A Hellion at the Highland Court: A Rags to Riches Highlander Romance (The Highland Ladies Book 9)

by Celeste Barclay

  “Aye,” Robert sobered. “She was a sweet lass. She had the bonniest smile and the brightest eyes. But that was a long time ago.”

  “And why did she change? Did something happen to her?”

  “Aye. Court happened to her.” At Brodie’s look of confusion, the king clarified. “Unlike many women, Laurel didn’t want to come to court. The fine gowns and expensive tastes didn’t interest her. She wanted to remain in the Highlands, but she had three aulder sisters who married and took princely dowries to their husbands’ clans. Her parents thought coming to court would improve her chances of finding a wealthy husband who wouldn’t need such a large dowry. The court was rife with speculation about her, but it wasn’t long before the Earl of Ross himself confirmed that Laurel’s dowry would be a pittance compared to her sisters’. It shrank further a couple of years ago when Ross paid an exorbitant amount to MacGillivray to marry his youngest daughter after she caused an almighty scandal with the Munros. The Kennedys were prepared to ride on the Rosses and bring most of the Lowlands with them.”

  Brodie knew much of the story, having heard about how King Robert arranged a marriage between Cairren Kennedy and Padraig Munro. He recalled that there had been talk for years that Padraig would marry Myrna Ross. As best Brodie could remember, Myrna didn’t accept the change of plans and did everything she could to keep Padraig from Cairren. In the end, her ploys hadn’t mattered. Padraig loved his wife, and she—for reasons Brodie couldn’t fathom after what she endured—loved her husband.

  “You should ken that Laurel won’t come with a large dowry. It’s unlikely that it’ll be as large as Eliza’s,” Robert warned.

  “The Rosses are not a poor clan,” Brodie pointed out.

  “Nay, they are not. But any laird who has to pay five dowries is a mon who will worry himself into an early grave.”

  “Then he should make Montgomery marry and use his bride’s dowry to replenish their coffers,” Brodie suggested.

  “I’ve said the same more than once,” Robert shrugged. “Are you serious aboot considering Lady Laurel?”

  “Besides her acerbic tongue, is there any other reason not to?” Brodie wondered.

  “None. Like I said, she was a sweet lass before she came here but never wanted to come. Unlike her cousins, Maude and Blair, her family did not help her settle here. Unlike Hamish, Tormud rarely comes to court, and it’s not to visit Laurel. Hamish and Lachlan took turns coming to check on Maude and Blair, even traveling together with Amelia. Monty comes from time to time, but they aren’t close like they were as children. All the women she once knew have married, but no mon wishes to make a harpy his wife if she doesn’t come with a healthy dowry. It’s a vicious circle: she didn’t want to be here, knowing she had little dowry to offer. It made her bitter and scornful, so no men approach, leaving her even more bitter because she’s alone.”

  Brodie listened in silence as he considered what he learned from the Bruce. He’d suspected much of it from knowing Tormud Ross most of his life. The man was angry with the world for giving him five daughters and one son instead of the other way around. It didn’t surprise Brodie to learn that the laird never visited his daughter. He pitied Laurel and made a silent pledge to be patient with her. He would return each jab or taunt with a compliment, and perhaps she would learn that not everyone would disappoint her.

  “Brodie?”

  “Huh? I beg your pardon, Robert. Woolgathering.”

  “Aboot Laurel? Have you spoken to her?”

  “Mayhap once or twice, but it would have been several years ago. My tastes ran toward a different type of woman—an experienced woman,” Brodie clarified lest the king think it was a comment about Laurel’s character, “—when I came here more frequently.”

  Robert nodded. “You have my blessing to pursue her. I’d rather she marries a mon like you than someone else. But I can only give you a fortnight. If she doesn’t come around to you by then, I will choose. And I won’t promise that it’ll be you.”

  “Aye, Your Majesty,” Brodie said as he rose and bowed. He cast his gaze around the chamber and wanted to groan when he spied Liam and Nelson still watching him. Liam’s gloating mien and Nelson’s smirk made him wonder what they might have overheard. The two meddlers reached the door before he did.

