The Highlander's Choice (7 page)

Chapter Seven

Sybil moved next to a very composed Margaret as they joined Duncan and Liam in front of the priest. Amazingly enough, despite the chaos of the morning, the wedding was taking place on time. After hearing the news that Duncan did not have a mistress, Margaret had risen calmly from her bed and proceeded to prepare for her wedding. Until she’d glanced in the mirror. Hysteria in her voice, she had proclaimed that with her blotchy skin and swollen eyes she would be the ugliest bride ever.

After numerous pans of cold water and many soft cloths, Sybil had been able to reduce the blotchiness and swelling enough to suit Margaret. The rest of the preparations had gone smoothly, and finally the bride was ready, dressed in a pale blue silk gown with a wreath of tiny Scottish bluebells in her hair.

Her first glimpse of Liam when she and Margaret arrived at the great hall took her breath away. Both men were dressed in traditional Scottish garb; kilts of their clans, with white lawn shirts, doublets, and sporrans. By Liam’s side hung a sword that she could imagine him swinging on a battlefield. His reddish golden hair was pulled back into a queue and tied with a ribbon.

With their broad shoulders and height, the men seemed to take all the air out of the room, despite them being in the great hall. Sybil certainly felt as though there was a shortage of air. Her lungs couldn’t seem to get enough of it. Her heart pounded to the extent she was afraid she would embarrass herself by swooning—something she’d never done in her life.

No matter how many times she forced herself to look at the priest, she found her eyes drifting toward Liam. A finer man had never existed. His strong chin, chiseled features, and full lips made small little butterflies in her stomach dance a cotillion. She snapped her head back to face the priest when Liam caught her staring and gave her a broad wink. Honestly, the man had no refinement.

I was the one staring at him.

Her flustered state kept her from concentrating on the ceremony, and she was therefore, surprised when Duncan turned to Margaret and gave her a chaste kiss before they turned to face the guests. A loud cheer went up from the crowd, foot stomping and whistles reverberating around the room. The bride and groom and she and Liam, as witnesses, signed the marriage book.

Duncan led Margaret to the head table. Liam extended his arm to Sybil, and she had a flash of being in his arms a few hours ago. Thinking of how she once again had enjoyed their kiss, heat rose from her middle to swamp her face, surely turning it red. “Are ye all right, lass?” His deep voice, lowered so only she could hear, increased her discomfort.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she snapped.

He grinned that wicked smile, turning her insides to mush. “It seems to me ye are a bit disturbed.”

“Nonsense, I’m merely emotional over my friend’s wedding.”

Liam escorted her to a seat alongside Margaret and brushed his mouth near her ear. “Dinna fash yerself, lass. ’Twas only a kiss.”

He straightened and took his seat next to her.

’Twas only a kiss?

No doubt to a randy Scot that incident was
merely
a kiss. Most likely something he used with charming regularity to gain access to women’s beds. Well, she would not be one of his women. She was a respectable English miss, who would never dally with a Scot.

I already have.

How did one turn off the voice in one’s head that scolded and told the truth when one wanted to lie to oneself? Lord, she sounded like a nervous spinster. Next she would be searching under the bed for strange men. Or one man who always seemed to turn up in her bedchamber.

Stop it!

“I thought kilts had been outlawed many years ago?” Perhaps some conversation would restore her equanimity.

Liam turned his eyes on her, dancing with mirth. “’Twas outlawed right after Culloden, but was made legal again in 1782. Right now, the Highland Society of London is collecting tartans and identifying them with clans.”

“So this plaid is your clan’s colors?” She gestured to his kilt.

“Aye. ’Tis a pleasure to wear it.” He took a sip of wine and studied her. “’Twas a terrible thing yer English did to the Scots.”

“In war there are always winners and losers.”

“Ach, so harsh ye are, lass.” His eyes flashed with irritation.

