Chapter 2
“Idinnae ken, Max.” Lysander squinted and tipped his head to one side, studying Max’s costume. “A cowboy? Is that no’ a little too on the nose?”
One side of his mouth pulling into a lop-sided grin, Max shrugged into his leather vest, then adjusted the fit in the mirror.
They were standing in the dressing room off Lysander’s suite—imagine having an entire room just to dress in—as they prepared for this ball their father had insisted he attend.
Max wasn’t sure which was more flabbergasting; that he was attending a ball, or that he was doing it in the company of his father and new brothers.
True to his word, the Laird had called his children together and introduced Max to them.
Reactions had been mixed; his heir, Leonidas, hadn’t seemed to care, and in fact excused himself to “hide in that moldy old ruin again,” as Da claimed.
Athena—a beautiful redhead with a secret shame—had smiled in welcome, then turned to her—their father and quipped, “Another bastard, Da? I hope the next one to pop up is a sister.”
But Lysander and Phineas had embraced Max as their friend, which was gratifying—and a little overwhelming.
Studious Phin approached everything in a calm, reasonable manner, while Lysander was clearly the charmer of the bunch.
He was the one to declare that if Max insisted on continuing to stay at the Oliphant Inn to better know the clan and the workers, as he’d claimed, then the least he could do was prepare for the ball with him.
Laird Oliphant’s whole family had journeyed to Dumpkins Estate together, with all the pomp and circumstance Max would’ve scoffed at in his old life. Wild to think this was his life now.
As Lysander scowled at the boots Max was slipping into. “Ye look like ye stepped out of a dime novel.”
“Oh, here comes the truth!” Max smirked. “You’re just worried some of those lassies will think I’m exotic, and you won’t be the most handsome man in the room, eh?”
As Lysander laughed, Max marveled at their easy friendship. This brother of his was likable and charming, and it felt good to have a friend like him. Someone to tease without hesitation, someone to be able to ask questions of and rely on.
“Still, ye must admit…a cowboy?” Lysander clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Points off for originality, Max.”
“Listen, mister, you said it was a costume ball, right? So I’m wearing a costume.
Besides, those enthusiastic servants of yours scrubbed my denims so deep, there’s no dirt left at all.
” Max bent his knees, then quickly straightened again.
“Look at that—the damn things can bend.” Shaking his head in mock sorrow, he blew out a breath.
“It’s a shame when a cowboy’s dungarees don’t stand up on their own. ”
Lysander chuckled. “So ye’re saying ye’re no’ even a convincing cowboy? Are ye certain ye wish to wear that get-up to the masquerade? I could find something more comfortable for ye.”
“More comfortable?” Max turned and planted his hands on his hips as he studied his brother incredulously. “You’re dressed in King Arthur’s cast-offs, and you think I need to be more comfortable? How do you expect to dance in that?”
“Och, this isnae complete plate armor.” Lysander smacked his fist against the breastplate he wore. “I can move around just fine.” The way he waggled his hips left no confusion as to what kind of moving he meant. “The ladies willnae mind me being a bit harder in some places than usual.”
Chuckling, Max crossed the room, stopping to pound a fist into his brother’s armor-covered shoulder as he went. “You look like a relic, friend.”
“And ye look like a savage American, newly arrived in our fine Highlands.”
“Och, weel,” Max quipped, trying his best to mimic the thick accents he’d gotten used to in his time on Oliphant Land, “I suspect I’ll no’ fit in, nae matter how I look.”
Lysander’s laughter was contagious.
As his brother stepped in front of the mirror to adjust the fit of his helmet, Max reached for the hat he’d worn on the steamship from New York. Savage American, huh?
Fitting, perhaps. It had been the trip of a lifetime, and sometimes he still felt as if he were living a dream. Imagine him, plain old Max DeVille, rubbing elbows with actual lords—lairds—and ladies. Taking tea and scones and making small talk in a real castle.
The house party had been going for a few weeks now, and Max had dutifully joined in one or two events.
His father—when he wasn’t off canoodling with the hostess—seemed proud to introduce him to all those high-and-mighty types.
Why, Max had had to make small talk with an actual duke, which everyone knew was a step down from a prince!
But after tonight, after he was officially introduced to the clan and local Society, Max was looking forward to leaving the house party to his brothers and settling into a routine at Oliphant Engraving.
