The varmints’ grins turned into chuckles.
Ram straightened. Because his arms were clasped around Rose’s chest, he straightened her at the same time. He turned her to face him but he kept his eyes on her chest. “This won’t do,” he said.
Ram looked around rather wildly and saw nothing but folded fabric in the clan colors, intended for kilts. He grabbed a length of the woolen cloth in the familiar shades of dark green overlaid in stripes of decreasing size with deep blue, red and crowned with thin white stripes. ‘Twas as familiar and beloved as his home. Even in a rush he unfolded it respectfully.
He draped the fabric around Rose’s shoulders, tucking the ends into the damnably low neckline of her gown. It should’ve looked ridiculous but it didn’t. It looked and felt exactly right.
“Dear Lord,” Ram muttered, staggering a step.
“Laird Sutherland,” Rose said, stepping forward to grab his forearm, “are you well?”
“Rose?” Ram heard his tone–not a plea, never that, but it contained a note of humility his voice hadn’t held since he crooned a childhood lullaby to his mother as she breathed her last.
“Ramsay,” she said, squeezing his arm and looking at him with an expression as lost and found as he felt.
He shook his head no.
“Ram,” she said, “thank you for the tartan.” She touched the fabric where it crossed to fall into her neckline.
He put his hand over hers, struggling against the desire–almost the compulsion–to ask her to say his name again. That wouldn’t be wise for if she did, he’d swallow it from her lips. Instead, he called upon all his discipline, and said, “You’re welcome.”
Footsteps ended the interlude, which was a good thing, Ram told himself. He couldn’t quite believe it when what he most wanted was to throw his best friends out the door and then bar it. It took that discipline, again to turn to greet his friends, though all the will ever called upon couldn’t keep him from stepping over to stand next to Rose, with one arm tucked round her waist.
Ram was gracious as he introduced the varmints to Rose–mostly. Well, except for whatever noise he made as he watched their overly warm greetings–their way-past-the-line and far too warm greetings. And except for snatching her hand away from David’s mouth.
“Ram,” Rose exclaimed when he liberated and then held her hand. “Was that really necessary?”
He squeezed her palm. “Yes, it was and it was worth it. You said my name again.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Rose blushed as Hugh made a whooshing, whistling sound.
David winked and pushed Ram a little harder. “I’d have given her hand back eventually, if ‘twas needful. After all, fiancées are one to a –“
“Dinner!” Ram shouted. “We’re nattering about nothing and Rose must be starving. ‘Tis why I came to fetch you, lass.”
“Was that why?” Hugh asked. “I thought ‘twas that you were upset at Rose’s tardiness.”
Ram and Rose followed the other two, still hand in hand. They’d just made the door when Hugh thrust his dart. Rose halted, whirled to Ram and seized both his hands. “Dinner. Dearest duck, Laird Sutherland, I am so sorry. I’m often guilty of becoming distracted and missing meals, especially when I’m tending the sick. This is the first time that I’ve had so many appear at once and–I just forgot! Still, ‘twas abominably rude of me–you waited for me and you must be starving!”
“I’m back to ‘Laird Sutherland so soon?” Ram asked.
“Could we debate titles later, Ram?” David asked. “As the lass said, we’re bloody well starving.”
Common sense and the dawning recollection of his duty and dueling obligations made him stifle his urge to send his friends on to dinner. If he did, Ram knew he’d shut the door and ask her to say his name. This time he would taste it on her lips. He knew it wouldn’t stop there and he feared it wouldn’t stop until she moaned his name as they joined. That might never happen for he owed much to his clan. Yes, he owed much to his family’s honor as well. Where did the boundaries lie? In places he couldn’t touch tonight.
“Indeed,” Ram said. “I trust you’re hungry as well, Rose? There is a feast awaiting us upstairs. Our cook made her famous Forfar Bridies in your honor. They are light and flaky. Are you familiar with them?”
The group walked down the hallway as Ram described the savory pastry. They reached the entrance of the hall when Rose clapped her hands and proclaimed that the treat sounded “just the quack.”
