Chapter Twenty-One
“So tell me about London,” Fiona said as they were seated for the evening meal the next night.
“‘Tis a filthy city full of soot and thieves,” Broc answered before Mari could say anything.
“When did ye go there?” Bridget asked. “I dinnae recall ye going beyond the Borders.”
“Ye dinnae ken everything,” Broc replied.
“It is true parts of London are dirty,” Mari interjected before an argument would ensue and wondered where Jamie was since he had not come to the table.
Duncan was not present either, but perhaps that was good.
Mari continued, “And certainly London has criminals as does every big city, but Mayfair—where I live—is quite safe and lovely.”
“Tell me about the parties,” Fiona said, seemingly unaware of the glare Broc leveled in her direction.
Mari frowned too. What on earth would be wrong with talking about parties? Fiona was maybe a year younger than she was and would naturally be curious about such things—especially as isolated as the castle was.
“They are grand affairs,” Mari replied. “One or another of the matrons of Society host soirees and crushes every week with lots of wonderful finger foods and music or entertainment. It gives all of us young ladies a chance to mingle and meet eligible young bachelors.”
“Ye can do that at the local inn with nae the fancy stuff,” Broc said with a smirk. “There be plenty of willing lasses—”
“Hold yer tongue,” Bridget snapped, “or ye can leave this table and eat with the mongrels outside.”
Broc narrowed his eyes. “I dinnae take orders from a woman.”
“Then ye will take orders from me,” Jamie said as he entered the room and took a seat beside Mari. “I dinnae ken what was said before, but I heard yer reply. ’Tis nae fitting for the lasses to hear.”
The sheer presence of Jamie’s muscular bulk was comforting.
The fresh scent of the outdoors wafted from him as well as a hint of peat smoke, and Mari wondered where Jamie had been.
His long hair was windblown, one dark curl hanging over his forehead, and she had the sudden urge to push it back for him.
Her fingers actually twitched, and Mari clasped her hands in her lap, not quite sure what had put that thought into her head.
For once, though, she was actually glad Jamie was so bossy.
Broc glowered at him. “Ye are nae head of this clan.”
“I stand for Ian when he is nae here. If ye doubt me, ye can ask him.”
“I might if the mon ever comes out of the bedchamber.”
Jamie eyed him steadily. “Have a care. Ye tread on boggy ground.”
For a moment, Mari thought Broc might actually challenge Jamie. Given the man’s black eye and still-swollen nose, she had no doubt Jamie would be victorious, but she did not understand why Highlanders thought to solve everything with fists or weapons. Maybe she could smooth some ruffled feathers.
“We were just talking about London Society,” she said quickly. “Broc was trying to make a jest.”
Jamie stared at her as though she were daft. Mari felt her face warm since the remark sounded asinine even to her, but she truly wanted Broc—and the uncle—to see that not all English people were bad. Broc narrowed his eyes, but his look was more thoughtful than sinister.
“Aye,” he said slowly. “A jest is what it was.”
Jamie’s expression told Mari he did not believe one word of it, but at least he did not comment. A servant hurried in with a steaming bowl of stew along with fresh bread for Jamie, and Broc resumed eating.
Mari let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Perhaps she had averted a crisis.
“What are the balls like?” Fiona asked, oblivious to the tension that had been building.
“Absolutely wonderful,” Mari responded, glad to be back on safer ground. “The girls all wear pretty pastel gowns—only the matrons wear dark colors—with the latest fashionable bows and ribbons from Paris now the war is over.”
“And the dances?” Fiona asked breathlessly. “Do you dance every one?”
Mari smiled at Fiona’s enthusiasm. “We try. When a gentleman requests a dance, he writes his name on a small card we have attached to our wrist. It is quite the thing to have the entire dance card filled at the start.”
“It sounds like such fun. Have you danced a waltz?”
Jamie choked on a piece of bread, and Mari avoided looking at him.
She remembered all too well what it felt like to have Jamie’s strong arm wrapped around her waist while his other hand caressed her fingers sensually and he tugged her close enough on the turns that her breasts brushed against his hard chest. Just recalling that dance made her nipples tighten.
Mari cleared her throat. “How do you know about the waltz? It has just been introduced in London.”
Fiona giggled. “Jillian showed me the steps and told me Ian had to learn how to do it. It sounds so romantic.”
Jamie reached for his wine to wash down the bread. “Dinnae fill yer head with such ideas.”
