The Laird Who Loved Me

  “Grandmother thinks anything having to do with the MacLeans is wondrous—especially if it means she might get some great grandchildren out of it.”

  “Oh, that would be so—”

  A noisy thumping came from the hallway, sounding like a herd of romping calves. A fast knock later, the door was thrown open to reveal William, their oldest brother, followed by a surprisingly elegantly dressed Robert and a much-too-thin Michael.

  They were all so tall, especially William, who, at twenty-one, had reached the impressive height of six feet four inches, his shoulders a proportionate width.

  Michael, only recently recovered from another chest complaint, threw his lanky, sixteen-year-old length into the chair by the fireplace. “Well?” he asked, looking at the gowns and slippers and gewgaws placed on every surface of the room. “I thought you’d be packed by now!”

  Mary grinned. “Caitlyn’s only had two weeks to pack; you know that’s not enough.”

  Caitlyn gave Michael a flat stare. “Have you all come to bother us? I assure you that we have enough to do without entertaining you.”

  Robert eyed the contents of the bed through a quizzing glass he’d recently taken to wearing. “Good God, woman! How much stuff are you taking with you?”

  Caitlyn narrowed her gaze on her brother. “Must you use that ridiculous eyepiece?”

  “It’s the fashion,” he said stoutly, though he looked somewhat uncertain.

  “For a nearsighted Cyclops, perhaps.”

  Mary giggled while Michael and William snorted loudly.

  Robert slipped the eyepiece into a pocket and said in a lofty tone, “Just because you don’t appreciate good fashion—”

  “She does, too!” Mary interrupted. “You’ve seen the gowns she’s made.”

  Caitlyn smoothed a blue morning gown on the bed. “If the list of amusements offered by the duchess is to be believed, I have fewer gowns than I need, but these will have to do. I can always change my wrap and shoes and make minor alterations so that my outfits look different.”

  “Caitlyn even redid her old riding gown.” Mary reached into the portmanteau to touch with a loving hand the brown velvet riding habit. “When you return, will you help me make one like it?”

  Michael snorted. “And where would you wear it? All we have to ride is the squire’s old, fat mare.”

  Mary sniffed. “It doesn’t matter what the horse looks like, just the rider.”

  “You spent hours making a riding habit you might only wear once or twice a month?” Michael appeared to be amazed at the thought.

  “If it looked good on me, I might.”

  “Vanity is a sin. Father’s told us that a million times.”

  “It’s not vanity to wish to appear good; it’s vanity if you think you look so good that it won’t matter how you dress.”

  That opened up a discussion between Mary and Michael that grew in volume as Robert and William egged them on.

  Caitlyn ignored them and tucked away a spangled shawl she’d purchased during her brief stay in London three months ago. Has it only been that long? The entire episode seemed a faded nightmare.

  She couldn’t clearly remember the balls and gowns anymore, or the sumptuous foods or town attractions, but she remembered every second she’d spent dangerously flirting with Alexander MacLean. She clearly recalled how she allowed him to teach her to ride. Though she’d made certain one of the grooms stayed nearby for appearance’ sake, MacLean had quickly and easily dispensed with the man, sending him to fetch various “fallen” gloves or to look for a scarf that was blown away, even on days when there was no wind.

  Her cheeks heated when she thought of her own participation in duping the servants. At the time, all she’d been able to think about was how much she wanted to feel MacLean’s strong arms about her, how she longed for his heated kiss and—She clamped the memories away. Those days were gone, and they’d meant less than the imaginary wind.

  She forced herself to smile at Mary. “I’ll make you a riding habit when I return. We can use the blue velvet from your old pelisse and that old gold opera cape Mother has in the trunk in the attic. The colors should be perfect, and if we place some silk flowers where the material is a bit worn, no one will notice. I did the same with one of my remade newer gowns.”

  Momentarily forgetting his jaded, man-about-town pose, Robert snorted. “You plan on hoaxing the crème of the ton with the clever placement of a few flowers? They’ll be onto your hoax in a second.”

  Caitlyn folded a deep blue silk scarf and placed it into the portmanteau. “Oh, they’ll never know. They didn’t realize it before.” She set a pair of satin slippers in the trunk beside the others. “Only three pairs of slippers. I wish I had two more.”

