Some Like it Scot

by Suzanne Enoch

  “All this time,” she muttered, in between kisses, “I’ve been thinking I’m only trouble fer ye, that ye felt obligated to take me in because ye were the one to find me. Ye’re the only … person I’ve ever met who makes me feel like me, and be happy aboot it. Even my athair—he wanted to see a lad. I’m a poor excuse fer a lass, and I dunnae want to cause so much trouble fer ye, Bear.”

  “Didnae ye hear me a moment ago?” he returned, setting her back on her feet but not releasing his grip on her waist. “I like trouble. I’m a damned Highlander when we seem to be a dying breed, and ye’re a damned Highlands lass. Nae an excuse fer one.”

  “We are a couple of misfits, I reckon,” she said, her dark brown eyes shining with unshed tears.

  “Aye. And I want ye with me. If that’s where ye want to be.”

  Catriona nodded. “With ye is precisely where I want to be, Munro.”

  He held her gaze. “Whatever happens.”

  Her deep breath pushed at the already tight bosom of her gown. “Whatever happens. We stay together. And ye’re nae making me wear this gown. I chose to try it oot. I’ve naught against dressing like a lass. I just never had a reason to risk embarrassing myself by attempting it, before.”

  There. That was what he wanted. Her. As for the rest—his family, her family, her betrothed—they could stomp their feet and make threats and even expel them from the clan. If he had Catriona MacColl, he had everything he needed.

  Finally he let her go. “Very well, then. Do ye still want to be in a gown, or shall we burn it?”

  The grin touched her mouth again. “I want to be able to wear it withoot looking like a half-wit. Ye may like me as I am, but ye’d be the only one.” She put a hand over his mouth before he could protest that. “Ye cannae deny, both yer brothers have a notion of what sort of lass I am. If we’re to stand before them—whether ye mean to cast them aside or nae—I’d like to be able to show them I’m nae some madwoman.”

  For Saint Andrew’s sake, he could understand wanting to be like everyone else. To not be noted for his size or the nickname he’d had since he was eight years old, to be able to walk into a proper soiree and not have every eye turn to look at him and wonder if he’d be tromping on everyone’s toes. Oddly enough, the only time he didn’t mind being called a giant was when she said it to him. “Then get back to gliding aboot the room, woman,” he said, with a grin of his own.

  “I’d like to see ye look graceful in these things,” she returned, but resumed walking.

  “I can ask yer sister to come teach ye,” he ventured after a moment. “I reckon she knows how to do all these lady things.”

  She shook her head. “Nae. I … I’d like to surprise her, too.”

  “Or my sister.”

  “Stop it, Bear. I’ll be happy to figure oot how to be yer version of a proper lass. Anything more is just looking for disaster to strike.”

  Munro laughed. “Ye’re already my version of a proper lass, lass.” He tilted his head, continuing to watch her appreciatively as she minced now from the table to the hearth. “I dunnae suppose ye ken how to waltz, do ye?”

  “Nae.” She shook her head, shuddering. “Papa wanted to teach me, but I refused to learn the man’s steps. I could imagine the sight I would be, asking some other lass onto the floor.” Her cheeks paled as she eyed him. “Why are ye asking me?”

  He took a step forward. “Because I happen to be a fine dancer. At the Highlands fling, at least. But I’ll teach ye to waltz, if ye dunnae mind me tripping all over ye.”

  With a sigh that didn’t quite disguise the abrupt shaking of her hands, she walked up to him and held out her arms. “Shoulder and hand, aye?”

  “Aye.” He took her left hand and placed her right on his shoulder. “And I take yer waist, like so. Then we move clockwise and dunnae fall over.”

  “Oh, as simple as that, is it?”

  “I reckon so.”

  If he’d ever doubted that she trusted him, the way she threw herself into learning both the waltz and how to walk like a lass in fine shoes proved that she trusted him now. And aye, he was proficient at the waltz, because when Winnie had begun complaining about her heathen big brothers not knowing anything civilized, Ranulf had hired a dance master to teach the lot of them. At the time he’d done all he could to balk, but at this moment, with this woman in his arms, he was grateful for the lessons. He loved Cat as she was, but that also meant he wouldn’t embarrass her when she wanted to try something new.

