The Highlander Is All That Page 8

“Were you happy with Van Cleve?”

  “That is beside the point.”

  “Is it? Would you have chosen differently if you’d had the chance?”

  Esmeralda’s expression became decidedly persimmony. She stood and made her way to the table by the window, the one that held assorted decanters of brown liquids. She poured two glasses and returned, handing one to Elizabeth.

  “Sip it.”

  She did, and a flame scorched her throat. She wheezed and coughed and then took another sip because it felt good.

  As for Esmeralda, she tossed hers back in one gulp.

  “I was, indeed, not happy with Van Cleve. He was a pompous, profligate popinjay. He humiliated me numerous times in front of my friends . . . and occasionally with my friends. But he was wealthy and he had a property in Scotland.”

  Elizabeth sent her a curious glance. “A property in Scotland?”

  She chuckled. “He thought he was punishing me, exiling me, but he had no idea who I was. I loved Scotland.” Her eyes glinted, faraway and dreamy. “I am certain he had no idea, until the day he died, that Roger was not his son.” Elizabeth’s eyes went wide and she glanced at her glass. What was this drink that it made a pillar of propriety spill her proverbial guts after one glass?

  “Are you shocked?”

  “A little.”

  Esmeralda chuckled. “So was Van Cleve, when I told him.”

  “You told him?”

  “On his deathbed, as he wheezed his last. Was that cruel, do you think?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “Well, it was a petty revenge, but I did enjoy it.”

  “Aunt Esmeralda . . . why are you telling me this?”

  “Because, my darling. You need to know that you do have options.”

  “What if Twiggenberry does not exile me to Scotland?”

  “There’s always Wales.”

  “You are advocating I marry a man I do not love, and having affaires?”

  “It is one option.”

  “And what would you have chosen, if you’d had the freedom to? Would it have been Van Cleve?”

  Her aunt sighed. “No. In all honesty, it would have been Rupert.”

  “Roger’s father, I take it?”

  “A tall, brawny, foul-mouthed Scot who could fuck like a—” Her cheeks went pink. “Oh dear. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Young ears.”

  “Quite right.” She sighed and patted Elizabeth’s hand. “I will put Twiggenberry off. Tell him you need some time. We will keep this proposal between us for the moment, but you, my gel, need to find another suitor. I do warn you. The earl will not like being rejected.”

  “He will understand.”

  “My dear, I was married to an earl. My father was an earl and my brother following him. I can promise you, they never understand when things do not go their way. Let us proceed with delicacy, yes? Come now. We must prepare for tonight.”

  Elizabeth nodded. And then she tossed back the rest of her drink.

  She was going to need it.

  * * *

  “Do you have a moment?” Ranald stilled as Anne’s voice wafted to him as he sat in the study, composing a letter to his daughter.

  He looked up with a friendly smile that cost him. Though her animosity towards him had waned—they were definitely friendly—somehow, that simply wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

  But he knew better than to press her. This was still so fragile, any pressure might shatter what they had. So, as hard as it was to remain warm but distant, he did it.

  “Of course.” He set his pen aside. “What is it?”

  She took a seat on the other side of the desk and he joined her there because he wanted to be closer. Her perfume rose to him as he sat.

  “I’m worried.”

  “Are you?” Was it friendly to touch her hand? Probably. “About what?”

  She did not pull away. “It’s Elizabeth.”

  “Ah, yes. How is she feeling?”

  “Better, I imagine. But it’s not that. It’s . . . something else.”

  Ranald cocked his head to the side and waited for her to elaborate. To his chagrin, she rose and began pacing the room. “I don’t know how to explain it. There’s just something . . . different about her.”

  “Different, how?”

  “I don’t know. She seems . . . sad.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  “I’ve tried. But how do you ask a question when you don’t even know what you want to know?”

  “That is a conundrum. Maybe she is just overset by the excitement of the season.”