  William, who’d been lounging in the doorway, lifted his brows, a lazy twinkle in his eyes. “How many pairs of slippers are needed for a simple country house party?”

  “It’s not a simple house party at all,” Mary protested. “It’s at the castle of a real, live duchess!”

  “I should have at least one pair of slippers for each color of gown. I shall just have to make do.” Caitlyn placed the final gown into the trunk, carefully tucked it in, then closed the lid. “I keep expecting Mother to walk in and say she’s changed her mind.”

  “She won’t,” Robert said, a superior tone in his voice.

  Caitlyn eyed him. “How would you know?”

  “I overheard her talking to Father. Mother thinks you will behave yourself for a few short weeks, and that you’ve made wonderful progress on your temper. You’ve hardly lost it at all in the last three months. Plus,” he smirked, “she’s hoping you’ll meet someone eligible.”

  Caitlyn’s cheeks burned. “I don’t want to meet someone eligible.” She just wanted the chance to reestablish the family name and prove to her parents that she’d learned from her horrible mistake.

  Honestly, one thing that infuriated her about the incident was that no one seemed to place a bit of blame on MacLean, and he’d been just as much of a part of Triona’s ruin as Caitlyn. If he hadn’t been so intentionally intriguing, she’d never have paid him the least heed. But the second they’d met, he’d taunted and challenged her, and she’d discovered she didn’t have the self-discipline to ignore him.

  One thing was for certain, MacLean had been determined to kiss her: she knew because he’d told her so the third time they’d met. Of course, she’d then said something entirely inappropriate like “Just try it!” and that had been the beginning.

  There’d been an unmistakable attraction between them, one that had flared hot and ready and left Caitlyn feeling things she’d never before felt. One kiss from Alexander MacLean reduced her to a quaking mass of heated passion. Worse, it was as addictive as chocolate, and she’d found herself seeking more and more of those kisses, taking more and more risks to secure his attention, challenging him even as he challenged her, until they were both dangerously close to stepping over the lines that might have protected them.

  Oddly, it was the memory of those kisses that Caitlyn battled the most. Every night when she closed her eyes, she dreamed of them—hot, passionate, determined, and . . .

  No. That’s all in the past. She closed the portmanteau, then placed it beside the small leather trunk. “That’s it! I’m packed.”

  Michael eyed the trunk. “You have clothes in that, too?”

  Mary frowned. “You didn’t think she could get all of her gowns and a riding habit into one portmanteau, did you? Now help carry Caitlyn’s things to the foyer. The duchess is sending her own carriage for Caitlyn, and it should be here any moment.”

  Robert grabbed the portmanteau and headed out of the room, calling over his shoulder, “I bet the horses are a matched set of prime goers!”

  William scooped up the leather trunk as if it were nothing, hoisting it to his shoulder. “I want to see the horses, too.”

  Grinning, Michael ambled toward the door. “Caitlyn, shall I tell Mother you’ll be down s
oon?”

  “Please do. I just want to make sure I haven’t missed anything.”

  “Very well.” He winked and left.

  Mary hung by the door. “You’ll write, won’t you?”

  “Every three days.”

  Mary sighed. “I suppose that will do. I so wish I were going with you.” With a wistful look, she left as well.

  Caitlyn gathered her faded wool pelisse and a thick scarf. She’d wear these with her sensible boots, and when they arrived in two days at Balloch Castle, she’d stop and change into her more fashionable, but far less warm, pelisse and boots.

  She took a last look around her room. Then, satisfied she hadn’t forgotten anything, she left, closing the door behind her.

  Chapter 2

  Och, lassies, ne’er trust a man who says he can keep a secret.

  OLD WOMAN NORA FROM LOCH LOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD EVENING

  Three days later, Caitlyn unlatched the leather curtain that covered the carriage window. Cold air instantly blasted in and she shivered, huddling deeper into her heavy wool pelisse and tucking the carriage blankets more securely about her legs. Thanks to the thick wool blankets and the foot warmer at her feet, only her cheeks and nose felt the cold.

