Page 34 of Savage Kilted Highlander (Temptation in Tartan #9)

CHAPTER ONE

O f all the preening peacocks Uncle William has tried to foist on me, this one is by far the worst! Why, Lord Ambrose is old enough to be my father, boring as watching grass grow, and as ridiculous as the feathers on this hat he insists I wear as his courtship gift!

Grace Lancaster sighed and made an effort to maintain her rigid smile and polite appearance of attention as Lord Ambrose Fairgave finished off yet another tale of his hunting exploits with “..and that is how we brought down the beast. I have his head mounted in my hunting lodge. Splendid acquisition.”

Lord Ambrose had mentioned an astounding number of trophies hanging in said hunting lodge in this past candle-mark during his one-sided conversation. She managed a stiff nod.

The ridiculous peacock feathers on the idiotic hat bobbed over her ear and tickled dreadfully. She longed to knock it to the floor. Or better yet, throw it back into Lord Ambrose’s jowly and pompous face. Unfortunately, Uncle William was watching, and she knew from painful experience that he would not abide openly disrespectful behavior.

He barely tolerated her supposed clumsiness and awkwardness as it was, anything more blatant would have consequences she had no desire to discover.

Grace forced herself to smile politely. “That is rather impressive, Lord Ambrose. You have much skill in hunting.”

As if there was any skill to surrounding a wild animal and harrying it with dogs and spears until it dies.

“Hunting’s the best practice to maintain one’s strength for another clash with those ruddy heathens across the border. Not much better than beasts… you know boar hunting techniques work best, when chasing down one of those rascals on the field…”

And he was off again, regaling them with another of his tales, about a boar he’d chased through the woods at some time in his ‘younger days’.

At this point, Grace wasn’t even certain that it was a new story. Lord Ambrose’s hunting tales all sounded the same to her. The only thing she could be certain of, right at that moment, was that she needed a respite.

She rose from her seat, earning a look of bemusement from Lord Ambrose and a look of ire from her uncle. “Forgive me for interrupting, Lord Ambrose, but I fear I must excuse myself a moment.”

She barely waited for her uncle’s stiff-necked nod before turning and making her way toward the door that led outside to the privy. The feathers on the hat waved merrily, and she could hear the snickers of amusement that followed her - not even the most sober of patrons or serving girls could mask their amusement at the picture she presented, mincing her way through the tavern wearing a hat better suited for a costume ball.

Grace winced, and made an effort to keep her gaze forward and her chin up. She knew she looked ridiculous, embarrassingly so. But what could she do about it? It wasn’t as if she could remove the hat and toss it in the midden heap, where she was certain it deserved to be. Uncle William would never tolerate her committing such a slight.

With a grimace of carefully concealed distaste, Grace made her way to the small privy. She did her business quickly, encouraged by the smell as much as the rough quarters. She did wish Uncle William had hired a room, where she might have used a chamber pot, but of course he would never consider such an expense worthwhile.

At least in the privy, she was free to temporarily remove the ridiculous hat.

Once she was finished and had cleaned up as much as she was able, she reluctantly re-donned the offending headwear, then made her way back toward the dining area.

As she turned the corner into the main serving area, intent on getting back to the table and finding some excuse to permanently end the conversation, she was so fixed on her thoughts, she did not hear the heavy footsteps or realize there was someone else coming round the same corner until she crashed into a solid, unyielding male torso, attached to a muscular arm that was holding a full tankard of ale.

Grace hit the floor with a gasp. The man she’d run into stumbled on the rushes that covered the tavern floor. The tankard wavered, sloshing beer over both of them.

Within the space of a moment, Grace found herself on the dirty tavern floor, beer trickling over her face, her dress, and even the deplorable hat.

In the momentary silence, the first gasps of laughter were clearly audible. Grace felt her cheeks burning as she levered herself to her feet, her face hot with embarrassment. Cold, sticky, and humiliated, she spoke the first words that came to mind. “Have you no manners, sir, to knock a lady down and not even offer her a hand up?”