She was rather glad she’d annoyed him. It seemed the only way to keep her distance from this man whose very presence disturbed her, was to provoke him. She didn’t want to feel the flutters in her stomach, or the speeding up of her heart. Perhaps she was an untried miss, but she’d had enough conversations with her married sisters to know what those feelings meant. And she didn’t want to have them for a Scot.

The priest called the group to attention, then offered a prayer of thanks as the servants brought out an abundance of food. Liam stood and raised his glass in Duncan and Margaret’s direction. “
Sl
à
inte mhath
.” Good health.

The crowd joined in the good wishes as platters of roasted meats, mounds of vegetables, and fresh bread and cheese were placed on the tables. To Sybil’s relief, someone on Liam’s other side caught his attention, and she took a deep breath. The warmth of his body continued to heat her, making her wish she had a fan like she generally carried in London ballrooms.

“I feel so much better,” Margaret whispered.

Sybil patted her friend’s hand. “I am so glad. You will be very happy with Duncan, I am sure. Just the way he looks at you tells me he cares for you.”

“Do you think so?” Her face flushed, giving her the glow of a happy bride. Sybil was quite relieved. After the way the day had started, she would never have thought to hear those words uttered. Had Margaret truly been worried about Duncan having a mistress, or had it merely been a case of bridal nerves? Perhaps they would never know.

The whole episode made her wonder what she would do were she to find her husband had taken a mistress. Since she intended to not marry unless she found her true love, it didn’t seem like something she would need to concern herself with. But if it would ever happen, somehow she didn’t think she would be as accepting as other wives of the
ton
were. Nor would she seek her own lover. More likely she would track the harlot down and rip her hair out. She grinned at the picture that presented.

“What has ye so happy, lass?” Liam turned his attention back to her.

“I was just thinking how I would handle my husband taking a mistress.”

“By the saints! Are ye back to that again?” He took another sip of wine, studying her over the rim of his glass. “And how would ye handle that?”

“Surely you don’t want to know? After all, I have been told it is not something a young miss should concern herself with.” She smirked. “Is that not right, my laird?”

He threw back his head and laughed, drawing attention from the people sitting at the table. “But now that ye have my curiosity piqued, I’d like to know what a fine English lady would do in such a circumstance.”

“I cannot tell you what a fine English lady would do. Only what I would do.” She gave her head a flirtatious toss. Now that they were in the great hall, surrounded by more than a hundred guests, she felt safe enough to banter with the man. There would be no kissing or touching that brought disturbing feelings here.

“So yer naught a fine English lady?” He leaned in closer, his breath warm on her ear. “Indeed a fine English lady daesna kiss the way ye do, lass.”

With one sentence he wiped out her bravado, and once more the fluttering and other disturbing feelings raced through her body.

…

God’s bones! What was he doing? After the episode in the library, he had promised himself to stay as far away from Lady Sybil as possible. Yet here he was teasing her, and in the process driving his blood supply to where it shouldn’t be. But the lass was so tempting. The fragrant smell wafting over him from her hair. The sweet smile on her face, the lovely curves under her gown.

The plump lips he wanted to plunder once again.

In truth, he’d almost swallowed his tongue when the lass had entered the room with Lady Margaret earlier. All during the ceremony he couldn’t help sneaking glances at her. Her rose colored gown flowed about her like a cloud. The bodice displayed the creamy tops of her plump breasts where a gold and ruby necklace lay. Her hair had been swept back from her sweet face to gather at the crown, the cascading curls interwoven with a deep rose ribbon.

The music started, the fiddlers playing a Scottish reel. Before he could stand without disgracing himself, Brian McTavish approached the table and bowed to Sybil. “My lady, would ye do me the honor of joining me in this dance?”

A jolt of jealousy so strong shot through Liam it took his breath away. What was McTavish doing drooling over the lass? She was English and had no idea how to dance a Scottish reel.

Just as he was about to inform the man what a mistake he was making, Sybil took McTavish’s hand and stood. “I am not familiar with this dance, sir, but if you have the patience, I will be more than happy to have you teach me.”

“McTavish can’t teach a horse how to run,” Liam snapped.