David couldn’t let that pass. “Just the quack? Indeed. Bridies for a future bride. You’re right. They sound quackingly appropriate.”
Rose giggled and laid a hand on David’s forearm. “I wasn’t thinking of that a’tall, David.”
The lady’s teasing familiarity with his handsome, auburn-haired, grey eyed friend kindled Ram’s temper. Her words turned the blaze into a bonfire. “David, is it? Well, David, tell us, were you thinking bridal thoughts? Isn’t that putting the cart before the horse?”
“Mayhaps, the horse is raring to go, Ram,” David replied.
Rose sighed and patted David’s arm again. “This must be my eve for apologies. Thank you, Laird Sutherland, for reminding me of my manners and Laird Ross, my apologies for being too familiar.”
“I shall deal with David’s forgetfulness, Rose,” Ram said. “On the morrow I’ll remind him of his manners. Yours are mostly fine, save for forgetting which man you should encourage and which you should discourage.”
“Do you have the sight, Rose?” Hugh asked. “It could be that you’re sensing the future.”
“Enough,” Ram barked to his friends. If they didn’t cease he’d stuff their mouths with something cold and sharp and metallic. He meant to tell her. He would tell her. Just–not yet. The thought unsettled him so that he didn’t realize David and Hugh were beckoning Rose towards the head table until she held up a finger and poked him in the chest.
“You’ll not be engaging in any more fisticuffs. Do you hear me? I’ve enough to do tending the men you’ve already beaten and battered.” Rose said.
Ram, David and Hugh all burst out laughing, but only Ram seized the index finger poking him in the chest. Lifting that digit to his mouth, Ram planted a kiss on it, gave it a wee nibble, and then tucked it and the rest of her hand into his. “If ye plan to pass much time in the Highlands, lass, ye better learn that we fight as hard as we play and that often both are the same.”
“You’re trying to excuse your brutality,” Rose said, walking with him to the head table and nodding her thanks for his assistance with her chair.
Ram lingered behind her for an unnecessary moment, fingering the golden tendrils clinging to the nape of her neck. “I’ve as little need for excuses as apologies, my lady.”
“Or common sense for that matter,” said Hugh, who had joined David in scrambling for the pair of empty seats beside Rose.
Hugh’s arrow scored a direct hit and Ram should have accepted the timely and entirely accurate reminder of Ram’s need for public space to avoid increasing the ire of the already unhappy elders. Instead, he growled at Hugh, “Move.”
“I shouldn’t,” Hugh said. But as Ram stood and glared, attracting ever more unwelcome attention, Hugh slid down a seat. “You’ve got enough to explain with that plaid.”
Ram took the seat beside Rose. “Explanations are as feeble-willed as excuses and are near as bad as apologies. You know that Hugh.”
“That is a silly statement, Laird Sutherland,” Rose said. “We all make mistakes. Some can be excused, a few can be explained but for many only an apology will do. I think you owe your friends and your clan an apology.”
Hugh and David howled. Ram nearly choked on the bite of lamb in his mouth. He laughed so hard that he missed his mouth twice when he lifted his goblet of ale to wash down the lamb stuck in his throat. Dingwall McDavidson–a clan elder–didn’t find it funny a’tall.
“Humpfh,” Dingwall sneered, “while ye’re at it, laird, ye can go ahead a
nd hand English ye’re man parts.”
A goblet clanged down on the table as the scrape of a chair brought the cackling hall to silence. No–‘twas a pair of goblets and chairs. Ned stood on his feet with his fist extended at Dingwall, which surprised no one. But Ned looked calm compared to the laird who was also standing.
Ram didn’t have his fist extended. Instead, he gripped the edge of the table like he feared he might vault over it and pummel Dingwall. “Her name is Lady Rose Lattimore and you shall not refer to her by her former residence. You may call her Lady Rose and when you do you shall remember that we do not choose our country of birth. We can, however, change our residence and Rose has done that. She’s come to live with us and we shall–Do you hear me? SHALL make her welcome.”
“Aye, laird,” Dingwall said, almost meekly.