“I’d ask the same o’ ye- you, m’lady. Have ye na- no manners, to spill a man’s drink and offer no apology?” There was an odd accent to his words, but a familiar one, for all he seemed to be making some effort to conceal it.

“’Tis a gentleman’s place to apologize for his carelessness,” she countered, jerking her chin up as she got a good look at him for the first time.

He was tall, with the muscles of a trained warrior, and a ruggedly handsome appearance. His hair was dark, tied back roughly but neatly, and his eyes were a deep, glittering green, like summer grass looked at through morning dew.

And then he spoke again, and any fascination she might have had with his appearance was drowned in irritation. “’Tis a tavern, girl, na- not a pretty castle dance floor. If ye’ve not the sense to realize what sort o’ folk come here and what the risks are, ye- you’re as ridiculous as that hat ye’re wearing, and as soft as ye- your pretty little dress.”

The words stung, and all the more because the outfit she wore wasn’t one she would have chosen, had she known her uncle intended to meet her supposed ‘excellent suitor’ in a tavern like that. And the hat… “How dare you mock a lady!”

“’Tis nae mockery, just the truth, la- girl.”

Her ear caught the odd pronunciation of the word ‘not’ and the half-spoken ‘lass’, and the pieces clicked into place. The man was wearing trews and a heavy linen shirt and vest, with not a bit of tartan anywhere in sight, but she knew him for what he was. “You are a Scotsman.”

“Highlander, aye. An’ what o’ it?” He appeared not to care that he’d been discovered, despite his earlier efforts.

“What is a Scotsman doing here?” Technically, they weren’t that far from the Lowland border, but they were still on the English side of it. And besides, he was a Highlander, he’d said. Like the man who’d stolen her friend Niamh away, the day of the Harvest Festival.

The bitterness of that memory only added to her anger. It didn’t help that his only answer was a twist of his lip and a curtly spoken “Drinkin’. Or I would be, had I nae been accosted by a shrew of an English lass in a temper.”

“I am not… you know nothing of me, to make such statements!” Grace felt her fists clench tightly against the fabric of her dress. “And you are the one who bumped into me.”

“Dinnae care.” He gave her a look full of such mocking that it stung, and his words were no better as he waved an exaggerated bow with his near-empty mug. “Apologies, girl, fer spillin’ ale on yer dress. Well, I’m off fer another mug. And ye can…”

“Do not presume to tell me what I can and can’t…”

“Grace!” The single word, spoken in a tone as sharp as a knife blade, carried clearly across the noise of the tavern. Grace winced and turned to look at her uncle.

Lord Ambrose looked distinctly unimpressed, even a little disgusted, by the man standing in front of her. Uncle William looked about ready to burst a blood vessel in his anger. Likely, he would have already started yelling, had they not been in public.

Abruptly, she realized how it must look, her speaking to a Highlander. Certainly, they’d been arguing, but who would know that, or what their discussion had been about? It was far too easy for someone to get the wrong impression.

She ought to have sniffed, raised her chin, and brushed past him the instant she’d realized the truth, but it was too late now.

“Excuse me.” She turned away from the man without another word and rejoined her uncle and his guest, sitting with as much grace as her ale-soaked skirts would allow.

“You didn’t tell me your niece was the clumsy sort. And associating with one of those… savages.” Lord Ambrose was frowning.

“She is not, generally,” Uncle William scowled at her. “What were you doing, talking to that brute?”

“I… wished for him to apologize for dousing me with ale.” There was nothing she could say that her uncle would accept, and she knew it. But even so… she had to try. “He was being unconscionably rude…”

“They’re all like that. Barbarians.”

“You should have walked away instead of engaging in conversation with him. What if people thought you were a sympathizer with those beasts?” Uncle William’s scowl was dark as a thundercloud. “Next time, you ought to keep your mouth shut and walk away. Perhaps a slap to remind him of his place, but not… conversation.” The frown deepened. “Better yet, have enough awareness and grace to prevent a ‘next time’ from occurring.”

“Indeed. Indeed. I have to say, Lord Lancaster, your daughter doesn’t much live up to her name, now does she?”

