The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,19
me. You were swooning in his arms, mind you.”
“I was, was I not?” Emma sighed, unable to keep herself from smiling. “Please, Betty. Allow me this one indiscretion. Have you any idea what it is like to be two and twenty and the only exciting thing that has ever happened in my life was when my brother proposed to Janet. And that didn’t even happen to me. I want to live my life—not Robert or Janet’s.”
“Hmm.” A long exhalation whistled through Betty’s lips. “Having been your lady’s maid for the past year, I believe I have some inkling of what your situation is like.”
“See?” Emma twisted her sash tighter. “Besides, ye ken how hotheaded Robert can be. If he discovers Dunollie mistakenly kissed me, he’ll challenge him to a duel of swords, and they both could end up mortally wounded.”
“Or His Lairdship might demand that Dunollie marry you,” Betty said, as if she were deviously planning.
“No, no, no.” Emma waggled her finger through the air. “Ciar would opt for the swords, mark me.”
“Hmm…I’m not so certain.”
“Oh, please. In no way can you make a stir and blow a wee kiss out of proportion. Now, I must have your word you will remain mum.”
Betty harrumphed and took Emma’s hand, leading her toward the bed. “Very well, my lips are sealed. As long as you promise to wake me next time you grow hungry in the middle of the night. You cannot ever again entertain a late-night rendezvous with the laird.”
“Och, if only.”
“Miss Emma!”
Sighing, she slid between the bedclothes. This entire night—not only the kiss, but spending it with Ciar—was the most invigorating evening in all Emma’s days. Though at first she had been mortified when she walked into his chamber, his kindness and understanding had made all her trepidation vanish. Now no one would take away this memory. She would lock it in her heart and always dream of her shining knight. “Very well, I’ll wake you. But I doubt there’ll ever be another opportunity to rendezvous with the likes of Dunollie.”
Chapter Six
The following day when Emma ventured below stairs to break her fast, the lairds were already shut away in Lochiel’s solar discussing whatever it was Highland chieftains talked about. Aye, she’d heard Robert grumble over the succession enough to know the queen’s health was at the top of their agenda. But the queen lived in London, ever so far away. And no matter what laws she passed, they never seemed to have much to do with Emma’s happiness.
As the day progressed, she grew more anxious. Neither Ciar nor Robert was in the hall for the midday meal. Once it was over, she had no option but to join Janet, Lady Lochiel, and the other wives in the women’s withdrawing room. But it was difficult to idle the time away.
She, Emma Grant, had kissed Ciar MacDougall in the passageway in the wee hours. Would her skin ever stop tingling? She wanted to dance and sing and tell everyone how happy simply being near him had made her. Yet everything she was feeling on the inside was not proper. Worse, speaking of the incident with anyone besides Betty would ruin her.
It might even ruin Ciar. It would hurt him, anyway. And the stolen kiss most likely meant naught to him.
Her fingers fumbled along her row of knitting, dropping a stitch. “Blast.”
“Another?” asked Janet.
Emma slid her fingers down, finding the loop of wool. “Here it is.”
“Would you like me to weave it through?”
“I can do it.”
“It’s not like you to drop five stitches in an afternoon.” Janet reached in and quickly repaired the slip, sliding the loop over the needle. “You seem awfully nervous. But I cannot understand why for the life of me. Your recital was well received last eve.”
“I’m anxious for the ceilidh to begin.” Emma resumed knitting and finished the row. “It seems as if the lairds will be in conversation forever.”
“We’ll all go hungry if they do. We’ve strict instructions not to light the bonfire until the pipers play for the procession of clan chiefs.”
“Perhaps we can wander to the kitchens for some elderberry jam and bread,” she mumbled under her breath.
Janet turned a page of her book with a whisper of paper. “What was that, my dearest?”
Emma started a new row. “Nothing.”
“If you ask me, there’s a great deal more whisky swilling going on than discussion about the state of affairs in Britain,” said Lady Lochiel.
“Aye, drinking and boasting about hunting adventures,” said Lady Mairi, Dunn MacRae’s