She was not going to listen to him making fun of the man she was most likely going to marry. And Jane might well need her help. The only thing worse than her friend falling for Lachlan would be seeing her lose her heart to Munro. Most ladies had learned by now not to risk anything that precious where her brother was concerned.

  A hand caught her arm. “One glare?” Lachlan said, moving around in front of her. “That’s a wee effort, Rowena.”

  “Why did you dress like an Englishman?”

  He glanced down at his splendid attire and straightened his coat. “English is what ye say ye like, isnae?”

  “You’re not English, however you decide to dress.”

  Lachlan gestured at Rob’s retreating backside. “Neither is Lord Rob Cranach.”

  “No, he’s a Highlander. Unlike you, though, he can discuss the theater and fashion and literature.”

  “So can Cairnsgrove.”

  “But Rob also tells me I’m pretty and desirable and he doesn’t argue with me over everything. He likes me.”

  “He likes what yer dowry can do fer the Buchanans, ye mean.”

  Rowena clenched her fist. “Now you’ve insulted both Rob and me. You deserve a slap for that.”

  “But ye’ll nae do that, will ye, lass?” He grinned, and she involuntarily glanced at his mouth before she caught herself. “If this was a Highlands party, ye would.”

  He was quite possibly the most aggravating man she’d ever met, Rowena decided. “I thought you were attempting to look and act like an Englishman,” she said as evenly as she could. “If that’s the case, I’m afraid it’s a very poor impersonation.”

  Moss-green eyes studied her for a long moment. “Ye wish me nae to speak what’s on my mind, then,” he finally murmured, “and to smile and tell ye flattering things to convince ye that I’m the lad for ye. I can manage that.”

  “That isn’t—” With a barely stifled growl she stopped herself. She could protest that he had to mean what he said, but he would only counter that she had no way of knowing whether he—or anyone else—was being sincere or not. And then she would begin to wonder how many of Rob’s compliments were calculated to win her approval. Damn it all, she couldn’t help doing that now. “Don’t bother,” she said instead.

  “Nae. I’ll be a gentleman fer ye, lass.” With that he offered his arm, giving her the choice of walking with him or stomping away like a madwoman from what looked like a very proper gesture.

  She wrapped her hand around his sleeve. “Take me to the refreshment table.”

  They walked in that direction, though he seemed to be taking a rather roundabout route. “Ye see? Very proper.”

  “Don’t talk to me.”

  “But then I cannae say yer hair is black and shiny as a raven’s wings, or that yer eyes are the color of a stormy sky.”

  She dug her fingers into the cloth around his arm. “That’s not flattery,” she stated. “You’re only making a mockery of gentlemanly behavior.”

  “Am I now?” He lifted an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “You only picked poetical items with the correct colors, as if I’m supposed to think you think of me poetically. We both know you don’t, though.”

  “So I should’ve said yer eyes glare at me like an angry wildcat’s, and yer hair’s as black as my own heart? I’ve nae heard any Sassenach be that honest.”

  “Perhaps not,” she admitted, refusing to be amused. “But from you, I require honesty.” Rowena grimaced. “I viewed you through a rainbow’s colors for far too long.” She’d asked him for honesty, so she supposed she was obligated to be truthful, herself.

  “Is that it, then?” he asked abruptly, lowering his arm and turning to face her squarely, looking down to meet her upturned gaze. “Ye imagined me to be some sort of Galahad, and now ye blame me because I’m nae the man that I never was?”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” She started past him, but he shifted to block her path.

  “Aye, it does,” he countered. “And ye still have that rainbow wrapped aboot ye. It colors how ye look at all these lads. Ye’re fooling yerself, Rowena. And I’m the only one ye see clearly now. It scares ye, doesnae? After all that talk aboot London and gentlemen and Society, the man ye’ve always wanted was me. And now ye’ve realized I’m nae some Beau Brummell, so ye cannae admit ye still like me.”

  “I can’t admit I still like you, because I don’t,” she protested, her jaw beginning to ache from being clenched so hard. “You’re the worst man I know.”

  “I’m the only one nae pretending to be someaught I’m not,” he snapped, the line of his mouth flattening.

  “Ha!” she retorted. “Look at yerself, dressed like a Sassenach because ye think that’s what I want.”

  “Aye, I did dress fancy fer ye. But now I’ve figured ye oot, and I willnae do it again.”

  “Ye dunnae have any idea aboot me! Now leave this house before I—”

  “The two of ye separate. Now.” Ranulf stepped between them so quickly it startled her. “Whatever the devil’s got ye fighting, ye can settle it tomorrow. Lachlan, ye’d best leave.”

  “Nae,” the viscount countered, to Rowena’s surprise. Lachlan was Ranulf’s closest ally. He always acted to support and enforce Glengask. Always.

  “Dunnae make me ask ye a second time. Go. I’ll talk with ye tomorrow.”

