Chapter Twenty

Ian paced the entryway by the door in the old part of the castle, waiting for the ladies to make their appearance. Outside, the carriages waited to take them all to Kilchurn Castle for the ball, saddle horses tied behind the conveyances, stamping their hooves impatiently. He tried to avoid looking any of his brothers in the eye, for they probably felt as uncomfortable as he did.

He tugged at the damned neckcloth that felt like it was choking him and pulled at the sleeves of the frock coat that felt too tight across his shoulders. At least the material was wool, not velvet or some equally impractical material, and he’d torn the lace frippery from the linen shirt as well. He longed for a proper jabot and kilt with its freedom of movement, but the damn Crown had banned the tartan. Not that it mattered, he supposed, since the MacGregors were still proscribed anyway, but the formal English attire felt like foppery. He ran a hand through his hair, and a smile started to form. He and his brothers refused to wear powdered wigs. It was only a wee bit of rebellion, but one the king could not punish them for.

The smile stopped midway as a rustle of skirts announced the arrival of the women and Emily came into sight. He nearly let his mouth gape like a halfwit at what she was wearing. He was accustomed to seeing her in practical day gowns of subdued colors that fit loosely and were very properly buttoned to her neck and covering her arms. Even when she wore breeches to go riding, she had a long cape that pretty much hid her femininity. But now, it was all he could do to keep from ogling.

The gown was a deep sea-blue silk the same color as her eyes and enhanced the honey-gold tones of her hair, which was piled on top of her head in a mass of curls instead of the usual simple knot she wore. A few tendrils had escaped to frame her face enticingly, making his fingers twitch to touch them. But then his gaze dropped and he frowned.

The neckline of her gown was cut much too low. He wondered who had laced her stays so tightly that the plump fullness of her breasts pressed against the fitted bodice—the swell of ivory mounds just visible and tempting to any sighted man under ninety. He clenched his jaw. Gavin Campbell was only one-third that age and not blind.

“Have ye a shawl?” His voice sounded a little husky, and he heard a couple of his brothers chuckle, but he ignored them. “It will get cool.” That sounded hapless even to him and he heard another chortle, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “Mayhap a cape?”

Emily gave him a puzzled look and then held up her hand, showing him the matching wrap that she’d been holding, only he hadn’t noticed. More sniggering behind him ensued. This time, he turned to glare at his brothers, who stopped guffawing abruptly. He gave a satisfied grunt, then realized that they hadn’t stopped because of him. They were all staring over his shoulder. Slowly, he turned around.

Emily’s sisters and Fiona had joined them. Lorelei was attired in pastel pink that complemented her pale hair and Juliana in yellow that brightened hers, but Ian knew his brothers’ attentions were riveted on their sister. They were all used to seeing her in her customary breeches and the overly large tunics she favored or, at a clan gathering, in simple, woolen gowns like most of the women wore. He swallowed. Somehow, recently, his sister had developed curves.

Her gown was some shimmery material that changed from white to silvery gray when she moved, and she must have been wearing a corset, too—he didn’t know she’d owned one—for her waist was cinched and the bodice left no doubt she’d grown into a woman.

“Where did ye get that gown?”

“It is one of mine,” Lorelei answered. “Well, actually, it was our dear cousin Anne’s.”

Behind him, Rory snorted. “She is nae planning to come to Scotland, too, is she?”

Juliana shot him a look. “She might if I wrote and asked her.”

“Shut yer beul!” Devon muttered to Rory.

“Aye! Be quiet, both of ye,” Ian said.

Lorelei gave them a puzzled glance, then shrugged. “Anyway, is the gown not beautiful on Fiona? It sets off her gray eyes and makes her hair look raven black. I am sure she will catch the eye of a lot of young men this evening.”

He was pretty sure Fiona would and not because of her eyes or hair. The neckline on this gown was also low, but she had some sort of frilly lace thing stuck in it, thank God.

“What is that thing?”

Lorelei giggled. “A fichu.”

That sounded French, but at least it provided a degree of modesty. He drew his brows together. “See that it does nae fall out.”

This time he heard a chorus of “ayes” behind him. Fiona gave them all an annoyed look. “I doona plan to wave it about.”

“See that ye doona,” he all but growled.

Fiona tossed her head at him and started for the door, the others trailing after her. Emily was still not wearing her shawl.

