Page 15 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)

“I’d be more worried if he were grave and quiet.

He’s a lot like Scotland, as I see it, wild and barbaric, quick to anger, slow to forgive, loyal to the death to those he loves, but a man you can count on and one you can trust behind your back.

” Percy shook his head. “Faith! I find I can’t stay angry at the lad for long. He has a way about him, he does.”

The old duke’s face brightened. “The lad is blessed with that old Mackinnon charm. It can soothe the beast in a man’s breast faster than a shot of Mackinnon Drambuie.” The duke turned pensive. “Faith! ‘Tis like walking on eggs, Percy. I want to curb the lad, but I dinna want to break him.”

“I don’t think that will happen. There’s a bit of magic that surrounds him. One day the Mackinnons will come to worship him,” Percy said. “I can feel it.”

“If they dinna kill the puir laddie first.”

“Aye,” Percy said, imitating the duke’s burr. “If they dinna kill him first.”

The duke laughed and clapped Percy on the back. “What fools men are,” he said, pouring them each a glass of Drambuie. “A hundred years from now none of this will make any difference.”

“That’s what they said after Culloden,” Percy said. “Do you think it’s true?”

“I dinna ken there will ever be a time when that’s true,” the duke said, “so long as there’s an ounce of Scots blood flowing in any of our veins.”

Over the next few days, Ross familiarized himself with Gaelic and the Gaelic translations of Scotland’s poets.

He learned Percy was not a man to be long appeased, for Ross would no sooner give in on one issue than old Percy would thrust another one at him.

Only this time it was something they had been over time and time again.

“My clothes are clean and they cover everything personal,” Ross said, “and those are the only two requirements I care about—aside from the fact I like them and they’re comfortable.”

Percy was always relying on that most irritating of English traits, the tendency of wanting to be involved in the turning of the world by shaping the ways, character, and lives of men and countries alike.

Ross figured that was what prompted Percy to say, “If you are going to be the Duke of Dunford, you must learn to dress like a Scottish gentleman. I have taken the liberty of sending for a gentlemen’s clothier.

He will be here this afternoon to take some measurements. ”

“When hell freezes over!” Ross said. “I never agreed to dress up like some dandy.”

“A gentleman is a long way from a dandy. And it was your grandfather’s request, lad. If you’ve a problem with it, I’ll send for him and the two of you can talk it over.” With uplifted brows, Percy said, “Shall I send Robert to find His Grace?”

Ross knew as sure as the sky was blue that his grandfather would come in waving that damned wanted poster in his face. And that would be a waste of time, for whenever he waved that paper at Ross, Ross gave in. “No,” he said at last.

Ross drew himself up ramrod straight and looked at Percy with fire banked in his eyes, his face clouded with suspicion. “What kind of gentlemen’s clothes?”

The sound of Percy’s laughter rolling along dark corridors and through long, silent rooms was talked about for days afterward.

Douglas Alison, gentlemen’s clothier, arrived with all the pomp his profession would allow. Robert, wearing his most baffled expression, announced to Lord Percival, “There is a man to see you wearing clothes that defy description. He said his name was Douglas Alison.”

Percy laughed. “Bring him into the lad’s study.”

When Douglas walked in, Ross was talking to Percy. Immediately Ross looked at the newcomer, who was strutting like a rooster. His brows snapped together in a frown.

In a typical lapse of awareness of what was going on around him, Douglas began talking the moment he spied the two men.

“Lord Percival! I can’t tell you what an honor it is for me to clothe the duke’s grandson.

Why, only last week…” He broke off with a horrified gasp at the sight of the tall, scowling man across the room.

“Oh, dear me,” he said, then ever so slowly he approached Ross and began examining his clothing.

Over and over again, he murmured, “Mmrnmmm,” or “Oh, dear, this will never do,” or “God’s eyeballs! What have we here?”

With unabashed skepticism, he eyed Ross’ breeches. “Animal skin,” he said with a shudder. “My, my, these will have to go.”

Douglas ran his hand over the leather pants and Ross let fly with a bellow of rage, followed by a backhand that sent Douglas tumbling.

“Slap me for a fool,” Ross said. “The man acts like a woman! Or a pederast!” Then he grabbed Douglas by the lapels and slammed him against the paneled wall, thumping his head against the wood with each word he spoke.

“You’d better be careful where you put your hands, fancy man, or I’ll take that greedy little prick of yours and use it for fish bait. Do I make myself clear?”

Douglas rolled his eyes in desperation toward Lord Percival. “P-p-perfectly clear,” he said weakly.

“Here now,” Percy said. “Douglas didn’t mean it as an insult, Ross.”

“Like hell!” Ross bellowed. “The man is misfixed and you’re defending him?”

Percy pulled Ross’ hands away and straightened the lapels of Douglas’ coat as Douglas slid weakly down the wall. Pulling Douglas to an upright position, Percy went on talking. “When you have clothes tailored, it is understood that the tailor is going to have to touch you now and then.”

“He can touch,” Ross said harshly, his eyes burning into Douglas, “but he better be damn careful where he puts his hands, or he’ll be eating those chattering teeth of his for lunch.”

“Douglas is the best gentlemen’s tailor in England,” said Percy.

“That ain’t all he’s good at, I’ll wager,” said Ross.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Percy said.

