The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,86
Not exactly outshine, but he said the color was created for me. But this time I want plenty of lace and ribbons, and enormous sleeves.”
“In taffeta. I think you will dazzle everyone in taffeta.”
“Truly? Not silk?”
“Taffeta skirts with a silk bodice. You will be stunning.”
“I hope Ciar will like it.”
“Och, Dunollie would be head over heels in love with you even if you arrived at your wedding wearing nothing but a shift.”
* * *
“Ye mean to tell me you’re taking orders from Grant?” Livingstone asked, slamming his tankard down on the bar at the Invermoriston Alehouse. “He should be kissing your backside for protecting his sister as long as you did.”
“’Tis only for a fortnight. Once I’ve passed muster, things will be set to rights again.” Ciar didn’t expect his man to understand everything. “Go to Dunollie and fetch my mother’s ruby ring from the strongbox. Then I want you to order thirteen galleys and my cutter to sail around John O’Groats and into the Moray Firth. Wait for me at the mouth of the River Ness.”
“What the blue blazes? Are ye expecting a war?”
“I’m expecting to take the new lady of Dunollie home in comfort.”
“But what of the wool shipments?”
“They can bloody wait a few days. Now haud your wheesht. Your complaining is making me cross.”
“I’ll never understand how men lose their heads over a woman.”
“Beg your pardon, Dunollie, sir.”
Ciar turned, alerted by the sound of a woman’s voice. “Betty? I’m surprised to see you here.”
She glanced from side to side, obviously uncomfortable with being seen inside an alehouse. “Miss Emma sent me.”
Gulping against the lump in his throat, he dismissed Livingstone with a wave of his hand. “How is she? Is her arm paining her overmuch?”
“Oh, no, the cut on her arm is the least of her woes.”
Woes?
He slammed his fist into his palm. “I’ll bury my knuckles in Grant’s face if he has done anything to upset her.”
“Heavens, no. I believe there has been quite enough masculine bravado, if I may be so bold.” She leaned in and cupped her hand to her mouth. “Miss Emma wishes to meet you in the bower just after noon on the morrow.”
“She—?” His stomach somersaulted…about five times. “Do you think that wise?”
“No one seems to care overmuch what I think. But she feels your meeting will remain a secret if you slip inside early. She intends to take a walk with me after her nooning.”
He laughed from his belly. “She is brilliant, is she not?”
“Determined for certain.” Betty shook her finger beneath Ciar’s nose. “Mind you, I’ll be watching. There’ll be no liaison whatsoever.”
Ciar gave the maid a wink. If only she knew.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Since his best suits of clothes were stowed away at Dunollie, Ciar spent the morning in the tailor’s shop being pinned and prodded.
Finally able to lower his arms and breathe, Ciar used his brooch to refasten his plaid at the shoulder. “What are the damages?”
“Let’s see here.” The tailor slung his measuring ribbon around his neck and headed for his writing table, where he dipped his quill in the ink pot. “A shirt of first quality muslin, one pound fifty. A kilt in red-and-green tartan with white thread accents will be quite dear, I’m afraid.” He dipped his quill. “Three pounds. Then you asked for matching flashes, hose, and a velvet doublet—”
“Dark green, mind you.”
“Yes, of course—it will be a suit of clothes fit for a king.”
Ciar chuckled. “A Scottish king.”
The tailor jotted his notes on parchment along with prices, then summed the lot. “That will be seven pounds, thirty pence. Payable when the work is complete.”
“My thanks.” Ciar bowed. “I shall leave you to it.”
“Very well. Good day, sir.”
At last the time had come to make his way to the bower. Thank heavens Emma’s lady’s maid had visited him at the alehouse, else he might have had to lay siege to Moriston Hall to see his betrothed.
Curse it all.
In truth, Ciar would have liked to have finished the fight with Grant—to have taken him down a notch. They’d been friends since birth. Their fathers were fast allies, as were their grandfathers and on down through generations of ancestors. A typical Grant, Robert had always been quick-tempered. Though, in truth, his temper was the only fault Ciar found in the man.
He walked from town into the forest that skirted the river. In no way would he use the road and take a chance on being spotted by one of Grant’s spies. Better yet, the sun was shining,