Highlander in Disguise

One

TALLA DILEAS, NEAR LOCH CHON, THE TROSSACHS OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS 1817

They needed money. Banknotes or coin, it mattered not, just so long as there was plenty of it.

All seven Lockharts agreed that they had no choice but to return to England and attempt to find the ancient family treasure, a solid gold beastie with ruby eyes, to stave off certain ruin. They would not, however, dispatch Liam to fetch it.

That had been their first blunder—Liam had returned from London with a woman and a bonny young lass. But not the beastie.

No, this time, Liam’s younger—and dandier— brother, Grif, would go.

Yet Aila, the lady of Lockhart, had reservations about a second attempt at retrieving the beastie. ’Tis certain disaster, she said as the family reviewed their latest scheme at the supper table. We tempt fate, as we’ve no’ the slightest notion where the beastie may be. We know nothing other than Lady Battenkirk took the blasted thing!

And gave it to Amelia, Ellie, Liam’s bride, pleasantly reminded the lot of them.

Everyone paused to look at Ellie as she blithely continued her meal.

That was because Ellie had stolen the beastie from beneath Liam’s nose, then sold the priceless ornamental statue for a paltry amount to a Londoner she’d encountered in a small shop of knickknacks and household wares in Cambridge. Now, the only thing they knew for certain was that the Londoner’s name was Lady Battenkirk, and that Lady Battenkirk had said at the time of purchase that she intended to give the beastie to her friend Amelia. That was it—the sum total of what they knew about the precious statue. Everything else was wildly imaginative conjecture.

But Grif was confident in his ability to bring the beastie home, and affectionately squeezed his mother’s hand. Liam went as a soldier, no’ a gentleman, like me. He was ill-suited to acquaint himself with society, whereas I am perfect for it.

Society! Liam muttered. Ye can have the bloody lot of them!

Liam, a captain in the Highland Regiments, was, kindly speaking, a little rough around the edges. And while Grif could be just as rough if push came to shove (he was, after all, born and bred a Highlander), he fancied the life of a high-society gentleman, a desire that had been firmly entrenched after two years of university in Edinburgh.

That had been, by his measure, an eternity ago, when the family had means, before they began to buy out the tenants who could no longer support Talla Dileas, the remote family estate in the Highlands near Loch Chon. When Grif returned home five years ago, it was to a different place, where crofter’s cottages stood empty and the old mansion had begun to fall into a state of disrepair. The situation had only worsened—not a fortnight past, the roof over the original kitchen had collapsed, and they could do nothing but board it up.

Grif missed his former life on Charlotte Square, where he and his lifelong best friend, Hugh MacAlister—who was seated across from him now, trying gamely to swallow the stuff in his bowl—had been the most popular of the young gentlemen vying for the attentions of the debutantes. The prospect of London—London!—was perfect for a young man such as himself.

Aye, Aila, what choice do we have, then? Carson, the laird of Lockhart, asked wearily. We’ve no tenants to pay rents, the cattle are so few in number as to be laughable, and we lose money each day. All around us are sheep that graze the Highlands much easier than the blessed cattle. If we donna do something rather soon, the sheep will put us in debtors’ prison, they will.

He spoke true. For all their misgivings, one fact remained indisputable—the beastie, that ancient piece of valuable art, the one thing that the English and Scottish Lockharts had continued to feud over the last several hundred years (in spite of the family chronicles showing quite clearly that it rightfully belonged to the Scottish Lockharts, thank you), was the key to their survival. Only it had been stolen back and forth for centuries, and their damnable English cousins had last pilfered it around the time of the Battle of Culloden in 1746. Since then, it had languished in a fine London salon, a trophy for the English Lockharts.

But the English Lockharts were quite wealthy. They didn’t need it. The Scottish Lockharts, on the other hand, needed it desperately.

Ye have me word, Grif said to his mother, that I’ll no’ skip merrily to London and hie meself home again with a wife and bairn—

I beg your pardon! Ellie interjected, as she was the wife Liam had hied himself home with, along with her daughter, Natalie.

Forgive me, Ellie, Grif said, turning from his mother and instantly grabbing Ellie’s hand and bringing her knuckles to his lips. Ye know I adore ye, but ye’re no’ exactly what we had hoped for, are ye now?