He grimaced as he followed them out. It seemed he’d have two problems this evening. He could make sure one of his brothers was always near Fiona all night, but how was he going to get Emily to keep that wrap on?

…

The tension in the carriage was so thick, Emily thought it might cut off the air. Lorelei and Juliana were in the second carriage with Glenda, Alasdair, and Carr, but Fiona had elected to ride with her, Ian, and Rory. At the moment, no one was speaking. Fiona was obviously put out with Ian, although she had the good sense not to stir the waters when his face looked like a storm about to unleash its fury.

At least Rory and Juliana were separated so everyone would arrive intact. They’d managed to exchange several more barbs before getting into their respective carriages. Emily sometimes wondered what the outcome would be if her sister and Ian’s brother were lost in the woods and they’d have to cooperate with each other to find a way out. Or maybe they should just be locked in a room until they could be civil to each other. She sighed. They weren’t children and she couldn’t make them play nice together.

As the carriage rolled along, she hoped all would go well. They’d already had to leave John, her guard, behind, since a horse had kicked him two days ago and broken his leg. Not that she thought she needed a guard with Ian and his brothers around. Her thoughts turned to Devon. He had elected to ride his own horse, which didn’t surprise her. He probably was not planning to stay overly long. Apart from being angry much of the time, she sensed he was somewhat of a loner by nature. She started to smile. How ironic it would be if he actually met Anne.

Rory lifted an eyebrow. “Is something funny?”

Considering that Fiona was staring out the window with her arms crossed, Ian was glowering at nothing in particular, and Rory seemed annoyed, there was nothing hilarious about the situation at all. And, for some reason, that made her laugh.

Fiona turned, Ian studied her as though she’d taken leave of her senses—maybe she had—and Rory raised both brows.

“I was…just…thinking,” she said when she managed to gain control of herself, “of what would happen if our cousin Anne actually did come to Scotland and met Devon.” Nobody’s expression changed, so she went on. “She gave Lorelei that gown because she was sure there would not be a dressmaker anywhere north of the border.”

“So she thinks we are barbaric?” Rory asked.

“Yes.” She stifled another urge to laugh. “Anne is quite sure Scots—Highlanders in particular—are as wild and dangerous as those Indians in the Colonies that we read about.”

Ian gave her a skeptical look. “Then ’tis best she never meets Devon.”

“That is just the point.” Emily sobered. “Devon is as much misconstrued about the English as my cousin is about the Scots. Just imagine if they both found out they were wrong.”

Rory grunted and leaned back against the squab. “That has as much chance of happening as yer sister and I getting along.”

Emily smiled at him. “You do not believe in miracles?”

He grunted again. “I think the Lord has better things to do.”

Emily sat back as well. The Lord might very well have better things to do, but do I? Hmmm.

…

They arrived at Kilchurn Castle as the sun was setting. The first thing Ian noticed after alighting from their carriage was a much more elaborate one standing near the stables, with gleaming brass spokes, mahogany door insets, and a ducal crest.

Rory came to stand beside him as Devon rode up and dismounted. “Looks like Argyll will be here, after all.”

“I wonder why he’s come up from Inveraray for a harvest ball,” Devon said. “Seems like he’d be holding one of his own.”

“I doona ken,” Ian replied. “The dragoons took him a message—”

“Mayhap his brother requested he come,” Carr said as he and Alasdair joined them.

Ian frowned. “Aye, but why?”

“’Tis the question, isn’t it?” Alasdair asked rhetorically. “First, we get an invitation—”

“Ye doona think we were invited because Lady Woodhaven is at Strae Castle? English protocol?”

Alasdair shrugged. “It could be, but Henry may have seen it as an opportunity to use her as well.”

Rory snorted. “Campbells have always been ones to take advantage.”

“I’ll nae argue with that,” Carr said.

“Use Em…Lady Woodhaven in what way?” Ian watched as the ladies were met at the entrance to the castle and they disappeared inside. He didn’t want to think of Emily being a pawn in some devious game of political chess.

“She is English. Argyll spends more time in London than he does in Scotland.” Alasdair looked speculative. “If he’s been privy to inside information about our lands possibly being restored—some of which were given to the Campbells—”

“Taken by them, ye mean,” Rory said.

“Aye, we can thank Mary, Queen of Scots for that,” Devon added.

Alasdair nodded his assent to both of them. “Either way, Argyll might want to convince the countess to stand with them…”

Carr looked at Ian as Alasdair’s voice trailed off. “Especially since some of the land from Lady Woodhaven’s deed might be included,” he finished.