  “Does the king wish to enter the wager, too?” Nelson asked.

  “There is no wager,” Brodie growled.

  “But you still intend to subdue your shrew, make your hellion heel?” Liam guffawed.

  “Enough,” Brodie warned. “You may wish to make a jest of this, but I do not. Do not think to interfere.”

  “We shall just wait in the stands and watch the tourney begin,” Liam taunted.

  “Leave Lady Laurel alone. Regardless of whether we suit, regardless of whether we marry, she has my protection. Harm her with word and deed, and you will find the might of the Campbells at your door.” Brodie didn’t wait for a response, pulling the door open and marching through.

  “Poor sod doesn’t know what he’s in for with her,” Nelson mused.

  “He’ll be ruing the day soon enough. Then he’ll be begging us to get him free of her hooks,” Liam shook his head before both men turned back to the correspondence they’d been sorting. A missive from Laird Lamont caught their eyes.

  Six

  Nay, nay, nay! This canna be happening. Shite.

  Laurel looked at the rent fabric of her sapphire-colored satin skirts and wished to cry. She had attempted to remove an embroidered panel from her finest gown, but the material was old and worn. She tugged a mite too hard and done more than split the seam, she’d torn the satin.

  Now what? I canna go to the feast in aught less than a gown like this. Today would have to be the Lady Day in Harvest. Why did I join the others for the morning walk? I should have stayed here and worked on the gown despite being told otherwise. Mayhap this wouldnae have happened, or if it did, I would have more time to fix this.

  Laurel hurried to her chest and kneeled beside it. She sorted through the various swaths of loose fabric and trim, but she had nothing that would both match and hide the tear.

  There’s naught for it. I must go into town again. But I didna want to spend the coin. Ye dinna have much choice though, do ye? If ye dinna want Monty or the king picking yer husband, ye’d do well to show yer face and make nice. And ye canna show yer face with yer arse blowing in the breeze.

  Laurel stripped out of her day gown and hurried to change into one of her plain kirtles. She poured a few coins into a small pouch, fastening it to the girdle around her waist before she snagged her veil as she shut the lid of her chest. Easing open the door, she peered down the passageway in both directions. With no one in sight, she hurried to the servants’ stairs and wound her way through the keep until she reached a door leading to the postern gate. She put her veil on and slipped outside, hurrying across the narrow stretch of the bailey before ducking through the portal. She didn’t stop to look around, making her way to Simon, the merchant to whom she’d recently sold her needlework.

  As Laurel approached the shop, she glanced up at the sky and estimated that it was just past midafternoon. She would have three hours to make her purchase and repair her gown. The torn satin would be hard to make inconspicuous without several alterations. She wished she had the time to pull it apart and start fresh, but there was no way—even with the amount of sewing she’d done in her lifetime—that she could sew a new dress in a few hours. She breathed easier when she realized she was the only person in the shop.

  “Goody Smyth, I didn’t expect you back so soon,” the shop owner greeted Laurel as she hurried to the counter. She’d chosen a generic name and proclaimed herself a widow years ago to ensure her anonymity.

  “I’d like to buy a couple of yards of garnet satin, if you have any,” Laurel requested. She forced herself to speak evenly and to take deep breaths. If the shopkeeper, Simon, realized her desperation, he would gouge her.

  “I have three yards of this
bolt right here,” Samuel pointed to the end of the counter. “Would this work?”

  Laurel examined the satin, impressed with the quality and the color. Only minutes ago, she’d been panicking that she wouldn’t be able to salvage the gown well enough to hide her blunder. Now she grew excited at the prospect of redesigning the kirtle that awaited her.

  “This is very nice, Simon. But it might be a bit dear for what I can afford. I only have what you paid me earlier,” Laurel said innocently.

  “That isn’t enough, Goodwife,” Simon grew serious, all pretense of charm gone now that he no longer saw a potential sale.

  “Have you sold my work already?” Laurel asked as she looked around.

  “Aye. You weren’t gone five minutes before a lady bought all of it,” Samuel grinned, unaware that he’d just fallen into Laurel’s trap.

