by Amy Jarecki
It was nigh time to assert herself, and in no way would she wilt and allow Betty, a servant, chide her. “You may be my companion, but I do not care for your tone.”
“My tone? Wait until Robert hears—”
Emma shook her fists. “Robert will not hear a word about this.”
“But—”
Boldly marching forward, Emma grasped Betty’s hands. “How dare you immediately arrive at the conclusion that Dunollie was up to no good?”
“I saw you in his embrace.”
“So, what of it?”
“I beg your pardon, but your brother has tasked me with your care. I need more of an explanation than he rescued you. And from what?” Betty led her to the settee, and together they sat. “How did you end up with that man at our door in the dead of night—in your nightclothes of all things?”
“’Twas my fault.” Emma twisted her robe’s sash. Oh, dear, what must Ciar have thought of her, bumbling into his chamber with him completely undressed? Her face burned at the thought. Moreover, he’d had to don his plaid—good glory, he most likely had been bare beneath his shirt. If she did not take this incident in hand this moment, her virtue would be compromised.
Heaven help me.
“How was it your fault?” asked Betty, though her tone had softened considerably.
“Ah…” Emma mustn’t ever think of Dunollie without his kilt again. “I went out searching for the kitchens and ended up in his chamber.”
“I am quite certain his chamber is nowhere near the kitchens,” Betty said dryly. “Such a thing sounds preposterous even coming from you.”
Emma groaned. “I thought his chamber was this one.” She explained the entire debacle with all the stairs going west and south and down to the cellars.
“My word,” Betty groaned. “A lesser man might have had his way with you.”
“But not Dunollie. He prepared the most delicious elderberry jam spread atop fresh bread. He was so very entertaining. We talked and jested about eating sweets for every meal. I swear I had more fun with him in the kitchens than I’ve ever had at any gathering. And then—”
“He kissed you.”
Gooseflesh rose across Emma’s skin. “Aye, well, I think he meant to kiss my cheek, but I turned at the wrong time.”
“That’s not what it looked like to me. You were swooning in his arms, mind you.”
“I was, was I not?” Emma sighed, unable to keep herself from smiling. “Please, Betty. Allow me this one indiscretion. Have you any idea what it is like to be two and twenty and the only exciting thing that has ever happened in my life was when my brother proposed to Janet. And that didn’t even happen to me. I want to live my life—not Robert or Janet’s.”
“Hmm.” A long exhalation whistled through Betty’s lips. “Having been your lady’s maid for the past year, I believe I have some inkling of what your situation is like.”
“See?” Emma twisted her sash tighter. “Besides, ye ken how hotheaded Robert can be. If he discovers Dunollie mistakenly kissed me, he’ll challenge him to a duel of swords, and they both could end up mortally wounded.”
“Or His Lairdship might demand that Dunollie marry you,” Betty said, as if she were deviously planning.
“No, no, no.” Emma waggled her finger through the air. “Ciar would opt for the swords, mark me.”
“Hmm…I’m not so certain.”
“Oh, please. In no way can you make a stir and blow a wee kiss out of proportion. Now, I must have your word you will remain mum.”
Betty harrumphed and took Emma’s hand, leading her toward the bed. “Very well, my lips are sealed. As long as you promise to wake me next time you grow hungry in the middle of the night. You cannot ever again entertain a late-night rendezvous with the laird.”
“Och, if only.”
“Miss Emma!”
Sighing, she slid between the bedclothes. This entire night—not only the kiss, but spending it with Ciar—was the most invigorating evening in all Emma’s days. Though at first she had been mortified when she walked into his chamber, his kindness and understanding had made all her trepidation vanish. Now no one would take away this memory. She would lock it in her heart and always dream of her shining knight. “Very well, I’ll wake you. But I doubt there’ll ever be another opportunity to rendezvous with the likes of Dunollie.”
