Penelope came to the MacLeod home promptly at eight the next evening dressed in a new peach gown. The butler led her to the drawing room where the rest of the party was waiting, drinks in their hands.
“Penelope, you look lovely in that color.” Flora smiled as she entered.
“Thank you,” Penelope pressed Flora’s hand and took an offered wine glass from a footman. “I’m so pleased to be able to dine with all of you.”
“It certainly would no’ be a dinner party without ye.” Conner tipped his cup toward her, one arm around Charlotte’s waist.
“Mister MacGregor, I hope the evening finds you well?” Penelope asked cordially. The silent Scot had been watching her from his spot near the fireplace.
“Verra well, Miss Elmsly.” He tipped a small bow. “And yourself?”
She smiled. “I find myself exceptionally well, if not more than famished.”
“Do no’ fash.” Conner glanced at a footman, who nodded at his lord. “Supper is ready now.” He held out his arm for his wife, escorting her to the dining room, stopping only to offer his sister the other.
MacGregor held out an arm to Penelope, his green eyes taking her in. “Miss Elmsly?”
Penelope pinked under his gaze, but still placed a small hand on his elbow. She could feel each muscle under the thin fabric of his white shirt. Usually, men wore jackets at all times, not giving her the chance to feel much more than cloth. But MacGregor’s skin was warm beneath her fingers and the steady heat almost seemed obscene in the oddest way. A fully clothed man shouldn’t have that profound an affect upon her.
“Penelope,” Charlotte called from one end of the long dinner table, “you’re on my right, next to Drum.”
MacGregor deposited her in her seat, carefully pulling out her chair. He then sat beside her. Flora took the seat opposite them while Conner was at the table’s head. Flora shot Penelope the familiar mysterious MacLeod grin, her dark blue eyes then focusing on Charlotte, who returned the look with an equally cryptic smile.
“You set a beautiful table, Charlotte,” Penelope said, trying to start an acceptable conversation.
“Thank you, but that wasn’t my doing. It was all the work of our butler, John.” She waved a hand at the man in livery who bowed his head.
“First course is turtle soup,” Charlotte announced as footmen entered with bowls of steaming broth.
“How exotic!” Penelope exclaimed, picking up her spoon. She had sampled turtle soup only once before and found it delicious.
MacGregor peered down at the china bowl suspiciously.
“What’s the matter, Drum?” Conner asked.
“Why would anyone care to eat a wee mud creature like the turtle?” MacGregor questioned, dipping his spoon into the soup.
“Just give it a try,” Conner prodded.
MacGregor hesitantly sipped the soup. “Interestin’.”
Charlotte giggled. “Merely interestin’?”
“I’ll take a fine cut o’ meat above a wee soup any day,” Drum stated. “No’ bad, though.”
“Then you’ll be pleased to hear that the cook has done up a fine lamb for the next course,” Conner told him.
MacGregor smiled widely, showing off rows of perfectly white teeth. Penelope looked at him from the corner of her eye, noticing how different the Scotsman appeared when not on bodyguard duty. While he had always been handsome, the added mirth in his eyes made him seem softer, more approachable. It suited him well.
“Ach, here’s the real food,” MacGregor said as meat-laden dishes were laid upon the table. He stabbed a large piece, placing it on Penelope’s plate before serving himself.
“Oh, thank you.” Penelope glanced over at Charlotte, who suddenly seemed quite concerned with her wine. Thinking it a Scottish custom, Penelope scooped up a pile of roasted potatoes, plopping them on MacGregor’s dish. “There, now we’re quite even.”
He looked at her in amusement. “Even?”
“Yes,” she said, cutting up her lamb. “You served me meat, so I served you something as well.”
MacGregor let out a short laugh. “Ach, I merely thought ye needed the largest bit because it looks as if ye’d blow away.”
Penelope bristled, covering it up with a smooth raise of an eyebrow. “Well, someone has come out of his shell since we last spoke.”
“Ach, Drum means nothin’ by it,” Conner said, holding out his cup to be filled by a footman. “He’s only bein’ polite. Also, he’s much more himself without the pryin’ eyes o’ the British ton. We all share food in Scotland.”
“Understandable,” she said, biting into the tender meat. “I can barely stand the scrutiny at times, but it is just the cost of being in society.”
“I rather like society in England,” Flora piped in. She’d become somewhat of a local darling, being invited to tea with some of the high-standing ladies and flipping through daily invitations to dinner parties and balls.