  “Rowena promised me a waltz. I mean to have it.”

  The heated tone of his voice surprised her. No one spoke to Ranulf like that, especially when he was being so evenhanded. But Lachlan didn’t seem to care. Rather, his gaze remained fixed on her, as if nothing else—no one else—existed. None of this was a jest, she realized. He did want her for himself.

  Abruptly the floor seemed to fall away from beneath her, leaving her scrambling for balance, a toehold, anything to keep her from gaping at him, openmouthed. Lachlan MacTier wanted her. Her. For eighteen years nearly every waking and sleeping thought had centered on this man. And as she struggled to keep her expression
level, she realized she truly had no idea how to react to him now. It didn’t change anything, of course—it couldn’t. But even so … If nothing had changed about what she meant to do with her life, why did she feel so … different, suddenly?

  “I cannae have outsiders seeing MacLawrys fighting amongst ourselves, Lach. I willnae have it.” Ranulf’s gaze could have frozen water.

  Oh, no. This was not supposed to happen. Rowena tried to bring her thoughts back into some kind of order. Lord Gray was an integral part of the clan. If something happened to change that—and it now seemed quite possible—none of them would be the better for it. And however confused she felt, she certainly didn’t want Lachlan banished, anyway. “I—”

  Abruptly Bear put his arm across Lachlan’s shoulders. “What say we go doon to the Bonny Bruce and ye buy us a large quantity of liquor?” he rumbled.

  Lachlan shrugged out of her brother’s grip, then visibly shook himself. “I dunnae need ye to drink with me. I can see to it myself.” With a last look at Rowena, he turned on his heel and left the ballroom.

  “What the devil was that aboot?” Munro demanded, frowning at her.

  “I don’t have time to discuss it with you,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned and gather her wits back together. “I have guests to see to.”

  “Rowena,” Ranulf said, his tone iron.

  “I don’t want to cause a scene, Ranulf. Please.”

  His shoulders lowered. “Aye. Ten o’clock in the morning, in my office.”

  She nodded. “Thank you.”

  So now she had twelve hours to decide what to tell Ranulf, when she didn’t even know what to tell herself. All she wanted was a proper, romantic life with a man who might care for her as much as she cared for him.

  And now the man she’d once thought of as her knight in shining armor was acting like a madman. Everything would be simpler if Lachlan just stayed away. At the same time she couldn’t rid herself of her thoughts about his scheduled visit for later tonight—not because she looked forward to his kiss, but because she worried about the trouble he might make if he decided she’d broken their bargain.

  * * *

  “That was … unsettling,” Bear rumbled. “I dunnae think I’ve ever seen the two of them argue. Tease, aye, but nae fight.”

  “She always agreed with everything he uttered, before,” Ranulf returned, watching as his sister and youngest sibling pasted a smile on her face and went to ask her uncle Myles to dance a quadrille with her. For a lass so interested in being married, and one with a dozen eager lads dancing attendance on her at her own soiree, Myles was a curious choice. Unless, that was, she needed a moment to shake off thoughts of someone else.

  “Are ye expecting Rob Cranach to offer fer her?” Munro swung around to pin a look at the Marquis of Helvy’s brother.

  “Aye, I expect he will.”

  “Mayhap she felt the need to tell Lach that he missed his chance. Though that would likely make him happy. Could be he said that, though. I—”

  “Bear, ye’ll set yer brains on fire if ye keep thinking so hard.” Ranulf clapped him on the shoulder. “I reckon we’ll nae decipher any of it tonight.”

  “Am I missing someaught?”

  “I’d say that’s more likely than nae,” Ranulf answered, because Munro would expect some sort of insult, and he wasn’t willing to raise his brother’s suspicions until he’d deciphered for himself what in Saint Bridget’s name was afoot.

  “Ah. Ye go ahead and jest, then, and I’ll remind ye that in a week ye’ll be standing before God and most of the clans while ye wed a Sassenach lass.”

  A sliver of uneasiness went through Ranulf, not because he hesitated to wed Charlotte, but because of all the guests this wedding would attract. Through an equal measure of effort and blind luck he’d managed peace with the Campbells. With so many uncertain allies and secret rivals about to be in attendance, anything could happen.

  And that was the other reason he wanted Rowena’s husband chosen and her future secured. She was eighteen now, and she’d made it known that she was available and looking for a husband. The sister of the MacLawry, and the power and wealth she represented, could prove too tempting—and if someone stole her away against her will or against his wishes, that would mean war.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Bear,” he said aloud, “and ye remember that my wedding will be a grand time for me to find ye a wife.”

  “Ye’re a cruel man, Glengask,” Munro returned, for the first time looking somewhat concerned.

  “Aye. Ye’ve no idea. Now go dance with someone.”