“Why not? Jillian said it felt verra good to dance with Ian. I would verra much like to try it one day.”
“Ye are too young to be thinking such.”
Fiona’s eyes widened suddenly, and then she smiled mischievously. “Did ye learn as well, Jamie?”
Mari hid a smile as the tips of Jamie’s ears turned pink—a rather endearing quality she had not noticed before.
“’Tis naught for ye to ken,” he answered and took a large spoonful of stew. “Now eat or be excused.”
For once, Mari did not take issue with Jamie’s orders for she could understand how a fearsome warrior used to yielding a claymore might not want his family to know he was actually a good dancer. It would be their little secret for now.
Just like the pink ears.
Perhaps she should give Jamie a chance, just as Jillian had requested—and maybe they would waltz again.
“Mayhap I should resume my place at the evening table,” Ian said the next morning as he and Jamie were going over the accounts in the library. “’Tis a burden I am putting on ye to handle our uncle and his brother.”
Jamie had told him of following Duncan yesterday afternoon and that their uncle had met with men known for their discontent with Sutherland. Now Jamie scowled. “I can handle Duncan and Broc. Yer wife needs ye with her right now.”
“Truth be told, I think she may be getting tired of my hovering over her. Yesterday she said she was feeling much better and wanted to go downstairs. I would nae let her. She had some rather sharp words about that.”
“’Tis Mari’s influence. The lass is nae shy on using sharp words, nor does she understand the need for silence when told to be still.”
“If ye told the lass to hold her tongue, ’tis a wonder yer head is still attached to yer shoulders.” Ian grinned. “The Barclay women do nae take well to orders.”
“So I have noticed.” Jamie leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead, feeling the start of another Mari-induced headache. “The lass has tried me more often than a whole squadron of untrained men.”
Ian grin widened. “I ne’r thought to hear ye say a lass gave ye troubles. What happened to the charm ye claimed to have?”
Jamie glowered at his brother. “I vowed to protect the lass. I have nae tried to charm her.” Not that he hadn’t thought about it. He remembered all too well how her lips had yielded to his kiss, and how her soft curves melded to his body. That was part of what gave him these headaches.
“Mayhap ye should.”
“Are ye daft? If Mari daesna remove my head, yer wife certainly would. Ye ken I canna take advantage of the lass.”
“I dinnae say to take advantage.” Ian studied him for a moment. “Jillie claims Mari is besotted with ye—”
“Besotted? The lass can barely give me the time of day without a sharp tongue.”
“A sharp tongue often ceases beneath soft kisses.”
Sheer heat seared through Jamie’s veins at those words, and Ian raised a brow.
“Mayhap ye have discovered such?”
Jamie looked at the ceiling. “’Tis nae yer business, brother.”
Ian slapped the flat of his hand on the desk to draw Jamie’s attention back and leaned forward. “Aye. ’Tis my business if ye are trifling with the lass.”
“I am nae trifling!”
“Good.” Ian tapped his fingertips together thoughtfully. “Would it be so verra bad if ye took her to wife?”
Jamie stared at him. “Ye have gone completely barmy. I am nae ready—”
“Ye are four-and-twenty. ’Tis time ye thought about taking yer place on Raasay.”
“For certain, ye have gone soft in the head. Have ye nae heard the lass speak? She wishes for all the pomp of London and a refined gentleman whose idea of fighting is waving a wee bit of blunted steel around while wearing enough padding to clothe half our clan.”
“All ye have to do then is put a number of them on their arses. She will ken who is the better mon.”
“I dinnae think Mari is much impressed with fighting skills,” Jamie replied, thinking about the many times she had commented on the weapons he kept on his person.
Ian waved a hand dismissively. “’Twas the same with Jillie.
Mari may nae think yer skills are important until ye have to use them.
Meanwhile, mayhap ye should take her to Glenfinnan and show her about.
The gypsies came through before the last snow so the shops should have new wares.
Bridget told me Shauna and Fiona have both been wanting to go. Ye could take all three.”
“Escorting three women while they shop is nae a fun pastime. I would rather keep tracking Duncan.”
“I will ask Brodie to keep an eye on him while ye are gone.” Ian leaned back in his chair, a satisfied look on his face. “It willna hurt for Mari to see ye playing the part of gentleman by escorting her on the wee shopping trip.”
Jamie groaned inwardly. He’d already escorted Mari on several shopping trips—none of which had turned out well, but the less said about that, the better.