“I was angry with him when I was in London. I only told you bad things about him. I think now, for the first time, I’m finally seeing who he truly is. And I like him. Very much.” “Like” wasn’t the correct word, though. But the word she felt in her heart, the one she wanted to use, needed to be said to Lachlan. “We argue now,” she continued. “And he likes that I don’t … worship at his feet.”
“That’s good. It’s … it’s wonderful. Can’t you tell Lord Glengask, then?” Jane persisted, shaking her out of her thoughts.
“I tried to. I think he’s decided he’s heard enough about Lachlan and me.”
Jane’s look was easy to read—it said that perhaps she should be listening to her family and friends since clearly she couldn’t trust herself where Lachlan MacTier was concerned. She knew that wasn’t so any longer, but proving it to anyone else was something she simply didn’t have time for. Not now. Now when she had less than three days to avoid one marriage, see that another one went forward, and clear the path to the future she wanted for herself.
But having Jane on her side would drastically improve her own odds of success, so she took a breath. “In London I told you that I’d never seen Lachlan clearly. He was perfect, a young girl’s daydream come to life. And I didn’t really know any other men except for my brothers, so I had no basis for comparison. Now I do.”
“I seem to remember that you wrote Lachlan every day for a fortnight and he never wrote you back. And he gave you riding boots for your eighteenth birthday.”
“I know. I haven’t forgotten.” Though a few weeks ago the idea of her defending Lachlan’s character would have been laughable, she had a very good idea of how important it was that she be able to convince Jane. For heaven’s sake, if her friend didn’t believe it, how was she supposed to convince Ranulf? Much less herself. “I realized that however I saw us, he saw us as friends. And he saw me as a wee girl. But he’s nae just a handsome face. We’ve been chatting, and he listens to me. I like talking with him. Last night, he sang for me.” She smiled at the memory.
“Last night?” Jane repeated. “I thought you went to bed early.”
Rowena leaned even closer, her grin deepening. “I did. I just didn’t go alone.”
Jane’s mouth opened. “What?”
Chapter Thirteen
“Hush, Jane,” Rowena said, unable to keep the excited amusement from her voice. Jane was likely the only person in the world to whom she could confide such a thing. It was still a risk, but all morning she’d wanted to burst into song herself. This would all be settled for the best. It had to be, because while as a girl she hadn’t been able to imagine a life with anyone but her flawless prince, today she couldn’t imagine spending her days without amusing, witty, stubborn, maddening, handsome Lachlan MacTier. The idea of any man but him kissing her, touching her, holding her, made her feel ill.
“Speak of the devil,” Jane muttered, and Rowena looked up to see Lachlan approaching. The plan had been for them to keep their distance from each other today, but her heart gave a happy thump nonetheless.
“And how’s our dirty Lord Rob?” he asked, falling in beside her as they headed back toward the cluster of tents and canopies.
“He’s convinced ye tried to kill him.”
“Nae. If I’d tried to kill him, he’d be dead.” He glanced past her at Jane. “Are ye still an ally, then?”
“Of course I am.”
“It’s all right, Lach. I told her everything.” Rowena grimaced. “Almost everything.” And Jane had helped without knowing what was going on. She’d waited her entire life for a friend like Jane. Perhaps that had been the best part about London. Making a true friend, and having some time to reflect on not just what she wanted, but who she was.
Lachlan gave Jane an assessing look. To her credit, the younger Hanover sister met his gaze without flinching. Finally he smiled. “I think ye might be part Scottish, Jane.”
“By my sister’s marriage, at least.”
“So, in that case,” he said after a moment, moving between them and offering each an arm, “will Cranach be joining us fer the rope pull?”
“Aye. Jane told him she’d wagered ye two pounds on whether he’d have the courage to appear or not.”
“Then I owe ye my thanks, my lady.”
Jane blushed. “I was helping Winnie. She seems to be smitten with you.”
Lachlan’s warm, slow smile heated Rowena all the way to her bones. “I’m glad to hear that. I know I’m smitten with her.”
Putting her free hand on her hip, Jane eyed him with obvious skepticism. “And you’re certain now? You won’t change your mind?”