  “Then you already have the profit you made from my labors, and I’m repaying you what you paid me. That more than covers the cost of the satin.”

  “That isn’t how it works,” Simon argued.

  “It is if you’d like to keep making the tidy sum you do from my embroidery. If not, I shall go to Samuel down the way.”

  The wizened old man glared at Laurel, trying to make eye contract through her thick veil. He threw up his hands and abandoned his attempt. “Very well. It isn’t worth arguing with you since you’ll outsmart me one way or another. It’s best to give in now and have you on your way before you rob me blind.”

  “I’m glad we could come to an agreement,” Laurel chirped. She poured the coins onto the counter as the shopkeeper measured and cut the fabric. Laurel pushed the coins toward him as soon as he finished folding the satin. “Thank you,” she called over her shoulder

  Laurel stepped into the street and turned back to the castle. She hadn’t taken more than three steps when a woman’s voice called out before a chamber pot emptied just in front of Laurel. She had the wherewithal to push the brand-new material behind her back, but malodorous sludge splashed down the front of Laurel’s kirtle. She released a slew of curses in Gaelic, including one about the woman’s grandmother, that she knew no one understood.

  “Cursing the woman’s seanmhair willna do ye much good since she’s likely been dead a score-and-ten years.” A baritone voice wrapped around Laurel, the brogue comforting and familiar even if she didn’t know who it belonged to.

  “Mayhap her grandmother should have taught her to wait a moment before tossing turds at people,” Laurel grumbled. She looked up as the woman above stood gawking at her. “In case you didn’t understand since you’re daft as a brush, I’m ‘avin a right cob on. Aye, stand there gormless, having just chucked shite on me.”

  “I thought no one was below,” the woman called down.

  “Aye, and do you ken what thought did? He followed a muck cart and thought it was a wedding.” Laurel stepped around the fresh pile of refuse, ignoring the deep laughter coming from behind her left shoulder. Laurel huffed and nearly pulled her arms back in front of her until she remembered her gown would ruin the satin. With another aggrieved sigh, Laurel began walking back to the castle. She had no idea how she would sneak back into the keep without leaving a trail of foul odors behind her.

  “Lady Laurel?”

  Laurel missed a step and pitched forward. With her hands behind her back, she stumbled. Strong hands grasped her shoulders and helped right her. “Thank you,” she mumbled before trying to hurry on.

  “Lady Laurel,” the man repeated. “We both ken I know who you are.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Laurel muttered as she continued toward the keep.

  “And how do you expect to get back inside looking like you’ve had a roll in the stables, and not the fun kind?”

  Laurel spun around and finally looked at her annoying shadow. Her eyes widened as she took in the dark-haired man from that morning. He was even more colossal than he’d appeared from a distance. She also noticed that he was older than she expected, touches of gray at his temples and flecks of it in his stubble. His dark gray eyes were the shade of pewter.

  “Buggering hell,” Laurel muttered.

  “You have quite a collection of words to describe the situation.”

  Laurel looked around before turning back toward the keep again, but she waited for the man who was both her rescuer and tormenter to step beside her. She glanced at his plaid and cringed.

  “Laird Campbell, I presume,” Laurel said.

  “In the flesh, lass,” Brodie grinned as Laurel’s head jerked up. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but he could picture her expression. He’d glimpsed her as he left the lists that morning, and he’d found himself wondering what she would look like up close. Now she had the hideous veil obscuring her looks. “Are you not going to ask how I kenned it was you? I suppose you believe no one else recognizes you in that ensemble.”

  “It’s worked for five years,” Laurel blurted. “I’m guessing my reputation precedes me, and you can think of few other women who’d be carrying fine satin and cursing a blue streak. Have I entertained you, my laird?”

  “Not entertained so much as intrigued,” Brodie confessed. “You don’t sound like a Highlander except for when you speak Gaelic; then I would never guess you spoke anything else.”