Oh no—Liam has made it perfectly clear that I’m not, she admitted cheerfully.

But Grandfather says we are much better than that old beastie, Natalie sniffed, earning a tweak of her cheek from Carson.

Of course ye are, Nattie, Grif quickly reassured her. "And we’d no’ have it any other way… but if only ye’d come to us without selling the beastie—"

Honestly, Grif! This interruption from Mared, the Lockharts’ only daughter. Ellie’s atoned for it, has she no’? She single-handedly turned ye into a gentleman—

I beg yer pardon—I was a gentleman long before our Ellie walked through this door, if ye please!

Aye, but ye canna deny she’s taught ye to dance and to walk and to talk like a proper English gentleman, as well as taught ye all their customs!

Aye, she has, indeed, Grif grudgingly admitted.

And the letters of introduction she’s penned for ye—why, they’re brilliant, they are!

Thank you, Ellie said, clearly pleased.

Ye think it is easy, then, to introduce Griffin MacAulay, laird of Ardencaple? Mared demanded.

That name… Hugh said thoughtfully. I donna understand why ye willna go as yerself, Grif. What harm can come of it? It all seems a wee bit complicated.

"Ach, now, Liam said gruffly. Is it no’ as plain as the nose on yer face, then, MacAlister? Look here, I traveled to London and let it be known that I was a disgruntled outcast from the Scottish Lockharts, and thereby managed to ingratiate meself to our cousin Nigel. But then the beastie was stolen, and before I could set it all to rights, I was forced to depart abruptly—that remark prompted everyone to look at Ellie again, who colored slightly—so we canna be entirely certain if the English Lockharts know the beastie is even missing, can we now? And if they do know she’s missing, have they connected her disappearance to me? Or worse, perhaps they might be prodded into making a connection if they discover me very own brother in London. ’Tis all quite simple, lad!"

But Hugh shook his head in confusion. "Aye… but have ye no’ forgotten one thing, Liam? Grif looks like ye! How can he hide it?"

He’s right, Aila agreed, looking at her son Grif. If Nigel Lockhart lays eyes on ye, he might very well recognize Liam in ye.

Liam snorted at that. "No, Mother, Cousin Nigel is a bloody sot. He’d no’ recognize his own toe without help, I’d wager. And there is difference enough between us—if Grif has a different name, Cousin Nigel will no’ put it all together. Of that I’m bloody certain."

I’d no’ be so certain, Aila said warily. Ye know what they say of the beastie—she’ll ‘slip through the fingers of a Scot, for she’s English at heart.’

Hogwash, Carson said. I put no more stock in that than I do Mared’s curse, he said, waving his hand dismissively at his daughter.

Mared colored instantly and stole a sheepish glance at Hugh, embarrassed by the medieval curse, which stemmed from the tragedy of the condemned first lady of Lockhart. The daughter of that unfortunate woman was cursed with her mother’s shame and her father’s hatred, and took her own life in 1454. Since then, and for reasons that were no longer clear, it was said that no daughter of a Lockhart would ever marry until she looked into the belly of the beast—or faced the devil, as it were. And it was true that no daughter had ever married—some were never offered for, and those who did receive offers died or watched their lovers die before a betrothal could take place. Wiser heads argued that the deaths were merely a coincidence, the result of human carelessness. But most in and around these lochs believed the deaths were the work of the diabhal, the devil himself, and that Mared, the first daughter born to a Lockhart in almost one hundred years, was cursed.

This plan is really much better than the last, Mother, Mared said now, before Carson could say more about the curse. And we’ve thought it all through, have we no’?

They had indeed carefully thought it through. They knew that Grif could only succeed in finding the beastie if he had money, had entry into society, and a place to reside that would convince the haute ton that he was legitimate, even if he had assumed a false and rather lofty identify.

And all the obstacles have been resolved, have they no’? Mared continued.

No one could dispute it—Mared and Griffin had pored over old books and family trees until they finally landed on the fictitious Lord Griffin MacAulay, laird of Ardencaple, a title that was passed to the duke of Argyll one hundred years prior and was later abolished by the duke as redundant. There was nothing left of Ardencaple now save a few crofters. Ardencaple. Who could possibly know that old name? Grif had laughed.