  Anne nodded. “Perhaps. This is a stressful time for all of us. The events. The suitors. The changes that are coming . . .”

  “Aye. It is.”

  She whirled and poleaxed him with the despair in her eyes.

  “Anne?” He knew her well enough to feel her pain. “What is really bothering you?”

  “Things are changing so fast.”

  “Aye.”

  “When my sisters marry, they may move away. We won’t be close anymore. What if we never see one another again?”

  The tears in her eyes devastated him. He stood and opened his arms. To his shock and delight, she came to him and wrapped herself around him. “You will. You all love one another. You will find a way to visit.”

  “Will we?”

  “It’s what families do.” He rubbed her back and she sighed into his chest. It was wonderful, holding her, but he knew it was a precious thing and he refused to ruin it. Though he wanted to kiss her, and he wanted to very badly, he did not.

  After a minute or two, she pulled back and dabbed at her tears. “I’m sorry, blubbering all over you like that.”

  “I am happy to be blubbered on,” he said with a smile and was pleased when she smiled back. “It’s what friends are for.”

  She caught his gaze and held it for a long while. “Is it? Then I am very glad to have your friendship, Ranald Gunn.”

  Words escaped him, but he was able, at great cost, to murmur, “And I am glad to have yours, Anne St. Claire.”

  “So,” she said in a suddenly chirpy tone that he suspected was total affectation. “What serious business did I interrupt?”

  “Ah. Important business indeed. I was writing to Catriona to inform her that climbing on the stable roof is not advisable.”

  Anne’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. “She was climbing on the stable roof?”

  “Nae. But she wanted to. She wrote to me complaining that Susana would not allow it.”

  “That seems wise of Susana.”

  “Susana is verra wise. Although, to be fair, the stable climbing was probably Isobel’s idea.”

  “Isobel?”

  “Susana’s daughter.”

  “Ah. The other hellion.”

  “Indeed. In addition to complaining about the climbing constraints, Catriona has also asked me if she may have her own sword because—apparently—Isobel has one.”

  Anne laughed out loud. “Perhaps Susana is not so wise after all.”

  “It is Scotland. Things are different there.”

  “I can only imagine. Do you regularly give five-year-old children weapons?”

  He had to laugh. “I told you Catriona needs a mother.”

  “Indeed she does.”

  “Would you like to see her?”

  Her eyes brightened. “I would love to.”

  Ranald pulled out the miniature he had of his daughter and handed it over.

  “Oh.” Anne’s features softened. Her eyes warmed and her lips parted. “She is precious.”

  “Aye. She is.”

  “Is her hair really that red?”

  He smiled. “Aye.” He took back the portrait and studied it for a moment. “She has her mother’s hair,” he said through the lump in his throat.

  “You really should not wait long. Every girl needs a mother’s love.”

  “Aye. But I doon
a want to marry just for Catriona. Is that selfish of me? To want love?”

  Anne’s expression tightened. “Love is a fantasy.”

  He swallowed. “Is it?”

  “I don’t know anyone who is truly in love.”

  “I was in love with Glenna. We loved each other deeply. It was a beautiful thing. When you’ve had that, you doona want to settle for anything less.”

  Something reminiscent of pain and longing filled her eyes. “Don’t you?”

  “Nae, my lass. You do no’.” He leaned in and kissed her, gently, on the forehead. “How I hope you can experience such love. How I hope it will prove you wrong.”

  * * *

  Anne stared at Ranald, her heart pounding in her chest. His expression was so raw, so sincere, it hurt her to look at it.

  He wanted her to know love.

  She nearly laughed because on the one hand, she knew love was a foolish dream, but on the other hand, she ached for it. She ached to feel what he’d felt for Glenna, that lucky, lucky woman. She ached to be held and stroked and revered, as he had held her earlier.

  She laid awake at night wanting it, yet afraid of it and rejecting it all at the same time.

  It was illogical for her to want it with him.