He’d already toured it, many times, and felt he understood the process well enough to handle the big picture and leave the mechanics—gears and levers and the little fiddly engraving—to men who were better suited to handle them.
He was itching to get started.
With a firm nod, Max settled his hat—a genuine cowboy’s hat—atop his curls. He’d enjoyed the fun Lysander had shown him these last weeks, but he was ready to get to work.
“Ye ken I’ll no’ be the only knight here tonight, aye?” Lysander asked, clanking his way toward the door. “Knights and such are prime choices for a masquerade, especially when ye live in a drafty auld castle with suits of armor moldering in every corner.”
He knocked his fist against the wallpaper in his bedroom as Max followed him through the door but didn’t stop on his way to the corridor.
The Dumpkins Estate had been thoroughly renovated, and now had all the modern conveniences of Newfincy Castle and Roy DeVille’s home back in Wyoming. Max had been introduced to their hostess, the Countess Dumpkins, when they’d arrived, and had even dined with the woman and his siblings.
Da had claimed that introducing him as an Oliphant at tonight’s ball would be the way to get the clan on his side, to make his transition at Oliphant Engraving even smoother.
Max hoped his own organizational talents would speak for themselves, but was flattered that his new family not only wanted to claim him instead of hide him, but were making such a fuss over him.
A masquerade ball. If that just didn’t beat it all.
Lysander, however, was still expounding on the horrors of ancient castles and secret tunnels and outdated technology, so Max had to interrupt him teasingly.
“Yeah, that sounds like you, Lysander. Willing to pour yourself into a moldering suit of armor, just to save your family the necessity of buying a new costume. You probably didn’t even clean it out first, did you?” he drawled, lifting one of Lysander’s arms. “Is that mouse shit in your armpit?”
With a mild curse, his brother yanked his arm out of his grasp and made a show of smoothing down the armor. “It is no’ mouse shite, thank ye verra much.”
“Ah. Bat shit then? From the moldering?”
“Och, ye’re impossible. I had this breastplate scoured last time I had to wear it to a masquerade, I’ll have ye ken.
Aye, I’ve worn the costume already, but no’ to Dumpkins’s Midsummer Masquerade, and I could no’ pass up the chance to do so.
” His visor was still up, so Max could see when he winked. “The ladies love a man in uniform.”
“I’ll bet. Because of the hardness,” Max managed with a straight face.
Another wink. “Aye.”
As the two men chuckled, Max felt his pulse began to speed in anticipation. A ball, and a chance to dance with pretty women—lasses, Lysander called them—and flirt, and yeah, try not to shift too awkwardly when he became the center of attention.
He was lucky, dammit, to be in this situation, and when things became uncomfortable, he would have to remember that.
Last Christmas, he’d been an unwanted, unloved second son, treated like shit and quietly pitied by his neighbors. Now? He had a father who’d welcomed him, brothers who made him laugh, and a good job. A way up in the world.
He was determined to do the Oliphant name, and Mr. Andrew Prince, proud.
Apparently, generations ago, the Oliphant lairds had planted a stand of walnut trees and founded an engraving school. Three generations ago, the laird’s daughter had married a man named Prince, which had resulted in the grove of trees going to Andrew Prince, despite him living in America.
The older man, with a shrewd business sense, had known limited supply would drive up prices of his already sought-after custom firearms, so he’d begun to produce the rifle stocks and revolver handles from the few walnut trees he had cut down and dried each year.
And since the Oliphant engravers had developed a reputation across the continent for their art, he’d built a small factory to create and decorate the receivers and plaques and custom grips for his firearms.
The fact that the components had to be shipped across the Atlantic only made the eventual custom firearm that much dearer.
A genuine work of art, which he was paid top dollar for.
Prince had become a mentor to Max, back in Everland, but until he’d made the offer to travel to Scotland to oversee Oliphant Engraving, Max had never imagined there was more to it than mere kindness.
I guess he’s my cousin now, too.
It was humbling to Max, but exciting as well.
Yeah, Max had arrived in the Highlands as only a simple cowboy, but thanks to weeks under Lysander’s tutelage, he was a bit more now. He owned more suits than he could wear in a week—though they were modest compared to Lysander’s, which suited Max just fine—and now even owned two fancy hats.
What was a man to do with two fancy hats, when he had only the one head?