Once his identity was established, Liam and Ellie took over, schooling Grif daily on the habits and haunts of London society and many social protocols. They enlisted Dudley, the Lockharts’ longtime butler-cum-manservant-cum-groom-cum-gardener to accompany Grif and lend credibility to his being a lord.

But it was the wee lass Natalie who had handed them a bit of a quandary one day when she remarked, from amid her collection of Mared’s old dolls, I think he must have a valet if he is to be a lord.

They’d all stopped talking at once and stared in horror at the lass. Dear God, I had forgotten, Ellie muttered.

Carson came up with a brilliant solution, and enlisted Hugh, the son of his oldest and dearest friend, Ian MacAlister, to play the role of Grif’s valet in exchange for a small percentage of what the beastie might bring. Not only was Hugh willing to pose as Grif’s valet, he also knew of a place they might take up residence. Hugh’s maternal grandmother, Lady Dalkeith, had married an Englishman after her husband died, and he knew his grandmother’s house on Cavendish Street sat vacant and unattended while she accompanied her husband to France every summer.

The Lockharts celebrated with several tots of Highland whiskey, for not only had they access to a vacant house in London for several months, but proper letters of introduction, expertly fabricated by Ellie.

That left them with one last hurdle—money. As the Lockharts had scraped together all they had to send Liam to London, their pockets were now decidedly empty. But Grif had an idea. I think we’ve no other option, then, but to ask Payton for a small loan, he suggested. He’s the only one with money in these parts.

Traitor, Mared hissed.

Payton Douglas? Hugh asked.

Bloody Douglas, that’s who, Carson said, as he was wont to do anytime the name Douglas came up, and then instantly softened. Aye, he’d be a Douglas, but a decent sort, if there’s such a thing.

He’s been right clever, Grif said carefully, knowing how the subject rankled his father. The sheep have served him well, and I hear he plans a distillery. He’s no’ an idiot, that one, he said, and added, for Hugh’s benefit, He’s suggested an arrangement of lands between us, he has—one that would benefit both Lockhart and Douglas.

"Ach, ye’re a fool, Grif! Mared said instantly with a dismissive wave of her hand. He’s a Douglas! Lockhart and Douglas have never seen eye to eye!"

Aye, Liam said on a weary sigh, but Grif is right. Douglas is our only hope.

Then Mared must ask him, Aila said. He esteems her greatly and always has.

Mother! Mared cried. I’d rather be drawn and—

Quartered! Aila exclaimed with her. "I know, I know, mo ghraidh. But it doesna alter the fact that he’s sweet for ye—although God knows why, the way ye treat the poor soul. Yet he might be favorably inclined to make a small loan to yer father …if ye were to ask him nicely."

With a moan, Mared covered her face with her hands.

There now, Liam said kindly. "It’s no’ as if ye must kiss him," he said, and he and Grif laughed roundly at her muffled cry.

Two

Payton heard them coming before he actually saw them—the screech of rusted iron from the Lockharts’ old landau echoed across the little valley, drifting in through the open window and startling his poor cousin Sarah so badly that she put down her teacup with a clatter.

What in heaven is that horrid noise? she asked, daintily covering her ears with her hands.

A carriage. Ye’ve carriages in Edinburra, no?

Payton! Sarah chided him. I’m no’ accustomed to the country, and well ye know it.

Aye, Payton said, already walking to the windows that overlooked the drive.

Below him, the old Lockhart landau had come to a stop. Captain Liam Lockhart was standing with his brother, Grif Lockhart. The two of them, leaning forward, were peering into the interior of the carriage. Liam’s voice was raised; Grif was calm and smooth, as always. And then he heard the familiar voice of their sister, Mared. Except in that particular moment, it sounded more like a screech.

At that moment, Payton’s butler, Beckwith, entered the room. Beg yer pardon, milord, but the Lockharts are calling.

That I see. Payton nodded thoughtfully. "The question is, why?"

I couldna rightly say, milord.

Neither could Payton. The last time a Lockhart had entered this house was… actually, Payton couldn’t remember a time.

