Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I’ll nae say his name while I’m in here with ye, lass. But I assume he didnae remember the dance?”

  Rowena settled against him again, her breath soft and warm on his chest. “If he ever knew it.”

  Did he detect a note of disdain? He could gloat, he supposed, but that didn’t seem productive. It could come back to haunt him. This “being a gentleman” nonsense was just that, but he cared for her feelings, and so he altered what he wanted to say. “He’s the lad yer bràthair wants ye to wed, Rowena. And he was chosen fer his English culture, because that’s what ye say ye value. Ye cannae expect him to know the ways of the Highlands, too.”

  “And you only know the ways of the Highlands, I presume?”

  “I know a bit more than that. I can quote ye a bit of Keats, if ye wish: ‘Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen.’”

  She chuckled. “I had no idea.”

  “That’s because I generally read at night, after I go back to Gray Hoose.” Outside the pipes began another song, the accompanying words echoing up from the meadow.

  “That’s ‘Flowers of the Forest,’” she commented. “Isn’t that a bit somber for a celebration?”

  “Ye know us Scots: Always ready to celebrate, and always remembering death’s but a poorly spoken word away.” He listened for a moment, then began to softly sing.

  Dool and wae for the order sent oor lads tae the Border!

  The English for ance, by guile wan the day,

  The Flooers o’ the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,

  The pride o’ oor land lie cauld in the clay.

  Rowena turned onto her stomach, resting her chin on her hands atop his chest to watch him. “That’s what frightens me, you know,” she said quietly. “Not the English—not this time, anyway—but how fragile this peace that you and Ranulf and Arran have managed for us is. What do you think would happen if I did turn Rob away? I don’t mean just with him, but with clan Buchanan. And don’t lie to me.”

  “I wouldnae lie to ye. I never have.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Nae?”

  “Nae.”

  Rowena almost wished she hadn’t asked the question, and not just because Lachlan hadn’t wanted to say Rob’s name while they were lying entwined and naked, on her bed. But she’d become accustomed to confiding in Lachlan, she realized. And as she recalled, he did always seem to tell her the truth, or at the least tell her that he couldn’t or wouldn’t discuss a certain topic with her. Arran and Ranulf would tease, Bear would distract, but Lachlan answered her questions. And if she was remembering all the times he’d failed to return her romantic interest, she supposed it was only fair that she also remember the good things about him. The good things that for three months she’d forgotten.

  “Bear reckons that Ranulf wants the Buchanan merchant contacts in America,” he said after a moment, his left arm draped loosely over her back. The easy possessiveness of the gesture was … arousing.

  “And do ye agree?”

  “Nae. I think Ranulf wants the wool manufacturers.”

  “But we don’t raise sheep.”

  “Nae. What we do have are cotters in need of employment, though. And I think Ranulf would appreciate the irony of those who lost their lands because of sheep making their living because of ’em.”

  For a long moment she gazed at his face, his expression unreadable in the half dark. “You aren’t helping, ye know.”

  He shrugged beneath her. “Ye asked me a question. I answered it.”

  “Then why should I marry ye? If I could, I mean.”

  She expected that to make him angry. In some ways, she preferred that he be angry. When they argued she found it much easier to recall his less attractive qualities. Because of course she knew them all.

  His hand stroked slowly down her spine. “Ye should marry me because I adore ye, my fierce lass. I ken how stubborn ye are, how ye like all yer gowns to have lace, how ye dunnae mind spiders but roaches make ye scream.”

  Her heart gave a warm thud. “Go on. What else do ye know about me?”

  Lachlan smiled. “I know ye like sad songs, but prefer Shakespeare’s comedy—especially The Taming of the Shrew. Yer favorite color is lavender. And ye truly do think ye saw the ghost of old Dougall MacLawry and his pipes in this room with ye one night during a storm.”

  “But did ye believe me about it?”

  “Aye. I saw the look on yer face, and I did believe ye. Why do ye think I ran up here with a dagger in my hand when ye came downstairs screaming?”

