Page 40 of Beguiled
Before David could speak, Murdo strode into the room. “What are you wearing?” he said, coming to a stop an arm’s length away, his frowning gaze taking in David’s sober garb. “I’m sure I told you it was highland or court dress this evening, and you insisted you’d be fine.”
David’s irritation overcame his nerves. “You did, and I am,” he said shortly. “I told you I had formal evening clothes. These are they, and they’re perfectly adequate for the Assembly Rooms.”
Murdo glanced up at his snappish tone, meeting David’s gaze with an amused look “I should’ve known,” he said. “I don’t suppose the thought of looking out of place even troubles you?”
David stared at him, bewildered, and Murdo seemed to take that as confirmation of his point. He sighed. “I suppose I’ll just have to persuade the Ball Committee to let you in notwithstanding.”
“I didn’t ask to come tonight,” David pointed out.
“No,” Murdo conceded, his tone even. “You didn’t.”
“And doesn’t an invitation from the King himself count for anything?” David asked. He raised a teasing eyebrow, hiding the sudden concern that gripped him—that he might miss out on the chance to speak with Elizabeth purely because of his own stubborn refusal to comply with the dress code imposed by the Ball Committee.
“I suspect the King’s personal invitation will get you in, if it comes to that.” Murdo smiled, his gaze travelling over David again, more slowly this time. “And you look very well, I must say, in your black and white. Beau Brummel himself would approve, though”—he stepped closer and flipped the limp knot of linen at David’s throat with one long finger—“I don’t suppose he’d think much of your cravat.”
David couldn’t suppress the smile that sprang to his lips at Murdo’s sudden nearness. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose he would.”
“Ironically enough, you’ll be the most English-looking Scot in the room.”
“I’ll be the mostmodern-looking Scot,” David corrected. “A professional man of the modern age.”
“Ah. Is that why you don’t want to wear tartan?” Murdo asked, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Doesn’t it fit with your advocate persona?”
“That’s not the reason at all,” David retorted. “I don’t want to wear tartan because my people don’t wear it. I’m a lowlander. A Scots lowlander.”
Murdo rolled his eyes at that. “David Lauriston,” he sighed. Merely that, as though it was all the explanation he needed.
David’s brows drew together with irritation. “It’s a serious point.”
“If you say so.”
“Itis. For me to wear a kilt—it would be…” He thought, trying to pinpoint what it was that troubled him about it. “An…an insult.”
Murdo sent him that mocking, amused look that David was so familiar with. “An insult to whom? To you?”
Perhaps it was the dismissive tone in Murdo’s voice that riled him. Or perhaps it was the fact that Murdo was done up in a set of decorative regalia that, handsome as he looked in it, might have been designed by Sir Walter himself. Whatever it was, David felt a sudden stab of pure annoyance. He looked the other man over, from the tumble of snowy lace at his throat to the toes of his satin dancing slippers, then back up to meet his dark eyes.
“Yes,” he said. “An insult to me. And to the people it means something to—not people like you, but the ordinary highlanders it was taken from. The people who were forbidden to wear it for such a long time.”
Murdo’s smile faded, and that fortified David.
“Come on, Murdo,” he continued. “You must all know about that. You’re a highlander, aren’t you? The son of the laird himself. Did your father evict any of his tenants from their homelands to make room for sheep? Burn down any houses? Most of the chiefs did, I believe. In fact, some of the ones who are the most—”
“Stop it—”
“—sentimental about the old highland ways were the worst. We were lucky in the lowlands, by comparison. It was industry that cleared our lands and sent our people overseas. Cold comfort I suppose, but marginally better than being burned off the land by troops to make way for animals—”
“David, stop! Please.”
David fell silent, his words dying in his throat as he took in Murdo’s white face and distressed expression. For a moment, they just stared at one another, and David wanted to ask what made Murdo look so stricken, but somehow the words were unutterable.
At last Murdo said quietly, “My father has one of the largest stocks of sheep in the highlands. Most of the people that lived at Kilbeigh when I was a boy were cleared off the land a decade ago.” He paused, then added, “Two villages were burned down altogether.”
When he was finished, he looked calm, but a muscle leapt in his cheek, betraying his tension.
David didn’t know what to say. He searched Murdo’s face, looking for some clue as to how the man felt about what had happened on his father’s lands but he seemed to have control of himself now and there was nothing to see but that cool, impassive expression the man so often wore.
Murdo turned away, heading for the door. “Come on. I’ve ordered some supper for us. We don’t have to leave for the ball for a while yet.”