“You sure couldn’t prove it by me,” Ross said, giving Douglas the mean eye. “He doesn’t look like he could grow pole beans in a pile of horse shit, to me.”

Percy cleared his throat and forced back a smile. “Texans have a way of speaking in the vernacular,” he said to Douglas’ horrified expression. Then to Ross he said, “May Douglas continue?”

Ross stepped back. “He can take a stagger at it.” To Douglas he said, “Watch those hands, fancy man.”

Douglas blinked with each word Ross said, then looked at Percy. “Carry on,” Percy said. “Carefully.”

With an audible swallow, Douglas dropped down to his knees and pulled up the leg of Ross’ pants, poking at the boots, touching the rowels of his Mexican spurs. “What an odd set of spurs—terribly out of fashion, I’m afraid.” He studied the spurs thoughtfully. “If they were ever in .”

“Percy…” Ross said, and Percy smiled blandly at the warning.

As for Douglas, he was submerged in tailor’s thoughts and took no notice. “In order to outfit you properly as a gentleman of your class, I must take some notes on your current wardrobe.”

“That won’t take long,” Ross said.

Pencil and notepaper in hand, Douglas began firing questions. “Do you have any of the following: frilled shirts for evening wear, tucked or pleated for daytime?”

“No.”

“Drawers that are knee-length or shorter?”

“Drawers?” Ross glanced at Percy. “I don’t wear drawers—of any length.”

Percy coughed. Douglas looked aghast. “You don’t wear drawers? ‘Pon my word, what are you wearing beneath those dreadful animal skins?”

“More animal skin,” Ross said with a snarl. “Mine.”

Douglas jumped a mile and sputtered. “Nothing? You mean beneath your trousers you are n-n-naked?”

“As in ‘stark’,” Ross drawled, enjoying this at last.

“Oh, dear me, this is dreadful—dreadful indeed. Much worse than I thought.” Douglas took out a handkerchief and mopped his glistening forehead.

“Well, let’s move on. Now, where was I?” he said, checking his list. “Here we are…cravat. Do you have cambric or linen, or do you prefer the newer, smaller necktie?”

“Well, I don’t reckon I have a cravat,” Ross said, drawing the word out so that it sounded like craaaaw-vat.

“Seeing as how I don’t even know what one is.

Craaaaw-vat, ” he repeated, testing the sound of the word.

“Sounds like some part of the body.” Ross grabbed his back and began limping around the room.

“If I ain’t got the worst pain settlin’ down in my craaaaw-vat . Somebody call a doctor.”

Douglas glanced at Percy, who was suddenly taken with something outside and stared intently out the window, his cough acting up again.

Scribbling a hasty note on his paper, Douglas went on, his voice suddenly going all wobbly and high-pitched.

“Coats,” he said, then cleared his throat.

“Do you have a good double-breasted tailcoat with knee-length tails?”

“No.”

“How about a short coat?”

“No.”

“Mr. Mackinnon, do you have any suitable dress clothes for evening wear?”

“Mr. Alison, where I come from people don’t have the time or money for much socializing in the evening, and when they do, they don’t wear clothes that are much different from those they wear during the day—just a little cleaner, is all.

In my case, I was on the move a lot. Everything I owned could be packed in a couple of saddlebags.

I have three choices when I dress: Sunday best, everyday, and work. Take your pick.”

Turning to Lord Percival, Douglas said, “I believe we need to outfit him completely.”

“That is the same conclusion I reached,” said Lord Percival.

Over the weeks that followed Lord Percival and Ross settled into what could be called harmony—the two of them working with such good humor that Percy was actually amiable and Ross, at times, could even be accused of being called obliging.

After the initial round of tutoring, being fitted for clothing, and taking up the pleasures of a Scottish gentleman, which included riding, hunting, fishing, and a sport the Scots seemed to love—something they called golf—Ross spent several hours a day with his grandfather and a few of his closest advisors, clansmen all, who worked hand in hand with the Mackinnon to see that everything ran smoothly around Dunford.

Under the relentless tutelage of Lord Percival and the rigorous training of his grandfather, Ross began to slowly warm to the idea of becoming a Scottish duke, partly because he was growing to love Dunford and all it stood for, and partly because he was coming to admire and love his grandfather.

There was another reason as well, a reason that was deeper, something that went beyond his love for Scotland and his grandfather.

His grandfather had once said, “There comes a time in a man’s life when he wants something badly enough that he will pay any price to have it.”

Those words stayed with him. For the first time in his life, Ross Mackinnon realized he wanted something badly enough to pay any price to have it, just as the old duke had said.

What he wanted was to be a part of something, to feel he was important, to feel he had put down roots someplace.

All his life he had wanted this, and all his life he felt he had been left out in the cold.

Growing up without a mother or father, he had always felt empty and alone; always felt like the orphan he was—even with the company of his four brothers.

He was the one caught in the middle, the one with no one, the one with two older brothers and two younger ones.

As to be expected, the older two, Nicholas and Tavis, were close as the bark on a tree, while he twins, Adrian and Alexander, were too busy fighting to pay him much mind.

And so he became a loner and a drifter, a man who stuck to himself, moving from town to town, woman to woman.

A man who showed the world he needed no one.

Now he was in another country, making a new start, but the lonely feeling was still with him.

For this reason he was willing to endure anything—anything at all—to find his niche and have this thing Percy called his hour in the sun.