Chapter Six
The following day when Emma ventured below stairs to break her fast, the lairds were already shut away in Lochiel’s solar discussing whatever it was Highland chieftains talked about. Aye, she’d heard Robert grumble over the succession enough to know the queen’s health was at the top of their agenda. But the queen lived in London, ever so far away. And no matter what laws she passed, they never seemed to have much to do with Emma’s happiness.
As the day progressed, she grew more anxious. Neither Ciar nor Robert was in the hall for the midday meal. Once it was over, she had no option but to join Janet, Lady Lochiel, and the other wives in the women’s withdrawing room. But it was difficult to idle the time away.
She, Emma Grant, had kissed Ciar MacDougall in the passageway in the wee hours. Would her skin ever stop tingling? She wanted to dance and sing and tell everyone how happy simply being near him had made her. Yet everything she was feeling on the inside was not proper. Worse, speaking of the incident with anyone besides Betty would ruin her.
It might even ruin Ciar. It would hurt him, anyway. And the stolen kiss most likely meant naught to him.
Her fingers fumbled along her row of knitting, dropping a stitch. “Blast.”
“Another?” asked Janet.
Emma slid her fingers down, finding the loop of wool. “Here it is.”
“Would you like me to weave it through?”
“I can do it.”
“It’s not like you to drop five stitches in an afternoon.” Janet reached in and quickly repaired the slip, sliding the loop over the needle. “You seem awfully nervous. But I cannot understand why for the life of me. Your recital was well received last eve.”
“I’m anxious for the ceilidh to begin.” Emma resumed knitting and finished the row. “It seems as if the lairds will be in conversation forever.”
“We’ll all go hungry if they do. We’ve strict instructions not to light the bonfire until the pipers play for the procession of clan chiefs.”
“Perhaps we can wander to the kitchens for some elderberry jam and bread,” she mumbled under her breath.
Janet turned a page of her book with a whisper of paper. “What was that, my dearest?”
Emma started a new row. “Nothing.”
“If you ask me, there’s a great deal more whisky swilling going on than discussion about the state of affairs in Britain,” said Lady Lochiel.
“Aye, drinking and boasting about hunting adventures,” said Lady Mairi, Dunn MacRae’s wife. Clan MacRae was another of Robert’s staunch allies.
Everyone chuckled. Even Emma. Though she doubted Ciar would be boasting overmuch. Surely he wouldn’t mention anything about their impromptu rendezvous.
Before she reached the end of her row, a man stepped into the room and cleared his throat. “Excuse me, ladies. You are required in the courtyard.”
Emma tucked her partially finished scarf in her basket and pushed herself out of the settee. “At last.”
“’Tis only half past six. I doubt the march would have started before now regardless.” Janet took her hand. “Come along. Are you excited for the dancing?”
“Aye, as long as I don’t end up bumping into the lass beside me. ’Tis so embarrassing.”
“Not to worry. Everyone will understand. Besides, it is not as if you’re the only one who occasionally missteps.” Janet tightened her grip on Emma’s hand. “We’re walking through the doors and then down the stairs.”
“I can hear the pipers.”
“Follow me, ladies,” said the man. “The lairds will start the procession, and the wives will fall in behind them, then everyone else.”
The bagpipes grew louder as they stepped through the door. “Three paces to the stairs,” whispered Janet.
Emma nodded, walking confidently.
“Excellent. See, you scarcely need me.”
“Though you are kind to say so, I fear I will always be in need of a companion.”
Janet squeezed her hand. “Then you shall never fear being lonely.”
Emma smiled, though she often wished she could be alone. Not that she didn’t enjoy the company of others; it would just give her peace of mind to know she could walk anywhere she wanted without the fear of falling. Or being lost. Thank the stars she’d wandered into Ciar’s chamber last eve. If it had been someone else, the situation might have become quite dire.
“Here we are,” said Janet, stopping.
“I hear a crowd.”
“Aye, there are swarms of people in the courtyard, and they’ve made a tunnel for my father and the clan chiefs to walk through.”
“Can you see them?”
“Aye, Lochiel just received the torch from the steward, and he’s starting down the stairs.”
“Do you see Dunollie?”
