Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (27 page)

His door opened, and Ranulf stepped into the room. A hundred thoughts tangled through his head at his brother's set expression—had Debny said something about his predawn ride? Had Visford decided to take issue with the removal of his betrothed after all? Had someone discovered Catriona?
Bloody hell.

“Duncan Lenox is here,” his brother announced. “He spotted—did ye sleep in yer clothes?”

Frowning, Munro smoothed his shirt. “Aye. Apparently I did. What did Duncan spot?”

Duncan Lenox was a MacLawry chieftain, living with his three younger sisters and his Sassannach bride three miles or so to the northeast. His property edged up to Campbell territory, and if he'd spied something, it likely wasn't anything good. And if trouble was on its way, he needed to get to Haldane. Catriona was on her own there.

“He isnae certain. A dozen riders surrounding a coach, and MacDonald colors on display. They'll be here any time now, and I want ye—”

“MacDonald?” Munro snapped back, his heart thudding. MacDonalds were the worst kind of trouble he could imagine. “Damnation.”

“I gave ye my word, Bear,” his brother returned. “Elizabeth MacColl is under my protection. We'll negotiate someaught acceptable to both parties, and the lass will be yers.”

Munro stopped breathing. Perhaps he was still asleep after all. Ranulf knew? Aye, his brother had a reputation for being all-knowing, but he'd been so careful. But the marquis wasn't flaying him alive for keeping Cat hidden. Something didn't make sense.

Abruptly it occurred to him. Ranulf was talking about a match with Elizabeth. And his brother might have been surprised by the MacDonalds' timing, but he wasn't surprised they were coming. “Ye sent the MacDonald word that ye had Randall MacColl's daughter here.”

“I didnae want them thinking we'd taken her against her will. She said she fled London with nae more than a note to her mama, but it wasnae the English that concerned me. I dunnae want any misunderstandings that could cause a fight.”

“But ye didnae see fit to tell me what ye did?” Munro might not know precisely what the problem was between Cat and the rest of the MacDonalds, but he
did
know she'd fled to escape them. And now—bloody hell, if she caught sight of them, she would be gone before he had a chance to tell her … anything.

“Ye've been a mite stubborn and closemouthed,” his brother returned. “Ye'd have to approach the MacDonalds sooner or later. I'm making it easier on ye. I'll shake hands and be polite. Ye just have to show yerself.”

“Ye're making it easier on me, are ye?” Munro wanted to punch something, and he wanted to get to Haldane immediately. And he couldn't do either one without causing even more problems. Hell, he couldn't even inform his brother that the family was trying to pair him with the wrong MacColl sister. “I dunnae recall asking fer yer assistance. With anything.”

“Well, ye have it anyway. Are we going to brawl, or are ye going to put on someaught clean and meet the coach with me?”

He cursed under his breath. “Am I supposed to smile, or growl?”

“Just do what ye do best.”

Munro stomped over to his wardrobe. “Ye have nae idea what I do best,” he muttered. He caught Ranulf eyeing him suspiciously, and took a breath. He would have a bloody mountain of actions to answer for later, but not today. “Ye didnae send for the Duke of Visford as well, did ye?” he asked.

“Nae. I dunnae give a damn aboot Visford. Even the lass's mother barely managed a bluster. The MacDonalds, though, I find mildly interesting. They might even turn oot to be useful.” The marquis backed up, catching the door handle in one hand. “Ye've twenty minutes or so. I suggest ye look fierce, but be reasonable.”

“I'm always fierce,” he answered automatically, having had this conversation a hundred times before. “If ye want reasonable, send fer Arran.”

“This is fer yer lass, Bear. Keep that in mind.” Ranulf pulled the door closed, leaving him alone with his thoughts, such as they were.

At some other moment he might have been amused that the MacLawrys and Catriona both thought Elizabeth MacColl would be a good match for him. But he'd only met one woman in his life who could match him, and he wasn't about to give her up even if he couldn't tell anyone else about her.

Be reasonable with the MacDonalds. He might, if he knew what they required in exchange for leaving Catriona alone. Since he didn't, the best he could wish for was that they would fall into the loch and drown. He felt like both hands were tied behind his back, and the only way to resolve his dilemma would be to talk to Cat.

