And who still wears those bits of frilly lace at their neck, I’d like to know?
Certainly no one at Castle Balmore, but his mother had always liked seeing his father in the fashion and had sent him this frothy confection as a festive gift. As such, he’d felt obliged to add it to his costume.
With the upper buttons of his shirt open, he bent to remove the flashes from his socks, and slid out thesgian dubh, casting the blade onto the dressing table.
Finlay looked again at the bed, where his warm bride should be waiting, willing and eager—not perched in some armchair downstairs on her lonesome. Shrugging off his jacket, he was about to sling it aside, then thought better of it. ’Twas his only formal doublet, and the chair was likely covered in dog hair. Instead he opened the grand cabinet standing tall beside the door, thinking to place it there, and encountered another disturbing sight.
Within hung an array of sumptuous gowns and cloaks, while the shelf above was ranged with dainty footwear in every color imaginable.
Finlay groaned.
’Twas the wedding trousseau he’d purchased more than a year ago, as a surprise for Margaret when she came to live at Dunrannoch. Mistress Douglas had put the things away instorage elsewhere but now here they were, returned to the wardrobe in the Laird and Lady’s bedchamber, his own clothing relegated to one end.
Another thought occurred to him and, opening the trunk at the foot of the bed, he saw he was correct. Falling to his knees, he placed his hand upon the delicate linens neatly folded there: nightgowns and camisoles, petticoats and bloomers, and who knew what else. He’d visited Glasgow’s foremost women’s outfitter for the purpose, though he’d left the details of what was required entirely to them—for what did he know of female underthings?
He slammed the chest shut.
What had once been in there? Not clothing.
His father had used it for an assortment of odd possessions which his mother had oft complained about—things passed on from father to son through the ages, which the late Laird had liked to keep close.
Mistress Douglas must have relocated them elsewhere, which was all to the good, except hadn’t there been a set of…
Inspiration sparked in Finlay’s mind.
Aye! A set of bagpipes, worn thin but mayhap still working. His father had taken them out on occasion and played a faltering tune. He’d shown Finlay what was required to get a melody from the instrument.
Where were they now?
Dropping down, he looked under the bed, but there was naught to be seen. There was no other place in the room the things might be and, putting himself in his housekeeper’s mind, ’twas far more likely she’d have hidden them away somewhere else.
If he recalled rightly there was a storage room not far along. He’d wager a good bottle of malt it was where Mistress Douglas had stashed the contents of the trunk.
It took no time at all to find the place. ’Twas unlocked and, though the room was crammed with cases and chests of all sizes, the pipes were sure enough sitting atop a pile close by the door.
The bag had seen better days. The Dalreagh tartan was still distinctive, but age and dust had mutedthe vibrant russet wool, cross-patterned with shades of green. The instrument looked like some forlorn, overfed spider—fat in the body and with an odd number of legs, poking out at awkward angles. Three stiff wooden rods rose from the top, one longer than the other two, as well as the blowpipe.
Returning to the bedchamber, Finlay tucked the instrument beneath his left arm, settled the long pipes over his shoulder, and placed his fingers on the chanter below. As he filled the bag with air, it began to wheeze. Then, with the last solid exhalation, the pipes sprang to life, letting out an anguished whine.
With his fingers half-remembering some pattern of old, and his lungs replenishing the bag, a disconsolate strain emerged. Camdyn Dalreagh would be turning in his grave, and a host of other piping ancestors besides, but the cacophony was made with intent.
He’d barely gotten into his stride before another shrill, agonizing sound pierced the air. Rounding off the final notes, Finlayclosed his eyes and took several deep breaths, then bundled the pipes beneath the bed.
’Twas time to rescue the maiden.
CHAPTER 6
Sitting by the fire,Margaret’s thoughts were entirely of him. She’d been strong for so long, telling herself she didn’t need him or any man. She’d lost faith in everything he’d promised, but a few hours in his company and she was a wreck, her feelings running away from her reason.
Then the awful noise began, she screamed, and with all promptness, Finlay burst through the door. The next she knew, he was carrying her up the stairs and, of course, she could guess where he was taking her.
Seating her upon the bed, he knelt at her feet. “Tell me, lass. What scared you?”
“Bagpipes, Finlay! Surely you heard!”
He frowned, looking uncertain, then raked his hand through his hair. He’d taken off his jacket, she noticed, though his waistcoat remained, and he’d unbuttoned the top of his shirt, revealing a dusting of light brown chest hair.
It suited him, being less formal. It made her think of the days when he’d time to spare, and they would lay upon the heather in the sunshine, looking up at the boundless sky. His shirtsleeves had oft been rolled up, back then.
