Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(75)

In spite of the anxiety that filled her, Lottie slept heavily. Her body had given out, but her heart and mind plagued her with dreams. She was in the water, trying to reach the shore, or her father calling down the hatch for her to come up before she drowned, but she was unable to reach the steps. And then there was a dream in the space between sleep and waking. It was Aulay, crouched on a hill above her, his hand extended to her, his smile broad and inviting. “Come now, lass, come with me,” he said, and as she slipped her hand into his, his smile became a snarl. “You will hang for what you’ve done.”

Lottie awoke from that dream with a tear sliding from the corner of her eye. She held him in such great esteem that it was physically painful to have destroyed the thin thread of trust they’d had between them. She hadn’t deserved his trust at all, but he’d been generous, far more generous than she might have been in his shoes. She’d destroyed that. He was right—she had ruined everything.

She tried to think, tried to determine a way the Livingstones could pay the Mackenzie losses. Did Mr. MacColl have that sort of fortune? If, by some miracle, she could escape the noose or incarceration, could he set the debt to rights if she married him?

All that thinking made her head ache, and Lottie finally rose from bed. She dressed in the gown Catriona had given her, a gray muslin over a white petticoat and a silky white stomacher. It was a plain day gown, but after her two weeks on the sea, Lottie felt like a queen in it.

Catriona had also left her a hairbrush and hairpins, and even a bit of rouge. Lottie was deeply mystified by her kindness, but grateful for it. She brushed her hair, then pinned it back from her face but let it fall down her back. She left off the rouge, however, as two weeks in the sun had left her with all the rosiness she needed.

When she was fully dressed, she walked down the hall to the rooms where the rest of the Livingstones had been shown the night before. She found Mathais dressed in clean clothes, too, and Drustan in a clean lawn shirt.

“The lad said they couldna find anything but a shirt for Dru,” Mathais said.

Drustan didn’t seem to mind. He was sitting on a bed, bent over a piece of wood in his hands. Mathais noticed Lottie’s interest and said, “Iain the Red brought round a bit of wood for him. His gull is quite good,” he said, and held it up for Lottie to see. “He’s carving a ship now.”

Lottie checked on the other men—all of them in clean clothes, all of them groomed, all of them hungry. She volunteered to inquire after the guard if they might have a wee bite.

Lottie went to the door that led into the bailey and knocked lightly, then carefully pulled it open. Much to her surprise, Aulay was standing on the other side of the door with the guard. She gaped at him, unable to speak at first. He was clearly rested, his hair combed into a queue, his jaw clean-shaven. He wore a plaid, which had been banned by the king, with a coat and waistcoat and ghillie brogues. He was the picture of strength and virility, and Lottie’s blood began to race. He was a devil in tartan, and in spite of herself, she smiled broadly, a wee bit like a mad woman.

Aulay did not smile. “I’ve come to fetch you,” he said. “My mother should like to see you all returned to good health with breakfast.”

Lottie nodded. Whatever was swimming in his clear blue eyes made her feel weak and fluttery. It was not esteem—it was the shine of enmity. “What?” he demanded, growing irritable with her intent study of him.

Lottie was reminded of another time he’d asked her what, and she’d said everything. He was everything. “Well...I should verra much like to kiss you, that’s what.”

His gaze darkened. “My father and brother are waiting. We’ll receive you once you’ve broken your fast, aye?” He turned around and strode away from her.

Lottie’s heart deflated until there was no life left in it. Aulay had lost all regard for her, and it hurt.

*

THEY WERE FED a king’s breakfast with fresh eggs and ham, soup and cheese, and freshly-baked bread. “What do you think, is it our last meal, then?” Duff asked curiously as he stuffed more bread into his mouth.

Lottie’s stomach turned, and she put down her fork.

“Beg your pardon.”

She glanced up—the butler was standing at the end of their table. “Aye?”

“Miss Livingstone, Mr. Duff Livingstone, Mr. Robert MacLean and Mr. Gilroy are to accompany me to the laird’s study, aye? They rest of you shall return to the gatehouse where you will wait until further notice.” He gave them a curt nod of his head and stepped back, waiting for them to do as he instructed.

“Sounds a wee bit formal, does it no’?” Mr. MacLean muttered.

“I donna see why I’m no’ allowed to come,” Mathais complained. “I helped take the ship as much as anyone.”

“Donna be daft, lad,” Duff said, chuffing him on the shoulder. “Do you think this is to be a feill?” he asked, referring to a Highland festival.

A guard appeared to march them off to the gatehouse, and Lottie, Duff, Mr. MacLean and Gilroy followed the butler down a darkened corridor to a pair of oak doors. He opened them, stepped inside and bowed. “The Livingstones, milord.”

Lottie was the first to enter, determined to accept the blame for all of it. But when she stepped inside, the room stopped her midstride—she’d not expected it to be so large or so grand. There were large windows along one wall, framed with heavy velvet drapes. A hearth with a cheery fire chased the damp, but the most striking thing was the wall of books. So many books! It was what she imagined a king’s room to look like.