  She’d never traveled in such luxury, but the trip was tediously long. The cost for such a well-fitted carriage came in the slowness of their travel.

  For some, an extra day on the road would be offset by the pure luxury of the carriage, but Caitlyn found herself mentally urging the carriage on as it plodded along, picking its way over the bumpy, deeply rutted roads. They seemed to stop at every posting inn on the way, and while she couldn’t help but be impressed by the offers of warmed lemonade, cheeses, and crusty breads, and the way the servants kept the foot warmers filled with hot coals at each stop, she was so tired of sitting still. She just wanted to get there!

  She turned to her companion, a maid supplied by the duchess to attend Caitlyn and act as chaperone. “Muiren, how much longer before we reach Balloch Castle?”

  Muiren, a thin, bony bit of a woman, dressed in the traditional black garb of a maid and wrapped in a thick pelisse, opened her eyes and blinked sleepily out the window. “We’re almost there, miss. An hour, perhaps two.”

  “Oh, I hope so.” Caitlyn rubbed her hip. “I’m tired of sitting.”

  “Ye may be tired, but ye’ll be glad to have taken the extra time. If we hadn’t, ye’d have arrived at Balloch Castle black-and-blue, hungry as a wolf, and cold as an icicle!”

  Caitlyn managed a smile. “You’re right, of course. I’m just restless.”

  Muiren settled into her corner. “Then take a bit o’ a nap, miss. Ye’ll feel the better fer it when we get there.” She promptly closed her eyes and was snoring within minutes.

  The maid’s logic didn’t calm Caitlyn’s spirits one bit, and she continued to gaze longingly out the window. The road was now heading straight north, the air growing colder as they went, the landscape more wild and beautiful. She shivered and wished she hadn’t changed into her more fashionable pelisse and half boots at the last inn in anticipation of their arrival.

  After an hour, the road grew steeper as it wound around the greenish brown hills and spilled out by the shores of a beautiful lake, frosted on the sides with silvery gray stones. The water was a deep, glossy blue, the surrounding hills craggy and covered with heather-colored grasses. Framed between two hillocks was a worn mountain that cast a snow-tipped reflection across the lake.

  Caitlyn smiled as a deep, abiding peace stole over her. The feeling surprised her; it was almost as if she were coming home. And why not, for her grandmother lived only a half day’s ride from here, on the far side of the lake. As a child Caitlyn had spent many a day wandering hills like this, as she and Triona made up stories about the legendary MacLean family.

  Mam had a fascination with the MacLeans, part of it stemming from the fact that her house was within view of the MacLean castle. The other part was curiosity about the MacLean curse. Caitlyn was curious, too—or had been, she reminded herself firmly. It was time to forget that foolishness; she’d never see wicked and wanton Alexander MacLean again, which was for the best.

  Muiren stirred, then stretched, leaning forward to smother a yawn as she looked over Caitlyn’s shoulder to the view beyond. “Aye, we’re almost there.”

  “Excellent! I’ve never been in a real castle.”

  “’Tis no’ a castle, really. Her grace says ’tis a ‘castellated manor house,’ which is a manor house disguised as a castle with stonework and such.” Muiren shook her head. “What will the gentry think o’ next?”

  Caitlyn pointed toward the distant mountain. “My grandmother lives nearby, right across the valley from Castle MacLean. She tends the ill in the village below.”

  A hand gripped Caitlyn’s arm and she blinked into Muiren’s suddenly beaming face. “Miss, dinna say yer mam is Old Woman Nora!”

  “That’s my grandmother.”

  Muiren clapped her hands together. “Yer granny saved me sister’s life when she had the ague! We thought she was goin’ t’ die, but yer mam came and made her drink a horrible potion.” The maid’s nose scrunched. “My sister said the potion smelled like death, it did, but it jolted her back to life, and she’s ne’er been ill a day since.”

  Caitlyn nodded. “Mam has a gift.”

  “Indeed she do! They say yer mam makes her potions from the pure, frigid waters o’ this loch and tha’s what makes them so potent.”

  Caitlyn smiled at the beautiful blue loch that lay glass still, puffs of white clouds drifting overhead. “I must visit Mam while I’m here.”