If he meant to continue lying to his family, he wanted it to be for a reason—a reason he understood and with which he agreed. Unfortunately for him and for the MacDonalds, he was going to have to meet them without knowing if they were friends or enemies.
Her
friends or enemies, which made them his.

Swiftly he shaved off his stubble and cleaned his teeth, then donned a clean kilt and shirt. He set aside his work boots in favor of more proper stockings and gillie brogues. Shoving his sharp
sgian dubh
into his right stocking, he ran a comb through his too long, unruly hair and headed downstairs.

Elizabeth stood in the foyer already, her expression excited. He couldn't blame his suspicion of the MacDonalds on her if she kept chattering about how much she looked forward to meeting members of her own clan. And he couldn't warn her to be cautious about what she said to them, because Ranulf, Charlotte, and Arran waited there, as well. Evidently the marquis had taken his advice and sent for his more diplomatic sibling. Squaring his shoulders, Munro stepped into the group.

“What did Duncan see, exactly?” he asked.

“He was oot riding with his Julia when he saw a coach and outriders heading this way doon the main road. He said they were flying a MacDonald banner, but couldn't decide if it was a peace gesture, or if they were declaring war on us.”

“So ye're going to step oot onto the drive and hope they dunnae shoot ye?” However much his attention centered around Cat, this wasn't just about her. If the MacDonalds meant trouble, he wasn't about to allow Ranulf to step into the middle of it.

“I'm a cautious lad,” the marquis commented, lifting an eyebrow. “I have armed men standing at the front of the hoose, and up on the widow's walk. If the MacDonalds mean trouble, they willnae get very far with it.”

“But they're my … cousins, or some such thing,” Elizabeth broke in, her happy grin fading. “Why would they want to make trouble?”

“I dunnae think they will, lass,” Arran put in, sending her an encouraging smile. “Anytime two clans meet when they've nae had dealings together before, we try to be … prepared.”

“Oh. That makes sense then, I suppose.”

“Ye and Charlotte stay inside until I decide everyone means to behave themselves. I anticipate a friendly chat and everyone leaving satisfied,” the marquis continued, nodding. “After all, we've something of mutual benefit to discuss.”

Or so the MacLawrys thought, anyway. The MacDonalds might be here to discuss his marriage with Elizabeth, or they might not be. Munro looked at his gathered family members again. A lie about who he might be wooing was one thing. Protecting Cat from questions she didn't want to answer was one thing. Keeping information from his family that could put them in danger was something else entirely.

Damnation.
This, he hadn't anticipated, and while he could blame the arrival of the MacDonalds on Ranulf, anything that happened next would land squarely on his shoulders. “Ran, I need a word with ye. In private.”

His oldest brother frowned. “Ye've poor timing, Bear. Can it wait?”

“Nae. It'd best be now.”

“Then come—”

The pipers on the roof began playing. He was too late. Now the best he could do was keep everyone else safe. Including the woman living two miles away who had no idea the MacDonalds were literally on her doorstep.

*   *   *

Ranulf sent a last glance at his youngest brother, tempted for a moment to have the MacDonalds wait outside regardless of the consequences. After all, he had invited a correspondence, not a visit. Something clearly troubled Bear, and he didn't think it was simply because he'd sent word to Elizabeth's distant family without receiving permission to do so. Firstly, he was the MacLawry, and he didn't need anyone's permission to do anything. Secondly, he'd done it to help both Bear and the clan MacLawry.

Making whoever the MacDonald had deigned to send south wait, though, could well cause the very trouble he'd been attempting to prevent. And so he nodded at Cooper, and the butler pulled open the double front doors.

He stepped outside first, as was his duty and his right. Generally Bear and Arran would flank him, but today his mountainous youngest brother moved directly to his side, his posture decidedly … unfriendly. Aye, he could read his brother's moods better than most, but a hostile Munro MacLawry would be difficult for anyone to miss. And considering he was about to meet his future in-laws, however distant they might be, his demeanor didn't make much sense.

“Easy, Bear,” he muttered, as the coach, its green and blue and red MacDonald colors flying, drew to a halt in front of them. “The lass's disagreement is with a Sassannach duke, nae with the MacDonalds. Dunnae start trouble here fer no reason.”

