Chapter 15
Callum still felt sickened that kinswomen of his had tormented Bonny Mhairi without him knowing. Even worse, he should have expected something like this to happen. Sheena had been fluttering her eyelashes and swinging her hips in his direction since she'd moved into Achnasheen after her drunken father's death. She had her eye on a place as the lady of the glen, instead of remaining a penniless orphan. He believed Brigid when she said the older girl had instigated the campaign against Mhairi. But that was no excuse for her participation or for not telling Jean or him what was going on in his chambers. The memory of those vicious purple bruises marring Mhairi’s milk-white skin would haunt him.
Now he mounted the stairs to the tower room to escort Mhairi to the feast that marked her cousin’s departure on the morrow. Generally Callum wore the kilt here in his home, but on this formal occasion, he'd put on English dress. A fine bronze silk coat and knee breeches. His hair was pulled back in a queue.
He'd had an elaborate silk dress sent in to Mhairi, too. John Drummond needed to know that the Rose of Bruard was living in a luxury befitting her station. Given how gossip spread in the castle, he'd wager John had heard all about Callum carting Mhairi up the stairs for a ravishing after she’d thrown wine in his face. Also likely her kinsman now knew no ravishing had taken place. But his cousin’s undignified removal from the hall would still rankle.
Jean opened the door with a greeting that he hardly heard. Instead his gaze focused on the beautiful woman who stood in the center of the room, watching him with wide blue eyes. For once those eyes didn't flash hatred. Although for the life of him, he couldn't define the emotion that had replaced her defiance.
He should be used to his heart turning somersaults at the sight of Bonny Mhairi Drummond. The affliction seemed permanent and had begun the moment he stole her away from her father's lands.
Tonight his heart leaped high enough to lodge in his throat. By God, she was pretty. And braw. And smart. And just the woman for him, although he began to despair of her ever admitting that.
"Good evening, Mistress Drummond," he said with a bow. "Ye do me honor."
To his surprise, a blush tinged Mhairi’s cheeks as she glanced down at the elaborate brocade gown in dark blue and gold. It was a dress fit for the late Stuart Queen herself. When his parents had visited London, his mother had worn it for her court presentation.
Mhairi’s rich red hair was arranged in elaborate curls. She looked like the fine lady she was. He had a sudden vision of the ragged urchin he'd hauled across the hills to Achnasheen, and painful tenderness sliced at his heart. She’d been breathtakingly beautiful then, too.
"And ye almost look like a civilized man," she said dryly, although he noticed that the remark lacked its usual edge.
Something had changed between them today. He wished he knew what the devil it was.
"Aye, well, I want your cousin to carry a good report back to the Drummond."
She cast him a doubtful glance, and he knew she, too, recalled yesterday's vulgar departure from the dinner table.
"Does the lass no’ look bonny?" Jean asked.
Callum was so spellbound staring into Mhairi's eyes that the question seemed to come from a different universe. It was an effort to wrench his attention away from the woman he wanted more with every breath. "Aye, verra bonny indeed. You've done well."
Flossie emerged from the shadows to tweak Mhairi's voluminous skirts. In the silence, the rustle of heavy silk was an evocative sound. It made Callum think of removing that gorgeous gown and discovering the glories beneath. Impatience gnawed at him for this courtship to reach its proper end. Even if the small corner of his brain that wasn't starstruck with her beauty recognized that such a moment might never arrive.
"My lady is a vision," Flossie said softly.
When Mhairi gave her maids a smile that held no hint of restraint, Callum's unruly heart suffered another drunken wobble. "Ye both worked so hard to polish me up."
Jean smiled with open approval. "Nae trouble to polish a diamond and make it sparkle, my lady."
"You're too kind, Jean," Mhairi murmured.
"I see you're wearing my gift," he said softly.
One slender hand rose to touch the topaz necklace circling that white throat. That too had been his mother's. "It's lovely."
Nowhere near as lovely as the woman wearing the jewels. "Aye." He presented his arm. "Is my fine coat at risk tonight?"
He could hardly believe he felt easy enough to tease her about the previous evening’s fraught events.
She cast him a glance under thick dark auburn lashes. In another lassie, he'd read that as flirtation, but this was Mhairi Drummond who despised the very air he breathed. "It depends on whether ye start making claims to things you have nae right to claim, Mackinnon."
"Och, lassie, I’d better promise good behavior, then," he said, smiling at her.
>
He caught Jean's curious glance and knew he must look completely moonstruck. Why not? He was.
Pride flooded him as Mhairi curled her fingers around his crooked elbow with no show of hesitation. "I'll believe that when I see it."