“The Scots marry them off even younger sometimes,” inserted Liam.
“But we’ve got stronger women,” Connall shot back. Then he winked at Mairi. “And she’s of a fine age to marry.”
She glared at the man. He was making fun of her when her future was stake. “No twenty-six year old compares well to a seventeen year old. Not even with cosmetics.” Especially when she was really twenty-eight.
Her father wrapped a thick arm around her shoulders. “You’re plenty beautiful,” he said. “You’re smart and strong to boot. Any man would be an idiot not to want you.”
Then Liam MacCleal was a damned idiot when he’d selected Lady Clara. And he was even more of a fool because he thought the discussion was ended. “There’s naught to be done about it, Mairi. The whisky won’t be ready, and Connall’s busy enough with the shearing. The spring is a better time for everyone.”
Everyone but her.
“I’m a grown woman,” she said, her voice dark. “I don’t need an escort, least of all him and Sadie.” That was the name of his cousin who was meant to come along as chaperone. As if Mairi needed the stern gaze of a chaperone to keep her away from Connall. And anyway, Sadie was younger than she was!
“If you want an English husband, you need to play by English rules,” Liam said. “That means you don’t go running around on your own.” His voice was stern as befitted a future laird. But he was barely a year older than her and so his tone had no effect. “You don’t know the Sassenach. To them, it’ll be bad enough that you’re Scottish. Your free ways make it all worse. They won’t work in London like they do here.”
“Free? You think I’m free here?” The gall of the man nearly choked her. “I’ve spent the last ten years ordering the cooking, the cleaning, and the wiping of every damned snot nose and dirty arse in the whole damned castle. And now when I’m done with the lot of you, you tell me I can’t leave this miserable plot of sheep dung—”
“Mairi!” her father snapped. “This is your home!”
Was it? She’d thought it was for the last twenty-eight years of her life, but Liam had given that future to Lady Clara. And now there was nothing here for her but to leave. “I’m going,” she said firmly.
Lady Clara smiled at her, the expression a little distracted. “I’d feel the same way if I were you. There’s no place on earth like London.” Her gaze softened. “Liam’s promised to take me back in the spring. I’d be a poor sponsor myself. I was never accepted by society, but at least I could show you around the city and keep you away from the dangerous parts.”
“That won’t help me get a husband.”
“No,” Clara agreed. “It won’t.”
Connall stepped forward and tried to lay his hand on her shoulder. She dodged it, of course, but that didn’t stop his words. “I’ll take you in a month when the whisky’s ready and the shearing’s done,” he said. “Have your dresses made in Edinburgh, and Lady Clara can teach you the dances.”
“Oh goodness,” the lady murmured. “I’m a terrible dancer.”
Mairi sighed. “And what will the Dowager Countess of Byrn think of Scots-made gowns?”
“She’d throw them in the rubbish pile,” Lady Clara said. “She’s been known to do that with London-made gowns that were not up to her standards. I doubt she’d even look at anything made north of Bedford.”
There it was. She needed to leave now to have any hope of finding a noble husband. But as sure as she came to that conclusion, the men apparently decided something else entirely.
“A month won’t be too long,” her father said, as if he understood anything about female things.
“If you help with the glass blowing,” Liam offered, “we might have enough whisky in three weeks.”
“And what of Sadie?” Mairi demanded. “She needs to be there as much as I.”
“Ach,” Connall shrugged. “She’s younger than you. Not yet twenty-five. She’ll be fine to wait a year and be pleased as punch to go next month.”
Her father grunted and picked up the blower pipe to begin another glass jar. “It’s settled then. Three weeks if we’re lucky, four if we’re not.”
The other two men nodded in agreement and turned to head out. Lady Clara was the only one to remain behind, frowning in sympathy as she looked at Mairi. “That won’t be enough time,” she said, her voice resigned. “They don’t understand what it takes to launch a girl.”
“I need to be there now?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.
“No, Mairi. You needed to be there eight years ago. You’re a Scot without a title. How big is your dowry?”
“Plenty big,” she said firmly. She had scrimped and saved her coins from the very first day she’d worked at the castle. Plus, she’d sold her perfume bottles at the Edinburgh fair. All that coin had been converted into eight fine copper chains to bring to her marriage bed. It might not be property, but most girls had less. “And I’m the daughter of the MacAdaidh laird. That’s title enough.” It didn’t matter that she and her father were the last MacAdaidh left, she came from a fine bloodline.
“That won’t help you in London,” the lady said. “Isn’t there a Marriage Mart in Edinburgh?”
There wasn’t. At least not with any woman who could sponsor her. She’d been promised to Liam on the day she was born. No one—least of all her father—had thought she should cultivate the friendship of a woman in Scottish society. Her only hope was in London with the tenuous connection to a dragon of a countess.
Well, she’d never been one to shy from a challenge.
Mairi quietly folded up Lady Clara’s letter and tucked it into her skirt pocket. It had the address of the Dowager Countess of Byrn written on it. Over the years, Mairi had travelled to Edinburgh to sell her perfume bottles. How much harder could it be to take a mail coach down to London? And then easily done to find the Dowager Countess of Byrn. Or so she hoped.
