A Laird for All Time (5 page)

Emmy glanced
at what she was wearing and frowned at her perfectly acceptable lace demi-bra.  “I am not bare.”

“Bare enough,” the other lady
sniffed with scorn.  “I will have Margo fetch you the proper foundations.”

“The proper
found… ?” Now it was Emmy’s turn to gasp.  “You don’t mean a – a
corset
, do you?”  She stuttered out the word in horror.  At their synchronized nods, Emmy shook her head, clutching her shirt to her midsection and backing away.  “Are you kidding me? I don’t
think
so!  I am not contorting my body for you or anyone!”

“It is what a proper lady wears,”
Dorcas argued, looking emphatically determined to have it done.

“Well
, call me a peasant then, because I won’t do it.  I will wear my own bra and it will be just fine.” Emmy crossed her arms determinedly.  Really, time travel was one thing but a corset!

“I’m afraid
the gown willnae fit ye wi’out the corset, milady,” the maid, Margo, offered uncertainly. “Yer waistline is trim, but yer bosom is too big this way.”  She held her hands out in front of her.

Again, Emmy found herself looking down
and shrugged dismissively.  “That’s just a push-up bra.  They don’t do that all by themselves.  Without it maybe we’ll be okay.” 

Remaining solid in her stand that she would not wear the corset they offered, Emmy managed to get into the dress without it
but soon found out there was no way it would fasten around her torso.  So much for being slim!  After much cajoling from Margo, and a near lecture from Dorcas, Emmy reluctantly decided to try the corset. She stripped off her bra while Margo lowered a thin shirt, a chemise, over her head.  The corset came next, again over her head as it was already partially laced.  It was a beautiful creation of pale pink satin and lace and embroidered around the edges with tiny roses and cherubs. 

Hiding the devil inside,
Emmy thought.  “Are we talking whalebone or steel here?” she asked nervously, as Margo adjusted it.

“The supports are steel bands,” came the answe
r.  Emmy knew it was true as she felt its weight settle on her hips.  The first pull of the strings brought a surprised grunt.

“This is so
… not… good… for you,” she gasped as the chuckling maid continued to pull and tighten the garment.  It wasn’t precisely painful, but it was uncomfortable to say the least.

Dorcas
was examining Emmy’s discarded bra with interest.  The ivory satin cups seemed to intrigue her as did the tag when she found it.  “Victoria’s Secret.  What is the secret?  And what does 3, 4, D, D mean?”

A flush
grew on Emmy’s cheeks despite her inability to take a deep breath.  She had always been large-breasted but well proportioned for her build.  After all she was tall, and while narrow around her rib cage, had wide curving hips and broad enough shoulders to carry off her cup size nicely.  She had been teased by the nickname ‘Double D’ since the 7
th
grade.  Occasionally past boyfriends would toss out the old cliché that ‘more than a handful was a waste’, usually during an argument, but joke or not, it made Emmy feel slightly self-conscious though she was otherwise proud of her body.  “It’s um, an item number, so you know which… um, color you like,” she responded feebly.

“It is a very interesting garment.”

“It seems that this thing does about the same job but with ten times the pain.”  The corset was finally in place.  Although it was tight, Emmy supposed that she had her natural thinness to thank for the little oxygen she was receiving. The corset pushed her up, out and held her firmly.  When prompted, she stepped into a pile of fabric Margo laid out on the floor.  It was all pulled up and tied about her waist.  Petticoats, she realized.  Then some sort of wire basket was tied on over her backside.  What was that all about?

“So, Dory, what’s the deal
with Connor?” Emmy asked as the gown itself was finally lowered over her upraised arms.

“What do you
mean?” Dorcas asked as she and the maid twitched and adjusted the gown until it hung as it was supposed to.  Margo began the process of fastening the multitude of buttons up the back.

“
Why is he… him?” was her reply.  “I get the feeling he’s like the boss or something.  Is it the laird thing?”  The low neckline of the gown pushed her already up thrust breasts up even more until they felt as if they would spill out over the top of the dress.  Well, that was a Saturday night in college not all that long ago.  She could live with it.

“
It is his life’s work to provide for the earldom and his clan.  It is all he does,” Dorcas responded tartly. 

“Ever?”

“It seems so.” Dory pursed her lips.  “The laird doesn’t have much time or tolerance for anything else.”

“What does that mean?” Emmy asked.

Dory only shook her head.  “I should not have spoken so candidly.  I will leave you now to prepare myself for dinner.  Margo will help you finish.”

