CHAPTER SEVEN
“I won’t be attending the masked ball,” John said to Dair.
Dair slowly set his cup down on the table and leveled a glare at him. “If I’m going, so are ye—even if I have to order ye at sword point to do so.”
John folded his arms over his chest and sat back. “Wouldn’t matter. I’m a better swordsman than you.”
Dair didn’t rise to the jest. He glared harder still. “I don’t like it, either. I think it’s a daft idea, but Fia wants to do it, has her heart set on it. She expects ye to be there. It would disappoint her if ye didn’t come.”
“How would she know?” John quipped. He had his own reasons for hating masked balls.A masked lady in a dark garden, a trap. . . He pushed the ugly memory away.
“She’d know, and she’d have my head for it. Ye know that. Dress as anything ye like—an English king, perhaps, but not one of the ones that tried to invade Scotland,” Dair said.
“That’s most of them, I’m afraid.” John looked at Dair’s frown. “What’s she making you dress up as?”
Dair grimaced and reached for the pitcher that stood on the table between them. “Pirate,” he muttered, as he refilled both cups with more whisky.
John grinned. Then he laughed, which only made Dair’s scowl deepen.
“If I have to get myself up as a pirate, ye can bring that infernal flute of yours and come as Pan.” He sipped and sent John a steely scowl. “And that’s an order.”
* * *
Fia smiled as she held up the pretty blue velvet gown, the skirt wide with damask panniers, the petticoats and the white silk undergown edged with lavish layers of French lace. It was trimmed with pearls and yards of blue ribbon. Gillian stared at it, blinking.
“Well, what do you think? Isn’t it pretty?” Fia asked. “And there’s a pair of matching slippers, blue velvet, embroidered with more pearls.”
“I think it looks like nothing any shepherd lass would wear,” Gillian said slowly.
Fia frowned slightly. “Well, no—it’s simply meant to remind folk of your simplicity, your innocence, your—”
“Ability to herd sheep?” Gillian quipped. She looked at the crook, painted gold and tied with ribbons, silk flowers, and bells.
Fia flushed. “You’ll look very pretty, Gilly.”
Gillian didn’t reply. She crossed to touch the edge of the mask that lay on the table—gleaming white silk edged with pearls—and wondered what it would feel like to be anonymous. Yet the shepherdess costume would make her feel more ridiculous than anonymous. Diana the Huntress would suit her better, something completely outside her character, something that wasn’t in the least demure, or sweet, or very pretty.
She forced herself to smile at Fia. “Thank you,” she said. She took the shepherdess costume back to her room—such a lot of silk and lace, and three ruffled petticoats—and set all of it carefully over the back of a chair. She sat on the bed and stared at it, trying to imagine herself wearing it. What did one do with such a costume after the ball? It wasn’t something she’d ever wear again, and she could hardly offer it to a real shepherdess. She picked up the mask and went to the mirror, held it up to her face and studied it. Her eyes sparkled through the almond-shaped slits, and below the edge of the mask, her lips were curved, plump, and pink. She hardly looked like Gillian MacLeod. She looked . . .exotic.
Like a woman ready for an adventure.
With a forbidden Englishman.
A blush suffused her face under the mask, but the silk hid the telltale sign of her shyness and uncertainty.
What harm would it do to flirt with a handsome gentleman? She’d watched her sisters flirt. How hard could it be? A lass allowed a handsome lad to pay her outrageous compliments while she batted her lashes, cast cow-eyes at him, laughed often, and gave away nothing.
And that would be easy enough—and perfectly safe—from behind a mask.
But on the night of the ball, Gillian decided not to wear the shepherdess costume for a number of reasons. Fia would keep her close to her side like a child on leading strings. Her sister would introduce her to the right people, gentlemen who would do their best to hide the disinterest and faint embarrassment in their eyes while Fia replied to everything they said to Gillian. And her father would stand behind her and beam his encouragement at them. She really wouldn’t need to be there at all.
Adventure, she reminded herself, required her own voice, her own choice.
She selected a gown from the dazzling, glamorous creations that had been made for her in Edinburgh, a luscious deep pink silk that was lined with shimmering yellow satin. It had gold bows down the front of the bodice, and gold embroidery along the hem and the edge of the sleeves. The neckline was low cut and daring, edged with a delicate froth of lace. A cape of matching pink silk, lined with gold, attached to her shoulders with small diamond clips, and floated behind her.
Gillian bit her lip as she looked at the gorgeous gown. It was the kind of gown that attracted attention, made people stare and imagine the woman wearing it must be bold, daring, and utterly charming. If it weren’t for this ball, Gillian would never have the courage to wear it. Yet the Edinburgh dressmaker had created it just for her—she said the deep pink silk was reminiscent of Gillian’s maidenly blush, and the yellow set off the copper lights in her hair and the green-gold of her eyes. It was made to whisper when she walked, make people think of intimate conversations and candlelight. And when she wore it, the dressmaker promised, no one would be able to look at any other woman.
Perhaps that might have pleased any other woman, but it had sent Gillian into a panic at the thought of being so very much on display.