“He’s right behind with Robert. Wave, dearest!”
Emma unfurled her fan and fluttered it through the air, smiling broadly. “Are they waving back?”
“Indeed they are.”
“Ciar as well?”
“You…” Janet lowered her voice as she wrapped her fingers around Emma’s elbow. “…have a fondness for him, do you not?”
“Dunollie?”
Janet urged her forward. “Ciar MacDougall, one and the same.”
How should Emma respond? Her fondness for the laird wasn’t new. After all, at this very gathering he’d already danced with her and strolled through the gardens with her. The only thing Janet didn’t know about was the kiss. A harmless kiss at that.
Emma raised her chin, trying to appear aloof. “I’ve always been fond of him.”
“Hmm.”
Good heavens, hmm could mean so many things. Was Janet frowning? Or smiling? Or did Betty tell her about finding them in the passageway in the wee hours?
Unlikely.
“Dunollie has been a friend to Robert since they were lads,” Emma continued. “And I’ve known him for as long myself. Moreover, most gentlemen who visit my brother rarely utter a word to me, but Ciar has always been polite.”
“You needn’t defend yourself. He’s a good man.”
Emma let out a pent-up breath. “Betty says he’s rugged looking.”
“I’d concur with her assessment.”
“But handsome all the same?”
“Fearsome, I suppose. He certainly towers over everyone else.”
Emma liked that. He was a giant yet gentle.
“Did you sigh?” asked Janet.
“Me? Hardly.”
“Good heavens, I cannot believe my father’s gall.”
“What is it?”
“I thought the tug o’ war would be between the clans, not the lairds.”
“Truly? Is Dunollie pulling?”
“Of course.”
“Well, if he’s as fearsome as you said, his side will win.”
Janet snorted. “You cannot side with him. He’s pulling against Robert.”
Emma laughed. “And who else? How are the teams divided?”
“Cameron, MacDougall, Stewart, MacKenzie, Murray, and MacNeill on the left. And there’s Grant, MacDonald, MacIain, MacGregor, Gordon, and MacRae on the right.”
“Dunn MacRae?”
“Aye.”
“Well, he and Robert ought to give Lochiel’s team a challenge.”
“I hope so,” said Janet. “It won’t be long now. The referee is moving into place.”
“Take up your rope, men!” bellowed a deep voice. “The first team to pull their opponent into the bog shall be the victor.”
The crowd erupted in a cacophony of shouts, with everyone crying their favored clans. Beside her, Janet remained silent, so Emma opted to as well, though she crossed her fingers and said a silent prayer for Ciar. He was far too affable a man to end up in a bog.
“Bear down, Grant!” Betty’s voice rose over the crowd. “Douse them in the mud!”
Emma inclined her ear over her shoulder. “I hear my lady’s maid has come for the festivities.”
“I’ll have to have a word with her,” whispered Janet. “She’s awfully brash.”
“Och, I don’t think we ought to mind. After all, is that not the case with tug o’ wars? They’re supposed to incite the competitive spirit.”
“You’re right, dearest.” Janet gasped. “No, Robert!”
The crowd roared. The whistle blew.
“Did Dunollie win?” Emma squeaked, clasping her hands together.
Janet groaned. “Aye, and you sound far too happy about it.”
She pursed her lips. Goodness, she was bad at hiding her emotions. Everyone told her so. But why should she try to hide her feelings all the time? Such a thing seemed nonsensical. Though…hadn’t she denied sighing only a few moments ago? Perhaps she ought to try to be more cognizant of her expressions, especially when it came to Ciar MacDougall, at least while they were still at Achnacarry.
“Forgive me. Is Robert covered with mud?” she asked, this time fully intending to smile.
“You’re laughing.”
“And why not?” Emma laughed from her belly. “’Tis a rare moment indeed when my brother loses anything.”
“Hush. He’s heading here now, and he’s not smiling.”
* * *
Ciar joined his men gathered around the ale keg. “How did I ken I’d find you here?”
