Page 72 of Highland Renegade
Juliana persisted with her train of thought. “But having a man follow Emily around will still cause suspicion.”
“Nae so much,” Fiona answered. “Some years back, the Duke and Duchess of York passed through on their way to Kilchurn. John was smitten with the lady’s maid and followed them back to England. The duchess took pity on him and made him her personal footman.” She shrugged again. “So it will nae seem so odd to have him assigned to Emily.”
“What made him return?” she asked.
A bleak expression flitted across Fiona’s face. “His wife—he married the maid—died in childbirth six months ago. The bairn didna survive, so John came back.”
“I am sorry,” Emily said. “Has he been living here at the castle?”
She shook her head. “In Dalmally. Hamish must have sent for him.”
“Hmmm,” Juliana said. “If John married an English maid, perhaps he does not hate us.”
“We doona hate ye.”
Juliana gave her an arched look. “Obviously, someone does.”
“Ian will find out who that is.” Fiona looked earnestly at each of them. “I would wager one of the reasons he brought John in was so he could accompany us to the ball. He kens how to blend in and nae be noticed.”
Emily nodded. “People do tend to talk in front of servants as though they have no ears.”
“Aye. And he’ll be able to talk with the Campbells’ servants to see the way the wind blows there.”
“Well, I am just glad we are going to the ball,” Lorelei said.
“I am, too,” Fiona answered. “With the Duke of Argyll spending so much time in England, it will feel almost like a London ball.”
“Oh, I hope so!” Lorelei nearly bounced in her seat. “I cannot wait!”
Emily smiled at her sister, wondering if she had ever felt so young. She hadn’t had a Season and, given her lack of dowry, no serious suitors. She’d married the Earl of Woodhaven out of necessity and had simply endured.
And now, someone here wanted her gone. She could leave, but that would mean Lorelei would not have her Season nor would she be able to help Juliana. Emily lifted her chin. Her sisters were not going to be put in the same predicament she had been.
She would survive this. Attending the ball would be the first step in flushing out the villain. So be it.
Chapter Twenty
Ian paced the entryway by the door in the old part of the castle, waiting for the ladies to make their appearance. Outside, the carriages waited to take them all to Kilchurn Castle for the ball, saddle horses tied behind the conveyances, stamping their hooves impatiently. He tried to avoid looking any of his brothers in the eye, for they probably felt as uncomfortable as he did.
He tugged at the damned neckcloth that felt like it was choking him and pulled at the sleeves of the frock coat that felt too tight across his shoulders. At least the material was wool, not velvet or some equally impractical material, and he’d torn the lace frippery from the linen shirt as well. He longed for a proper jabot and kilt with its freedom of movement, but the damn Crown had banned the tartan. Not that it mattered, he supposed, since the MacGregors were still proscribed anyway, but the formal English attire felt like foppery. He ran a hand through his hair, and a smile started to form. He and his brothers refused to wear powdered wigs. It was only a wee bit of rebellion, but one the king could not punish them for.
The smile stopped midway as a rustle of skirts announced the arrival of the women and Emily came into sight. He nearly let his mouth gape like a halfwit at what she was wearing. He was accustomed to seeing her in practical day gowns of subdued colors that fit loosely and were very properly buttoned to her neck and covering her arms. Even when she wore breeches to go riding, she had a long cape that pretty much hid her femininity. But now, it was all he could do to keep from ogling.
The gown was a deep sea-blue silk the same color as her eyes and enhanced the honey-gold tones of her hair, which was piled on top of her head in a mass of curls instead of the usual simple knot she wore. A few tendrils had escaped to frame her face enticingly, making his fingers twitch to touch them. But then his gaze dropped and he frowned.
The neckline of her gown was cutmuchtoo low. He wondered who had laced her stays so tightly that the plump fullness of her breasts pressed against the fitted bodice—the swell of ivory mounds just visible and tempting to any sighted man under ninety. He clenched his jaw. Gavin Campbell was only one-third that age and not blind.
“Have ye a shawl?” His voice sounded a little husky, and he heard a couple of his brothers chuckle, but he ignored them. “It will get cool.” That sounded hapless even to him and he heard another chortle, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “Mayhap a cape?”
Emily gave him a puzzled look and then held up her hand, showing him the matching wrap that she’d been holding, only he hadn’t noticed. More sniggering behind him ensued. This time, he turned to glare at his brothers, who stopped guffawing abruptly. He gave a satisfied grunt, then realized that they hadn’t stopped because of him. They were all staring over his shoulder. Slowly, he turned around.
Emily’s sisters and Fiona had joined them. Lorelei was attired in pastel pink that complemented her pale hair and Juliana in yellow that brightened hers, but Ian knew his brothers’ attentions were riveted on their sister. They were all used to seeing her in her customary breeches and the overly large tunics she favored or, at a clan gathering, in simple, woolen gowns like most of the women wore. He swallowed. Somehow, recently, his sister had developed curves.
Her gown was some shimmery material that changed from white to silvery gray when she moved, and she must have been wearing a corset, too—he didn’t know she’d owned one—for her waist was cinched and the bodice left no doubt she’d grown into a woman.
“Where did ye get that gown?”
“It is one of mine,” Lorelei answered. “Well, actually, it was our dear cousin Anne’s.”
