Tempting The Laird

“Aye, but you can dance,” Lottie said, nudging Vivienne. “And I should like to watch.”

“Me? I’m too old and too fat for it, that I am,” Vivienne complained, and slumped back in her chair, one hand across her belly. Bearing four children had left her with a full figure. “Bernadette will dance.”

“By myself?” Bernadette, wife of Catriona’s brother Rabbie, bent down to stir the logs in the hearth. “Shall I hum the music, as well?”

“And what of me?” Daisy asked. She was wed to Cailean, Catriona’s oldest brother. “I’m not too old for a reel.”

“Or too fat,” Lottie agreed.

“No, but your husband is too old,” Vivienne said, and nodded toward Cailean. He was seated near a brazier with their father, his legs stretched long. A tankard of ale dangled from two fingers.

“’Tis a pity that Ivor MacDonald is no’ here to dance with our Cat,” Catriona’s mother said, and smiled devilishly at her daughter.

Catriona’s inhibitions had been drowned by the good amount of wine she’d drunk, and she groaned with frustration. “You’ll no’ rest from seeing me properly wed until you meet your demise!”

“And what is wrong with that, I ask you?” her mother asked sweetly.

“Yes, what is wrong with that?” Daisy asked. “Why will you not accept Mr. MacDonald’s attentions, Cat?” she asked curiously. “He seems rather nice. And God knows, he is smitten with you.”

Ivor was a thick man, the same height as Catriona, with hair that drooped around his face. In the weeks since Zelda had died, he’d offered his condolences so many times she’d lost count. “He may smite all he likes, but I’m far too restless to tie my lot to a shipbuilder,” Catriona said imperiously, and drained the rest of the wine from her glass. Actually, his occupation had little to do with it—it was most decidedly his lack of a neck.

“I think that’s incorrect,” Lottie said, looking puzzled as Catriona held her glass up again. “He hasn’t smited you, but rather, you’re the one who’s done the smiting, are you no’?”

Catriona clucked at her. “You know verra well what I mean, aye?”

“Aye, I know verra well,” Lottie agreed. “But you’re three and thirty, Cat. Sooner or later you must accept that the last sheep at market must take the price offered or be turned to mutton.”

“Lottie!” Bernadette gasped. “What a wretched thing to say!”

Catriona gave the remark a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Aye, but it’s the truth, is it no’? I am firmly planted on the bloody shelf of spinsterhood. I’ve quite accepted I’m to remain without husband or child all my life, aye? That’s what Zelda did, and quite by choice. I know what I’m meant to do—I’m meant to carry on Auntie Zelda’s work.”

“I should like to think you are destined for something other than living at Kishorn, removed from all society,” her mother said. “You are not Zelda, after all.”

Well, that was just the thing—there was no society for her. There was nothing for her here but endless days stretching into more endless days, with nothing to occupy her but this blasted abbey in the middle of nowhere. “What society, Mamma? Do you mean the Mackenzies and all their married men? Or perhaps you mean the MacDonalds and their representative, Ivor?”

“If you don’t care for Mr. MacDonald, there is more society for you to explore,” her mother argued. “But spending all your time at Kishorn has isolated you from the world.”

“Mmm,” Catriona said skeptically. “I think I may safely say I have explored all available society in the Highlands, and like my dearly departed auntie, I’ve found it wanting, I have. And besides, the women and children of the abbey need me, Mamma. Why should I no’ have a grand purpose?” she asked, and gestured so grandly that she spilled wine onto the stone floor. “I’ve learned all that I could from Zelda. The women of the abbey have no other place to go, and I’m determined to carry on, that I am, for there is still so much to be done, and Zelda would have wanted it so. Donna try and dissuade me, Mamma.” She sat up and turned around. “Where is that serving girl?”

“Catriona, darling,” her mother pleaded.

But Catriona was in no mood to discuss her future plans. “Diah save me,” she said, and stood up, swaying when she did, and catching herself on the back of the chair before she tumbled. She was exhausted from discussing her situation. She felt as if she’d been discussing it for years and years. Poor Catriona Mackenzie, whatever will they do with her? She’s no prospects for marriage, no society, nothing to occupy her but a run-down abbey full of misfits. “I think I should like to dance, then. Is Malcolm Mackenzie about? He’s brought his pipes, I’m certain of it.”