Livingstone handed him a frothing tankard. “A man works up a thirst after watching such a riveting tug o’ war.”
“Aye, and I’ll wager you had a good laugh watching the clan chiefs battle.”
“I’ll say. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen MacRae lose anything requiring a bit o’ brawn.”
“Do not grow accustomed to it. Should we have another go, the tables could easily be turned.” Ciar took a long drink; the ale was just what he needed to quench his thirst. “Did you find the lad?”
Shaking his head, Livingstone rolled his eyes to the skies. “Aye.”
“And?”
“He asked a shilling.”
“Did you pay it?”
“I balked, but aye. An awful lot to pay for an untried water dog.”
Ciar’s shoulder ticked up. “Mayhap I don’t give a rat’s arse if the dog can fish or nay.”
“He’s a runt.” Livingstone licked the ale froth from his lip. “He’s not even worth adorning your hall’s hearth.”
“I disagree. The pup is affectionate.”
“What the blazes? Och, if it is affection you’re needing, I ken a friendly serving wench.”
“Wheesht.” Ciar sliced his hand through the air. “Go fetch the dog. And mind you, walk where few will see him.”
The man-at-arms snorted, adjusting the dirk in his belt. “That mongrel is more likely to lick an intruder than bite him. He’ll be no kind of watchdog whatsoever.”
“One never kens. I reckon Albert might grow to be quite protective of his master.”
“Bloody Albert it is now?” mumbled the hardened Highlander, walking away.
The pipers played while lads turned the pig on a spit over the fire. Truth be told, the pork had been roasting in the kitchen fires all day, but Lochiel liked it charred by the open fire for a time—said a ceilidh wasn’t the same without a pig on the spit. Ciar’s mouth watered. He agreed with the old clan chief. There was nothing better than roast pork and warm applesauce. And he’d be eating both soon.
But first he had something important to do.
By the time he finished his ale, Livingstone had returned, leading Albert. “Here’s your mop o’ wiry fur, and I’ll say he’s vicious with his tail—wags so fast, he’ll knock everything over in his path.” The man sniggered. “Is there a
nything else you’ll be needing, m’laird?”
“Nay.” Ciar snatched the lead from the jester’s hand. “Where are you off to?”
“Remember the serving wench?”
“I should have known.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Behave yourself.”
“Och. That would be no fun whatsoever.”
Scratching the dog’s ears, Ciar shook his head. “Are you ready, laddie?”
Albert circled, his tail wagging and swatting Ciar in the knees and shins.
“We may as well head over there.” He pulled the dog to heel. “And pray Robert is in good spirits after his hiding in the tug o’ war.”
Interestingly, Albert heeled well for a dog of nine months. Sam must have worked him on the lead. Ciar skirted around the outside of the gathering. Of course Emma wouldn’t be able to see him approaching, but Betty or Janet might say something.
He still couldn’t believe he’d let his guard down last eve. Aye, his damned heart had taken over his senses for a moment—long enough to be caught by the bloody lady’s maid. Good Lord, he’d felt like a lad of sixteen, smacked on the wrist by his ma. But, since Robert had made no mention of it, Ciar was certain the maid had exercised the good sense to hold her tongue. After all, the last thing Emma Grant needed was to be embroiled in the midst of a scandal.
He stopped the dog behind the lass, who was seated on a plaid with her legs tucked to the side. The firelight made her hair come alive and shimmer.
“Miss Emma,” he said softly.
She turned her ear quickly. “Dunollie?”
“Aye, and I’ve brought a friend.”
The dog licked her face and stood expectantly wagging his tail as if he were greeting an old friend.
Emma’s jaw dropped as she threw her arms around him. “Albert!”
The pup nuzzled into her with a happy yowl.
“Oh, my heavens, I’ve thought about you so much, laddie.”
Ciar placed the lead across her lap. “He’s yours.”
Emma’s jaw dropped, only to be taken advantage of by Albert’s voracious tongue. Sputtering, she coaxed the pup’s head aside. “I beg your pardon?”