Christmas in the Scot's Arms (Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Book 3) Read online

  “Please do ignore Liam,” Aila said, disrupting Cecelia’s terrible recollections, thank heavens. Cecelia focused her attention on Aila just as she gave her brother a disgruntled look. “He does not care for the rules of English Society. He does not understand the necessity.”

  Cecelia felt her frown deepen as she dragged her gaze back to the compelling Scot. Frankly, she had never understood the need for all the rules, either, which was why she had not bothered overly much to heed them. She still didn’t comprehend what was so god-awful about sharing your Christian name, but with all her troubles, she really should just abide by the rules that had been hammered into her since birth.

  She narrowed her eyes as she watched Liam’s eyebrow arch ever higher. Challenging. Mocking.

  Botheration! She’d never been one to pass up a challenge. She darted a look up and down the street to ensure that they were alone. “Cecelia,” she announced triumphantly.

  “That’s a lovely name, lass,” he replied in a deep, sensual tone that made her skin prickle.

  The compliment this virtual stranger had just offered pleased her so much that she wanted to grin, but somehow, she managed to make her mouth behave and appear unaffected, which was quite properly English. She had already broken one rule of etiquette today; she dared not break another so quickly. It was like tempting fate to slap her.

  “Thank you,” she replied, trying desperately not to sound breathy with her happiness.

  Liam’s mouth tugged farther upward at the corners, and she suspected she had failed miserably at hiding her pleasure in his compliment, but before he could say anything else, his sister spoke. “Have ye been to the Rochburns’ home before?”

  “Yes, but not in quite some time. You see, I don’t get about much socially,” Cecelia said, praying her tone did not sound strained as she glanced toward the townhome of which they spoke. Her happiness abruptly vanished. Cecelia’s family had once been welcomed at the Rochburns’, but after her disgrace, that had changed. Everything had changed. And a sennight later, her father had drunk himself to death.

  When Aila loudly cleared her throat, Cecelia flinched, realizing she was expected to elaborate. She had no notion of what to say. Heat burned her cheeks so greatly that she pressed her hands to them. “I’m terribly sorry,” she mumbled, searching for a passable excuse. “The cold makes me, um…”

  “Freezes yer tongue, aye? It does that to mine.” Liam gave her a look of encouragement, and she knew the man had purposely just offered her a perfect excuse for her rudeness. She liked this man more than she liked most any lord she’d met in her past two Seasons on the marriage mart, despite knowing him for less than an hour.

  She found herself nodding.

  A slow smile spread across his face and made her heart tug. He was breathtakingly, ruggedly manly. He reminded her of the naked Greek statues she’d seen at the museum with her father. Except, of course, this man was clothed. She gulped just thinking about the scandalous prospect of his nudity, and when she brought her gaze to his once more, she found him staring intently, as if he knew her secret thoughts. Embarrassed, she focused on his sister, but she could feel his eyes upon her just as sure as she could feel the heat of the sun.

  Aila turned and glanced down the street toward the Rochburns’ townhome. “’Tis funny, I thought I’d met all the family’s neighbors…”

  Cecelia shifted from foot to foot, the uncomfortable knowledge of why the Rochburns had not mentioned her knotting her stomach. “Are you, er, particular friends of Her Grace’s?” Cecelia stumbled, finding it hard to believe the stuffy Duchess of Rochburn would befriend poor Scots, let alone have them as guests in her home.

  Aila chuckled, and her brother frowned. “I am to marry her son,” she said.

  Cecelia blinked in surprise. “Lord Aldridge?” Sadness tugged at her. They had once been good friends, but that was likely never to be again. “I hadn’t realized he’d returned from the fight against Napoleon.” Richard Stone, Marquess of Aldridge was the Duke of Rochburn’s only heir, and the man, to his credit, had defied his father and gone off to fight Napoleon.

