“You look much better.” As she had predicted, the mark had faded without leaving signs of darkened skin.
“I feel better.” She sipped carefully, then sighed. “But I don’t look forward to spending the day with my mother and Iona tomorrow.”
“You could come watch the shoot.” He blurted the words out without thinking, but the idea pleased him considerably. “If you are not too squeamish.”
“I fear I’ve never fainted at the sight of blood. Most indelicate of me.” Her face clouded. “But I cannot leave the other ladies, it would be uncivil.”
“It would guarantee a reprieve from the two dragons.” He leaned forward, using his most coaxing smile. “I’ll make it clear that I, the lord and master, insist that you come watch.”
She wavered. “I should feel more comfortable if I had another female. Could I invite your Cousin Francesca?”
“A first-rate idea! She herself learned to shoot as a girl; she can tell you what’s going on.”
“Never mind that, she can tell me what to wear.”
* **
Diantha woke up in a much better mood than she had expected. Her face still felt stiff, but all visible sign of her mother’s abuse had disappeared. The quiet evening and Kieran’s kindness had restored her peace of mind.
She needed it, for when she went down to breakfast, she discovered the exquisitely appointed salon awash in tartan. Her Scottish guests nearly all sported some form of the pattern, in a variety of colors. The women wore sashes diagonally across their torsos and pinned at the shoulder, which was unexceptionable. The men however—
Diantha swallowed. She had seen portraits of Kieran’s father and grandfather in their kilts, but that did not prepare her for the sight of an entire room filled with males in a state of half-undress. Even covered with stockings, the myriad of calves exposed by the knee-length kilts unnerved her.
Someone tapped her shoulder. She turned her head to find Francesca Urquhart regarding her with twinkling eyes. “If you’re just going to stare, don’t block the entry. Some of us wish to eat.”
Diantha accompanied the other woman to the sideboard. “Is someone playing a joke?”
Francesca repressed her laughter. “Don’t say that too loudly. Wearing tartan on the first day of shooting is a Duncarie tradition.” She helped herself to eggs and smoked salmon. “Gives the Scots a chance to show off before the English.”
Diantha nodded at the sash of muted blue and green draped over her friend’s shoulder. “You’re from Yorkshire.”
“But my husband was an Urquhart.” The other woman stroked the woolen length tenderly. “Hehad this cut from his own plaid and gave it to me after we married. It means as much to me as my wedding ring.”
They found places beside Diantha’s grandmother. Due to her age, she was the only person waited on at breakfast. As the footman presented the elderly woman with a heaping plate, Diantha realized even the servants wore kilts. “This is dreadful! I don’t know where to look.”
Granny’s gaze rested on the retreating servant’s legs with every evidence of pleasure. “I think it’s a splendid notion.”
Francesca nudged her. “You could try looking at your husband.”
Diantha did, and forgot about food. The gray background of the Rossburn tartan suited his dark hair. The plaid on his upper body emphasized his broad shoulders and the belt at his middle showed off his narrow waist.
As he strolled to the sideboard, she noticed nearly every other female eye in the room riveted on him as well. Diantha stabbed at a kipper. She was not leaving her husband unwatched until he changed into something that inspired less attention.
Some of her guests expressed surprise or even outright disapproval when he announced that Diantha would accompany the men. He ignored everyone, however, and at ten o’clock sharp, a footman assisted Diantha and Francesca down from the carriage onto the immense moor.
The shooting party itself disappointed her. Kieran and his guests stood at designated spots and waited for the beaters to drive the birds in their direction. The constant blasts nearly deafened her and smokefrom the powder used to fire the cartridges formed a miasma around the gunners.
“How can you stand the noise?” She had to raise her voice to ask the question of Francesca.
“I got used to volleys of all sorts while married to a military man.” She shook her head. “And this is only a small party. It’s amazing that the entire sporting community of Britain can hear anything at all.” The two women wandered far enough behind the guns for rational conversation. Diantha occupied herself with her sketchbook while Francesca pulled a crochet hook and thread out of her pocket. When he approached them some time later, Kieran burst out laughing.
“The ground doesn’t look very suitable for such ladylike occupations.”
Diantha grasped his outstretched hand for assistance as she got to her feet and waited for him to help Francesca. “Nonsense. We had this comfortable blanket to rest upon.”
“I hope you aren’t too bored.” He offered each of them an arm. “I should have thought before I invited you.”
“A morning spent in fresh air is far more attractive to me today than staying in the drawing room.” Kieran grinned down at her. “I thought you might say that.”
