Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (35 page)

Just like that, he'd read her character, assessed her thoughts, and declared her a coward. And he wasn't too far off, either. “Ask yer brother, m'laird. He's nae in chains.”

“I married a Campbell lass,” he said unexpectedly. “Did ye know that? The granddaughter of the Campbell.”

“Bear told me. And I've heard tales.”

“I nearly began a war to keep her by my side. And I'd do it again, in a heartbeat. Mary's the air in my lungs, and the blood in my veins.”

“That's a lovely sentiment. I dunnae quite see the p—”

“My point is,” he broke in, his voice still low and steady and cool, as if they were discussing cattle or the wheat harvest and not her entire future, “if ye came here to escape a marriage ye didnae want, I've three thousands pounds that'll see ye where ye want to go. Ye can make yerself safe, and if ye live frugally ye'll nae have to find employment anywhere. If ye're here fer another reason, ye'd best be ready to fight. Fight the MacLawrys fer it. Do ye ken?”

“Aye.”

With that he pulled a billfold from his pocket and handed it to her. “Dunnae do what ye
think
is right. Do what ye
know
is right. My brother's put his arse in the middle of this, and he doesnae know how to change his course once he's settled on someaught. Dunnae make him regret his loyalty.”

As Arran MacLawry nodded and turned toward his younger brother, Catriona closed her fingers around the billfold. Three thousand pounds
would
see her to Aberdeen and into a small house, with more than enough left over to give her time to find … something she could do to make a living. Or perhaps a cottage in the country, where she could keep to herself. She would still
be
herself, of course—whatever she did, she couldn't seem to be rid of that.

She turned to watch as the brothers spoke for a moment and then shook hands, suspicion in the hard, straight line of Bear's shoulders, and caution in the way Arran set his feet, ready to dodge a blow. That was wrong; the MacLawrys were united. Always. And two of the three brothers now had made it very clear that they didn't consider her worthy of being part of the clan—even as the sister to the lady they both seemed to think Bear should and would be marrying.

As Arran swung up onto his black Thoroughbred, the cart and Peter Gilling bumped into view along the drive. The back of the wagon rose in an irregularly shaped mound, the load covered with a heavy tarp. Whatever Bear had sent for, evidently he'd meant it to last him for some time.

“What are ye carrying, Peter?” Arran asked, reining in beside the cart.

The footman flushed. “I couldnae say, Laird Arran. I cannae read, as ye know, so I didnae see the list. I was put in charge of gathering Laird Bear's clothes and boots.”

The middle MacLawry brother twisted in the saddle to face the abbey. “The back half of this building fell beneath the weight of winter snow, Bear. I dunnae want to come oot and find the front half gone with ye inside it.”

“Mind yer own hoose, Arran, and I'll mind mine,” Bear returned, his fingers brushing against hers.

“So be it.” With a nudge of his heels Arran MacLawry sent his mount into a trot. In a moment he was gone behind the overgrown weeds and foliage.

Bear immediately caught hold of her hand. “He didnae frighten ye away, I hope.”

“He was very polite,” she returned, taking in his large fingers wrapped around her smaller ones. “He gave me three thousand pounds to settle myself elsewhere, and said the MacLawrys didnae want trouble with the MacDonalds.”

His gaze held hers. “The rest of the MacLawrys might be happy with letting things happen that shouldnae. They have bairns and tea parties and go shopping and chat aboot London, now. This MacLawry likes a bit of a brawl, and I'm looking forward to one. But keep the money; I've said my piece, and whatever I may want of ye, the decision is yers.”

That was circumspect of him. “I will keep it, then.”

Tugging her forward, he walked them up to the cart as Peter hopped to the ground. “Did ye get what I asked fer?”

“Aye, m'laird. Every bit of it. And a note from yer … other party,” the servant said, digging into his sporran and pulling out a well-folded missive.

Munro unfolded it, running his gaze along several lines. A smile touched his mouth, and he handed the letter to her. “My sister sends her kind regards, and a few things we might find useful,” he said, and pulled back the tarp to reveal a large trunk, several boxes, and the unmistakable shape of a full-length mirror beneath a heavy blanket.