“Candidly?  You didn’t tell me anything!”
Emmy sighed at her departure but was quickly distracted when she turned to the mirror again.  She was stunned by the vision reflected back at her.  The gown was amazing.  The front panel of ivory satin was heavily embroidered with leaves and flowers. The rear gathered over the wire basket in the back made her butt look much bigger though, she thought.  The tiny sleeves fell off her shoulders while the bodice nipped at the waist, flattering the outrageous hourglass figure they had cinched her into, and despite her reservations, she felt ridiculously feminine in it.  Feminine and beautiful.  “This gown is… gorgeous.  I feel like a princess, if you don’t mind the cliché.  But I have to ask… what is with the big butt thing?  I feel like my butt is sticking out a mile behind me.”

Margo giggled.  “It is the tournure,
milady.

“The torture what?”

“The big bottom… ‘tis what it is supposed to do.  ‘Tis the fashion.”

Emmy released a snort of disbelief. 
“Well, I can tell you right now, I know tons of women who would cry ‘hallelujah!’ if a big ass were fashionable.”  Margo gaped in shock over her language but Emmy ignored her and turned to the side again and back to the front, examining the outward thrust of her rear in the mirror.  “How do you sit down with this thing on?

They practiced several times with Margo
coaching her to the proper method of sitting to hit the edge of the seat with the tournure behind her but not under her.  When she sat, the corset kept her erect but put more pressure on her stomach.  “I’m starving!  But how am I going to be able to eat?”

“It’ll work out in the end,
milady.  I dinnae have to lace ye verra tightly to make the dress fit.”

“This isn’t laced tightly
?” Emmy asked in disbelief.

Margo shook her head with a smile. 
“Not at all, milady.”

“Well, Lord help me then,” Emmy muttered as
Margo led her over to the dressing table.

“
Now for yer hair,” the maid announced. 

“
Oh, I got that covered.”  Emmy pinched the claw clip that held her hair where she had twisted it.  As her hair was released, it fell in a long shimmering mass to her waist.  Her hair was her pride and joy.  She cut it only to keep it healthy, highlighted it only to give it depth and texture.  Only the long sweep of bangs she kept did not meet the rest at the lightly layered length.

“
’Tis lovely, milady,” Margo complimented, stroking it through her fingers.  “Verra soft as well.”

“Nothing better than a good conditioner and hot oil treatment.”
  After a quick brushing, Emmy grabbed up the mass of hair and wrapped it around her fist.  Pulling the ends through, she knotted it, then wrapped it around her hand and knotted it again.  She bound the remaining ends around the base of the double knot and secured the whole with the claw clip.  Although not a loose topknot the other women seemed to favor, the whole process took only fifteen seconds and looked elegant, with only her cheekbone length bangs remaining free and swept to the side.  Digging in her tote, she pulled out her favorite tinted lip gloss and applied it.  She had no other makeup with her and felt a pang of regret that she couldn’t do her face up to match the elegance of the dress. “Okay, I guess that’s it then.  Let’s eat.  Not sure how I’m going to manage it in this thing though.”

It seemed that dinner in turn of the century Scotland was not just a sit down and eat affair, nor was it a formal extended restaurant affair.  Dinner was indeed like the prom.  First everyone was supposed to get together and socialize before actually moving on to the dining room and eating.  Ian and Dorcas met her at the top of the stairs and guided her to the large drawing room Emmy had toured with Margo earlier.  Emmy was introduced around by ‘her twin’ to the few people already gathered as “Heather MacLean” as in “You remember Heather MacLean, don’t you?  Yes, the laird’s wife.”  She was referred to as “countess” and “Lady MacLean.”  She kept forgetting who she was supposed to be and tried instead to concentrate on the other people present.

There was Ian, who she discovered was
Dorcas’s husband and Connor’s younger brother. If she had paid more attention the previous night she would have noticed the resemblance though Ian was slighter in build than Connor. There was a  flock of aunts, uncles and cousins whose names all blended together.  It took several moments for it to sink in that all of these people lived in the castle, but not much longer for her to realize that they all lived off the laird’s good graces.  Tidbits of conversation she overheard included comments about a person’s allowance, how another was trying to move into a larger apartment in the south wing.  Not once did she hear anyone mention a job of their own.  In the end, it appeared there were seventeen people beyond the paid servants living in the castle... all supported by the laird. 

Emmy
wondered why it was that no one was being required to supply anything, be it money or service, into the deal.  If she had to provide for so many people, she might get a little cranky too, and wondered if that was Connor’s problem.

When Connor finally entered the room
, pausing to frame himself within the doorway, Emmy was awed by the impossibly handsome picture he made.  He was stunning in his formal evening clothes.  His suit was black while his shirt and vest were snowy white with a white bow tie as well.  She’d seen the movie
Age of Innocence
years ago.  As far as clothing for men went, it was pretty much spot on there.  He oozed gorgeous elegance, and Emmy was also immediately aware that he hated it.  While he gave an outward appearance of nonchalance, but Emmy could just see him on the inside, twitching and itching, and yanking at his collar.

