Page 92 of Sweet Home Highlander
A spasm of agony crossed Julien’s face, but it was gone in the next instant. Eleanor was his mother’s name, Aisla knew. He inclined his head with a smile for the longtime servant. “I will be sure to pass on your regards, Higgins.”
Then Julien turned back to her, a sudden, unexpected anticipation lighting his eyes that made her wonder at its source. “Now, let’s hie back to Scotland and find you a bonny Scot to marry.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Preparations at Maclaren for Ronan’s birthday had been ongoing for a solid week and showed no signs of stopping. Lady Dunrannoch was throwing a ball in his honor that evening and everything had to be just right. Though Ronan avoided aristocratic social events like the plague, Niall knew he would not dare to disappoint their mother, especially not with their father being so ill, coupled with Aisla’s departure and the curtain of despair that hung over the clan. Lady Dunrannoch simply wanted to cheer everyone up with a grand celebration.
The kitchens had been busy since dawn, and even Niall’s own cook was up at Maclaren, helping to prepare the enormous amount of food for such an undertaking. The ballroom had been opened and aired, the floors and chandeliers polished to a mirror shine. Invitations had been sent out far and wide. Musicians had been hired, large bouquets of hothouse flowers tendered. Lady Dunrannoch was sparing no expense.
Ronan, of course, had been hiding at Tarben Castle for days. Now, they sat in Niall’s study, dressed for the evening’s entertainment in formal jackets, waistcoats, cravats, and dress kilts. Ronan’s cravat was already unknotted, his hair standing on end. His valet would no doubt be peeved that his excellent handiwork had been so shabbily treated.
“I dunnae want the focus on me,” he groaned.
Niall chuckled. “Why? ’Tis about time ye fell from yer glorified pedestal, brother.”
“Ye do ken what Mother harps on at my every birthday?” he said, staring into a half-full glass of whisky. His third or fourth, Niall guessed. Though his brother seemed to have an incredible tolerance for spirits, Niall moved the bottle away. It would not be in his favor if their mother noticed that he smelled like a distillery. “Marriage andheirs.” Ronan hung his head into his hands. “I’m no’ ready for a wife.”
“Ye’re the Dunrannoch heir,” Niall said. “Ye have to marry sometime.”
“Tonight is nothing more than a meat market, ye ken that?”
“Aye.” Niall grinned. “And dunnae let Mother hear ye say that about her fancy ball or she’ll carve the hide from ye.”
Ronan went on, clearly uncaring of being overheard. “Every eligible maiden will be in attendance and foisted upon me like cakes on a platter.”
“Including the Campbell lasses. Gregor hasnae given up hope for a match.”
“Care to trade places?” he asked, looking up.
Niall guffawed loudly. “No’ a chance, brother, no’ even for the promise of a coronet. I’m done with women.” He meant what he said. He couldn’t even imagine taking a wife now. Marrying for alliance had never settled well in him, and giving his heart to another was out of the question. It was already gone, anyhow. He straightened his jacket and called for his own valet, Dunkirk, to fix the mess of Ronan’s cravat. “Now, buck up. We dunnae want to miss yer lassie buffet.”
“’Tis no’ funny,” Ronan growled, standing and coming around the desk, his fists raised.
Niall deflected a friendly punch and darted out of the way. “’Tis a little. And as much as I want to bloody ye up good, I’m afraid of Mother’s ire more. Move yer arse. We’re late enough as it is.”
Once Dunkirk was finished making the necessary repairs, they rode back to Maclaren together. Niall’s jaw couldn’t help falling open as they approached. Every inch of the castle was lit with warm lamplight, adding to the magical ambiance. The duchess had indeed gone over and beyond in her efforts. He’d never recalled Maclaren looking so magnificent. Lights lit the manicured gardens and the half dozen balcony doors leading to the ballroom were open to let in the balmy night air. The strains of a vibrant country dance reached them, and beautifully dressed people were already clustered on the terrace. After handing their horses to a groom, they approached the stairs to the terrace.
“Ready?” Niall asked his brother.
Ronan muttered an inaudible oath under his breath as they greeted a few people they knew and entered through the balcony doors. It would irritate their mother that they had not been properly announced or had not arrived early enough to be part of the family receiving line. They both hoped to avoid that confrontation and headed straight for the refreshments room. Hamish was already there, a whisky in one hand, and an ale in the other, his face ruddy from the heat in the room.
“Getting a head start, mate?” Niall asked, clapping his oldest friend on a brawny shoulder.
Hamish swore, nearly spilling his ale all over his clothing. “Och, ye bastard. Ye did that a purpose.” He scowled. “Where have the two of ye been? Yer mother is on the warpath. Christ, she’s spotted ye. Here she comes! Run, lads, if ye mean to escape.”
It was almost amusing to watch his oldest brother try to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Hard to do when one was the size of a small mountain, but he gave it a valiant effort nonetheless as the duchess approached. Lady Dunrannoch looked beautiful, and quite regal, in a gorgeous emerald-colored gown, trimmed in silver braid with a Maclaren sash at her waist. Niall kissed his mother on the cheek and told her so. She blushed, her anger forgotten for a moment, until she caught sight of her first-born cowering like a wee baby lamb.
She sighed, tilting her chin for a kiss. “Now, Ronan, it’s a ball in your honor. At least pretend to enjoy it for my sake.”
“Aye, Mother,” he said and bent to embrace her.
He hadn’t even completed his bow before she was introducing him to a young woman she’d practically hidden behind her skirts. Niall took the opportunity to slip away, ignoring the glare Ronan shot him. He accepted a glass of whisky from a footman and sipped, letting the smoky taste of it curl over his tongue. He’d made the decision that avoiding spirits altogether wasn’t completely necessary. He knew he was capable of restraint now, as he probably had been for some time. It had been fear of falling down that old spiral of drunkenness, of disappointing those he loved, that had kept him from touching a drink for so long. But now, he trusted himself more. He would never over imbibe, but he did like savoring the flavors of an excellent batch of Dunrannoch whisky. And theirs was the best this side of Hadrian’s Wall.
Makenna spun past him on the ballroom floor, dancing with a young buck wearing a black and yellow tartan, her eyes sparkling. Her partner was from the Mackenzie clan up north, and he looked smitten. Niall didn’t blame him. Makenna had outdone herself—she wore a pale silver gown that set off the darker auburn tones in her bright hair. He’d never seen her look lovelier. She looked entirely too pretty to be let loose on the unsuspecting puppy she was dancing with. His eyes narrowed, recalling how well she’d evaded the talk of her husband. When the ball was over, he’d get to the bottom of it.
He almost laughed when he saw Ronan leading a lass out to the floor for the next set, a reel. One would think he was heading to the gallows from the dark, embittered expression on his face. Niall didn’t know why the man was so dead set against marriage. He was a titled laird, heir to a dukedom, filthy rich, and by all accounts, didn’t have a face that would send a maiden scurrying for cover. Yet, his brother had avoided matrimony at all cost. In addition to denying the Campbell lass, he’d refused to marry the daughter of the Sinclair laird years before, which would have been a valuable—and profitable—alliance. Lady Mairi would have been an extremely biddable wife, though with feathers for brains, she likely would have been terrified of her husband.
“Ye’re no’ dancing?” a red-faced Hamish asked, joining him where he stood near the open balcony doors. It was cooler and afforded a quick escape route, Niall had told himself. But in truth, he was having too much fun watching Ronan get tortured. And since many people didn’t yet know about Niall’s second separation from his wife, or perhaps they did know and felt pity for him, they did not approach.
