Truth be told, Gavin was a bit self-conscious as well. He and Nan had rummaged through several chests in the attic before they’d found her late husband’s kilt. And while he didn’t mind the swath of fabric across his chest, he found the kilt itself to be a bit...breezy.
“’Tis for a good cause,” he repeated, reassuring himself.
She glanced toward the table. “Is everything arranged, then?”
Gavin kept his voice low. “Aye. All is ready.”
Nan blew out a breath. “What about Rory?”
He smiled. “He was more than willing.”
The sound of a throat clearing put an end to their conversation.
Miss Hughes stood just inside the doorway on the other side of the room. “Good evening,” she said, her voice perfectly cool.
His breath snagged in his chest as he locked gazes with her. When he’d met her back at The Fox and Crown, even disheveled as she’d been, he’d known she was uncommonly pretty. But now, dark hair gleaming in the candlelight, cheeks high with color, and attired in an old-fashioned dress that accentuated her every curve, she was much more than that. Gavin struggled to find his voice.
Fortunately, Nan had no such difficulty. “Ach, lass. Ye look just like yer mother. I can hardly believe it.”
Miss Hughes smoothed the fabric of the dress. “It’s a little short. I’m a bit taller than her.”
“Ye need not worry aboot that. Come, let us eat. I’m sure ye are famished.”
“I am,” she agreed, coming to join them at the head of the table. And that was when she saw the two of them fully. Her eyes moved from Nan’s tartan turban to Gavin’s kilt.
Her jaw went slack. “What are you . . . your . . . yourknees,” she gasped.
Gavin lifted his kilt a little to give her a better view. “Fine specimens, wouldn’t ye agree?”
Now it was Miss Hughes who was at a loss for words. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she looked sharply at her grandmother.
“Dinnae worry, we have a tartan for ye as well,” Nan assured her.
Miss Hughes shook her head. “Oh no. That won’t be necessary.”
“Ach, but ye must,” Gavin said. “We cannae begin dinner until ye are wearing a plaid of yer own.” He shrugged his shoulders. “’Tis tradition.”
And before she could protest again, Nan took the extra plaid she’d brought down and looped it over her granddaughter’s neck.
“Tradition?” Miss Hughes asked while Nan crossed it over her chest and moved behind her to tie it. “Are we celebrating something special for the seventh of June?”
“Well, yes,” Gavin replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Same as we do every night. We’re celebrating the repeal of the Diskilting Act.”
“TheDis-kilt-ing Act?” She broke diskilting into three distinct parts as if it were a foreign word.
“Ye must ken what happened in 1746,” said Nan. “After the Jacobite uprising. When all forms of Highland dress, including kilts, were outlawed?”
Miss Hughes shook her head.
“It wasn’t until 1782 that the act was finally repealed,” Gavin went on. “And ever since, we Highlanders have worn our kilts and tartans every night for dinner in celebration of our victory.”
“Everynight?”
Nan cinched the knot and patted Arabella’s shoulder. “But of course, dearie. Now, come. Let us eat.”
Gavin helped both women into their chairs, watching Miss Hughes as he took his own seat.
And she did not disappoint. Her eyes drifted over the table, widening when she saw the four mugs at her place setting.