As he crossed the room toward her, he
was bowed or curtsied to by all present.  He nodded in return but no one spoke to him at all, and he offered nothing either.  But all eyes watched him as he approached her, and it seemed to Emmy that they were all in awe of Connor or perhaps simply afraid of the man who held their relaxed lifestyles in the palm of his hand, like he was their king or somewhat godly.  Untouchable.  Yet, he did provide for them.  Hmm, it made Emmy think.

His eyes
captured hers as he neared.  Emmy could easily see the desire and heat in them.  It was astonishing to know that he felt the same unwilling attraction that she felt for him.  It was powerful and undeniable… though she was sure they would both do their best to deny it anyway.

“Y
e look lovely this evening, my love,” Connor offered by way of greeting, taking her hand formally and raising it with a twist to press his lips to her palm.  She did indeed.  The gown she was wearing heightened the natural bounty of her figure, accenting her tiny waist, full hips and glorious bosom pushed to the edge of the square neckline of the bodice.

“Thank you,”
Emmy responded curling her hand and surreptitiously scratching the tingling palm that had just been teased by his lips.  “I feel lovely this evening,” she confessed and rocked side to side to set her skirts swinging a bit.  “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

A surprised
half-grin jerked at the corner of his mouth and almost raised it into a full smile.  “Thank ye, I think.”  A footman arrived with his drink and he held it up to her.  “To yer return,” he toasted softly.

Emmy held up her own wineglass and shook her head.  “To my
… something.”  She clinked her glass to his and took a quick sip.  Responding to his raised brow, she said only “I’m not really sure I can call it a ‘return’.”

“Still trying to
refute who ye are, my dear?”  Why did she insist on preserving this charade?  Any fool could see that she was Heather.  She was Dory’s identical twin.  What point was there in denying it?

“I believe I have asked you not to call me that,” she replied
, throwing his thoughts back to him.  “Besides why would I come here and try to deny it?  It doesn’t make any sense.”

“There is much about ye
that is a mystery, my…” the corner of his mouth jerked up again in an appealing lopsided grin.  “My apologies, I shall strive to withhold my endearments as ye requested.”

“Endearments?”  Emmy laughed softly and
took another sip of her wine.  “You
do
know that you actually have to like someone to have it be called that, don’t you?”

His grin took a devilish
edge.  “There are many levels of liking.  In fact, I seem to ha’ developed an entirely new
liking
for ye that I ne’er had before.”  The heat flared in his eyes and the soft brogue of his deep voice caused shivers to shoot down Emmy’s spine.  “Truly,” he continued, running a finger down her bare arm, “I’d verra much like to…”

“My lord,”
Dorcas said sharply, interrupting his thought, “I can see you have not noticed that Chilton has called dinner.  Perhaps you would care to lead dear Heather in?”

“As the lord of my own home, I believe dinner could have waited another moment,
Dorcas, until I had finished my conversation with my wife,” he responded in equal tones.  He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck before offering an arm to Emmy.  “My lady?  May I?”

Emmy
observed the exchange with interest. She took his arm silently and let him lead her toward the dining room, but she could not keep back the question for long.  “Don’t like each other much, do you?”

Connor sighed as much at the quest
ion as her unusual phrasing.  “Honestly no, we ha’ ne’er been truly amiable to each other.”

“A simple ‘never have, never will’ probably covers it, huh?”

A sharp, rusty laugh of surprise escaped him once again.  “Indubitably.”

“Why don’t you get along?”
She was unable to stop the question that followed. 

“Perhaps because facing her every
day has been a constant reminder of the humiliations ye once served me.”  His voice was low and pleasant but the flash of anger in his eyes told another story.

As they entered the dining room, Connor bypassed the chair at the foot of the table and propelled Emmy forward to seat her at his right hand.  Though Emmy saw no problem
with this, displeasure showed clearly on Dorcas’ face.  Other places were taken around the table leaving the foot unoccupied before Emmy figured out why. “Shouldn’t I be sitting down there if I am supposed to be your wife?” she asked.

“I cannae
converse with ye way down there and I feel no need to entertain anyone else.”  He signaled the waiting servants to begin their service.  “And, alas, I feel that I must try to speak with ye.”

Emmy waited as a footman placed her napkin in her lap and stepped back before leaning toward him.  “
Well, don’t put yourself out there if it hurts so much,” she murmured drily.

Connor
did not answer but looked around the table. Emmy followed his gaze, watching his family chat with one another.  None tried to address Connor directly.  She wondered at that.  Why would no one speak to him?  Was he really such a bear that no one dared?