“What's all this for?” Catriona asked, hopping onto the cart and unlatching the trunk. Silk spilled out into her hands. Yards and yards of silk and muslin and cotton, all formed into what looked like a dozen lovely gowns. “Oh, dear.”

“Aye.” His grin deepened, and he leaned in for a kiss. “This MacLawry and this MacDonald are aboot to gear up fer war. Are ye ready?”

She couldn't help meeting his smile with one of her own. No one made her feel as he did, and she had the distinct feeling that no one ever would again. “This is what ye want, Munro? Truly? Very truly?”

His slow, wicked smile made her heart flip-flop. “Ask me as many times as ye wish, my lass. I want to be with ye. I want to tell Glengask that he doesnae get to dictate to me any more than he could to Arran or Rowena.” He sighed. “They find me useful to have aboot because I'm a big, intimidating lad. I want to know what they'll do now that I've decided to be big and intimidating fer myself.”

This
was
for him, as well as for her. And that made it … easier. As he'd said before, he didn't seem to be a man who could be forced to do something against his own will. Which meant he did want all of this. And her. Wordlessly she handed the billfold over to him. “Then I'm nae going anywhere. Aye. I'm ready.”

 

Chapter Sixteen

“Can I open my eyes yet?” Munro asked, trying to decide whether Cat was being missish, or coy. He'd seen her naked and he'd touched her bare skin enough that he could say she was teasing him now on purpose, except that where dresses were concerned, he could damned well believe Catriona was genuinely nervous. As for him, just the thought of seeing her in proper lass's clothes made his kilt tent up again. Apparently thinking of her at all aroused him.

“Wait a bloody minute,” she grumbled, her voice strained.

“What's amiss? I told ye I could help ye with the buttons.”

“But then ye'll see me before I'm ready.”

He stifled a grin that would likely have gained him a black eye. “I can button ye with my eyes closed. Just come over here and guide me.”

She sighed audibly. “Open yer damned eyes, then. Ye're supposed to be showing me how to do this, anyway.”

“Ye'd have a maid to help ye, lass. Did ye nae have one growing up?”

“Nae. I almost had a valet, but I think my father realized that would be going too far.”

After giving her a moment or two to change her mind about whether he could look at her or not, he opened his eyes. And stopped breathing. Catriona and his sister were of a size, though Cat's bosom was more generous. And the way she filled out the soft green silk with its lace sleeves and neckline stunned him. “Well, now,” he breathed.

The already high color in her cheeks darkened. “Stop that. It isnae helpful.” She stomped her foot. “And I thought ye said ye liked me in trousers.”

“I do like ye in trousers. And I like ye in a dress, and I like ye in naught but what God gave ye.” He shrugged, resisting the urge to touch her. If he pulled her out of the dress now, she'd likely never put one on again. “Ye look different, is all. And splendid.”

The corners of her mouth dimpled. “Fine, then. Help me button this thing up. Why they dunnae put the buttons in the front, I have nae idea.”

Standing, he stepped forward to tug the edges of the gown together across her back. “Because this dress is aboot showing off. If ye can afford to wear it, ye can afford a maid.”

“That doesnae take into account the option of borrowing the clothes.” She'd pinned her hair up in a messy tangle of scarlet, the sight of which didn't help his concentration at all. He'd fastened—and unfastened—a lass's gown before, but he couldn't remember ever feeling so mesmerized by such a simple, ordinary task. When he'd made her his once and for all, he wasn't certain he wanted her to have a maid. He wouldn't mind doing this every day for the rest of his life.

Three buttons from the bottom, Munro leaned down and kissed the nape of her neck. The delicate shiver that went through her made him hard. Perhaps a wee bit of undressing wouldn't do any harm.

“Stop that, giant,” she grumbled, before he could undo the progress he'd made. “Yer family's already seen me and decided I'm a mannish clod. I want to make a better second impression. And I dunnae want them to think ye're the fool for choosing me over Elizabeth.”

Well, he couldn't argue with that, even if he didn't see anything mannish about her. Whatever she said, this wasn't about him and whether his family thought him foolish. This was about her, and how she saw herself. He meant to do whatever it took to help her see the lass she wanted to be when she looked in the mirror. Not one she was embarrassed by and ashamed of.