  Her brothers had run up to her bedchamber, too, angry in a way she hadn’t understood until much later. They’d thought a strange man had been in her bedchamber, though. Evidently only Lachlan was willing to admit that he believed the story she’d told. She believed it; even now, as a woman grown, she kept her eyes closed on stormy nights.

  She kissed his chest. “That’s nice of you to say, anyway.”

  He lifted an eyebrow as he tucked his free arm beneath his head. “I’m nae nice. I told ye, I dunnae lie to ye, Rowena.”

  “Then tell me something. Truthfully.” It would likely be wiser to stop asking questions, to stop thinking, and to simply enjoy being with him while she could. But perhaps he’d thought of a solution to this predicament even if she hadn’t been able to conjure a single thing. “You know what Ranulf said. I’m to marry Lord Rob. So why do you keep talking about marrying me?”

  “It’s nae just me talking aboot it, Rowena. And until ye’ve said yer vows to another man, I’m nae giving ye up. Nae even then, truth be told.”

  She brushed at her eyes and the tears that threatened to overflow them. “Why is it now, after I thought to walk away from you, that I finally believe you like me?”

  “Because I do like ye. I love ye, Rowena. Mayhap it took ye slapping my face to open my eyes, and mayhap ye have changed some, or I have, but I adore ye. And I willnae let ye go.” His arm tightened across her back.

  “Ranulf says ye will.”

  Lachlan sat up, pulling the sheets up over her chilled legs and shifting so he could lean back against the headboard. She moved, too, twining her fingers with his and resting her cheek against his shoulder. Why could she imagine being with him like this every night? Why could she imagine waking in his arms and listening to him sing to her in his lovely baritone? And why did London seem the silly daydream now, when she finally had it in her grasp?

  “What, precisely, did Ranulf say?” he asked, brushing hair from her eyes. “Other than the bit aboot him having Cranach propose to ye properly?”

  Rowena sighed. “Are ye looking for a secret passage away from this mess? Because I doubt Ranulf would allow such a thing to slip by him.”

  “Just tell me, lass. Unless ye are getting precisely what ye want.”

  “That’s not fair, Lachlan. I asked him for time to choose between the two of you.” Although as she considered it, she’d truly been asking for time to reconcile to letting Lachlan go. And four days wouldn’t be nearly enough time. A hundred years wouldn’t be enough time for her to choose to give him up. Not any longer.

  For a long moment he sat silently beside her. She felt the rise and fall of his chest as he took a deep breath. “I’d say yer time is up, Rowena. Forgetting everything else, who would ye choose?”

  Within the half-dozen heartbeats it took him to ask the question, she knew the answer. She’d thought it would be more difficult, and perhaps it should have been, but when it came down to nothing but a choice between civilized Lord Robert Cranach and wild Lachlan MacTier, it was very, very simple.

  “I would choose you,” she whispered.

  He tilted her chin up and kissed her soft and slow and long. “Thank Saint Andrew fer that.”

  When she could breathe—and think—again, she scowled. “But it doesn’t matter. Ranulf said that when Lord Rob proposes to me, I am to give my consent.”

  His fingers tightened around hers. “That’s how he said it? When
Cranach proposes, ye’re to agree?”

  She nodded. “Aye. What—”

  “So he doesnae consider yer fainting to mean ye agreed to anything. In Glengask’s eyes, ye’re nae yet engaged.”

  “What does that—”

  Lachlan straightened, turning to face her. “What if Cranach doesnae propose to ye, then?” His eyes glinted ferociously.

  “Ye can’t kill him!” she exclaimed, alarmed. “It would be the start of a war with the Buchanans.”

  “Which we would win handily,” he said absently, his mind clearly spinning some plot or other. “But nae. I’d only kill him as a last resort.”

  “Lachlan.”

  “What if fer some reason he decides nae to propose to ye? Ranulf wants to announce yer betrothal at the wedding feast. If it’s nae to Cranach, it’ll have to be to me.”

  “But why would he not propose?” She flushed as he lifted an eyebrow at her. “I don’t mean because I’m an irresistible siren or something. I mean because of my dowry, and whatever Ranulf has decided to grant clan Buchanan upon our wedding.”

