“Surely that wouldn’t happen, Roses,” said Christie, but I knew, as she likely did, that only Wilkie could verify that for sure.
“We won’t tell him,” said Ailie, and her expression was uncharacteristically clouded and urgent. “But youmusttell him, Roses. Youmust.Knox ensures that all his officers are familiar with the inked marks of the Highlands and those that might be seen throughoutScotland. Wilkie will know what it’s about, I’m sure of it. He’s always taken a special interest in clan markings and those further afield. ’Tis best if you ask him, and find out what it is. It might give you a clue to your heritage.”
And that was exactly what I was afraid of. But I said, truthfully: “I was going to show him, and I will. I was just waiting for the right time.”
“So many mysteries to our Roses,” commented Christie lightly, as Ailie slipped the dress over my head, fitting it with a critical eye to my body. I felt better immediately once my tattoo was once again covered.
My hair was pulled out to drape over the fabric.
“You’ll show him, then, Roses?” Ailie asked me as she continued to adjust my outfit. There was an assertive edge to her question that was unusual, and I could sense that she thought it most important that Wilkie know of this, and soon.
“Aye, Ailie. I will. I promise to.”
Ailie nodded, squeezing my hand and looking at my eyes. I could see concern in her expression and a thread of uneasiness. And I understood. At least I could be thankful thatthiswas her reaction and not one of pointing fingers and shrieked, horrified warnings.
As though the matter had now been resolved, Christie changed the subject, commenting, “’Tis a bit tight up top.” She was standing back with her arms folded across her chest to study me. “Her breasts are fairly toppling out of it.”
“They’re not ‘toppling out of it.’ That’s the fashion in Paris. Your dress has the same cut. And so does mine. And so will the Morrisons’, no doubt,” she added, with some emphasis. I had to feel grateful at that lastcomment. I felt the sisters’ quiet support for me and my unstated cause. I loved them for it. And for everything else.
“Aye,” Christie continued. “Well, neither you nor I has quite as much to topple out, it must be said.”
“Nay. But the Morrisons do.”
We exchanged glances.
“’Tis perfect, then,” pronounced Christie.
Ailie agreed. “I’ll just adjust the waist, here.” She was tugging the laces at the back of the dress, drawing it tighter. “Christie, pour the tea. We must get dressed ourselves.” Her voice had the slightest flutter at the edges when she said, “It won’t be long until the guests begin to arrive.”
Christie’s dress was a light sea-green, setting off her pale, creamy skin tone. And Ailie put on a flattering dark blue dress, which emphasized the sapphire color of her eyes. Christie brushed her own hair, leaving it down. She fashioned Ailie’s hair in an uptwist, leaving curled strands to delicately frame Ailie’s face. Then she turned her attention to my hair, of which she braided only small select strands, coiling them around my hairline, leaving much of my hair long, and brushing it carefully. “I daresay you’ll get noticed tonight.”
* * *
THEMORRISONSWEREthe first to arrive, just as darkness was beginning its gauzy descent. Seven slightly plump and very lively young women swamped the hall in a flurry of tittering laughter, bright-colored fabric, almost-identical curled brown hair and—as Ailie had suggested—abundant cleavage.
I recalled the conversation of Wilkie’s brothers, regarding the second-eldest daughter, Stella.
I spotted her immediately. She stood out from her sisters in several ways: she was slightly taller with longer, darker hair and a distinctive shimmery beauty. And while her sisters bustled into the manor, excited and boisterous, Stella’s eyes were cast down, and she did not appear to be at all pleased to be here.
The women were followed by a rather tired-looking but upright older man with a furrowed brow and a determined expression, who looked eager at the prospect of the company of Laird Mackenzie and his brothers, none of whom—I was painfully aware—had yet to make an appearance.
The group was greeted by Ailie, Christie and other upstanding members of the clan, including cousins and other Mackenzie relatives, and welcomed with ale and food. I had met several of this extended Mackenzie family, although I did notice that Wilkie’s sisters seemed somewhat protective of me and stayed by my side much of the time. As before, when I was introduced, it was pleasant yet perfunctory, with little information offered.
And it wasn’t long until the Munro party arrived, which was comprised of the two sons, two nephews and a daughter of Laird Munro. The Munros had varying shades of strawberry blond hair, ranging from the daughter’s almost-blond to the gold-lit copper of the sons. The eldest, Magnus, was a tall and ruggedly handsome man, and I could see that Ailie’s eyes only left him when he happened to look in her direction, at which time her cheeks flushed with bright splashes of pink.
“She refuses to speak to him,” Christie whispered, handing me a goblet of ale. “’Tis quite amusing to watch. My confident, poised sister turns into a spineless, quivering wallflower.”
Christie insisted on topping up my goblet, and after several sips, I began to feel its relaxing, bubbling effects. She chattered about the crowd, giving me fascinating backstories, one by one, as she pointed out the guests. One or two of them looked vaguely familiar to me, and I guessed that I might have served their table at the Ogilvie keep. I doubted that they would recognize me.
Clementine Morrison, the eldest sister, was the first subject. “She’s had a run of bad luck at the altar, poor thing,” Christie said, in low tones that were almost a whisper. “Her first attempt was a Macallister who decided he was in love with someone else, only days before they were due to be married. Can you imagine? The second was Eoin Buchanan, nephew of the laird, who ended up scandalously running off with his own brother’s wife. And it appears that Clementine has had enough. Last I heard, she’s due to retreat to a convent in the spring. She’s become most devout—look at her dress, after all—’tis much more demure than those of her sisters. She’s decided she’s had enough of men altogether and will dedicate herself to the church. One can hardly blame her, I daresay.
“So Stella is next in line to secure a new laird for the Morrison clan. And look at her. She’s stunning, yet painfully shy.” It was true that Stella Morrison was a rare beauty. She had long, dark brown hair that was inflected with blond highlights. The long strands curled at the ends and glowed like glimmer-edged spirals. She was taller than her sisters, and slimmer, and she projected an entirely different aura than the rest of her family. She seemed somber and disengaged from the gathering surrounding her. “I heard from AinsleyMunro—the lass is a wealth of information, mainly because her brothers and cousins travel the Highlands and attend all the gatherings—that Stella’s in love with a lower-ranking stable boy or some such, but that her father has banished him from the keep. And only days ago. So she’s heartbroken and has refused marriage to another.”
“That must be why she looks so sad,” I said.
“Aye, I would say so. That, and the fact that her father will likely hear none of it. If he arranges a marriage for her despite her protests, there’s little she can do about it. She’s not in a position to refuse his dictates, whether it’s the exile of her beloved, or the forced marriage to a man of his choosing.”
A man of his choosing. The words lingered in a most unwelcome echo. I knew, as we all did, which man Laird Morrison had in mind. Wilkie had professed to his brothers that he favored none of the Morrison women, but now that I had seen Stella for myself, I wondered ifshemight present a more welcome possibility to Wilkie than the one called Maisie. And Christie continued, as though reading my thoughts.
