Her mother’s eyes welled with tears at Meg’s harsh tone. “I’m sorry, darling. I only want you to be happy.”
Meg took one look at her mother’s face and panicked. This was precisely what had gotten her into this situation of being trussed up like a Christmas goose in the first place. Unfortunately, Meg suffered from the same malady as her father—she could not stand to see her mother weep.Please, darling, just this once,Rosalind had beseeched. So instead of her usual refusal when her mother offered to help her with her wardrobe, Meg had given in.
She took her mother’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “I know, Mother, forgive me. I know you only want what’s best for me. I will be happy. With Jamie.”
Her mother opened her mouth to argue, but Meg cut her off.
“I think we’d better call for Alys if we have any hope of being ready in time.”
She could tell her mother wanted to say more, but thankfully she nodded and called for the maid.
After seemingly hours of prodding and poking, Alys finished pinning the last curl in Meg’s new hair arrangement and stepped back. Meg was berating herself again for agreeing to this foolery when she heard her mother gasp. She spun around. “What’s the matter?” Her hands went to her head. “Is it that awful? I told you this would be a waste of time.”
Her mother’s hands covered her cheeks, and her eyes were wide with awe. “Margaret…” She paused, continuing to stare at her. “You look beautiful.”
Meg smiled, knowing how prone her mother was to dramatic exaggerations—especially when it came to the accomplishments of her children. “Oh please, Mother,” Meg dismissed, turning to look at Elizabeth, who’d just entered the room. But Elizabeth, too, looked shocked.
“But you do look beautiful, Meg,” Elizabeth said. “Truly, I’ve never seen you such. You’re positively radiant.”
Uncomfortable with such unusually sincere compliments, Meg felt her cheeks grow hot. “Nonsense.” How much could a new hairstyle and gown matter? Still, she couldn’t resist a quick peek in the looking glass.
The woman who met her gaze was nearly unrecognizable. For once, her unruly curls were tamed and fastened becomingly at the back of her head. Alys had allowed a few of the more golden brown curls to dangle down her back and shoulders. A slight dusting of powder on her nose hid her less persistent freckles, and the pink remains of her embarrassed blush still swept her cheeks.
Her eyes, wide with wonder, seemed to dominate her face. In comparison, the rest of her features looked unusually delicate: her chin tiny and pointed, her slight nose upturned, her mouth a soft pink bow. The combination lent her face a fragile vulnerability that Meg would have previously thought impossible.
In honor of the masque tonight, Rosalind had chosen a simple silk gown in a shade of moss green that matched her eyes exactly. Dispensing with the bolster and farthingale, the soft folds of the dress hugged her slim figure and emphasized the gentle swell of her breasts rather than flatten them as did the stiff bodices and ruffs of her typical court attire.
The woman staring back at her in the glass looked more like her mother than she could have ever dreamed possible. Meg actually looked…pretty, she realized with shock.
She didn’t know what to say. She’d never had the time, or never allowed herself the time, to devote to her appearance. It had never mattered before. But at that moment, she realized that it was more than her duties keeping her from taking an interest in her appearance—she’d been scared. Scared to discover that it might not make a difference.
Emotion gathered at the back of her throat. “Thank you, Mother,” she said with a grateful smile, leaning over to kiss Rosalind’s soft cheek.
Her mother returned her smile, tears of joy shining in her eyes. “You’re welcome.” But being a mother, she couldn’t keep from adding, “Though I wish you had not fought the obvious for so long.” Rosalind studied her daughter. “I think tonight you might be surprised how much the bit of effort pleases you.”
And only minutes later, as much as Meg wanted to deny her mother’s words, she could not. Rosalind was right, Meg was pleased. Excessively so.
When Alex MacLeod strode into the small salon to escort them to the masque and literally stopped in his tracks, for the first time in her life, Meg felt beautiful. There was no confusing his attraction this time. The blatant admiration that widened his eyes was well worth the hours of tedium. Although clearly surprised by the change in her appearance, interestingly, he did not seem as shocked as Elizabeth.
He stared at her for much longer than was polite. Long enough for Meg to grow uncomfortable. She fiddled with the carved bone handle of her fan, significant because sheneverfiddled. His eyes darkened with intensity as his gaze traveled slowly from her head down the length of her figure, lingering an embarrassingly long moment on her breasts, taking in every inch of her new ensemble. A shiver of awareness followed in his heated wake. When their eyes locked, she felt a jolt. Shocked by the flash of white hot desire revealed in his gaze.
But he seemed, well, angry. His mouth fell into a hard, straight line. A muscle in his cheek began to twitch. Even dressed in the elaborate court attire, his entire body tensed as if prepared to battle. Alex MacLeod looked every bit the fierce and predatory Highland warrior as he had that day in the forest.
Whatever was the matter with him?
With one last burning glance, he turned to her mother and offered her his arm. Meg frowned. He was acting very strangely indeed.
Alex fumed in silence. The tenuous control he held on his restraint had been stretched to its limits. With each minute of this blasted masque that passed, his anger intensified. He tried not watching her, but it didn’t help. He was only too aware of every damn lascivious cox-comb hanging all over her. A small army of men had surrounded Meg, with her mother and Elizabeth nowhere to be seen. Where the hell were they, anyway? Didn’t they know not to leave an innocent lamb alone among a pack of starving wolves?
You’d think the men at court had never seen a beautiful woman before.
Used to solving problems with his sword, Alex found it difficult to maintain the illusion of civility. He wanted nothing more than to smash a few of those lust-filled leers focused too often on her surprisingly generous bosom.
Meg Mackinnon was testing his patience, and other parts of him as well. He was as restless and edgy as a caged lion. Resisting his instincts was frustrating for a man used to living by them.
From the first moment he’d walked into the salon tonight and seen Meg, he’d realized what was going to happen, and it had enraged him. He’d known how these men would react, because he’d reacted the same way. With a warm rush of lust.
She looked like a damn goddess with her cascade of soft curls, her wide, innocent eyes, and her soft red rosebud of a mouth. But it was the gown that made him half-crazed. For the masque, the usual stiff bodices and wide skirts had given way to softer, more flowing gowns. Meg’s gown hugged her body, revealing her high, firm breasts, tiny waist, and slim, narrow hips.