Who are the Lockharts? Sarah asked.

Neighbors.

Oh! Sarah exclaimed excitedly. Invite them in—

No’ that sort of neighbor, he quickly added. I’ll be but a moment, he said, and strode out of the room before Beckwith.

Walking down the corridor, he could hear the voices of the Lockharts over that of the footman who was showing them to the small receiving salon just off the main entry. As Payton entered the room, Grif was standing at the hearth, wearing a dark brown suit that Payton admired, one leg crossed casually over the other, his hands in his pockets. Of the brothers, Grif was decidedly the handsome one, always dressed to perfection. And there was Liam, wearing a kilt, naturally, a proud Highlander who refused to succumb to modernity.

Then there was Mared.

She was standing at the back of the room next to the heavy velvet drapes, wearing a plain gown with a sash tied just beneath her breasts, a rich emerald color that caught the color of her eyes and made her confoundingly pretty—ink black hair, beautiful rosy skin, eyes as green as moss… Ah, but that was the problem with Mared—she was as pretty as she was insufferable.

Payton Douglas! Liam boomed cheerfully, walking forward, his hand extended. Ye’ll forgive us for interrupting, will ye no’? We’d no’ come at all if we could help it, truly.

Payton could certainly believe that was true. Captain, he said cautiously, shaking his hand, then looked at Grif. Grif, ye look well.

Thank ye, sir. Of course, ye noted our sister, aye? Grif asked with a charming smile and a nod toward the back of the room.

Noted her? The woman haunted his bloody dreams. Miss Lockhart, he said simply, and recalled, with not a wee bit of perturbation, the last time he had seen Mared Lockhart. It was on the occasion he had gone to complain to her father that she and her bloody dogs had penned his sheep again. As he had departed that astoundingly unsuccessful meeting, Mared had opened a narrow slip of a window high above him at Talla Dileas, leaned so far out that he feared she would fall, and called a jaunty Good day! to him, her lilting laughter taunting him. His eyes narrowed at the memory.

Laird Douglas! she said stiffly, and instantly received a bit of a frown from Grif for it.

To what, then, do I owe—

"Ach, Douglas, Liam said, sighing. Ye canna begin to understand our troubles. We’ve come to speak about a wee but urgent problem—"

Urgent?

"Oh, aye, very urgent indeed," Liam said, nodding gravely.

He was instantly suspicious. What is it, then? Has one of yer coos escaped her fence?

Liam laughed; Grif smiled and said, "’Tis much more urgent than that… is it no’, Mared?"

Aye, she said, and added a very reluctant sigh. Much more.

Now, Payton couldn’t help noticing, Liam was frowning at her.

Mared frowned right back, but took one long step away from the drapes and fixed her gaze on Payton. It seems that ye are the only one who can help us, Payton Douglas.

All right, then, now he was extremely suspicious. Mared was the last person on earth who would ask for his help. If this is some sort of trick—

Trick? Liam scoffed, and clasped two huge hands over his heart. "Ye wound me, Douglas!"

Aye, and I shall wound ye with me bare hands if this is trickery. A Lockhart would no’ seek the help of a Douglas unless there was some tomfoolery—

Have I ever done ye harm? Liam demanded. Or me brother?

I canna say that ye have, he said honestly, but looked pointedly at their demon sister, who at least had the decency to blush. All right, then—what is this trouble? he asked impatiently.

Mared sighed again. Lowered her gaze for a moment, then raised it to the ceiling. Laird Douglas, how gracious ye are to receive us.

Gracious? he echoed in disbelief.

Oh, aye, ye are indeed, she said, walking forward. ’Tis true what they say—ye are a gentleman.

And it was true that she was the spawn of the diabhal. Payton folded his arms across his chest, narrowed his gaze on Mared as she glided so prettily toward him. It was so unlike her that he was quite tempted to laugh.

The fact is, she said in a husky voice as she came to stand before him, we find ourselves in a wee bit of a quandary. There is something in London that rightfully belongs to us, and if we donna fetch it soon, we could very well lose our land. Ye know quite well that would kill me lord father, she said, looking up at him through dark lashes with her dark green eyes.

