Page 3 of Highlander’s Dangerous Love

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June, 1740

“God aye, I wish my hair was as bonny as yours,” Muriel commented as she brushed and braided Gemma’s hair.

“Yours is quite bonny too, Muriel. Dinna discredit yerself,” Gemma soothed.

“Och, no one likes a red-headed lass.”

“If that were true, there wouldna be so many songs about them,” Gemma said with a pleasing smile.

“I guess that’s right. But after taeday, I wouldna be surprised if they started singin’ more songs about bonny brunettes,” Muriel said with a wink.

Gemma could only blush as her maid and friend continued to braid her hair. This was the last step in getting ready for the midsummer celebration that night. She was already dressed quite finely, in a gown of deep blue with a sage green stomacher to complement it. After Muriel finished braiding her hair, she’d likely put some small flowers in it as decoration; perhaps some bluebells to match the rest of her look. As she caught sight of her own reflection in the glass, she had to admit she did look quite bonny. Her dark hair, dark eyes and fair skin had always been a striking combination. When she was younger, she’d had the pox, but was fortunate enough that the scarring did not show on her face. A sign from God, her mother had proclaimed. Surely, she would find a good husband with a face like hers.

“Have ye got yer eye on any laddies? I ken yer mother wants ye to set yer cap at someone soon,” Muriel asked. Even though she was Gemma’s maid, Gemma felt closer to Muriel than she did to anyone else, and regarded her as a good friend.

Truth be told, Gemma did have her eye on someone…but she wasn’t sure if the feelings were mutual, so she stayed quiet about her regard for a particular man. Muriel may be her friend, but verbalizing her feelings gave them a sort of possibility, and Gemma did not want to get her hopes up.

“Nay,” she finally said, looking down at her hands, clenching fistfuls of blue fabric. “But I’m sure there’ll be some lads at the celebration taeday. I ken several of them will be lookin’ for wives.”

“Dinna settle, Gemma. Ye are worth more than ye understand. Any man that is lucky enough tae get your hand should be grateful,” Muriel counseled.

“They might be even more grateful for my dowry,” Gemma said. As the only surviving daughter of her parents, her dowry was quite sizable indeed. Clearly much of the clan knew that as well. Yes, that night would be interesting indeed, seeing as she’d also recently come of age.

“Aye, ‘tis a draw to be sure, but yer bonny an’ good-natured. That’s really all a man can ask for in a wife,” Muriel said.

“Ye talk as if ye ken what it’s like tae be married,” Gemma observed with mock suspicion.

“Nay,” Muriel said with a sigh. “But I’ve enough brothers an’ sisters tae ken what the process is like. Someday it’ll be our turn.”

Gemma’s stomach flipped nervously. This was what she’d been trained for her entire life. Although she was no great English noblewoman, her family ranked high within the clan, was wealthy, and had some influence. Those were nothing to scoff at. It was more than likely she’d marry for strategic reasons, but she hoped for a love match, something worth writing poetry about. There was no poetry to be found in business transactions.

Muriel finally announced that she was finished with her handiwork. Gemma inspected and approved it, then wrapped a pretty heather grey shawl about her shoulders.

“I suppose we ought tae go down, then,” she said, suddenly feeling much more nervous.

“I’ll be there with ye,” Muriel said, looping her arm with Gemma’s.

There were indeedmany eligible young men present. Gemma’s mother offered her counsel — out of earshot, of course — about everyone they passed. Mrs. Gordon was a notorious gossip, but did not admit to it. She always said that gossip and rumors were the threads that held the larger fabric of society together. Without shame and without rumors, there would be no society, she maintained. Gemma always rolled her eyes at her mother’s reasoning, but she was beginning to see that it was true. Gossip really was a currency for women, and society at large.

“Oh aye, don’t ye look bonny!” Violet, one of Gemma’s friends cried out upon seeing her in the great hall.

“Oh, stop that. Ye are lookin’ lovely as well!” The two young ladies embraced each other. Gemma had a lot of acquaintances but few very close friends; Violet was one of those lucky few.

“Alexander’s here taeday,” Violent said, taking Gemma’s other arm. The three of them — Gemma, Muriel, and Violet — walked in tandem to the meadows outside of the castle, where the majority of the festivities were taking place. The castle was not far from the seaside, and with a good wind, one could smell the salty sea air and feel its breeze. The large grey stone structure with towers and walls aplenty, though man made, looked as natural as the picturesque landscape itself. It was one of those medieval castles their ancestors had built centuries ago, and kept adding onto for comfort and necessity. Ivy covered a good portion of the outer wall. Beyond such walls were a large meadow that extended several acres until the treeline, then the cliffs and seaside to the east.

“Oh, is he?” Muriel asked.

“Aye. He looks right well in his tartan, dinnae ye think?”

Gemma cast a glance at Alexander MacPherson, the young man Violet was currently gushing over. He was a fine specimen, to be sure — dark hair, fair eyes, good build. And a good family, too; Violet would be lucky to have him. But of course…no one could compare to Colin Frazier. She would not voice that aloud, so she agreed with Violet and encouraged her to go say hello. Violet winked at them and ran off, pretty flaxen hair coming loose from her updo.

“I hope she behaves herself,” Muriel muttered as soon as she was out of earshot.

“Och, do ye not trust her?” Gemma asked.

“I think she is too eager to be told how bonny she is. I’d hate tae see her make a silly mistake over sweet words from a man,” Muriel said. She was decidedly opinionated for a lady’s maid.