  Left to himself for a rare moment, Ranulf cast his gaze around the room. Charlotte stood with Arran and his Mary, the trio laughing at something or other. Rowena still danced with their Sassenach uncle, Myles Wylkie, the flush slowly fading from her cheeks. Half the room away the two Buchanans, Lord Rob and his cousin James, were deep in what looked to be a serious conversation. Rob was no fool that he could tell, and if Cranach saw Lachlan as competition for Rowena he might well decide to offer sooner rather than later. And that might be best for everyone concerned.

  * * *

  The Bonny Bruce tavern in Mahldoen was generally a good place to find a lad willing to throw a few punches. Tonight, though, the place was quieter than death—no doubt because the chieftains and the other clans would begin arriving tomorrow. The village would be patched and mended and everyone dressed in their Sunday best, and black eyes and split lips wouldn’t be welcome.

  “Another fer ye, Lord Gray?” the tavern master asked, and Lachlan nodded.

  “Aye. A last one fer the road, if ye please.”

  “I thought ye’d be up at the castle fer Lady Winnie’s dance,” Tim continued, topping off the well-used mug with ale. “Ye look fancy enough fer it.”

  Lachlan made a dismissive gesture. “Too many Sassenach and their frills.”

  “Aye. They do spend a fair bit of coin, at least.”

  They had one redeeming quality, then. What the devil was it that Rowena admired so much about them? Talking about the theater made no sense when the nearest one was better than sixty miles away in Inverness. The same with Paris fashion. That lacy, silk nonsense wouldn’t last a week out in the Highlands.

  Did she truly want to leave the Highlands for good? Whatever she said, he couldn’t quite believe that. This was a place that ran through a man’s blood and sank into his soul. A lass, even one with education who’d seen the gaslights of London, couldn’t simply decide she belonged elsewhere.

  Hell, if she wanted to visit fancy places he would be happy to take her to London, whenever she wished. He’d have a theater built in An Soadh and he’d hire actors to fill it, if she wanted it.

  But if the rub was about him not being English, then why had she been twirling about the dance floor with Rob Cranach? The man was a Highlander, even if he generally chose to be seen as otherwise. Lachlan frowned. Aye, that was Lord Rob—a fellow who’d wear his kilt when it was to his advantage to appear Scottish, and who in the next breath could laugh at the quaint Highlanders and say he spent most of his time elsewhere.

  Scowling, Lachlan looked down at the proper Sassenach clothes he’d borrowed from Arran. Clearly he wasn’t as skilled a hypocrite as some, and he knew he didn’t belong in this attire. He’d thought to impress Rowena, but she’d known instantly what he was about. “Damned fool,” he muttered at himself.

  Tim brought over a pitcher of beer. “Are ye set on ale, m’laird? I’ve a fine brew Tom MacNamara the miller and I’ve concocted.”

  Two swallows emptied his mug, and Lachlan held it out. “Let’s have it, then.”

  The tavernkeeper grinned. “I knew ye’d be game fer it. Ye’re a good sort, if I do say so myself.”

  Tonight Tim would likely be in the minority with that opinion. In truth Lachlan felt ready for anything tonight, except that nothing offered itself. Something, though, began tickling at the back of his brain. Game. The games. They were set to take place over the two
days before the wedding, and Bear had left the planning of it to him.

  What had he told Rowena’s guests? That he’d figured horse races and stone throwing would be the most … appropriate for them, gentle folk that they were. But these games weren’t meant to impress the Sassenach. Rowena might like to think otherwise, but this was about clan MacLawry. About showing the other clans, and their own, that Glengask and his chieftains and his people were not to be trifled with. The games were about the Highlands.

  Rowena loved the games. She always had, anyway, and he doubted even three months in London could change that. Lachlan grinned. She was a damned Highlander, and he would prove that only another Highlander—a true Highlander, not just a man who wore the costume from time to time—would do for her.

  By his reckoning it was past three o’clock in the morning when he left the Bonny Bruce and swung up on Beowulf for the three-mile ride back to Gray House. Generally he would have had at least one of his men with him, because a MacLawry chieftain out alone in the dark could be a dangerous proposition. Tonight, though, enough anger and frustration still curled through his bones that he would welcome a bit of trouble.

  Most of the lights at Glengask were out as he rounded the path by the loch, so the soiree must have been over with—or nearly so. With a frown he turned up the road toward the house. He knew precisely which windows belonged to Rowena, and they all still flickered and glowed with candlelight.

  She owed him a kiss. Was she up there waiting for him in her lovely lavender gown, or was she still in the ballroom dancing about in Lord Robert’s arms?

  He wanted to know, and he wanted his mouth on hers. He wanted to strip the lavender silk from her soft skin and put his mouth on her, and be inside her and claim her for himself.

  But he wanted her to have those same thoughts about him, feel the same … need that he did. And drunk or sober, he knew perfectly well that at this moment she didn’t. Or rather, she’d convinced herself that he was some nebulous fairy prince of her dreams, and that London had awakened her.