“I reckon I'll decide whether or nae to be friendly
after
I make their acquaintance and hear their terms,” his brother returned.

“Ye'll be cautiously friendly until I tell ye otherwise,” Ranulf countered.

Munro sent him a hard glance, his jaw clenched. “Aye,” he grunted after a moment, rolling his shoulders. “Cautiously friendly.”

The dozen outriders, half of them in MacDonald plaid, dismounted to gather about the coach door. Whoever happened to be inside, his guards, at least, had come prepared for trouble. None of them carried weapons other than the traditional daggers in boots and stockings, but Ranulf had seen for himself how much damage a well-placed
sgian dubh
could cause. Then again, he couldn't blame them for their caution. They had a six-and-a-half-foot granite tower of muscle staring them down.

Inwardly sighing at his less-than-cooperative brother, Ranulf stepped forward as the coach door opened. If they'd all been friends, Cooper and a footman would have approached the coach and helped the occupant or occupants to the ground, but when strangers known to be less than friendly arrived, they were on their own, and left out in the open until they made their purpose known.

From the capable-looking entourage he'd half expected the MacDonald himself to emerge, but the man who stepped to the ground was at least three decades younger than the Earl of Gorrie. The young man flashed a smile, brushed light brown hair from his forehead, and motioned his men away.

“Please, lads. The MacLawry isn't going to slaughter me before we've even said our good mornings,” he drawled, his accent more English than Scots. “You are Lord Glengask, aye?”

“Aye.”

“Splendid.” He stuck out his hand. “Charles Beaton. Viscount Torriden.”

Torriden.
“Ye're one of the MacDonald's clan chieftains,” Ranulf said, shaking hands with the fellow.

“I am. I apologize for not sending advance word that I was coming. The MacDonald intended to send you a return letter by messenger, but I volunteered to carry it, myself.”

Ranulf studied his unexpected guest as the lad continued chatting about the state of the roads and the weather. Either Lord Torriden was supremely oblivious, or he was pretending to be so. At least a dozen rifles and muskets were pointed in his general direction, and he stood face-to-face with all three MacLawry brothers, but he continued to behave as if he sat in the drawing room of an old auntie or something.

“Lord Torriden, my brothers Arran and Munro.”

Arran stepped forward readily enough, a bemused expression on his lean face, to shake the viscount's hand. Bear, though, hesitated. Ranulf held his breath, hoping he hadn't made a mistake in notifying the MacDonalds about his brother's impending marriage. Finally Bear met Lord Torriden's outstretched hand and didn't tear it off, which Ranulf decided to take as a positive sign.

“Since I'm unexpected, please allow me to explain my presence,” the viscount went on, in his smooth, cultured voice.

“Ye'd best make it a good story,” Munro drawled, lowering his hand again.

When the MacLawrys met with someone, they were united. That was the rule, and that was the law. Privately they could disagree, but in public they spoke with one voice. That was why they were respected, feared, and unmatched in the Highlands. Whatever had Bear's kilt in a twist, he either needed to control his hostility or go elsewhere. Immediately.

Ranulf leaned closer to his brother. “Ye shut yer gobber, or I'll shut it fer ye,” he whispered, keeping his expression cool and relaxed. “I'll nae warn ye again.”

Bear closed his eyes for a moment. Finally he opened them again. “Then make certain he's an ally, and ye'll have naught to worry aboot.”

Taking a breath, Ranulf moved Arran between Bear and their guest. “Watch him,” he murmured.

“Aye. Shall I fetch a club?”

Hopefully Torriden didn't realize how much potential danger he was in. Ranulf inclined his head, gesturing toward the front door. “We're aboot to sit doon fer luncheon. Ye can tell us yer tale over steak-and-kidney pie.”

“Thank you for your hospitality, my lord. I admit, I wasn't certain what sort of greeting I would receive here, especially coming unannounced as I have.” He looked over at his gathered men. “We're all friends here, lads. No fights.”

“Ye heard the viscount,” Ranulf echoed, signaling his own men to stand down. “Show the lads to the kitchen.”