“I’m a chieftain of clan MacLawry,” Lachlan said brusquely. “I grew up with Rowena’s brothers as my own family. I’m risking both my friendships and my place in the clan by going up against the MacLawry’s orders. So if I dunnae look certain to ye, Lady Jane, look again. And I’ve enough to answer fer withoot ye biting at me, too.”
This time Jane opened her mouth and closed it again before she nodded. “Now I believe you.”
“Ye’ve some spleen, lass. I’m trusting ye because Rowena does.”
Rowena forgot sometimes that he had a temper. She saw it so rarely that it was an easy thing to discount, though she knew that once when he and Munro had gotten into a fight, her brother had ended with a broken nose and a black eye. Bear said that Lachlan’s temper was akin to a cannon with a very long fuse. His reaction to Jane’s questioning his sincerity made her wonder just how long the fuse had been burning—and how much powder was packed into the cannon.
“What do we do now?” she asked. “Arran’s already pushing back the crowd aboot the rope pull, and Rob’s still with his valet.”
“I’ll worry aboot the rope pull,” he returned. “A nice bagpipe duel should serve. Ranulf’s judging puddings now, but he’ll nae be so distracted in a few minutes. I dunnae trust him nae to realize someaught’s afoot, so try to keep yer distance from him if ye’re able. I’ve put Cranach’s name up fer the stone put and the sheaf toss.”
“Sheep toss?” Jane took up, her eyes widening. “I know the MacLawrys don’t care for sheep, but—”
“Sheaf,” Rowena corrected, laughing. “With an f. Twenty pounds of straw bound inside a sack. The men heave it with a pitchfork over a pair of posts with a pole laid across the top of them, and they raise the center pole higher each time.” She formed an H with her hands, trying to explain.
“Well, thank goodness. I didn’t relish seeing sheep being thrown about.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Lachlan chuckled. “That might nae be a poor idea. Fer next year’s gathering, of course.” As they reached the circle of bustling tents and Highlanders, he edged closer. “Bear knows I’m after ye, but I dunnae think he knows all the circumstances. And it’d be wiser if he didnae.”
There wasn’t much more she could tell Bear even if she wanted to, Rowena reflected. Mostly because of her unwillingness to outright defy Ranulf, all they had was a vague plan to rattle and annoy Lord Rob enough that her dowry and an alliance with the MacLawrys wouldn’t be worth the trouble of having to marry her. If given free rein Lachlan would likely have settled matters by now, but the two of them would also likely have been forced to flee the Highlands.
Yes, she was willing to step right up to the edge, but she still wasn’t certain she could move beyond that line when it came to Ranulf. Not only was he the clan chief, but he was also her oldest brother—and the one who’d stepped up to raise her after the murder of their father and the suicide of their mother. He’d done everything for her, beginning when he’d only been fifteen years old. Three years younger than she was, now. And now it was this, the one thing he’d ever really asked of her, that she couldn’t do.
“Lass,” Lachlan said softly, his breath warm against her cheek, “dunnae ye fret. Yer brothers are my brothers. I’ll do anything I can nae to ruin that. But I’ll nae lose ye.”
She wanted to step into his arms, to res
t her head against his shoulder and hear his heart beating. “I know that, Lach. This isn’t a lark to me, either. And I do trust ye.”
When they caught Ranulf glancing in their direction, Lachlan parted from them and headed over toward where Bear was about to win the stone put. The entire mad scheme seemed more plausible with him at her side, and she held Jane’s hand a little more tightly once he vanished into the crowd.
“What can I do to help?” her friend asked. “Other than to cajole Lord Rob to participate in the competition your Lachlan means to drag him into.”
Her Lachlan. She liked the sound of that. “I’ve desperately wanted to confide in ye for days, Jane. Believe me, ye’re already helping. A great deal.”
“Yes, but lending an ear isn’t very heroic. What else do you need?”
For a moment Rowena considered. “After I fainted last night, Ranulf said he would see to it that Lord Rob proposed to me in a proper and romantic fashion. So don’t leave my side when Rob comes about. Whatever I say.”
“Oh, I excel at being persistent and annoying. Just ask Charlotte. Or Arran.” Jane grinned. “I am now your shadow.”
