A Hellion at the Highland Court (The Highland Ladies #9) - Celeste Barclay
One
“That’s thievery, my lady!” The irate merchant glared at Lady Laurel Ross as she turned her nose up at a bolt of wool.
“It’s thievery to pretend this is your finest Highland wool,” Laurel mocked. They stood in the market just outside Stirling Castle. Laurel had experienced the same negotiations countless times over her decade-long tenure as a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth de Burgh. A daughter of the laird of Clan Ross, Laurel had never been anyone’s fool, and she didn’t intend to become one now. “You will not convince me that Clan Ross produced such quality, mercer.”
“But I swear to you it is,” the portly middle-aged man asserted. “Have I not sold you other lengths of the finest-quality fabric?” Laurel watched as beads of sweat dotted the merchant’s forehead. She’d haggled with him a few months prior, and she knew he wasn’t speaking a falsehood that he’d sold her well-made material in the past. However, what lay before her most certainly hadn’t been produced by any spinner on her father’s lands.
“So why now do you try to pass this off to me? I paid you well the last time. Yet you still insist this is fine Highland wool. It is not. And you think me a fool to boot,” Laurel argued. “I shall take my business elsewhere, and I shall warn all hither and thither that you are a schemer and a knave, mercer.” Laurel narrowed her eyes at the man, irritated that he insisted on an exorbitant price. She wasn’t opposed to buying the wool, but she would do so at the price she named. “The price of my silence is five shillings per yard and not a penny more.”
“But—but—that’s thievery, my lady,” the perspiring merchant repeated, stammering.
“So you’ve said. Make your choice now, or I—” A voice that in equal parts relieved her and made her wary interrupted Laurel.
“What trouble are you causing the mon, sister?” Montgomery Ross asked as he wrapped his arm around his younger sister’s shoulders.
“My lord,” came the response. The merchant’s eyes widened to unbelievable proportions as he took in the Ross plaid wrapped around Monty’s waist and pinned over his shoulder.
“Aye. You have the right of it now,” Laurel said as she shifted the attention back to her negotiations. She wished to be through with her purchase, so she could speak to her newly arrived brother in private. “What shall it be? Five shillings a yard, or my crowing from the rooftops?”
“How many yards did you say you wanted at five shillings apiece, my lady?” the rotund merchant conceded.
“Eight, if you please,” Laurel sniffed. She would make certain the man understood she wouldn’t have the wool pulled over her eyes, literally or figuratively.
“As you wish.” The wool merchant set about cutting the length Laurel requested while she turned to look at her brother. The man’s aggrieved sigh made Laurel’s lips twitch. Monty’s coppery hair matched her reddish-blonde tresses, but while she considered her features unremarkable, Monty’s visage was a work of art. While he had the build and power of any trained warrior, his face was almost too pretty for a man. She supposed it suited his character.
“How did you know it wasn’t any of ours? You haven’t been home in years,” Monty whispered.
Laurel ran her finger along the edge of the freshly sheared wool and turned over a corner. Threads poked through that would soon unravel. While it wasn’t well spun, it would serve her purposes. “Shona and her daughters would never make such errors and send this to market.”
“That is true, and Mother would have an apoplexy if she knew someone was trying to pass this off as ours. What made the mon think you wouldn’t ken?”
“Did you not see his reaction when you walked up? He didn’t know I was a Ross. I never wear our colors while I’m at court. The last time I wore one of our plaids was the last time I visited Balnagown three years ago.”
“Visited?” Monty cocked an eyebrow.
“You know it hasn’t been home since Myrna convinced Mother and Father to send me here.” Laurel swallowed a lump in her throat she was certain was easily the size of her fist. She’d arrived in Stirling nearly eleven years earlier as an unwilling lady-in-waiting. Her younger sister had strategically suggested that becoming an attendant at Robert the Bruce’s royal court would improve Laurel’s chances for finding a husband. The strategy had been to remove Laurel as potential competition to marry Padraig Munro, since both families wished for