Clenching his jaw against his lust, he finished buttoning the wee, delicate ivory buttons that trailed down her back to her waist. “All secured,” he announced when he'd finished, and stepped back again. “Turn around and let's see ye.”

Blowing out her breath, she did so. With her chin in the air and her hands on her hips she was clearly daring him to comment, but he didn't know which would get him in more trouble—admiring her, or saying he preferred her more accustomed attire. “Ye look like a lass stepping oot fer a soiree,” he said after a moment, mentally crossing his fingers. “Ye've nae grown an extra arm, and ye havenae fallen doon. How do ye feel?”

“Naked. And with a cold breeze going up my legs.”

Munro risked a grin. “As ye're talking to a lad wearing a kilt, ye'll get no sympathy from me on that account, wildcat. Take a walk aboot the room. And dunnae stomp; ye're in slippers, and ye'll hurt yer feet.”

The glare she sent him at least had a touch of exasperated humor in it, and that was more than he'd expected. Neither had she tried to justify her man's attire as being more practical or comfortable, though he knew that it at least was warmer. All in all, standing there she looked like a lovely lass in a dress that hugged her curves like firelight.

“Walk,” he repeated, gesturing her toward the doorway.

She walked, moving to the door and back to the table, then stopping to face him again. “Well?”

“Yer steps are too long.” He eyed her for a moment. “Pretend ye're walking through a puddle and trying nae to make a splash.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“And look in the mirror,” he pressed, ignoring her protest.

She shook her head. “I dunnae want to.”

“Then walk into Glengask as ye prefer; it doesnae make any difference to me.”

That made her grimace, but she walked the path again, this time taking more care to place her feet. “I feel like I'm about to fall over,” she muttered, digging her hands into her skirt and lifting so she could see her shoes. “And aye, I know I cannae walk with my gown hiked up to my knees. I'm practicing.”

“Ye'd see me doing the same thing if I was to wear those wee bits of scrap. Aside from that, I like looking at yer legs.”

Finally she meandered over to the corner where he'd set the mirror. For a long moment she stood glaring at him, as if it were his fault that she wanted to wear a gown, then with an audible breath she turned around. “Oh.”

“Ye see? Ye look like a lass in a gown.”

Reaching up, she tugged the neckline up a bit, then scowled at the reflection of her hair. “This doesnae look like me.”

“It
is
ye, so argue with yer own reflection if ye want to.”

She turned this way and that, swishing the gown about her legs. However many lessons she still needed in etiquette and propriety, the view kept his attention well enough that the roof could have caved in without him noticing. His family would laugh if they knew he'd taken on the task of teaching a lass how to act like a lass, but for God's sake, someone needed to do it—and he didn't want anyone else looking at her askance.

Then she tried a curtsy, and nearly fell into the mirror. “Damnation,” she muttered, holding on to the wood frame to right herself. “I cannae do this, Bear.”

Munro straightened, walking over to take her hand and stand facing the mirror beside her. There he was, unruly hair that badly needed a barber's attention, a clean white shirt and waistcoat with a faded kilt starting to unravel along the bottom edge, a giant famous for his muscles and his fists. What a pair they were.

“Try it again,” he said aloud, holding her fingers firmly. “I'll nae let ye fall. And move yer hind leg back a bit, so ye've a sturdier base.”

With a frown she sank down again, wobbling on the shoes' low heels. Once she became his wife there would be very few people to whom she would ever need curtsy, but if she wanted to learn how to do it, he would do his damnedest to show her.

“That was better,” she said, watching herself assessingly as she tried it a third time. “All I need is for ye to hold my hand so I dunnae topple over.”

“Then I'll hold yer hand,” he returned. “Whether or nae ye decide to curtsy.” When that only made her smile, he ran the forefinger of his free hand along her skin just above the low neckline. Soft and warm, she was, and his in everything but name—whether she was ready to admit it yet or not.

Someone rapped at the door. Immediately Cat clutched onto her skirt and went to hide behind the corner of the fireplace. Interesting, that. In her trousers she was fearless. Whether she didn't feel as … strong in a gown or if she truly thought she looked hideous, the change in her character was obvious. And in his, as well. After Ranulf and then Arran had come calling, he'd found that his willingness to do anything to protect his lass, even if she might claim she didn't need him, had grown by leaps and bounds.