But Ram wasn’t done. He leaned forward pointing at the elder like he wielded a blade instead of a finger. “As for the rest, do ye wish me to go to your daughter’s house for dinner tomorrow eve and spend the meal discussing man parts with your daughter and granddaughter?”
“Nay, laird,” Dingwall said. “Not unless ye’d already spoken for the lass, which you haven’t.”
“He’s nae spoken for this one either,” said feisty Gormal. “Yet here she sits beside him at dinner, wearing our plaid like she’s a right to it.”
Ned didn’t get up again, but he spoke up right quick. “Ram’s Da spoke for this one. There is nae a man here who would dishonor the word of our late laird, the great MacCay Sutherland. Least of all would his son wish to dishonor Mac’s word.”
“There are considerations more pressing than personal honor,” Gormal replied.
“Well, there wouldn’t have been more pressing considerations if the elders had comported themselves with proper respect for the late laird’s honor and now, the present laird’s honor,” Ned replied.
“Shut up,” Ram roared, feeling like a lion trapped in a cage by a horde of tamers with whips. The lead tamer was Ned. Ram looked at the man who glared at him with eyes like steel-edged whips, ripping into Ram’s soul. Ned knew and he’d just learned the truth. Ram might be able to shut the others up for a while, even Hugh and David–but not Ned. He’d tell Rose at his first opportunity.
A tap of Ram’s forearm turned his attention to the lady, making him wish she were a wee bit more self-centered and less bright. The chatter round them and even the angry words would have flown past many ladies’ of his acquaintance, including every English lady he’d ever met, save one formerly English one. Rose sat with a troubled expression that made Ram want to kiss all her troubles away, right here, right now.
“Laird Sutherland,” Rose said, gesturing with a bit of pastry, “Are they speaking of our betrothal? Is there some difficulty?”
Ram pushed his chair back so hard it slid into the path of an approaching servant. The server dropped the pitcher of ale she carried and it fell and shattered, sending the servant carrying the pitcher of water skidding across to the mantle where she and the water fell.
Ram grabbed Rose’s hand, pulling her up, as he nearly shouted, “Walk.”
Rose frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
The elders and Ned still shouted at each other, saying things he didn’t want Rose to hear. She’d misunderstand if she heard them. He had to explain it to her, which would be a tall task since he dinna ken either. He’d reasoned; he’d planned; and then he met Rose.
Now all he understood was that he didn’t understand anything. And he definitely had to be the one to make her understand that. Damnation. Now he was thinking in circles. Shaking his head, Ram caught sight of the mess his chair tossing caused. He grinned and scooped Rose up. She gave the cutest little squeak and started turning pink.
Hugh tugged on the hem of his kilt. Ram glared at him and turned to glare at David before addressing both. “You’re not invited.”
“I thought I’d tell you that you silenced the room,” Hugh said, grinning with a benevolence that didn’t hide the devil inside doing a sword dance. “You were too caught up in staring at Rose to realize it on your own.”
David stepped over, standing to swipe an index finger across Rose’s pink cheek. “That’s the other half of why she is blushing so beautifully.”
Ram growled at David like a hound given the order to attack. Not being a complete idiot, David held up both hands and backed off, wearing a grin to match Hugh’s.
“The other half?” Ram looked down at Rose and asked.
“I’m also embarrassed to be picked up in front of a hall of people. When you screamed at me to walk, I thought you were ordering me away from the table because my presence caused such a stir,” Rose said. “Then you picked me up and now, I, ahm..” she gestured.
“We’re going for a walk,” Ram explained. “And I picked you up so you didn’t risk falling from the sea of ale, glass, water and people.”
“The people are out of the way,” Rose said, waving at a maid being rather tenderly carried away by a handsome young man. “I think she’s pinker than I, if that’s possible.”
As he carried her out of the room, headed for the side door to the garden, Ram said, “Why risk it? I’m being thoughtful. You should appreciate that.”
“Is that what you’re being?” Rose asked. “I believe I would call it forceful or controlling–mayhaps, even dictatorial.”