  It was insanity.

  For one thing, he was a feckless Scot, and her mind told her a relationship with a man like that would end in heartbreak.

  Her heart disagreed. Deep in her soul, she knew him, this man, her friend. She knew he was not feckless in the least. He would not betray her or mock her or toss her aside if she gave him her affection.

  On the other hand, he was a Scot. His home was miles away. Any lasting relationship with him would take her away from her family, probably forever, which she could not abide.

  How ironic was it that she’d finally found a man she wanted to be with, but would have to give up everything she loved to make it happen?

  No. She could not.

  So she took his hands in hers and squeezed. She fixed a friendly look on her face and smiled. “I am so glad to have you as my friend,” she repeated, and then she quickly quit the room before she did something utterly foolish.

  Like kiss him.

  Chapter Ten

  Hamish was the first one ready for the evening and down in the parlor, though it surely wasn’t his eagerness to see Elizabeth again. It had horrified him earlier, seeing her on that couch, motionless and weak.

  She was not weak. It did not become her.

  He’d been swamped with worry all afternoon. He headed across the drawing room for the whisky decanter and poured himself a draught. It would be a long night, and he needed the sustenance.

  “Are you really going to wear that?” an amused voice wafted to him. He stilled. His heart thudded. He turned, slowly.

  How could he not have seen her? Smelled her? Sensed her?

  She sat in the chair on the other side of the room, in the shadows, with a glass in her hand.

  Hamish threw out his arms and twirled for her. His kilt belled about his knees. “Do you like it?”

  “Well, I do, of course, but the ton does not approve.”

  “Lady Jersey approves, apparently, and where goes Lady Jersey, goes the ton.” He winked.

  “You shall either start a riot or a trend.”

  “May we hope and pray for the latter.” He grinned and strolled toward her. “It would do me well to see the ton in kilts.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not I.”

  “Nae?”

  He was close enough now that she could lean forward and whisper conspiratorially, “They have knobby knees.”

  “Do they?” He glanced at her glass. It was empty. But there was whisky on her breath. “You seem to be feeling better.”

  “Extraordinarily!” She lifted her glass in a mock toast. Or perhaps not so mock. She took a sip and realized there was nothing there and her lip pushed out.

  “How much have you had?” he asked.

  “Just the one,” she said.

  Ah. Good—

  “And the one earlier.”

  “Two whiskies?”

  She glanced up at him with a woebegone expression. “I’ve had a difficult day.”

  “Aye. I heard you went shopping.”

  “That was a trial. Tiverton was there.”

  “And who, may I ask, is Tiverton?” He felt proud that he’d had not one niggle of jealousy at the other man’s name, but then, given her tone, there was no reason.

  “Preeble’s friend.”

  “And who is Preeble?”

  She made a face. An adorable, crumpled-up face. “They’re both Catherine’s suitors.”

  “I thought Catherine and Mackay are betrothed.” Hamish had caught hell this afternoon for nearly bollixing up that love affair. But how was he to have known Catherine was the same Wee Cat Duncan had been mooning over for years?

  “They are betrothed. But Tiverton and Preeble cannot believe she would lower herself to marry a Scot.”

  “Really?” Anger and a familiar pain swirled in his gut. He was used to British superiority—oh, God, was he—but he didn’t like it. And he didn’t like it coming from her lips. “Do you think that would be lowering?”

  She glared at him. “You know damn well what I think.”

  “There is no call for such language.” Good gad. Was he starting to sound like Lady Esmeralda? Now that was lowering.

  “There most certainly is.” She stood and strode across the room. He was captivated by the swing of her hips . . . until he realized where she was going. She’d already poured another whisky before he got to her. “You don’t need this.”

  “Yes,” she huffed. “I do. My life is a dismal charade.”

  “Doona be melodramatic.”

  “I’m not,” she said sharply. “I’m being fanciful. And childish.”

