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Chapter Two

“ A ithnichidh cat cat eile.” A cat will recognize another cat.

“Oh, my dear Catriona, you must play,” Lady Whipple chirped as she clapped her hands together in excitement—she was more like a child than a lady most days, her voice squeaky as a trapped mouse. “It’s Pall Mall! Such a delightful pastime, surely!”

Catriona politely suppressed a sigh as she nodded in acknowledgment, considering Lady Whipple’s offer.

Her gaze swept over the picnic blanket she sat on. She took in the gaudy hats, delicate finger sandwiches, teas, and of course, the requisite stream of vapid chatter one is plagued with in high society. As much as she wanted to be rid of her boredom, she was not in the mood for sport.

“Indeed, I’m sure it is, m’lady. But I didnae wanna disturb your game,” she said, her Scottish accent thick and rolling—a stark contrast to the clipped, more precise tones of the English gentry.

Catriona refused to mask it. She wouldn’t suppress her identity for anyone, let alone the hoity-toity company she’d been subjected to that afternoon—and all the company she’d been subjected to ever since she and her mother had travelled to London to visit friends.

“Such a… robust accent,” Lady Thistlewaite drawled as she daintily took a sip from her teacup.

She pursed her lips together as she raked her eyes over Catriona’s simple gown: elegant enough with a striking verdant color, if perhaps a few seasons old.

“So… intriguing ,” she continued, though Catriona would have done anything for her to stop. “Intriguing, or uncouth?” she asked as she covered her mouth with one of her daintily gloved hands.

Lord Thistlewaite chuckled back to her. His eyes glinted with malicious amusement in the mid-afternoon sun.

While he was always a bit ill-mannered from what Catriona had observed, he clearly had been in his cups that afternoon.

“One can hardly tell the difference, can they, my love?” he asked Lady Thistlewaite rhetorically as he downed the last of his cup, licking his lips expectantly.

Surely, he has put somethin’ special in his tea to make the company more palatable. I might forgive his remarks if he was kind enough to share with the rest of us poor saps.

Catriona weighed her options for a response to the Thistlewaite’s cruel observations of her character. For her mother’s sake, she resolved not to give in to their games… and yet being her father’s daughter, she could not let it go unchecked either.

She forced a polite smile. “Me apologies if my robustness offends yer delicate sensibilities. ‘Twas nae me intention.”

With all the money in the world, why cannae they be respectful? What’s polite about polite society?

“Oh, it’s not offensive, my dear!” Lady Whipple interjected quickly, smiling in an effort to diffuse the fire she herself had stoked. “No need to be prickly—it’s just a bit of fun on a beautiful afternoon!”

Lady Thistlewaite fanned herself, also seeking to regain her polite facade. “You’re just, so very… Scottish ,” she finally settled on. “But it’s refreshing to have such unique company amongst us. Take it as a compliment, my dear.”

Behind her back, Catriona continued to hear the whispers. They were at a volume that was soft, but purposefully loud enough for her benefit.

“Too wild,” one woman whispered to the others in a circle not far from her own on a nearby blanket.

“No proper English gentleman would tolerate such… spiritedness . You know what they say about Scottish women. Something in their blood, such wild creatures are incapable of fidelity,” another snickered. “And did you see how wide those hips were—why, they’re as wide as the Thames!”

She couldn’t decipher who had made that comment, try as she might to isolate the tones.

She knew she was curvy. Those who were kind said she had child-bearing hips, and those who were not had said far worse.

She liked to refer to herself as pleasantly plump and cared not for the company of men, which isn’t to say she didn’t yearn for it from time to time.

Especially as her mother reminded her it was her life’s purpose to get married and have children.

Catriona wished she were surrounded by actual children, and not adults who acted like them. She enjoyed the company of little ones, as they didn’t make unsavory comments about her body, and focused on things that mattered, like happiness and joy.

She loved her body, her Scottishness, and had a healthy self-image. Her father always told her that if she didn’t look like her, she wouldn’t be her.

“Imagine her at a ball! One shudders to think of the dancing they do in the Highlands. She’d stomp right through the ballroom like a wild mare!”

If the remarks were this bad when spoken, imagine if she could hear the things they could not say? She would have feigned a headache if she knew that she was to be the afternoon’s entertainment.

Unfortunately, her mother would have seen right through that.

“Catriona!” Her mother’s voice cut through the crowd as she came to join her on the blanket.

“Do not sit there like a stone!” the Dowager Viscountess of Craigleith went on.

“Lady Whipple invited ye to play Pall Mall, and play ye will. It is an opportunity,” she said through a tight smile.

She always had a talent to ruffle Catriona’s feathers, but this request was too much. “Dinnae let pride get the best of ye.”

“Mother, must I?” Catriona protested, her voice a low plea.

While I may have Scottish sensibilities, at least I ken how to actually whisper.

“Must ye?” Her mother whispered back in shock. “Do ye havenae understanding of how these things work, lass?”

Just as the questions passed her lips, her eyes caught sight of a more promising prospect. She brought Catriona up to her feet.

Before she knew what was happening, her mother shoved her towards a bewildered-looking young lord who was ambling in their direction.

He was a nice enough looking fellow, but he was dressed as a dandy with a vacant, nervous expression.

Catriona could not be less interested in him, even if he was the richest man in all of London.

“Me darlin’, why, this is Lord Bellingford,” she explained. She lowered her voice to a whisper as she continued, “An excellent match. This could elevate us, Catriona. It could erase the… the stain of our origins.”

Catriona’s frustration threatened to surpass a simmer and reach full boil as she digested her mother’s words.

While some women yearned for a man’s touch and a home to manage, Catriona’s heart clung to something far less tangible—freedom, belonging, the right to remain wholly herself.

