“Miss Giswell. This is yer first Scottish fair, I assume?”
“Yes, it is. If you’re about to offer to show me about, I would prefer that my guide be less cynical about the gathering.”
He narrowed one steel-gray eye. “The truth isnae cynical. It’s naught but the truth.”
She needed to keep her mouth shut. A lady didn’t argue, and particularly not with someone who seemed intent on beginning trouble. If Graeme were forced to step down as clan chieftain here, Hamish Paulk would step in, and his own power and influence would increase as a result. He wanted Graeme gone. And Marjorie was very conscious that she could be the means by which it happened.
“No response to that? Then walk with me, lass.”
Marjorie reluctantly wrapped her fingers around the forearm he offered her. She was a tutor, a governess. She didn’t rebuff men who outranked her. “Since you persist, I have to assume you have some information you want to impart to me. Or you’re attempting to discomfit me for some reason,” she went on conversationally. It wasn’t a rebuff, but she didn’t have to be cowed by him, either.
“Ye’re an uppity lass, I see,” he said, leading her to where a half-dozen ladies sat beneath a canopy kneading freshly dyed wool yarn. “My niece is an uppity lass, too. It got her betrothed to a damned Sassenach duke, but it also got her booted oot of clan Maxwell on her arse. Her and a thousand of her kin.”
She nearly stumbled, and covered by bending down to adjust her newly repaired shoe. From what Graeme had told her about Gabriel’s war with Dunncraigh, the niece in question had to be Fiona Blackstock, her brother’s betrothed. And this man was her uncle—and therefore soon to be an in-law of the Forresters. Of hers.
“Does the Duke of Dunncraigh often banish members of his own clan?” she asked. “How many could he possibly have remaining?”
“More than enough to teach that Sassenachanddamned Maxton a lesson or two aboot humility and their proper place in the world. And ye can tell him I said that.”
For a horrifying second she thought he meant she could inform Gabriel, and that he’d figured out who she was. In the next moment she realized he meant her supposed employer, Graeme. “I’m certain that’s none of my affair,” she offered as smoothly as she could. “I’m only here to tutor Connell, and the other two as needed.”
A young lady about Brendan’s age approached to give her a shy smile and Sir Hamish a nervous, rough curtsy. “M’laird. And ye’re Miss Ree, aye? Is it true ye’ve come all the way from London?”
“It is,” Marjorie answered. This could be a tricky conversation. With Hamish standing there, she would have to be doubly careful about revealing her life in England.
“Have ye ever seen Prince George? The Regent, I mean?”
“The woman who employed me once sent me for fresh daisies. His coach drove right past me, stopped, and then a pale, plump hand stuck out the window. ‘A flower from a flower,’ a lisping voice said.”
The girl put both hands to her mouth, her brown eyes wide. “What in the world did ye do?”
“I removed a flower from the bouquet, put it in his hand, and curtsied. I never did see his face.” For once she felt gratified to have been a lady’s companion. At least it made her present, faux employment seem plausible, and she could share a tale here that she never would have dared repeat in London. Not when she’d been doing everything possible to forget every bit of her life before the last three months.
“Och, I’d have fainted dead away!” the girl exclaimed. “I’m Isobel. Isobel Allen. Ye must come meet my ma and my sister. They’ll nae believe that ye gave a flower to Prince George!”
Smiling and supremely grateful, Marjorie released Sir Hamish’s arm and took young Isobel’s. “If you’ll excuse me, sir. I know you have more important things to do than show a child’s tutor about the fair. Thank you for your indulgence.”
“Oh, I’ll show ye aboot,” Isobel took up, giggling as she waved at a gathering of young misses. “But ye’ll have to talk aboot London until yer tongue falls oot.”
If there was one thing she did know, it was London. “I would consider that a fair trade,” she returned, chuckling.
Over the next few hours she was fairly certain she met every single cotter, fisherman, farmer, drover, and shepherd—and their families—for five miles around. People kept putting food and drink in her hands, and she even spied Mrs. Giswell dancing a reel with Robert Polk to the exuberant sounds of fiddles, fifes, drums, and bagpipes. She received dinner invitations to a dozen houses, and one marriage proposal from a very inebriated shepherd everyone called Goat. She cheered the foot races, laughed and applauded for the pie eating and an impromptu caber toss some of the men set up close by the river.
As Isobel hurried off to congratulate her mother for baking prize-winning shortbread, Marjorie turned around to find Brendan Maxton behind her. “Brendan,” she said, inclining her head. If he’d decided to announce to all and sundry who she truly was, she didn’t think he could have picked a better—or worse for her—moment.
He narrowed one eye, cocking his head. “I saw ye making Isobel Allen laugh. She doesnae laugh when I’m aboot her. What did ye say?”
Goodness.From his hard, wary expression he was waiting for her to tease him. At this moment she couldn’t think of a worse thing to do. “She seems to enjoy stories,” she said slowly, considering. “But I would recommend that you not cast yourself as the hero. Perhaps tell her about how Honker the goose had you all running about a few days ago and you ended up tangled in twine. And then congratulate her on her mother’s baking ribbon. Then you might even ask if she’s thought about entering any of the competitions.”
“Ye’d best nae be bamming me,” he muttered.
“I’m not. Try it. What have you to lose?”
It was more likelyshewould have something to lose if he failed to impress, but she wasn’t about to mention that if he wasn’t. The sixteen-year-old nodded and backed a half step away from her before turning on his heel and walking away.
That felt like a fairly earth-shaking conversation, and her first thought was that she wanted to tell Graeme about it. In the next heartbeat she remembered that he didn’t wish to speak with her. Immediately the day seemed less bright, the wind colder, and the conversations with people who actually seemed pleased to make her acquaintance, less… joyous. Stupid, stubborn man.
“What was that aboot?” the stupid, stubborn man himself asked in a low voice just to her left.