  “If ye do, I’d be glad to travel wit’ ye.” The carriage swayed as they turned a sharp corner off the main road. “Och, we’re on the castle drive!”

  “Finally!” Caitlyn cast a glance at Muiren and said in a nonchalant voice, “I’ve heard the duchess is very fashionable.”

  Muiren blew out her cheeks. “Ye could say thet. She’ll like yer gown, there’s no doubt aboot that. I was noticin’ it at breakfast this morning.”

  “Thank you. I fashioned it after a gown I saw in London.”

  Muiren blinked. “Ye made it? A lady o’ quality like yerself?”

  Caitlyn chuckled. “I’m a vicar’s daughter, and I made almost everything I brought. Most of them are from patterns from Ackermann’s Ladies Journal.”

  Muiren eyed her. “If ye dinna mind me sayin’ so, miss, ye’re a mite different from her grace’s other guests. ’Tis no’ her grace’s way to invite women who are both younger an’ prettier than she is.”

  Caitlyn laughed. “I’ve never met her grace. She became acquainted with my mother at a dinner party, and they became quite friendly over the next few weeks. Her grace insisted that Mother send me to visit for a house party, and here I am.”

  Muiren’s brows lowered. “Her grace upped and invited ye just like that? That dinna sound like something she’d—” The maid caught herself and forced an obviously false smile. “No matter what I think, o’ course! I’m certain she’ll be glad to have ye, miss.”

  Caitlyn’s curiosity stirred. It was obvious from Muiren’s demeanor that the duchess wasn’t given to impulsively generous gestures. Then why had the duchess invited her? It had been such a wonderful surprise after being cooped up for months that Caitlyn hadn’t bothered to ask many questions, but now she wondered. Mother might not understand how self-serving society’s grand dames were, but Caitlyn, who’d spent two glorious months at her aunt’s during the height of the London season, knew exactly how true that was. Perhaps the woman had a daughter her age or was desperate to create an even number of couples?

  Traditionally, a hostess would invite the same number of men as women, so as to have an even number at dinner. This was how some lesser ladies in a community were able to develop an active social life despite certain social inequities. It was difficult to credit it, but perhaps no respectable lady was in the area to serve as an ex
tra at dinner.

  Well, whatever the reason, Caitlyn was going to make the best of this opportunity.

  Muiren nodded toward the window. “This be the last turn to the house, miss, if ye’ve a mind to see it from a distance.”

  Caitlyn leaned forward. At first all she could see was a wall of thick trees, but then, like the sun breaking from clouds, the trees fell away and revealed Balloch Castle.

  “She’s beauteous, isna’ she, miss?”

  Caitlyn could only nod. A turreted, gray-stone house, built in the baronial style to look like a castle, sat upon a hill. The late-afternoon sun beamed warmly upon it, despite the frigid wind.

  “She’s new, fer all she looks old. Her grace had her built to order, she did. ’Tis a grand house and the kitchens are some o’ the finest in Scotland. Why, there’s even a water closet fer each guest room in the east wing which is where you’ll be staying, miss.”

  “How modern! Still, it looks old-world and romantic.” Caitlyn smiled. “I almost expect to see little elves to come dancing out of the doors to carry our bags!”

  Muiren snorted. “Th’ only elves ye’ll be seein’ are th’ footmen, and a more lazy group ye’ll be hard-pressed to find, though they look neat as a pin. Her grace won’t have it no other way. She’s determined we look as bang up t’ th’ mark as a Lunnon house, and she dinna brook no arguments.”

  “Very conscious of her station, is she? If I were a duchess, I’m sure I’d be the same.”

  Muiren looked surprised. “Would ye, miss?”

  “Oh, yes. You wouldn’t be able to stand me. I’d expect to be waited on hand and foot and demand the best of everything. Of course, that would only be fun if my brothers and sisters could see.”

  The maid grinned. “Ye’d just have to invite them to come and see ye queenin’ it about the castle—”

  The carriage rattled across cobblestones and pulled to a stop beneath the porte cochere.

  “Och, we’re here.” Muiren collected their belongings.