“Pardon, Lord Ambrose, but Grace is my niece. I took her in after my brother and his wife were killed in the border wars.” Uncle William’s voice was cold, and Grace felt the sting of it, knowing as she did that the harsh words were meant to remind her of her place, and her position.

She was an orphan without a title or name of her own, living under her uncle’s roof and his sufferance. She was not supposed to embarrass him in any way, and talking to a Highlander? One of the Scottish barbarians who had been responsible for his brother’s death? That was a mistake, a shameful one.

The good Lord above only knew what her uncle would say if he ever discovered that her oldest and dearest childhood friend was from Clan Cameron, whose lands bordered what had once been her father’s.

“I don’t know about this.” The heavy, disappointed tone brought her attention back to Lord Ambrose, and a lump lodged in her throat. The lord was shaking his head. “Your niece is pretty enough, young too. But it seems her education is lacking. Not the proper sort for a lady, you know. I need a wife who can make a proper showing of it, not the sort of woman who talks to barbarians and can’t keep her feet in a crowd.”

He shook his head again and rose from the table. “I think it’s best I bid you both a good day. Time is precious for all of us, with the spring turning into summer. I think it’s time we all returned to our duties. Lord Lancaster.”

He bowed to Grace, but there was no warmth to his movement. “You can keep the hat, young lady. Hopefully, you’ll grow into it one day.”

Then he was gone, and Grace was left in her cold, sodden dress, to face her uncle’s wrath.

It was not long in coming. “I arrange a meeting. I sing your praises to a wealthy and well-connected suitor. And you…” Uncle William’s eyes flicked over her dirty skirt, the bedraggled hat, and the ale soaked fabric. “… You ruin your dress, insult his Lordship’s gift with your obvious disdain for it, and cannot make it to the privy and back without causing a scene, making a fool of yourself, and getting soaked in cheap drink, as if you were a dockside tavern wench. A poor showing indeed, and that is without mentioning your foolishness in speaking to a barbarian of the Scottish persuasion.”

Grace swallowed hard. She wanted to protest that it had been an accident, and that she had only demanded an apology. But she knew better. Uncle William would not hear a word she had to say.

It was her own fault, in part. She and Niamh had made a game of making themselves seem unsuitable for marriage, and they had played it for years. But Niamh was gone, and without her, the game had lost any amusement for Grace, especially in the face of her uncle’s growing exasperation. And what was worse this time, was that she hadn’t genuinely tried to drive Lord Ambrose away. It had simply been the result of a moment of inattention and clumsiness.

Uncle William continued, and the softness of his voice did nothing to disguise the venom of his words. “This is becoming disgraceful. You are all but a laughingstock among the peers of England. So heed my warning well, Grace. You shall behave with every bit of decorum, grace and attention you have at your command when the next suitor comes. If you fail again, then I will not invite you to meet the one that follows, until the day you meet him at the altar.”

Uncle William rose, and bent to whisper poisonously in her ear. “Never forget, dear niece, I can arrange a marriage for you without your input or your presence. And I shall, if you continue to embarrass me.”

Then he was gone, calling for the tavern keeper to settle his account, and for a boy to hitch up the carriage. Grace was left to gather herself and her things, her stomach churning.

Uncle William had been the one to arrange the meeting there. He’d known she would be at a disadvantage, in this tavern where she looked like a peacock among barnyard fowl. Perhaps the encounter with the Scotsman had been an accident, but… it felt as if her uncle had wanted her to fail to meet Lord Ambrose’s expectations.

Oh, he was angry enough, but she knew her uncle. Being angry at her faults wouldn’t stop him from looking forward to the day he could marry her off to whoever he chose, and claim the Lancaster fortune entirely, minus her dowry.

And if he could choose a husband who was altogether unsuitable and would make her miserable? He would find that all the more delightful. Uncle William was that sort of man.

Time was running out. If she did not escape his trap soon, she would be shackled to someone who might be worse even than Lord Ambrose. And yet, as she shuffled to her feet and made her way to the door, the stupid feathers still flopping about her face, she had no idea what she could do about the situation.

Oh, I wish Niamh were here! She would surely think of something to aid me!