Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts #5) - Cynthia Wright Page 0,91

“My good sir, I must inquire, what are you wearing?”

The duke spoke first. “I am certain I explained to you that my son has been living in Scotland. This sort of apparel is common in the Highlands.”

Heller assumed a deferential posture, as if suddenly remembering how much income was at stake. “Ah, yes, Your Grace, so you did. I assure you I meant no offense.” Turning to Lennox, he bowed. “Pray forgive me, my lord.”

Lennox chafed at this term of address, but this was not the time to mention it to his father. Instead, he nodded to Heller. “I understand. Ye are not the first Englishman to stare at my plaid.”

The little man parried, “That clothing does allow me to judge that you’ve a very fine pair of legs, my lord. You’ll look splendid in these hose!”

With that, he snapped his fingers at the assistants, who began to display the hose, breeches, and doublets Heller had brought from London. The duke came forward to examine the pieces, inclining his head and nodding approval.

Soon, Lennox had been divested of his belted plaid and stood in the middle of the room wearing only a new pair of gray silk hose. Heller’s assistants, who kept their eyes down as they scurried to and fro, brought a long shirt that was made of white silk. The shirt alone was finer than anything Lennox had ever worn.

“Trunk hose, I think,” said Heller, and produced a pair in teal-blue velvet trimmed in gold that were rather like short breeches. Next came a matching blue-and-gold doublet with slashed sleeves and sapphire buttons.

Lennox wanted to protest that he felt ridiculous, like a cursed peacock, but the sight of his father’s pleased smile made him swallow the words. Just then, one of the tailor’s assistants appeared in front of him, holding out a soft velvet cap decorated with an assortment of gems and a swan’s feather.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, suddenly yearning for his worn tartan bonnet with the clan MacLeod badge.

The duke came to stand at his side, turning him toward the mirror. “It’s all a change, I know, but I can assure you you’ll grow to appreciate these fine new clothes. Once we have you shorn, you’ll be every inch a gentleman.”

Lennox raised a hand to his wild golden hair. “Shorn?”

A moment later, Heller was putting something in his hand. “Don’t forget this!” said the tailor.

Looking down, Lennox saw a yellow satin codpiece, its strings dangling between his fingers. God save me, he thought.

* * *

The next afternoon, Lennox was preparing to change into his riding clothes after dinner when he heard voices in the courtyard. Crossing to the arched window, he looked down to see the ginger-bearded guard speaking to a young man who held the reins of a horse. Two more of the duke’s liveried men-at-arms emerged from another small building and seemed to be telling the dark-haired lad to go away. Lennox leaned forward, staring, as he realized that the newcomer wore a belted plaid and his chestnut horse looked familiar. His heart beat faster, swelling with something that felt very much like joy.

Was there a way to push the window open and shout to the boy? It didn’t seem so, and Lennox could hardly pound on the delicately glazed panes of glass. Turning, he rushed from the room and ran down the stairs, nearly colliding with a serving maid who was carrying a box of candles.

“Sorry!” With a breathless laugh, he reached out for a moment to steady her then continued his descent.

Wilton stood near the entry, impassively watching the scene in the courtyard through a narrow window next to the door.

“Pardon me.” Lennox reached for the latch on the big door.

“Sir, wait, please, you must allow me,” Wilton protested.

Lennox was forced to ignore him. Emerging out into the warm afternoon, he saw that the men-at-arms had escorted the visitor away. The horse’s tail was barely visible in the distance beyond the gatehouse.

“Stop!” shouted Lennox, sprinting toward them. The guard and men-at-arms turned to stare, clearly unused to hearing anyone in the duke’s household behave in such a manner.

A moment later, the young man came back into view. As he entered the courtyard, a smile spread across his face, and Lennox saw that he had been right. It was Grant Carsewell, holding the reins of Lennox’s own horse, Chaucer. The chestnut stallion brought his head up and down at the sight of Lennox.

“This youth is my friend,” he told the guard, hearing