  “He has only just returned.” Aila surprised Cecelia by grabbing her hand. “Oh! We are having a grand ball to celebrate our betrothal! Ye must come! Ye are the first woman my age here I have met who I think I might actually like! It would be lovely to have a friend—”

  “No!” Cecelia snapped, not meaning to be rude, but she certainly could not let this woman, who seemed so nice, return to the Duke and Duchess of Rochburn’s home and voice her wish to invite Cecelia to the ball. They’d laugh Aila out of their presence and may even doubt her worthiness for Aldridge.

  When Cecelia realized Aila was gawking at her and Liam had a puzzled look on his face, she scrambled to come up with an explanation. “I, um, I detest balls.” Heat from the lie singed her cheeks, her neck, and her chest. “I really must go.” She offered a quick curtsy, but as she started to step around Liam, Aila touched her arm.

  “I detest balls, too, but I would so dearly love to see ye there. I will have Richard invite ye, and ye may decline or accept as ye wish.”

  The thought of going back to the Rochburns’ made her ill, but as she was positive the opportunity would not truly arise, she nodded.

  A sudden thought struck her. What if she really could somehow manage to get back into the good graces of the ton? She would do it for her mother’s sake. Or she would at least try.

  Even as she now prayed that she would receive an invitation, she pleaded to God that Jonathan not be there. Her palms still itched to slap him when she thought about what he had done to her, and her heart squeezed when she thought upon Matilda.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, hoping it sounded genuine. She thought she might have succeeded, given Aila’s grin, but when Cecelia stole a glance at Liam, his narrowed, questioning eyes were trained on her.

  Chapter Two

  Liam had come to this godforsaken place for two reasons. One was to ensure his younger sister was marrying a good man. His father had been dying when he had given Aila his approval to marry Aldridge, and with Father’s clouded mind and the clan’s unstable finances at the time, Liam feared his father might not have made a well-thought-out decision. And since Liam had been off fighting Napoleon when Aila had actually met Aldridge, Liam wanted to meet the marquess and judge for himself if the man was worthy of his sister.

  The other reason he was in London was to avoid, if only for a little while, the plethora of lasses wishing to marry him now that he was laird of the MacLeod clan. He would be flattered, except he was not a fool. He understood that a great deal of his appeal was derived from the fact that he was now the leader of one of the few remaining stable and wealthy clans in the Highlands. The Jacobite rising had spawned a cleansing of those who had not supported King George II, and it had forever diminished the very way of life of the clans. The constant peril and turmoil that followed made stability and prosperity rare to find. But before his father had passed, he had sold some land, and in doing so, the clan’s future had become financially secure once again.

  He was now considered a prize to be won by the lasses, their mother’s, and most especially, the lairds of the other clans looking to make an alliance with the MacLeods by way of marriage. Liam did not much care for feeling like a fat pig, and he had long wished to marry a woman who held his heart, as was tradition in his family. He preferred to be judged and desired for who he was, without the trappings of money. Yet that seemed more and more of an impossibility in Scotland where everyone knew of him.

  Perchance it was an impossibility everywhere, though. He had half hoped that coming to England would give him an opportunity to meet ladies who knew nothing of his clan, but it seemed the MacLeod reputation had preceded him.

  Aila loudly cleared her throat and jerked him back to the moment. “Liam will walk ye where ye are going. I’d hate for ye to slip again.”

  He was on the verge of offering an excuse as to why he could not, as it had b
ecome his custom to avoid being lured into any situation where a lass could claim he had compromised her and then demand he marry her for honor’s sake, but he swallowed his pretext. Cecelia—for he refused to think of her as Miss Cartwright—had piqued his curiosity. Any lady who read Byron, teared up at a destroyed book from her father, and shared his opinion that most ladies of the ton were dim, was a lady with whom he wanted to become better acquainted. Not to mention she clearly did not know who he was, and he liked that very much.

  Beyond being intriguing, she was also the most breathtaking woman he had ever beheld. Her gleaming, long, black hair and her tawny eyes framed by thick lashes stirred his desire and further ignited his curiosity. She had a certain wariness in her gaze, yet pride in her stance, and he found he wanted to know what caused both.