Rowena hugged her friend. “I’m so glad to have met ye,” she said, tears pushing at her.
“Don’t be silly. I never had any adventures before I met you,” Jane returned. “And in two days we’ll be sisters.”
Yes, they would. In a few short months Rowena had gone from being the only lass in a household of men to being one of at least three ladies. She had one sister-in-law, Mary, who would make her an aunt sometime in the spring. And on Saturday she would have Charlotte, with Jane as a bonus. Then only Bear would need to find a lass, and the game would be tilted in the lasses’ favor. She grinned. That would be something to see.
If she married Rob, that would change, though. She would no longer be a MacLawry. She wouldn’t be living two scant miles from where she’d grown up. Even more than that, she would lose the man who’d been such a large part of her life for so long she couldn’t even imagine not seeing him every day. She couldn’t imagine not being able to kiss him and touch him and chat with him whenever she wanted. It was almost startling how easily he’d gone from being a part of her life to being the most important person in her life. If she couldn’t be with him …
No, she didn’t want to think about that. She’d fled Glengask once because he‘d refused to notice her—or so she’d thought. The idea that she might have to flee again to keep him terrified her, but every minute she spent with him only added to her determination not to lose him again. She just hoped she wouldn’t have to choose between him and her brothers.
Please don’t let it come that, she thought, sending the prayer to Saint Andrew and Saint Bridget and any other helpful soul who might be listening. Please.
* * *
The moment Rob Cranach came into view, Lachlan motioned for the MacLawry drums and pipers to finish up their piece. He couldn’t afford to give Cranach time to consider precisely what was afoot and how much better off he’d be simply to keep his distance.
Arran had been glaring at Lachlan for the past twenty minutes, more or less, except for the time he’d devoted to gazing longingly at his wife—presently seated beside her grandfather, the Duke of Alkirk. A few weeks ago having any Campbells present, much less the chief of the clan, would have been what caught everyone’s attention.
Now, though, Lachlan needed to do three things, simultaneously if possible: beat down Rob Cranach, avoid the eyes and attention of the chief of his own clan, and see and touch Rowena MacLawry whenever possible just to be certain he hadn’t dreamed up the whole thing.
He knew precisely where she was—kneeling in front of a loom at the weavers’ tent and showing Jane Hanover how they went about making the MacLawry plaid. If for no other reason than her importance to and popularity with her own clan, his lass needed to remain a MacLawry. No yellow Buchanan colors would ever suit her, no matter how hard anyone tried to make it so. Not even if the MacLawry himself favored the match.
“For the devil’s sake, Lach, either take hold of the damned rope or forfeit the contest so I can go see Mary,” Arran finally growled at him.
“Ye’re nae worried over her being with the Campbell, are ye?” Lachlan returned, guilt pushing at him. He wasn’t the only one with his heart in the mix today.
“I’m worried he’ll have her naming my firstborn Campbell MacLawry or someaught.” A swift smile pulled at Arran’s mouth. “That’s too much weight fer any bairn to bear.”
“Then go ask the Campbell to judge the contest, why dunnae?”
Arran cocked his head. “I knew ye were a smart one, Lach. But now I cannae ken how ye stay aboot Bear.” With a swift nod he strode over to the well-appointed canopy where the Campbell and his kin had set their chairs.
A moment later the Duke of Alkirk, together with the half-dozen brawny lads whose sworn duty it was to protect their chief, walked up to where they’d laid the rope. “Thank ye fer starting us off, Yer Grace,” Lachlan said, motioning the MacLawry lads behind him to take hold of the rope.
Across the stream a good number of Camerons picked up their end of the rope at the very back of the pull, smart lads that they were. That left the MacDonalds and Campbells in the middle—always a risky proposition—and several Buchanans at the front. They, of course, gave Lord Rob Cranach the lead and worst position, directly across the water and mud from Lachlan.
Stomping his feet to create a base he could brace himself against, Lachlan took a firm grip of the rope. He didn’t much care whether the MacLawrys won or lost; his only goal was to see Cranach fall into the mud-edged stream. If he cracked his head in the process, even better.