She feared that if she married an English lord, he’d smooth the edges of her accent, polish her manners for drawing rooms, strip her of the wild, stubborn spirit shaped by the heathered hills of her homeland.

“I’m nae some wee stain ye can just scrub awa’, Maither,” she teased, emphasizing her Scottish accent for full effect.

“Just play the game, child,” her mother pressed as her voice became desperate. “And please do smile, Catriona! Ye look like ye’re about to wrestle a bear. And yer smile, why, do ye ken how much I adore it?” she cooed, attempting to flatter her.

“D’ye ken? I think I will play the game,” Catriona replied as she waved to Lady Whipple, much to her mother’s chagrin.

She walked toward Lady Whipple with a rapid pace, away from the would-be suitor as fast as her legs would carry her.

“You’ve never played Pall Mall, have you, Miss MacTavish?” Lady Whipple asked, her voice deceivingly warm to the untrained ear. “Such a complex game. Perhaps we should give you a demonstration before we begin?”

“I assure ye I am quite capable of strikin’ a wooden ball with a mallet,” Catriona replied steadily.

Then, Lord Bellingford sidled up next to her, an odd scent in his wake that reminded her of a musty attic.

He was attractive in a boiled turnips sort of way—not the most appetizing part of a dinner, but palatable nonetheless.

Yet, even with his mild manners, something about him repelled her. He had no zest.

“I am going to play too,” he announced blandly.

Of all the attendees of this picnic to take a liking to her, he was the one. She would have much rather been left to her own devices than attempt polite conversation. She could tell by his appearance that it would be like pulling teeth.

She caught sight of her mother, who was practically bursting out of her bustle with excitement, giving Catriona a look which told her to move closer to him.

She would take out her frustrations in the game. Soon, they would all know what a real Scottish lass was made of.

As the first ball was struck, it careened wildly off-course. It completely missed the iron hoop, rolling far into a small, wooded area where it was lost among the trees.

“I’ll fetch it,” Catriona offered brightly, seizing the opportunity to escape her captors.

Surely her mother could not have faulted her for being helpful.

“Wonder who the lass might find while poking around in there?” Lord Thistlewaite called loudly as he took a drag from his flask. “A stray baron to raise her up to acceptability?”

He wasn’t even bothering to conceal his drinking at this point, and yet she was the one who was uncouth? The hypocrisy of the gentle class made Catriona want to run off to Scotland and never look back.

Soon enough.

She focused on the feeling of her boots sinking into the wet grass as she walked deeper into the woods. The sounds of the game faded behind her as she let herself get lost for a moment.

Surely, they had a spare ball and would not miss her terribly.

She took a deep breath and let the smell of the wild around her calm her, the serenity of nature anchoring her to the ground. The quiet was a balm to her soul after being subjected to that picnic.

Suddenly, a soft, choked sob struck Catriona in the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t alone. And someone was in pain.

Surely that can’t be a wee child.

Her hand instinctively went to the small pistol hidden in her dress’s pocket. Most ladies did not carry pistols, especially not those who circulated in high society—but then again, Catriona was most certainly not “most ladies”, as all the ton continually reminded her.

Indeed, her most prized possession left to her by her father was that very pistol. A reminder of the fact that she was there and he was gone, and that she had been unable to save him.

She would never make that mistake again.

She followed the sound, her steps silent and swift, and found a small girl huddled beneath a large oak tree.

Her back was against the trunk, and she clutched something tightly to her chest in her tiny fists as a hulking figure stood over her.

His face twisted in a cruel sneer as he closed in on her.

“Gimme the hairpins, girl,” the thug growled, his voice expectant and rough. “Or you’ll regret it. I can promise ya that! Now, I don’t want no trouble. Just hand ‘em over, and ya won’t get hurt.”

The girl trembled, shaking like a leaf in the breeze, as she shook her head from side to side. Her bright blue eyes were wide with terror, but not a sound escaped from her lips.

Catriona scanned the opening surrounding her. She looked around, trying to determine the best way to intervene as her instincts took over. They were far from the beaten path, and there was no clear way out of the wooded alcove without having to confront him.

Without hesitation, Catriona ran to the scene and inserted herself between the girl and the thug. She held the girl behind her and drew her pistol. She cocked it and pointed it right at him, aiming in between his eyes.

“Leave her alone,” she said, her voice cold and steady. “I’m warnin’ ye, I am nae a woman to be trifled with.”

The thug scoffed. “A lady? With a pistol? Don’t make me laugh. Do you even know how to fire that thing?”

“Go ahead,” Catriona prodded. Her eyes were unwavering as she looked right through him. “Try me, ya nasty bastard.”

The thug’s gaze met hers, eyes narrowing as he met her challenge. His gaze followed to her left hand and the unwavering confidence with which she held the gun. He took a step back.

That’s right, ya shite bastard!

“You wouldn’t dare, you Highland harlot!”

“ Try me, I said,” she repeated as if he were stupid, the fire in her heart brimming as she felt it grow within her chest. “Or can ye nae hear me?”

She was everything those English poofs said she was. She was a warrior princess trapped in this woman’s body, forced to attend parties instead of running wild. She would make him regret this day.

“And even if I havenae fired this pistol before, there is a first time for everythin’. Would ye like to take that chance? Would ye like to be the first?”

He took a step back, then another, and then another. He put his hands slowly in the air and turned to run.

That’s right.

Catriona turned to face the girl and check on her.

The little creature was a strikingly beautiful child, with the most expressive azure eyes against pale, alabaster skin. She needed little adornment for her natural beauty to shine, even in the darkness of the woods.

As their eyes met, Catriona felt connected to her in a way she could not quite put a finger on—a kindred spirit, she supposed.

Just as the thug began to run away, a voice boomed, “What in God’s name is going on here?”