“For the love of God, sit, Cat.” Bernadette caught Catriona’s hand and tried to tug her back into her seat. “You’re pissed—”

“I’ve scarcely had a drop!” Catriona insisted. “That’s the English in you, Bernie,” she said, and wagged a finger at her sister-in-law. “We Scots are far better dancers with a wee bit of wine in us, aye?”

“You could hurt someone,” Bernadette said, and tugged on her hand again.

“You really shouldna drink so,” Vivienne said disapprovingly.

“I shouldna drink, I shouldna dance,” Catriona said irritably. Her few drops of wine were enough to make her feel a wee bit stubborn, and she yanked her hand free of Bernadette’s. But in doing so, she misjudged her balance and stumbled backward into someone. She managed to right herself and turn about and laughed with delight when she saw who had caught her. Rhona MacFarlane was the abbess at Kishorn. Rhona wasn’t really an abbess—she had a heart of gold, but she was no nun. Nevertheless, everyone called her the abbess, as she had been working alongside Zelda for twelve years.

“Aye, look who has come to jig with me, then! Thank you, Rhona, dearest. You’ve saved me from a scolding, and I should verra much like to dance.” Catriona made a flourish with her hand and bowed low, very nearly tipping over.

“There’s no music,” Rhona said.

“A fair point,” Catriona conceded, and grabbed Rhona’s arms and teased her by trying to make her dance. “We donna need music!”

“Miss Catriona!” Rhona said, and pulled her arms free.

“Aye, all right, I’ll find Malcolm,” Catriona said petulantly.

“Miss Catriona, we have visitors,” Rhona said.

Catriona gasped with delight. “Visitors! Who has come?” She whirled around to the door, expecting to see the MacDonalds from Skye, all of whom had known Zelda well. But the men at the door were not MacDonalds—Catriona could tell by their demeanor they were no friends of the Mackenzies or Kishorn. She was suddenly reminded of the two letters Zelda had received in the last months of her life. Letters written on heavy vellum, with an official seal. Letters that Zelda had waved away as nonsense.

Fury swelled in Catriona, her heart calling her to arms and swimming against the tide of wine she’d drunk. How dare they blacken the fèille for Griselda Mackenzie with their presence! If they thought the abbey was easy picking now that Zelda was gone, Catriona would show them that was not the case—she’d die before she’d let these men take the abbey from her and Zelda’s memory.

“What visitors?” her mother asked, rising to her feet.

“Bloody bastards, that’s who,” Catriona said, and began striding for the door before her mother could stop her. As she neared the men, the one in front bowed his head.

“Who are you?” Catriona demanded.

“Ah. You must be Miss Catriona Mackenzie,” the man responded in a crisp English accent. He removed his cocked hat, slinging water onto the floor and one of the Kishorn dogs, who shook it off his coat.

“How do you know my name? How did you get here?”

“It is my occupation to know your name, and a man at Balhaire was kind enough to bring us.” He removed his dripping cloak and handed it to the gentleman beside him. His coat and waistcoat were so damp and heavy that they smelled of wet wool and hung nearly to his knees. “I am Mr. Stephen Whitson, agent of the Crown. Would you do me the courtesy of informing the laird that I have come to present a matter of some urgency to him?”

“My laird?”

That man calmly returned her gaze. “As I said, it is a matter of urgency.”

“Is it the same matter of urgency that compelled you to badger my ailing aunt on her deathbed with your letters, then?”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Mackenzie, but this is a matter for men—”

“It’s a matter of bloody decency—” She was startled out of saying more by the firm clamp of a very big hand on her shoulder. Cailean had appeared at her side and squeezed her shoulder as he gave her a look that warned her to hold her tongue.

“I beg your pardon, what’s this about, then?” he asked calmly.

“Milord, Mr. Stephen Whitson at your service,” the man said, bending over his outstretched leg.

“He wants to take the abbey, that’s what,” Catriona said angrily.

“Cat.” Aulay had come around on the other side of her. He took her hand and placed it firmly on his forearm, then covered it with his hand, squeezing so tightly that she winced. “Allow the man to speak, aye?”