“Take hold, lads,” Alkirk instructed, keeping a watchful eye on the ribbon suspended over the water to make certain it didn’t shift one way or the other. “Steady, steady … Pull!”
The rope snapped taut, water droplets flinging into the air. On one side a rainbow of plaid kilts dug into the ground and hauled backward, while on the other side the uniform black and white and red of MacLawry refused to give ground.
“Hold, lads!” Lachlan bellowed, one foot slipping before he could dig in again. “On three! One, two, three!”
As one they heaved backward, churning up the grassy ground. The ribbon granted them two inches, then lost one as the other side regained their footing. It felt like pulling against a mountain.
Lord Robert checked over his shoulder at the heaving, grunting Highlanders behind him. Evidently following Lachlan’s lead, he began counting. As he reached two, Lachlan barked out the order to pull again. This time they gained four inches. The noise from the mostly MacLawry spectators around them drowned out what he was certain was a curse from Cranach.
“And three!” he yelled again, not feeling the least bit ashamed of his strategy.
The MacLawrys pulled, dragging a scrambling Cranach up to the muddy edge of the creek. Lachlan’s arms were beginning to ache, but he refused to shift his grip. He had three days to convince the faux Scotsman to detest the Highlands and the idea of marrying into a family firmly rooted there. Every second, every word, mattered.
They lost an inch to the Buchanans, then reclaimed it. “Come on, lads!” Lachlan grunted. “For the MacLawry and his bride! Pull!”
Cranach’s feet went out from under him. Slow as a dream he slid forward into the water, one hand now clinging to the rope as he tried to keep his kilt from going all the way up his backside. Ha. A true Highlander didn’t care about such nonsense.
Lachlan pulled so hard he went down onto his rump and had to lie nearly flat to keep the tension on the rope. Cranach’s cousin, MacMaster, went over headfirst, dumping both men into the churned-up mess.
The Campbell lowered his hand away from the Buchanans. “MacLawry wins!” he called, likely the first time he’d ever uttered those words. If Lachlan had needed any proof that miracles could happen, that provided it. Now he only needed one more.
Cranach came tearing up
the bank on all fours, like a rabid dog. Dropping the rope, Lachlan shoved to his feet. He hadn’t expected a fight—not yet, anyway—but the idea of putting a fist into Lord Robert’s dainty jaw didn’t trouble him in the least.
“You did this!” Robert sputtered, swiping mud and water from his face.
“Aye,” Lachlan answered, deliberately grinning. “Me and fourteen of my kin. Do ye mean to pummel all of us, or just me? Because I’m happy to oblige, whatever ye decide.”
Abruptly Ranulf stood between them, a solid, immovable wall. “I think all these lads deserve a beer,” he said in a carrying voice. “And then I think we could stand some dancing!”
“That—”
“Come have a word with me, Lord Robert,” Ranulf interrupted over the sound of the stampede toward the tents holding the beer and ale and whisky, and began to put his arm across Cranach’s muddy, sticky shoulders before he evidently rethought the wisdom of that.
The brief glance Glengask sent at Lachlan barely lasted a heartbeat, but it chilled him to the bone. Then the marquis led the dripping Buchanan up toward the castle, a handful of men and the two deerhounds in tow.
Damnation. How far did Ranulf intend to go in placating the poor excuse for a Highlander? Just what did he want from the Buchanans that made him willing to soothe an idiot’s pride for something as half-witted as losing a fair contest? If Ranulf simply added more concessions to Rowena’s dowry every time Cranach sneezed, this plan of theirs was not going to work.
Cursing again, Lachlan wiped his sore hands on his kilt. It could just as easily have been him in the water. He’d certainly been willing to risk it. Hiding his frown, he walked through the crowd bent on congratulating him and hoped he hadn’t just lost the war.
* * *
Adam James, the Earl of Samston, looked from Lady Rowena MacLawry, seated at one of the scattered tables placed across the meadow, to the Marquis of Glengask. The MacLawry, as they called him, seemed in a hurry to apologize to Lord Robert Cranach for somehow permitting that fellow to be yanked into the mud.
Mad, Bad, and Dangerous in Plaid Page 21