  His slow, sly grin both worried and aroused her. He might not be plotting a murder, but she doubted Ranulf or anyone else would approve whatever he was thinking. She wasn’t certain she would approve it, though if he would always look at her in that same intense, possessive way, she could likely be convinced to attempt just about anything.

  “First, tell me what ye know about Cranach,” he said, moving over her again with his clever mouth. “Everything ye know.”

  She moaned at his touch. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about him while you were in bed with me,” she managed, sinking backward onto the soft pillows.

  “Oh, I’ll talk aboot him if it gives me a way to keep ye from him, my fierce, bonny lass.”

  Rowena twined her arms around his shoulders. This was going to be trouble. All her life her brothers had indulged her and spoiled her, and if Lachlan managed what he was about to attempt, she was going to terribly disappoint Ranulf. What Lachlan had said earlier continued to sink into her, though. She wasn’t infatuated with him any longer. She wasn’t blind to the man he truly was. And that man, the one holding her in his arms and kissing her, oh, everywhere, was turning out to be much more interesting and much more compelling than the one she’d imagined.

  The idea of giving him up, even in exchange for employment for the cotters they kept taking in, didn’t seem fair. It wasn’t acceptable, in fact, and she meant to do what she could to keep Lachlan MacTier, the real, true Lachlan MacTier, in her life. This time, forever.

  Chapter Twelve

  Going against Ranulf MacLawry’s wishes was a risky proposition under the best of circumstances. Removing Rowena from Glengask’s plans, halting an alliance with the Buchanans, and directly countermanding his orders would be something most of his clansmen, much less one of his dozen chieftains, would never even contemplate.

  Lachlan, though, meant to do more than contemplate defiance. He meant to see it through and take for himself what had been promised to another man. And he now had three days in which to do it.

  The morning was to begin with the men’s horse race. Yawning, Lachlan oversaw Beowulf being saddled, and then trotted him the two miles to Glengask to warm him up. They likely wouldn’t be winning the race, but it had to look like he’d tried.

  He found Glengask’s head groom in the stable yard, barking orders as a dozen geldings and stallions were led out and walked about the yard. “Good morning, Debny.”

  “M’laird.”

  “I dunnae see Prince,” Lachlan commented, unwilling to waste precious time with small talk.

  “Lord Robert’s black? Nae, he’s nae entered in the race.”

  “Hm. We’ll see aboot that.”

  With that he entered the castle through one of the side doors and made his way up to the large breakfast room. Cranach sat at the table, a large plate in front of him. And he was seated beside Rowena, damn him, as if matters had already been settled. Well, they hadn’t. And they wouldn’t be. Not the way Cranach believed, anyway.

  Rather than walking straight in to begin the game, Lachlan leaned against the door frame and watched Rowena. Long eyelashes half hid her quicksilver-gray eyes, and the smile on her oval face looked forced—which didn’t surprise him. Whatever happened, she would be right in the middle of it. He would protect her, and he would stand beside her through all of it, but eventually she would have to tell her brother her own mind. It all came down to that.

  This morning she also looked tired, and for that he refused to apologize. He’d stayed in bed with her until just before dawn, and had barely made it out the side door before the kitchen servants rose. For a moment or two he’d even weighed the consequences to both of them if he simply allowed himself to be caught in her bedchamber. If Ranulf wanted an alliance with the Buchanans, though, he would find a way to get it—unless Lachlan and Rowena took the opportunity out of his hands altogether.

  Finally he pushed upright and strolled into the room. “Are ye certain ye should be eating so heavily before a horse race, Cranach?” he drawled.

  In response a dozen pairs of eyes looked up at him, but only two of them mattered. He exchanged a glance with Rowena, then clenched his jaw and turned his gaze to Lord Robert.

  “I find the quantity of bread and gravy I consume has nothing to do with my enjoyment of viewing a horse race,” Cranach returned, with his customary faint, slightly condescending smile.

  “Oh,” Rowena said, then covered her mouth and looked down again.