  He proffered his elbow. “I’d be happy to escort ye, Miss Cartwright.” He could not help but instill a teasing note in his voice as he said her name and was surprised at himself for doing so. It was not like him to flirt with the lasses, and his sister’s wide eyes told him she had recognized what he was doing, too. He schooled his features, not wishing to encourage Aila to try pairing him with Cecelia. It would be just like his meddling sister to attempt such a thing.

  Cecelia bit her lip adorably, showing her hesitancy. He realized with a start that he was facing a most novel and most prized situation. Here was a lady who had no notion of who he was, so if she chose to take his arm, she would be doing so based solely on her interest and possible attraction to him. His pulse quickened at the chance before him.

  For a long moment, she stood silent, indecision playing across her face. Not a great thing for his pride, yet it oddly pleased him that she had not rushed to take the opportunity to walk with him.

  “All right,” she relented, sounding as if she was agreeing to be escorted to the guillotine. He should have been offended, but instead he was amused and further enthralled.

  He caught Aila’s smile and knew she had heard the reluctance, too. Her next words confirmed it. “Ye’re good for Liam. He’s used to the lasses being more than willing to walk anywhere with him, not that he ever actually allows them to do so.” His sister gave him a look that said she was worried for him, which he had grown quite adept at ignoring.

  “Oh!” Bright pink infused Cecelia’s cheeks. “I’m sure you are used to hordes of eager girls.” Her gaze raked over him from head to foot, and then her eyes widened as they met his once more before she jerked her attention back to Aila.

  Cecelia displayed a refreshing inability—or unwillingness—to lie. Either way, he found himself grinning at her and hoping she’d grace him with bit more of her company. “Shall we?” he asked.

  Slowly, she brought her gaze to his, and he noticed a gold rim around each of her eyes.

  Fascinating.

  She licked her upper lip and then her bottom lip as she slipped her small hand into the crook of his arm. “I really should not allow— You see, it’s simply that—” He watched as she bit down hard on her bottom lip, and a deep curiosity filled him regarding what had her so vexed.

  “Botheration!” she finally blurted, ruffling a lock of hair that had fallen over the right side of her face. “Never mind.” She eyed the ground warily for a moment as she pointed her toe and gently tapped the ice. “It is rather icy, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, fully entertained by the war going on within her. This situation was so foreign and welcome to him. This…this was exactly what he had been hoping to find in London—the thrill of chance, the uncertainty of a courtship where the outcome was not known simply because he had money.

  Finally, Cecelia looked up and gave a decisive nod. “You may escort me, but let us hurry.”

  He felt a strange sense of accomplishment that this woman had given him her trust, if only for a moment. Her suddenly guarded eyes told him she did not give it often, or easily.

  He glanced at his sister. “Will ye be all right to make yer way to the Rochburns’ home?” he asked, even though Aila tromping around on an icy walkway didn’t worry him in the least. They came from rugged, wild land, and this small bit of ice should hardly give her pause. Still, he doubted Cecelia understood that, and he did not want to seem uncaring.

  “Aye.” Aila nodded. “I’ll see ye shortly.” She gave him a stern look as her eyes darted between him and Cecelia. He blinked in amusement that his sister seemed to feel an odd protectiveness over this woman they had just met. While he had the same stirrings, what did Aila think of him? That he was a rutting beast who would steal a kiss from a lady or take advantage? He glared and was pleased when Aila looked properly reprimanded and apologetic.

  As his sister walked away, he turned toward Cecelia and was once more struck by her loveliness. “Where am I to walk ye?”

  “To the end of the street to see my friend Lady Burton.”

  He glanced in the direction she pointed. “The home with the red door?”

  She nodded, and a shaft of disappointment shot through him. That was not a long walk. It would not be near enough time to learn much about Cecelia. With this in mind, he made the decision to discard a good deal of small talk and inquire about what he really wanted to know.

  “Why do ye not wish to come to the Rochburns’ ball?” he asked.