“It’s easier for a woman to fit in than it is for a man,” Charlotte pointed out.
“Aye. Sometimes people look at me like I’d devour their first-born. But I always say that English babes are too tough for my likin’,” MacGregor added with a booming laugh.
“I think that’s deplorable,” Penelope stated. “You’re a perfect gentleman and they have no right to look down on you merely because you’re quite…” She narrowed her eyes, trying to think of a word to describe his massive size. “Big.”
“Big?” MacGregor echoed, his lips quivering with amusement.
“Well, Drum’s no’ just a large lad,” Conner said with a lopsided grin. “He has a right fine voice, as well.”
“Ach, do no’ do it,” MacGregor moaned, putting down his fork.
“But ye must,” Conner replied in all seriousness.
Penelope turned to Charlotte. “What is Conner making Mister MacGregor do?”
“Oh, do stop calling him Mister MacGregor,” Charlotte said. “It’s very strange to hear.”
Penelope rolled her eyes. “And calling someone I hardly know by their first name would be exceptionally rude.”
“You’re going to see a lot of him, going forward, as he’s Flora’s chaperone. Might as well get better acquainted.” Charlotte sipped her wine. “Scottish home, Scottish customs, in any case.”
“Aye.” MacGregor agreed. “I do no’ think o’ myself as Mister MacGregor.”
Penelope paused. “Well, I suppose it would save time to cut right to a first name basis, as long as we don’t make a habit of such impropriety while in public. After all, I did implore you to call me Penelope.”
“Come now, Drum. We can no’ have a true dinner party among friends without ye spinnin’ a song.” Conner slapped his hand upon the table. “A song!”
MacGregor shrugged his broad shoulder. “Aye, I suppose I must.”
“Is there a lot of singing at Scottish dinners?” Penelope asked Charlotte.
Charlotte nodded. “Yes, there’s usually some form of entertainment—musicians, pipers, singers.”
“How novel.”
MacGregor didn’t seem to have any sort of stage fright as he rose to stand behind his chair. “Any requests?”
“Ba Mo Leanabh!” Flora exclaimed, shifting in her seat with excitement. “It’s been weeks since I’ve heard a proper Scottish tune.”
“All right.” MacGregor cleared his throat, taping out a few beats before he began to sing.
Penelope listened, enraptured. The words were unlike any she was familiar with but the mournful melody of his steady voice sent a chill up her spine. MacGregor crooned softly, picking up the tempo at times, perfectly conveying emotion with the tone of his words. The song was hauntingly beautiful. It was almost unbelievable that the enchanting sound was coming from such a giant’s lips.
When he finished, she let out a deep breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. “That was…. Amazing.” She sighed.
Flora and Charlotte clapped in unison, stealing conspiratorial looks from behind their hands.
“Thank ye,” MacGregor said, beginning to sit back down.
“What was it?” Penelope asked, still feeling the effects of the music.
“It’s an old song from my family. There was a man who wanted to claim the throne, Gregor MacGregor. He fought against the Campbells and was killed for it. His widow was said to be so distraught by his untimely demise, she wrote Ba Mo Leanabh for her children. It’s mainly a lullaby now, but it used to be almost a call to arms for my clan, while there was one.”
Penelope leaned forward. “What happened?”
“By the 1600s, bein’ a MacGregor was punishable by death.” He turned in his seat to face her. “Most renounced their clan, others were hanged, some laid in wait for two hundred years.”
“Aye,” Conner interjected. “Drum’s one o’ the last. Now the MacGregors are workin’ on havin’ their clan recognized again.”
“How can they outlaw a name?” Charlotte asked.
“The same way the English outlaw the kilts and the bagpipes and anythin’ else Scottish they do no’ like.” Conner patted Drum’s arm. “Aye, Drum’s family are a bunch o’ holdouts.”
“Will you sing another, Drum?” Flora pleaded. “That song made me ever so homesick.”
He pursed his lips. “Aye, somethin’ a bit for fun, then?”
They sat together for hours around the table, sharing bits of food as MacGregor took requests, most of which were in Scottish Gaelic. Nonetheless, Penelope found herself entranced when he sang, hanging on each word and always hoping for more.
“Shall we move to the drawin’ room?” Conner stretched. “I fancy a nip o’ whiskey to end out my evenin’.”