For a brief moment, Payton was lost in those eyes… until her words began to sink into his consciousness. He was hardly surprised to hear they were on the verge of losing their land. Carson Lockhart was a good man, but his way of thinking was firmly rooted in the last century. Payton had made overtures countless times to the old codger, but each time he did, Carson had rebuffed him and vowed to raise cattle until there wasn’t a breath left in his body.

Payton eyed her suspiciously. What of yours is in London? he asked. A pirate’s treasure?

Grif and Liam exchanged a look, but Mared’s smile brightened. In a manner of speaking, aye, ye might say so, she agreed. But we canna say more than that.

So they had latched onto a scheme of some sort— just like the Lockharts, barmy lot that they were. And what has this to do with me? he asked, his gaze sliding to the décolletage of her gown.

Our Grif must go to London, then. He’d be gone now, he would, except that… Mared paused. "Except that we are a wee bit short on funds," she said, holding her thumb and forefinger a hairbreadth apart to show just how wee short. "A-And, we’d no’ ask, indeed we wouldna, but this is right important. Our only hope is, ah, that… that… yewillhelpus."

I beg yer pardon? Payton asked, not hearing her.

Diah! she suddenly exclaimed, exasperated that she had to repeat it. "I said, our only hope is that ye will help us, Douglas!"

"Help ye what?" he asked, and smiled as a fire lit in her eyes.

What she is trying to say, Grif said, quickly stepping up, is that we’ve no funds of our own, and we’ve come to ask if ye might see yer way to lending us a wee bit of yers.

Money? They wanted his money? The proud, stubborn, we’ll-all-go-down-together Lockharts, who’d not take the shirt off Payton’s back if they were naked and freezing in the dead of winter, wanted to borrow his money?

Judging by the way Grif began to prattle, they obviously mistook his silence for denial instead of the shock that it was. "We need enough to go to London and fetch our… belonging, but when I return, we shall have enough to repay the loan, he said quickly. With interest, of course."

Soldier’s honor, Liam chimed in. Ye have me word it will be returned to ye, every last pence.

"We’d no’ ask if it wasna so important," Mared pleaded. "Please, Payton."

Please, Payton… He could count on one hand the times he had heard Mared use his Christian name, and looked at the three of them standing there—especially Mared, who’d once said she’d not want a prayer from him even on her deathbed. Her cheeks were flushed a dark red—she was remarkably shamed by this request and Payton had never seen Mared shamed, not once in the many years he had known her. Oh no—this woman had the grit of the gods.

How much would ye look to borrow?

Three thousand pounds, Grif said quickly.

"Three thousand pounds? Payton half spoke, half choked. Have ye lost yer bloody minds?"

Mared’s face was flaming. And as much as he would have liked to enjoy her discomfort, for some reason Payton saw this outrageous request as his one viable chance to integrate the Lockhart and Douglas lands and make them the premier Highlands sheep producer. He’d no longer have to worry about encroaching on their lands or their bloody cattle encroaching on his. They’d all prosper.

He strolled to the sideboard that held several crystal decanters filled with Scots whiskey and French wines, his mind rattling through all the possibilities as he helped himself to a tot of whiskey and tossed it down his throat.

And if ye are no’ successful fetching this… thing? he asked casually, pouring whiskeys for Liam and Grif. How will ye repay the money?

Grif smoothed the sleeve of his coat. We’d repay ye with a piece of our land.

Payton almost choked, but managed to keep his expression stoic as he handed a whiskey to Liam. He handed the other to Grif and looked at Mared. How it must pain ye to come here and ask this, he said.

Mared rolled her eyes and looked away. She was the most exasperating of all the Lockharts by a furlong or more, the one who made his blood boil every time she opened her accursed mouth. Aye, but since she was a wee lass, she could light a raging fire in the pit of him, one that never ceased to glow when she was nearby.

I’ll agree to lend ye the money if ye can manage to repay me in twelve months’ time.

Done, Liam said.

And I’ll ask six percent for me trouble.

Grif and Liam glanced at one another. Fair enough, Grif said.

"And if ye canna repay me?"

Grif was already nodding. We’ll give ye a portion of the Lockhart lands equal in worth to the original loan, and the six percent—

No, Payton said, shaking his head amicably. If ye canna repay me…ye’ll give me Mared.

