Page 27 of The Scot is Hers
Malcolm speared him with a look. “Are ye going to rescue her?”
“I’ve already done that.”
“A cliff seems preferable to that gaggle,” Euan said with a shudder.
“I am no’ the only eligible male here,” Alec pointed out to his friends, even if it pained him to admit it. “Perhaps I will start a rumor that the two of ye are interested.”
“I’d be interested in her,” Malcolm said with a wiggle of his brows and a roguish grin.
A wave of jealousy swept so hard over Alec that it nearly knocked him on his arse. That was an ugly emotion he’d not felt in ages. And he did not appreciate it rearing its head now.
“Well, what’s it going to be, Errol?” Lorne said in a challenge, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. “Are ye going to claim the lass or allow one of the two bulls here to duke it out?”
A great pressure built in Alec’s head, pounding somewhere at the back of his skull. He took a sip of his whisky, hoping it would help alleviate the pain, but it only seemed to make things worse.
“I’m claiming her, but no’ for the reason ye think,” he said with a scowl. “She was Keith’s betrothed, and I want to dance on his grave, knowing I took what was his.”
“Och, do let us know how we can help ye with that,” Lorne said with an appreciative nod. “We all bloody hate that fellow.”
“None more than I.”
8
For a lass who preferred to spend most of her time with her head in a book, Giselle felt she was doing a reasonably good job of faking sociability right now. It probably helped that she had Jaime here with her and also that every time she glanced over at Alec, he appeared noticeably pained. She wasn’t sure she’d ever met anyone who felt as plainly as she did the physical ache of forced proximity to idiots.
But she didn’t have time to savor that thought longer than a breath, as the ladies in question were squeezing in around her and singing her gown’s praises, unaware that it was, in fact, Jaime’s dress she wore.
“Only ye could get away with a hairstyle so simple,” one of them said in mocking tones that grated on Giselle’s nerves. The wee wretch had not hidden her desire to inflict a wound.
“Oh, ye silly sausage,” Giselle quipped back with a false laugh. “’Tis easy to get away with simple when ye have other attributes far more intriguing.” To this, she referred to her breasts, which she was certain would pop out if she took too deep a breath or laughed too loud.
The lass in question—Lady Mary, she thought she remembered hearing—looked taken aback by both the moniker and the pointed lack of her own swelling chest. It wasn’t nice, and Giselle felt instantly bad for having pointed out what was a source of self-consciousness. She wasn’t that type of person. Hated the drama that meanness pulled out. She meant only to defend herself, and it was stupid that she’d hurt someone else in doing so.
“I’m sorry,” Giselle said, startling all of the ladies in the group. “My ankle is smarting from my fall, and I should no’ have taken it out on ye.”
The lass sniffed the air, appeared ready to say something nasty when Jaime stepped in.
“Ye are a darling, Lady Giselle. We all understand, do we no’, Lady Mary? I’ve certainly been a bit snippy when stubbing a toe. I can no’ imagine how I’d be if I’d sprained my ankle the way ye did.” And just like that, the words of a duchess changed the course of the evening as all the ladies started to fawn over Giselle once more.
It paid to have a friend in high places, she supposed.
“Now, who wants to play a game?” Jaime asked, diverting the attention from Giselle, who mouthed a grateful,“Thank ye.”
Giselle did not want to play a game but given the excitement on the other lasses’ faces and her previous gaffe, it wouldn’t do to voice her concerns. Besides, Jaime was doing her best to take attention away from Giselle, and for that, she’d play a hundred games.
“We will play Bouts-Rimes,” Jaime said.
Giselle cringed on the inside. The other lasses tittered their excitement. At least it was a game Giselle knew how to play but being put on the spot always seemed to make her mind go blank. Alone she could make up a thousand rhyming ditties, but faced with anyone, especially those she didn’t know…
“The words shall be…” Jaime pursed her lips as she thought about them, her warm brown eyes twinkling in Giselle’s direction. “And in this order: bores, party, moors, hearty, cures.”
“Lady Giselle, ye should go first,” Lady Mary said, as sweet as acid, perhaps having picked up on the subtle cue from Giselle that she felt less than adequate. “Against me.”
“All right.” Giselle sat up a little straighter, smiling confidently, even if she didn’t feel it. If there was one thing that she was good at, it was pretending. “Bores, party, moors, hearty, cures?”
“Aye, that’s right,” Jaime said with a little clap.
“All right.” Giselle chewed her lip while the women gaped at her. She tried to see through them, to ignore their breathing and their barely bridled laughter. Even the men seemed to be watching, listening. Alec was pretending not to, but every so often, their eyes locked, and it made her belly flutter, and any rhymes she might have come up with evaporated. Besides, it was hard not to look at him. Out at the ruins, he’d been dressed in riding clothes and as sopping wet as she’d been. But now he was cleaned up, dressed in a fine kilt that showed off the shape and strength of his legs, which she’d remembered from their moonlit encounter years before.