Ian was silent. Emily wanted the MacGregors to have their name and honor restored. He knew that. But did she know that she could possibly lose the land given to her? King George had awarded her the castle and its holdings, but if Parliament decreed the lands be restored, Emily would have no source of income to maintain the castle, even if she kept it. And, after what she’d told him, he knew how important it was that she provide for her sisters.

Would she stand with the Campbells if it came to that? Ian grimaced. The worst part was he couldn’t fault her if she did. He understood family. Wasn’t he trying to do the same thing, not only for his brothers and sister, but also for his clan? The matter of having to make a choice between her needs and his clan’s seemed to be looming closer, even without Devon’s clamoring.

“’Tis only speculation on our part,” he said. “Nae use inviting trouble where none may be.”

“Think again.” Rory pointed toward another carriage with a crest, turning into the drive. “That is the Earl of Bute arriving, nae?”

“Hmmm,” Carr said, “it seems the clouds are gathering.”

“But are we in for a storm?” Ian asked. “Lord Mount Stuart said his father supports the bill. Mayhap he will speak in our favor to Argyll.”

Devon gave him a look as if he were daft. “Have ye been reading faerie tales lately? Ye ken things never turn out right for MacGregors.”

Not wanting to upset his brother, Ian just shrugged. Besides, it was hard to argue the point, given their clan had been outcast or labeled outlaws by no less than eight monarchs for the past two centuries.

“Well, then, as our Irish relatives would say, ’tis time for our luck to change,” Carr said with a smile.

Alasdair nodded. “Aye, and I’ll be leaving soon to gather our clansmen in Ireland, as we discussed.”

Devon pointed to the carriage. “I doona see Mount Stuart with the earl.”

They fell silent as they watched the man descend and be greeted by Argyll himself. No one else alighted from the carriage and the footman closed the door, motioning for it to be taken away.

“Do ye still think it bodes well for us?” Devon asked. “The former Prime Minister and the Duke of Argyll meeting in secret?”

“Hardly in secret, brother,” Carr said. “Neither of them is attempting nae to be seen.”

His brother glowered at him. “Ye ken what I mean. Meeting in the Highlands instead of in London, or even Inveraray, can only bode ill.”

“Mayhap they want only to take each other’s measure before Parliament begins,” Carr answered.

“Ye’ve been sitting in faerie dust, too,” Devon muttered. “Or mayhap the Sassenach has bewitched both of ye.”

Ian drew his brows down. The last thing Emily needed was for a damn rumor to start about witchcraft, for God’s sake. “Ye doona like being suspected of foul play, Devon, so watch what accusation ye make.”

His brother had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed, although he didn’t apologize. “Think of it this way then. She knows the Earl of Bute. She admitted as much. How do we ken she didna send word to him?”

“Now ye are the one bespelled by the Fae,” Ian barely managed to keep his voice level. “How would she have been able to do that?”

“She sent for Everard from White’s Club,” Devon retorted. “’Tis nae that hard to send a missive.”

His other three brothers looked at him. Carr’s and Alasdair’s expressions were impassive, so he couldn’t tell what they were thinking. Rory looked skeptical.

“Lady Woodhaven would have nae cause to do so,” Ian said.

“Nae?” Devon asked. “Mayhap she wants to ken what the bill is going to say so she can decide who to support. Us or the Campbells.”

“Lucifer’s horns!” Ian considered pounding his eejit brothers’ heads together. “Ye make her sound like some conniving mercenary. All Em—Lady Woodhaven wants is a home for herself and her sisters. Can none of ye understand that?”

“’Tis a home she might nae have if the bill goes through Parliament,” Rory said stubbornly.

Ian threw up his hands. “Ye are eejits! Nae more of this talk! We all have eyes and ears. We will see how this plays out. As I said before, ’tis nae use in inviting trouble—”

“Ye need to stop saying that,” Alasdair said mildly, then pointed to the road. “I think the Camerons are coming.”

Ian turned his head and groaned at the sight of a dozen or more men thundering toward them. They might not be wearing their tartans or carrying their standard, but there was no denying their fierce leader or their war cry.

And, from the way some of them swayed in their saddles, they’d been making good use of the whisky in the flasks. Sober, they were barely congenial to MacGregors. Drunk… Well, anything could happen.