  And this, being with one woman, allowing himself to simply enjoy chatting and dining with and reading or listening to her read—it was all new to him, as well. He’d never thought an old kitchen could be home, but she’d made it so. She’d become his home, his peace, and his excitement with an ease he’d never looked for, and never expected. And now, he would never give her up. Even if keeping her meant giving up clan MacLawry and his brothers and sister and their spouses and bairns. If there was any way to avoid that, though, he might be willing to listen. If being a little less … himself would get him what he wanted, well, he’d begun to realize some things were worth changing for. Some lasses. One lass.

  * * *

  “Where did ye learn to braid hair?” Catriona asked, trying not to shiver in delight as Bear ran a brush through another section of her hair and began neatly plaiting it into a braid.

  “Winnie. All three of us had to learn how to pin up hair fer her. I do a fair twisting bun, as well, if ye’d like to try that tomorrow.”

  She sent a glance at the mirror, trying not to move her head as she did so. After two days the sight of herself in a gown still surprised her, but the original shock, the sense that she was doing something wrong, had subsided. With half her hair back in looping braids she actually looked … ladylike. The sensation was only surface deep, because on the inside she remained much less certain, but both for Bear’s and her sake she meant to give it a try.

  “Did ye see the snow on the mountains this morning?” she asked, twirling a green ribbon in her fingers.

  “I did. It’ll nae be long, now. I reckon I’ll ask some of the lads to join me up on the roof here and see what we can do with that grand hole in the ceiling. Five pounds of snow will have the tarp doon here in the kitchen with us.”

  That amount of snow would also have the lads giving up on construction for the winter, but she didn’t say that aloud. Bear knew it as well as she did, if not better, since he’d grown up here. For the past two days, something else had been pressing at her more closely even than the weather, anyway. “Are ye surprised they’ve let ye be?” she asked.

  “Nae,” he returned, not bothering to ask to whom “they” referred. “I reckon they’re waiting fer first snow, figuring I’ll surrender then.” Reaching around her shoulder, he took the ribbon from her fingers. “I’ll be seeing ’em then, but it willnae be to surrender.”

  She grinned, excitement beginning to mingle with the nervousness that fluttered through her every time she thought of meeting the MacLawry face-to-face for a second time. Three days of wearing dresses hardly made her a lady, but she felt closer to being one than she had four days ago. They still wouldn’t approve of her, of course. In fact, if they figured she was playing at being proper they’d dislike her even more. That continued to trouble her, mostly because of how the big man currently playing with her hair would react.

  “Well, what do ye think?” he asked a moment later, stepping back. “Dunnae laugh, but I think I may go oot to find work as a lady’s maid.”

  Catriona stood to face the full-length reflection of herself. “I think I look very fine,” she said after a moment, turning a slow circle. “I’d hire ye to put up my hair.”

  It continued to surprise her how much more Munro was than the big, handsome oaf she’d first caught sight of a month ago. Aye, he jested about using his fists and his manly muscles, but he was also clever—more clever than he likely realized—and skilled with his hands in a way most men of his station wouldn’t even dream. Aff
ectionate, surprisingly tender, and for Saint Andrew’s sake, he didn’t mind putting her hair up for her.

  “What’s going on in that mind of yers, wildcat?” he asked, moving up behind her and sliding his arms about her waist.

  “I want to ask ye to promise me someaught,” she returned, gazing at the reflection of his pretty green eyes.

  “Promise ye what, then? I’ll nae agree withoot hearing, because ye’re sneaky and I’ve nae intention of—”

  “Promise me that ye’ll give yer brothers a chance to talk to ye,” she cut in. “Dunnae stomp yer feet and bellow and declare they’ve wronged ye and ye’ll nae set eyes on ’em again.”

  “I promise ye this, Cat. I’ll let my brothers say their piece. I’ll listen to ’em. I’ll give ’em a moment to see that they had me paired with the wrong sister, even. But if they try to insult ye, if they let Torriden anywhere near either of us, I’m going to get angry.” The slow smile that curved his mouth looked anything but amused, and she was glad it wasn’t directed at her. “Very angry.”