  “I’m not a Highlander anymore,” Laurel whispered. She didn’t know why the man caused a gaping chasm to open in her chest, since he wasn’t the first Highlander she’d encountered while in Stirling. But despite his ferocious appearance, she’d caught the humor in his voice and seen the crinkle around his eyes when he smiled. The melding of fierce and friendly was how she thought of Highlanders, both men and women, and something about Brodie Campbell made her homesick in a way that her brother and father’s visits never had.

  “I dinna believe that for a moment,” Brodie said, switching to Gaelic. “Ye can never stop being a Highlander. It’s in our blood, lass. In our bones. It’s the first breath of air we breathe as we come squalling and fighting into the world. Ye can speak like a Lowlander, and ye can dress like them, too. But ye will never cease being a Highlander, Lady Laurel.”

  Laurel’s throat tightened, listening to Brodie describe just how she felt about her home and the way of life she’d been forced to give up. There’d been other ladies-in-waiting from the Highlands, but like Laurel, they’d all assimilated into courtly life. There were few times that she spoke about what her home among the rugged landscape had been or how much she longed to return.

  “Ye dinna need a plaid to tell ye’re a Highlander,” Laurel smiled. “Ye have the gift of the gab.”

  “Mayhap, but ye dinna disagree with me,” Brodie’s grin broadened.

  “There’d be nae point, since we ken I’d be lying. There are few places created by God that can be finer than the Highlands.”

  “Dinna let a Hebridean hear ye,” Brodie chortled.

  “Or the Irish,” Laurel giggled. She caught herself, unfamiliar with the light-hearted sound coming from herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sounded so young. But her humor died when she spotted the postern gate. Brodie sensed her discomfort and slipped her arm through his. When she tried to pull away, he patted her hand and shook his head.

  “Dinna fash, Lady Laurel. Let me speak. Hand me the fabric, lass.” Laurel did as Brodie instructed, and she breathed easier when he tucked it under his opposite arm, keeping it well away from her soiled gown. As they approached the postern gate, Laurel recognized the guards and was mortified. They didn’t know who she was beneath her veil, but they certainly recognized her from her countless trips in and out of the keep over the years. “Shh,” Brodie soothed.

  Laurel expected comments about the stench that clung to her or about her wretched appearance, but with Brodie beside her, the guard at the gate and the ones they passed within the bailey said nothing. Laurel led them to the side door she used and along the passageway to a stairwell. Their booted steps echoed against the bricks, so neither spoke until they reached the floor with
Laurel’s chamber.

  “Thank you, my laird,” Laurel said, dipping into a shallow curtsy, all traces of her Gaelic accent gone.

  “Back to sounding like Scots, are we?” Brodie whispered conspiratorially as he handed the fabric to Laurel. “Lady Laurel, before you go, I have a question that I’ve wanted answered since I first saw you.”

  “Aye?” Laurel said, not bothering to hide her dread.

  “Where were your guards?”

  Laurel looked around, praying no one heard Brodie say her name. She gasped when he reached toward her face, but he eased the veil back so they could see one another clearly. “I didn’t ask any of them to come with me.”

  “And why do I get the impression that’s not unusual for you? Does your brother ken you sneak out of the keep?” When Brodie watched Laurel’s gaze shutter, he wanted to kick himself for pressing too soon.

  “My brother is rarely here. He knows little of what I do or where I go. Since he doesn’t ask, and I don’t offer, we’re both content,” Laurel said archly. “Thank you once more, Laird Campbell.”

  “Laurel,” Brodie reached out but didn’t touch her arm when she cast a scathing glare at him.

  “You may be a laird, but I didn’t give you leave to use my given name. I will scream the bricks down around your ears if you think to do more just because I let you walk with me,” Laurel warned.

  “I apologize, Lady Laurel. And I didn’t mean to be rude or distress you,” Brodie replied.

  “Distress me? You would have to matter enough for me to care aboot what you say or do for me to become distressed. Good day, my laird.” Laurel pulled away.

  Brodie groaned inwardly. He didn’t want to part with Laurel while she was aggravated with him. It would only make approaching her that evening more difficult. He stepped forward as she took a step back. He held up both hands, nearly touching her arms, which held her new fabric away from her soiled gown.