  Lachlan hid his own grin. She was in it with him, his Rowena. Before dawn he’d been certain, but they’d been on different paths for so long that for a moment he’d had his doubts that she would go through with it now that the sun was up and she couldn’t blame any madness on a dream. But she was still with him, by God. “What’s amiss, lass?” he asked, in case Lord Robert didn’t bother to inquire.

  “Nothing, of course. I … Oh, it’s silly.”

  “What’s silly, Winnie?” Robert finally queried. “Ye must tell us.”

  “It’s just that after I won the ladies’ race, I mentioned to Jane and Edith that we—you and I, Rob—would be a triumphant duo once you won the men’s race. I didn’t know I was going to be the only one competing.”

  Oh, well done, lass, Lachlan thought silently. “Well, perhaps he can recite poetry to ye while I win the prize, Rowena.”

  “I’m going to be watching the race,” she returned, real excitement touching her voice. “Not listening to poetry.”

  “A pity it’s too late for me to enter, then,” Rob commented, his smile fading a little.

  “Oh, it’s nae too late, m’laird.” This time it was Owen, Glengask’s head footman and London butler, who spoke up. “I’ll run oot myself and tell ’em to saddle yer pony if ye wish it.”

  “Grand!” Rowena exclaimed, then subsided again, but not before she sent Lachlan a glance that warmed him to his bones. “I mean, it would be grand. It’s up to you of course, Rob. As I said, it’s all for fun.”

  Cranach inclined his head. “I suppose I’m racing, then.”

  “I’ll see ye at the starting line. And ye’d best stop piling on that gravy.”

  By the time they all lined up at the start, there were twenty-six horses entered, everything from shaggy mountain ponies to Lord Samston’s black Thoroughbred. That was good; the more confusion and muddle, the better. The men’s course was twice the length of the ladies’, and it wound behind boulders and into the tree line in several places.

  Bear and his big gray stallion, Saturn, were in the mix, as well, though, and that could be a problem. Munro had said he supported a match between Rowena and him, but Lachlan wasn’t certain how close his friend would be willing to get to directly defying Ranulf. Even if that wasn’t precisely what they were doing, it was close enough.

  “I talked to Ranulf last night, after ye left,” Bear said in his version of a low voice, reining up beside Lachlan and Beow
ulf. “He wants Winnie happy and married and nae sighing over ye any longer, Lach.”

  “And I want Rowena happy and married to me,” he returned, settling into the saddle as Arran appeared with the flag. “And I want her here, in the Highlands, and not at Fort William or in London for most of the year and nae wearing another clan’s colors. Nearly the same thing.”

  “Aye, if dirt and water are the same.”

  Lachlan took a breath. “I know what Ranulf wants. And I think I know what Rowena wants. All I ask is that ye keep what I said to yerself, and ye dunnae interfere, Munro.”

  “I reckon I’ll wait and see a bit before I decide that.”

  “Fair enough.” Lachlan nodded. It wasn’t a rousing endorsement, but Glengask hadn’t appeared with a rifle in his hands, so it would have to do. For now, anyway.

  “Gentlemen!” Arran called in a carrying voice. “And Scotsmen!” That elicited some laughter, and the middle MacLawry brother grinned. “On yer mark. Set. Go!” And he lowered the flag.

  The course all across the meadow was lined with spectators, so Lachlan settled in a length or so behind Prince and waited. Samston and his Devil or Satan or whatever the black’s name was sprinted into the lead. The Sassenach could gallop all the way back to London, for all Lachlan cared. It wasn’t the earl who concerned him.

  The second he was out of sight of the spectators and into the trees, Lachlan kicked Beowulf in the ribs. With no noticeable effort the bay closed on Prince. They drew even, and then pulled half a length ahead. Lachlan shifted right in the saddle. In response, Beowulf veered hard to the left. Prince saw them coming and edged left as well, sending Cranach whipping into the low-hanging branches at the edge of the trail.

  “Whoa, boy, none o’ that!” Lachlan yelled, straightening and making a show of tightening up on the reins. They fell back again as the course rounded out to the edge of the meadow.

  “What the devil was that?” Bear asked, coming up hard on his right.

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen ye ride, Lach.”

  Lachlan scowled. “It was a Highlands hello. Ye said ye’d stand back.”