  “Bear, they’re yer fam—”

  “I ken who they are. I agreed to listen. I’ll nae promise to give an inch if they suggest I part from ye.”

  Letting out her breath, she turned in his arms to face him. “Ye’re a damned stubborn man, Munro MacLawry.” Lifting up on her toes, she kissed him softly.

  He kissed her back, tightening his grip around her waist. “That I am,” he agreed. “And ye’re a damned stubborn woman, Catriona MacColl. I almost feel sorry fer anyone who tries to step between us. Almost.”

  * * *

  “Three damned days,” Ranulf muttered, lowering his voice as Lord Torriden and Lady Elizabeth passed down the hallway headed for the billiards room. “What the devil is Bear waiting fer? She took the money, ye said.”

  “I put it in her hand, and she didnae throw it back at me,” Arran returned. “And Bear didnae run after me and pull me oot of the saddle.”

  Ranulf nodded. “She seemed a bright lass. Hopefully she realized that three thousand pounds is likely to last her longer than Bear’s sympathy once the weather turns cold.” He reached down to scratch Fergus’s head as the big hound lay beside the chair in his office. “I only hope our bràthair’s nae so stubborn he stays on at Haldane oot of principle.”

  “Peter Gilling says she’s still there. Of course the mail coach isnae due in An Soadh fer another two days; mayhap he means to wait there with her until then.”

  “Or mayhap he means to wait until Torriden gives up and goes away. We could encourage that, I suppose, but if she gets found later it could be held against us.” He smacked his fist against the surface of his desk. “I dunnae like the idea of him being that far from here, with nae a man to walk the halls at night.”

  “The only livable room is the kitchen, and they’ve patched that grand hole in the corner with tarps and planks. The first good snow will have him oot of there, even if naught else does it.” Arran shifted, his gaze drifting toward the window.

  “Then what has ye troubled?” Ranulf prompted.

  “I just have a tickle at the back of my scalp,” the middle MacLawry brother returned after a moment. “Bear has a lass here, but he’s there.”

  “Elizabeth doesnae need his protection, because she has ours. The other one’s hiding from clan. He knows I’ll nae be involved with that. If Bear’s one thing, it’s stubborn. He doesnae want to admit that he’s wrong in all this.”

  “Aye, I suppose ye have the right of it.”

  Of course he had the right of it. Bear had all but proposed to Elizabeth MacColl. He therefore felt obligated to look after the lass’s odd sister. Distantly he heard the girl laughing about something or other, and he frowned. That tickle Arran talked about bothered him, as well. It was if he had a puzzle with all the pieces, but the last one didn’t fit. “Cooper,” he called, summoning the butler.

  The servant must have been waiting just outside the door, because he appeared while his name still echoed up the hallway. “Aye, m’laird?”

  “Will ye fetch me Lady Elizabeth? Tell her … I’ve a question about a name on the Society page.”

  “Aye, m’laird.”

  “What’s on yer mind now?” his brother asked.

  “Go along with me. And dunnae scare the lass.”

  Arran snorted. “I should be saying that to ye, Glengask.”

  With a soft rap at the door, Elizabeth peeked into the office. “Did you need to see me, my lord?” she asked in her prim Sassannach accent.

  “Aye. Have a seat, if ye dunnae mind.”

  They’d already determined that Elizabeth MacColl was nineteen years old, that she and her mother did not get along well, and that she absolutely did not want to wed the old Duke of Visford. She hadn’t denied that she had an older sister, but she had declared on several occasions that she had no idea where Catriona could be. Given what he’d discovered over the past few days, that made the young lass somewhat more devious than he’d expected. And as far as he was concerned, that in return gave him leave to be as devious as he wished.

  “I didn’t see Lady Mary this morning, Lord Arran,” she said conversationally, smiling. “Did she come with you?”

  Arran shook his head. “Nae. She and my sister are planning a soiree or someaught. I fled here straightaway.”

  “Oh, a soiree! That would be delightful!”

  “I was wondering, lass,” Ranulf took up, “if ye could describe yer sister for me. So I can give my men someaught to look fer when they go aboot the countryside.”