Shaking her head,
Emmy looked down at her elaborate place setting.  She realized she only knew what to do with about fifty percent of the forks, maybe three-quarters of the spoons.  Why did she need three glasses?  She had been to plenty of formal dinners throughout medical school and during her interviewing process, but none of those up-scale restaurants had been as sophisticated as this.  She glanced around the table to get a clue about where to start.  Giving up, she decided to work from the outside in and hope for the best.

Leaning toward Connor
so her words wouldn’t carry down the table, she suggested, “How about we talk about why you are having this big formal dinner when it is crystal clear that you hate every moment of it?”

Connor started at the question.  He turned to her to find her gorgeous face just inches away.  The strong beauty of her features nearly took his breath away.  Strangely again he didn’t remember her being so lovely although Dorcas was there each day as a reminder.  She was waiting expectantly for a response to her question, which in the face of her splendor he could not remember.  “My apologies, what did ye say?”

Emmy forked up a large piece of her first course
and savored the buttery flavor of the fish. “You don’t like the clothes and fancy dinner,” she said around the mouthful.  “It’s painfully obvious.  So why do you do it?”

Connor’s face hardened.  The warm look that had darkened his eyes only moments before vanished to a
hard glint.  “My dear wife, ye more than anyone should know why I do all this.”

Emmy temper spiked and her eyes flashed.  “
Pretending
once again
, that I am not your Heather, why don’t you humor me?”  Her voice was hard and uncompromising.

The temper flaring in her eyes was arousing beyond belief, but Connor was determined to crush any attraction he felt for this woman who had betrayed him so long ago.
  “I believe one of yer greatest complaints about Duart was that we were a horde of uncultured heathens who couldnae even dine properly.  Seemingly we werenae refined enough for ye.”

Pity stabbed through her chest. 
“You suffer through all of this… every night? Just to prove that you’re not a heathen to someone who hasn’t even been around to notice?” Emmy stabbed her fork into her food and lifted it, waving it at him as a governess might wave a chiding finger.  “Connor MacLean you have baggage, my friend.  Serious baggage.”

“Baggage?” he echoed.
His flash of anger faded at her curious statement.

“Deep, dark, serious, emotional baggage.”

“Enlighten me.  What is baggage?”

“You know, all those scarred, debilitating moments that you are carrying around
with you and allow to rule your life.”  She waved the fork again.  “Baggage.”  Emmy took a sip of wine.  “You need to let it go, honey.”

“Let it go?” 
Let it go?
  The words echoed in Connor’s mind.  She wanted him, if he understood her implication well enough, to just forget what had happened between them?  That day had been a defining moment in his life.  The moment when he had gone from being a happy-go-lucky youth to the man he was today.  How was one to simply ‘let it go’?

Instead of allowing himself to slide easily into the anger that such a blasé approach to his
degradation would normally have caused, Connor reined himself in.  He spent the next four courses silently pondering her statement, and her person as well.  Heather had changed these past ten years.  She had gone from a haughty girl to an introspective, if somewhat pedestrian, woman.  She didn’t even use the correct forks or pick at morsels like most women he knew.  She actually ate and with gusto. Occasionally she made comments with a full mouth.  She was common and familiar in her speech and had lost all refinement in her accent, totally adopting that flat American intonation though there was a trace of what he knew was the accent of their southern states as well. 

And she pried into his private matters as
if it was a normal event to speak of them. 

And he found it all
… charming, he thought with surprise.

From
the expectant glances she occasionally sent him, she expected some sort of response to her advice, if it could be called that.  In spite of her casual attitude to their shared past, she did not seem interested in raising his ire.  Rather, she was merely curious about why he still ‘carried’ it with him.  Like baggage.  Hmm, he thought.  It was an interesting analogy.

“Heather?” he asked in a low voice that carried no
farther than to her.  “How does one ‘let it go’, as ye so charmingly put it?”

She did not answer immediately or flippantly as he would have
expected, but instead responded an almost scholarly way. “There are many schools of thought on this subject, Connor.  Unfortunately, I am not a psychologist or psychiatrist… I did not enjoy that aspect of medicine a great deal, but I would have to say in most cases it all boils down to one simple truth.  A key.”

Dorcas
motioned for the ladies to retire and Emmy was forced to stand as the footman pulled back her chair.  Connor rose and caught her arm before she could turn away.  “And what is the key?”

“Forgiveness, Connor,” she answered softly and left the room
holding her skirts up a bit too far in front of her so she wouldn’t trip on them.

Connor sat
down hard in his chair and leaned back, stunned.  Taking a long pull on the whisky that had been poured for him – he had never liked brandy despite Dorcas’s insistence that it be served to the gentlemen following dinner – Connor tried to ponder the idea.  Forgiveness.  Could it truly be so simple?