Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(6)

Above the din of voices she could just make out the gentle strum of the lute and the haunting melody of her favorite song—despite being written by an Englishman—“Greensleeves.” The familiar words floated through her head:

Alas, my love, you do me wrong,

To cast me off discourteously.

For I have loved you well and long,

Delighting in your company …

She fluttered her fan a few times in front of her flushed cheeks, stirring the stagnant, warm air. Four enormous chandeliers hung from the ceiling, laden with masses of candles, casting a magical glow across the room. But as beautiful as all those candles were, they also made the room hot. Still, the heat and noise only added to the feeling of excitement surging through the hall.

“And this must be your daughter,” a man said.

Automatically, Jeannie turned to greet the newcomer; her gaze meeting the twinkling gray eyes of a distinguished-looking gentleman of middling years, perhaps a few years older than her father's eight and forty. He was short, not much taller than her handful of inches over five feet, and built like a barrel. His white hair had thinned and receded up top, but he more than made up for the loss on his face. His impressive mustache was long and thick, curling up into two perfect points on the ends. He reminded her of a sea lion, albeit without the gruffness. The jovial smile on his face belied any thought of that.

“Aye,” her father said. “My eldest daughter, Jean.” Her father turned to her. “Daughter, I'd like you to meet an old friend, the Laird of Menzies.”

Menzies. Castle Menzies was in Perthshire, near where her mother had grown up.

“Not so old that I can't admire a beautiful lass,” the laird said with a chuckle, taking her gloved hand and offering a gallant bow. He shook his head and said softly, “I'd recognize that hair anywhere.”

Instinctively, Jeannie stiffened, bracing herself for what was coming next. A comment about her hair was invariably followed by a knowing shake of the head and the inevitable, “just like her mother.” As if red was some kind of mark for a spirited and adventuresome—if occasionally ill-conceived—temperament.

The Laird of Menzies's remark had not just affected her; her father tensed as well.

But to her surprise, rather than a subtle barb, the old laird said, “Your mother could light up a room with her beauty and her smile. Such energy, such light. She was a breath of fresh air, your mother.” He smiled with a wistful shake of his head. “I was sad to hear that she was gone.” He met Jeannie's gaze and the crinkle around his eyes deepened. “I've never seen her like since, but I see you have some of that energy about you as well.”

Jeannie could detect no animus in his voice to suggest a different meaning. When she looked into his eyes all she could see was kindness.

She blushed and mumbled a quick thank you. It had been so long since someone said anything nice about her mother that she was at a loss as to what to say. So often reminded of the bad, she forgot the good.

The memories of her mother were faint, coming to her only in flashes. The tinkle of her laugh. The scent of rosewater and the French wine of Champagne that she loved. The thick auburn hair so like Jeannie's own blazing red in the candlelight. The beautiful ball gowns that would have made England's Queen Elizabeth curse with envy.

Janet Grant had loved the young King James's court at Holyrood Palace and disliked returning to the inhospitable “wilds” of the Highlands—so she avoided it. She'd been like a beautiful butterfly flitting in and out of Jeannie's life.

Flitting, that was a good word for it. Her mother never followed a path, only where her fancy led. She fancied herself in love with Grant, the Laird of Freuchie, so she'd married him. Four children later, with the husband she'd loved no longer dancing attendance on her, she fancied herself in love with the BloodyEnglishman—for he had no other name in their household—so she'd run off with him.

For Jeannie, the pain of her leaving never lessened. It didn't help that her mother had quickly regretted it. The damage had been done. Donald Grant refused to take her back. The love he bore his wife could not stand in the face of the blow she'd dealt to his pride. Despite their Norman forbearers, her father was every bit a proud Highland chief and forgiveness was not in his vernacular.

Her beautiful, impetuous mother had died less than a year later in a carriage accident—the result of a madcap drunken wager—leaving Jeannie, the eldest, to pick up the pieces and burdened by a legacy of the danger of impulsivity.

“Jean is nothing like her mother,” her father said sharply.

Realizing his misstep, the Laird of Menzies stammered an apology and moved away.

Jeannie had heard the note of defensiveness in her father's voice and tried not to let it upset her. Her father might have insisted that she stop hiding in the countryside and join him at court, but it didn't mean he wasn't worried about the prospect of setting her free in the environment her mother had loved so much. The presence of her dour aunt as chaperone attested to that.

She did not doubt that her father loved her, but sometimes she would catch him watching her and she would see something in his gaze. It was almost as if he was holding his breath, waiting for her to make a mistake.

Worse, she knew that his fear was not completely unfounded. When an idea struck her, she felt it so strongly it was hard to dislodge. It always seemed right at the time. Like when she'd hidden that horrid Billy Gordon's clothes when he was swimming in the lake so he was forced to walk home naked or when she was six and decided to walk to Inverness because there was a shop that sold confections she liked or the time she'd served her father's best claret to her poppets and the hounds had passed out drunk.