  “Oh. Well, as I said before, I haven’t seen her in eleven years. The last I knew she had short red hair and brown eyes.” She chuckled, the sound not nearly as amused as it had been before. “I suppose the brown eyes would be the same, and her hair color, but as for the rest I’m afraid I can’t be of much assistance.”

  “And what would ye say if I mentioned that I rode to Haldane Abbey yesterday and caught sight of a red-haired lass in men’s clothing?”

  All the color left her face. “I—I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lord Glengask,” she stammered. “By the by, is Bear about?”

  “Why does she dress like that?” he persisted. “I once heard of a duke’s boy who pranced aboot in gowns, but he had to go live in the country with an aunt and wasnae allowed to have pets.”

  “It isn’t like that,” she retorted forcefully, then subsided again. “I mean—”

  “We’re listening, lass. I dunnae think Lord Torriden will be as patient.”

  “He knows. I mean, everyone in the clan knows my sister is … eccentric. But it isn’t her fault, and she really isn’t.”

  “Perhaps from the beginning, Lady Elizabeth,” Arran suggested, in his usual diplomatic tones.

  “Yes. Very well.” She sighed heavily. “My father wanted a son. Only a son. And after his wife—his first wife—died, he cut Cat’s hair, put her in breeches, and raised her to be a boy. That was before she could even walk.”

  “He didnae do her any favors, then.”

  “No, he didn’t,” she returned, nodding at Ranulf. “He refused to let my mother teach her to be otherwise, and then tried to do the same thing to me. That’s why we left Islay.” The lass sat forward, putting her palms flat on his desk. “As soon as she was old enough to stand up to Father she stopped cutting her hair, but he wouldn’t let her have a maid or a governess or anyone to teach her how to be … a girl. She knows how people view her, and she’s very shy about how she looks. I tried to get her to wear one of my dresses, but I don’t think she wanted her younger sister showing her how to be a lady.”

  “Why’s she against marrying Lord Torriden?” Ranulf pursued. “He seems pleasant enough, even if he does wear his shirt points too high.”

  “Charles is very fashionable,” she countered, then subsided again. “I didn’t know she was supposed to marry him. She never said anything about it. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that she would be too embarrassed to wed suc
h a paragon of the haute ton. I would be, anyway, if I’d never worn a gown before.”

  “Do ye have any idea who arranged the match?”

  “As Charles said, it would have been my uncle, the present Lord Islay, and the MacDonald. I know that the Islay MacDonalds don’t think much of the Sutherland MacDonalds.” She frowned. “Do you think she was meant as an insult?” Elizabeth put her hands over her mouth. “Oh, that would be horrid for her. And she would realize it, too. She’s very smart.”

  Several things were beginning to make sense, and Ranulf wasn’t certain he liked the painting that was emerging. “If everyone knows aboot yer sister, why would Lord Torriden come all the way here to find her?”

  “Ye cannae be insulted unless ye let the scenario play oot,” Arran commented, his expression hardening. “I’d guess the MacDonald wants this conflict settled, and until Lady Catriona is presented officially to Torriden, all either side can do is circle aboot and snort at each other.”

  “Oh, no,” Elizabeth breathed, tears overflowing her eyes. “Poor Cat. And poor Charles.”

  “Aye, poor Charles,” Ranulf repeated dryly. “His task is to find yer sister and then turn his back on her so clan MacDonald can get on with starting an oot-and-oot war.” On his doorstep, apparently.

  “But what if he means to marry her?” the lass insisted, wiping at her cheeks. “Wouldn’t that heal the rift between Islay and Sutherland?”

  “That would depend on whether the MacDonald decided to be insulted or nae, regardless.” For a moment Ranulf considered what he knew of old Eachann MacDonald, the Earl of Gorrie. The man was proud to a fault, and stubborn as the weather. “I’d put my blunt on insulted, I reckon,” he decided.

  Arran stirred, then climbed to his feet. “Thank ye fer being honest with us, Elizabeth,” he said, offering his hand to help her out of the chair. “I’ll ask ye nae to say anything to Torriden, though I wager ye’d no intention of doing that, anyway.”