  Her bow-shaped lips parted with surprise. “Are you always so blunt, Lord Mac—”

  “Liam, I told ye, and aye,” he said with a nod.

  A crease appeared between her dark eyebrows. “It’s not proper for me to call you by your Christian name.”

  “Do ye always do what’s proper?” he teased and then paused, shocked by himself. What had overcome him? He had teased this woman twice in a short span of time. But when she colored fiercely and her chest rose with a sharp breath, he found he was glad something strange had taken hold of him.

  “Yes,” she growled as she quirked her head in thought. “Is it customary in the Highlands to call people by their Christian names?”

  “Aye,” he answered, stealing a side glance as they walked so he could see her face again. The vehemence her tone had held seconds before surprised him, but she again spoke before he could question her about it.

  “If we chance across each other and no one else is around, you may call me Cecelia,” she whispered, as if someone might overhear, “and I will call you Liam. But please, I beg of you, if you ever see me when someone else is near, you shall call me Miss Cartwright and I shall call you Lord MacLeod. Do we have an agreement?”

  He didn’t hesitate to nod. He could sense how important this was to her.

  This time the emotion that swept across her face—stark relief—made his chest squeeze. She was so worried over something that seemed so harmless to him. He was not even sure why it unsettled him, as he had only just met her.

  “Liam, did you hear me?”

  Chuckling, he slowed his step a bit, hoping to prolong their time together. “Nay. I was woolgathering. I beg yer pardon.”

  She waved her hand airily and offered a genuine smile that was more glorious than any cloudless day in the Highlands. “Oh,” she said in an understanding voice, “it’s quite all right. I woolgather all the time!”

  He never did. Ever. He was single-minded, purposeful, and driven in every action and thought. Always. As laird of the MacLeod clan, he had to be, which left him more than confused by how this woman he had just met had managed to make him act out of character. “What did ye ask me?”

  Her smile turned thoughtful, causing two dimples to appear on her face. He wanted to run the pad of his finger over the indentations. “I asked what you thought of London,” she said. “Or have you been here before?”

  He shook his head. “This is the first time, but so far, I must admit I don’t care for London.”

  “I don’t care for it, either,” she replied, surprising him with her honest remark.

  He ceased walking, though that meant they were now standing in front of the home with the red door. Facing her, he said, “Because of t
he insipid women of the ton?”

  She laughed, and every single thing about it beckoned to him. Her head tilted to the right, making her hair fall over her petite shoulder and inviting him to touch the silky tresses. Her eyes sparkled, and the sound of her laughter— Ah, but he could listen to that light, musical note all night long.

  “Yes,” she said once she had gotten her laughter under control. “And the gentlemen who have no right to put the word gentle in front of the word men.”

  He didn’t know who had wronged her, but he had a sudden burning desire to use his fists. “I’m sorry,” he replied, seeing pain flash in her eyes.

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I should not have said that!” Her eyes rounded, looking very much like two large walnuts faded to a golden color by the summer sun. “I don’t know what came over me to speak so plainly. I daresay, I know better.”

  “I rather like yer plain speech,” he admitted, happily taking his cue from her. “There does not seem to be much of it here in London. Where I live on the Isle of Skye in Scotland, true speech is our way.”

  When her mouth parted slightly, he wasn’t sure if he had offended her, so he added, “Or perhaps I’ve simply misjudged?”

  “No,” she said with a laugh that lacked the bitterness he might have expected given her remarks of moments ago about the gentlemen. “You’ve not misjudged. One rarely hears the truth from another in the ton. The way here is to speak what you know someone wants to hear, unless you truly dislike the person or think he or she is not even worth speaking to at all. Then you either give him or her the cut direct or gossip about him or her in whispers behind your fan.”

  As she relayed the information, her face displayed one emotion after another, and he found himself unable to look away. Anger, hurt, and defiance flitted across her face, and finally, the acceptance of the inevitable settled on her delicate features. It angered him that she would accept such things, as he felt sure she spoke from personal experience.