Sybil and McTavish both turned to him, the lass’s eyebrows almost reaching her hairline. “I am a fast learner, my laird. I am sure Mr. McTavish will be able to keep me from embarrassing myself.”

Liam snorted as Sybil moved around the table to join McTavish. What did he care anyway, if she wanted to dance? The lass could dance her shoes off and it made no difference to him. He would just sit here and watch McTavish make a fool of himself and be assured the man didn’t get too close.

Sure enough after only a few minutes, the lass picked up the steps and was soon laughing as she wove her way through the line of dancers. McTavish’s face flushed with the exertion as he kept up with her. The man was much too old to be making such an arse of himself with a young miss.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and watched the dancers. So strong was his concentration that a slap on his back almost knocked him from his chair. “What has ye looking like you’d like to kill someone?” Duncan grinned at him, darting his glance from Liam to where Sybil and McTavish joined hands and skipped down the double row of dancers.

“Just watching old man McTavish attempting to give himself a heart attack to impress the lass.”

Duncan laughed. “Old man? McTavish is only nine and thirty.”

“He looks a lot older,” Liam grumbled.

Duncan pulled out Sybil’s vacated seat and continued to grin at him as he settled in. “I thought ye had a definite dislike of the English?”

“Aye.”

“Then why are ye sniffing around Lady Sybil’s skirts?”

Liam snorted. “Nay. I have naught interest in the lass.” He shifted in his seat waiting for a bolt of lightning to strike him for his lie.

“It appears to me that the lass is verra different from what ye thought.” Duncan finally stopped his infernal grinning.

The lass in question twirled around, for a moment her eyes meeting his. Her face was flushed, wisps of her hair had fallen down, teasing her smooth, white shoulders—precisely where he wanted to place his lips. She glowed with happiness and joy, and all things female. His groin tightened, and he immediately shifted lest Duncan take notice and begin his blathering again about lusting after Sybil.

“Aye, the lass is a mite different than all other Englishwomen.”

“Nay, my Margaret is another jewel. She is sweet, kind, and will make me a fine wife. Now, her mum, on the other hand…” Duncan just shook his head.

The music came to a halt, and McTavish returned Sybil to the table. Duncan rose and bowed, assisting her into her seat. “Pray pardon. I must rescue my wife from Mrs. Ainsley, who is sure to talk the lass’s ear off.”

“Is there something I can help ye with, McTavish?” Liam barked. The man was staring at Sybil with his tongue practically hanging out.

McTavish jerked and frowned at Liam. “Nay.” After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, the man bowed once more and left them.

“That was rude,” Sybil said.

“The man is a
cloun
.”

She raised her chin, eyes flashing. “I found him to be quite pleasant.” She paused and added, “unlike the present company.”

He snorted.

The fiddlers started up a slow number, and Sybil turned to him. “Is that a waltz they are playing?”

“Aye. Another song by the great Robbie Burns.”

She shook her head as more than a few dancers entered the dancing space. “I didn’t realize Scotland approved of the waltz.”

“Of course we do. Do ye think we’re all barbarians?”

The only answer she gave him was a tilt of her head and raised eyebrows.
Mo chreach
the lass could rile him so easily.

“Do you waltz, my laird?”

He stood and took her hand, none too gently. “My lady. Will ye do me the honor of joining me in this dance?” He bowed low enough to impress a queen. Barbarians, indeed!

She rose, her face a delight of surprise, and something else he caught in her eyes that she quickly shuttered. “I would be delighted, my laird.”

He led her to the center of the great hall and took her in his arms. ’Twas a mistake. The great longing and need he’d been pushing away all day rose to the surface, taking the verra air from his body. She was soft, warm, and smelled like a woman. His palm heated where it touched hers, despite the presence of their gloves. He’d been fooling himself for days.

No matter his dislike of the English, Lady Sybil had gotten under his skin. The lass was the opposite of everything he’d been taught, and there was naught denying he wanted her. He stared down at her face, and when she bit her lip he lost his footing, almost crashing the two of them into another couple.