For a moment, no one spoke a word, and the silence, Payton was pleased to note, was deafening. But then Mared gasped her outrage. "Why, ye bloody—"

Grif instantly and desperately jumped behind her, clapped a hand over her mouth as he yanked her into him, and held her captive while he exchanged a worried look with Liam over her head.

"Ah… Douglas, are ye certain ye know what ye ask?" Liam asked.

Aye, Payton answered calmly.

With a well-placed heel to Grif’s instep, Mared wrenched free and stumbled toward Payton to stand directly before him, arms akimbo, her green eyes flashing angrily. "Who do ye think ye are, a bloody feudal king? Ye’ll no’ make claim to me, ye scoundrel! Do ye think I am property to be bartered like an old hairy coo—"

Liam grabbed her, clamped his hand over her mouth, and smiled sheepishly at Payton. "She’s a wee bit of a temper. Are ye certain…"

Aye, Payton said, enjoying the look of horror in her eyes. "Quite certain."

"But… but there’s a rather wretched curse—" Grif tried.

Ye’ll no’ frighten me off with yer bloody curses, he said resolutely. If ye want the money, gentlemen, ye have me terms. I’ll give ye the evening to think on it.

And with that, he turned and walked to the door and opened it, continued on down the corridor, smiling broadly at the sound of Mared’s shouting against Liam’s hand.

As luck would have it, Sarah had wandered into the corridor just as the three Lockharts came storming out of the salon behind him. Payton chuckled at the look of alarm in Liam and Grif’s eyes as they noticed his genteel guest, and almost laughed aloud at the haste with which they tried to retreat.

But Mared looked at them all with disdain as she went striding out the front entry, muttering furiously under her breath with each step.

Aye, she had the grit of the gods, that one.

Three

MAYFAIR, LONDON SEVERAL WEEKS LATER

Caught in a snare of carriages, wagons, beasts, and people at Piccadilly Circus, Viscount Whittington’s brougham came to a complete halt, which gave his youngest daughter, Miss Lucy Addison, yet another reason to complain.

Seated on the bench next to her mother, and directly across from her older sister Anna and their father, Lucy sighed very loudly, squeezed her eyes shut as if she were suffering from some spectacular pain, and rested her chestnut-colored head against the plush velvet squabs.

There now, Lucy, you’ll not make it any more tolerable with your impatience, Mother softly chided her.

Oh, what’s the use of attending at all? Lucy huffed, opening her eyes and leveling an icy, amber-eyed glare at Anna. "It scarcely matters if we are late or not, for regardless of which gentleman may catch my eye, I will not be allowed to entertain any offers!"

Anna rolled her eyes at Lucy’s attack of vapors— which were becoming entirely too commonplace, really.

Lucy, darling, that is not very kind, Father said. Anna is not purposefully trying to cause you grief.

I don’t know how you can be so certain, Father, Lucy sniffed. She makes no effort at all to gain an offer. I think she rather enjoys hurting me.

How very silly of you, Lucy! Mother said sharply. It is not our Anna’s fault that she hasn’t entertained any offers recently, she added, looking hopefully at Anna. She’ll find her way soon enough, and you’ll still be young and beautiful and marriageable.

No I won’t! Lucy cried with all the charm of a petulant five-year-old. I’ll be old and sitting on the shelf next to Anna!

"I beg your pardon, but have any of you noticed that I am actually in the carriage with you, and therefore can hear what you say?" Anna asked them all.

She received a fatherly pat on her knee in response. Don’t be cross, dear, Father said soothingly. "Lucy is quite understandably concerned—after all, she had such a smashing debut last Season that she should expect to make a good match, and would, I daresay, perhaps in as much as an instant, were it not for… well, you know."

"Yes, I know," Anna said impatiently. My sister reminds me at least daily that no gentleman of any import has offered for me in the three long years since my debut.

Honestly, her family’s growing fear that dear little Lucy was missing hundreds of viable offers was beginning to wear very thin. Lucy might be the prettiest of the three Addison sisters, but did that make her the most important of them? And really, Anna could scarcely care less if they married Lucy off before her— she gave that ridiculous custom no thought and had said so,