  “Elizabeth—”

  She whirled on him and her drink sloshed. “Oh, don’t Elizabeth me.”

  “It is your name.”

  Her glare darkened. “I know why you said those terrible things about me. And I know you didn’t mean it.”

  Hadn’t he?

  No. He hadn’t, actually. “I don’t think you childish at all.” It was difficult to say, but he liked the effect it had on her, her softening, so he added, “I’m sorry.”

  Tears welled in her beautiful eyes. “I’m sorry too, Hamish. It would have been wonderful if you could have loved me.”

  “Elizabeth, I think you’ve had too much to drink.” He tried to collect her glass, but she held it out of reach.

  She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Tell me, Hamish. What do you think of Twiggenberry?”

  Something hard and sour lurched in his gut. “He is . . . an earl.”

  “That is a fact, not an impression. Don’t prevaricate.”

  All right. “I think he’s an ass.”

  She tipped up her chin. “Would you like to marry him?”

  “Certainly not!”

  She caught his gaze and held it. He could not deny there was a hint of desperation in hers. “If you were in my position, would you marry him?”

  His blood went cold. “Has he, um, asked?”

  Her nod was nearly imperceptible.

  Oh God. Horror screamed through him with cold strafing claws. His nerves prickled and his left eye began to twitch.

  Had he ever had a more miserable moment in his life?

  Never.

  “What, ah, what did you say?”

  She issued forth a small, wet snort. “I believe I vomited on him.”

  He couldn’t have stopped his smile if his life depended upon it.

  “Aunt Esmeralda says a girl can marry for money and position and then have affaires.”

  “Does she?”

  “But I don’t think I am that kind of girl.”

  “No. I canna imagine you are.”

  “I don’t even want to kiss him. The thought makes my stomach churn.”

  “Um .
. .” He took a step back. “Don’t think on it, then.”

  “There’s more.”

  “Is there?”

  She took a long sip, then sucked in a breath. “You’re the only one I want to kiss, Hamish.”

  Why did his heart soar? This was utterly inappropriate and indecent and wrong.

  And wonderful.

  “Elizabeth, you are drunk.”

  “Not really. This stuff just makes people tell the truth. I know you don’t feel the same, and that’s all right. I know I’m not the prettiest sister and I am young and a little fanciful. But I do know what I want. I want to kiss you and only you.”

  A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed it down. “Where did you get the idea I dinna feel the same, lass?”

  Her gaze met his. He felt it to the core of his being. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” He stepped forward, took the glass from her hand, and set it on the table.

  And then he pulled her in his arms and did what he’d been wanting to do all day. All night. Every moment since he’d held her last.

  He kissed her.

  She tasted of whisky and woman—his two favorite flavors.

  It was a glorious moment.

  Until, behind him, Bower cleared his throat.

  Blast.

  Hamish released Elizabeth and stared down at her for a long moment. Her eyes were lovely and damp and she gazed up at him with an expression that tightened his breeches.

  Lord, she was lovely.

  “Is she fainting again?” Bower snapped. “Because if she is not, I suggest you unhand the woman before her aunt arrives, lest you find yourself in a compromising position.”

  Hell.

  Reality was hell. He nodded to Elizabeth and settled her on the divan and then he whispered, “Only you as well.”

  Foolish and inane and utterly inappropriate, but he had to say it. She deserved to know.

  And God in heaven help them both.

  Her responding smile sent a raft of shivers up his spine. And he couldn’t help smiling back.

  * * *

  Elizabeth felt wonderful as they arrived at the Daltry’s masquerade. There had been a touch-and-go moment there when the whisky had threatened to repeat upon her, but Hamish—bless his heart—had asked Henley for a platter of finger sandwiches while they waited for the other girls to come down.

  The sandwiches had been inspired.

  The three of them sat around the tea table and downed one after the other. Hamish plied her with tea, and when he told Bower that she’d been tippling, the baron plied her with more.