Ram didn’t object to any of those terms. What Highland laird would? But what laird would be a poor enough strategist to say that now? Not this one. He said, “But I’m doing it in a very thoughtful way.”
“Yet, I think we’ve cleared the house now,” Rose said. “So, it should be safe for me to walk.”
“And have you trip o’er a root or unknown step in the darkness?” Ram asked. “I think not my rosy one.”
He couldn’t see her smile in the darkness, but he could feel her lean her head against his chest, very near his heart. Considering what he had to tell her, ‘twas the worst of times to feel the warmest of connections.
By the time they arrived at one of Ram’s favorite spots, he was so uneasy, unsettled and–damned near nervous–that even this place couldn’t soothe him. Normally, whatever ill humor brought him here dissipated when he stepped into the stone pavilion. Patches of the heather that covered it mostly held together the stone whitewashed by centuries. His favorite nest was a curve of the wall where time and the elements had carved a cozy perching spot. It overlooked tranquil Loch Shin but in the distance the peak of Ben Klibreck echoed the might of the Highlands.
Ram often sought nature’s guidance to work out problems or strategies. He’d stare at the deceptive tranquility of the still loch that seemed to exist without need for eddies, currents, waves or other tidal histrionics. He’d reflect on the fact that the little loch fed the River Shin and drained into the North Sea by way of the Dornoch Firth. And he’d recall that sometimes the biggest victories were won by staying the course until the battlefield broadened.
But ‘twas damnably difficult to stay a course if you headed towards a victory that felt like a defeat. And step by step it did. As Rose sighed and placed a hand over his heart it did–it very much did. The conclusion he’d reached at dinner seemed less far conclusive.
Ram was raised by his Grandfather–and to some extent, his father–to put his clan first. Ram’s Grandfather often told him that “a laird’s place is in front so that he sees trouble before it strikes. His place is at the clan’s right hand so that his sword is at the ready to vanquish those who bring the trouble. His place is at the head so that his wisdom can plot the right course for the future. But his place is not by the heart for he is the heart. He keeps the clan alive.”
Ram’s father didn’t disagree, so much as modify. He taught Ram that a laird could not lead his clan with strength unless he made room for the softness of love in his life. Da often said, “Never forget, son, that a laird devoted only to duty can never lead his people who are not so limited. Make room for exceptions.”
As he stood in the pavilion holding Rose and watching moonlight glint on the loch, Ram heard his Grandfather’s voice but for the first time it sounded more like an echo. He’d lived his life by his Grandfather’s greatest command, but he’d never forgotten his father’s instruction. Now, the path that led his clan towards a stronger, more financially secure future led to his alliance with Flora. He was even fond of the brat whose crush on him was a well-known secret.
Ram, the laird, should stay the course and affirm his betrothal to Flora. He could honor his father’s connection to Rose’s family by acting as guardian and arranging her marriage to a secure and stable man, preferably a fellow laird so that her status would not suffer because of a dilemma she’d not caused. He had two prospects sharing his hearth this very eve and both seemed interested.
Ram, the man, refused.
For the first time in his adult life, the laird wondered if the man might have the right to refuse so personal a sacrifice. The man had never refused before. He’d once or twice hesitated. He’d sometimes balked and frequently argued, but the man had never refused. Then again, the man hadn’t rebelled before either and there was no doubt that he’d instigated a full scale rebellion when he picked Rose up and carried her out of the house before the gaping eyes of most of his clan.
And the man rebelled still, standing here and holding her and enjoying the hand she’d placed over his heart. He enjoyed it, while he feared that the message it sent might be one she’d consider a lie when the laird quashed the rebellion. But the laird wasn’t ready to quash it yet. So he tossed a rope around a tree on the bank of the loch and held on, refusing to flow with the current to the river and then the sea.
He couldn’t do it for long and he’d no notion how he’d pull it off a’tall. But for now, he was betrothed to two women–unless his Rose pulled out one of her thorns and thrust it in the heart she snuggled against.
Romancing the Rose Page 4