They retired to the drawing room where their night had begun and Penelope found herself standing by the fireplace, MacGregor seated to her right. With him sitting down, they were nearly the same height.
“I must say, Mister MacGregor, you have a wonderful voice.”
“None o’ that, now.” He took a drink from the crystal decanter in his hand. “We’ve shared food and song. Call me Drummond.”
“Very well, Drummond, where did you learn to sing like that?”
“No’ sure, to be true. Many o’ the clan’s legends and songs were passed down generations and landed with me.” He laughed. “Tis a shame there are no’ more o’ us to share the stories with.”
“What about writing them down? Books of family history and song are all the rage, currently. My father’s store has dozens.”
He scratched his chin thoughtfully, bringing his scarred knuckles into view. “No’ a bad idea to write down what I know. But I doubt somethin’ like that would find itself in a London shop.”
“I’m not saying you need to be a famous author, but wouldn’t it be something to share those songs with others?”
“Aye, that it would be.”
“Shall I fetch some papers and a pen? You should start now and get it all written down as it’s fresh,” she suggested eagerly. “I’m sure my father knows dozens of publishers. Maybe just get a few printed and bound. I know I’ve even seen a few Scottish-looking names in the shops.”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “That’s a lot to think about.”
“Please take what I’ve said into consideration. I know I would love to read a book of songs so beautiful with instrumental accompaniment. You could add in sheet music, as well. But perhaps consider an English translation for each Scottish song.”
Drummond smiled, but leaned in closer, lowering his head slightly. “To be true, the Gaelic would no’ be the problem.”
Penelope knitted her brow. “Then what is?”
He grimaced. “I do no’ know how to write music and I do no’ think I could write it well in English. Gaelic and Latin were all we were taught in the church schools.”
“Oh, posh.” Penelope waved a hand. “You can’t let something so ridiculous stop you. I’ll help you write it. Once Charlotte and Conner leave to go back to Scotland, I’ll be spending a lot of time with Flora. We can work on it a bit then.”
“Aye, that could work well, but I’d hate to put ye out so.”
“What are you two whispering about, over there?” Charlotte called from the far end of the room where she sat with Conner and Flora.
“Drummond and I are writing a book,” Penelope said primly, fluffing out her skirts.
“A book?” Conner looked incredulous. “Ach, Drum, I did no’ know ye could read!”
“Aye, I’m no’ just a pretty face,” Drummond retorted, causing them all to laugh.
Penelope glanced at the gifted clock on the mantelpiece. “Oh, dear, it’s nearly midnight!”
“That late already?” Charlotte yawned and glanced up at Conner slyly. “Well, I do think we should go up soon.”
“Aye, I’m suddenly verra tired.” Conner stretched dramatically, ever one for the theatrics.
Flora handed her cup to a footman. “Won’t you stay, Penelope?”
“I would if I could. But my parents will worry if I’m not home and I don’t wish for a maid to wake them with a message.”
“Then you must come to stay when Charlotte and Conner leave. I’ll be so lonely all by myself.” Flora pouted.
“Aye, I suppose I’m just a chair then?” Drummond asked. “Or a wee footstool?”
Flora scoffed. “Don’t be so dramatic. You know what I mean. You’re not exactly a prime conversationalist.”
“I’ll call for a carriage, Miss Elmsly,” a footman muttered before scuttling off toward the great hall.
As Penelope said her goodbyes, she found she was rather sad to leave the jolly family full of song and laughter. As the last child, and a surprise one at that, she had never known a home full of boisterous meals and close siblings. She supposed that’s why she had bonded so well with Charlotte, an only child herself. The idea of going back to the quiet Elmsly townhouse didn’t seem very appealing.
“I will hold you to the promise of some sleepovers,” Penelope told Flora as she readied herself to leave. Charlotte and Conner had already excused themselves, rushing up the stairs in a cloud of muffled laughter and silks.
“Please do!” Flora grinned.
“It will give us time to work on your book of music and history,” Penelope said pointedly to Drummond. “So, begin to think about what you would like to include.”
“Aye, mistress.”
Penelope rolled her eyes. “No need for your cheek. I’ll see you both soon.”
She entered the carriage and sat back in the seats, thinking about her evening. She had felt very welcome with the Scottish family, more so than at most English dinner parties. Flora was adorable as always, Charlotte and Conner were a nauseating mess of hormones, but she saw a new side to the gentle giant Drummond.
While she once thought him a mindless soldier incapable of deeper thought, she had been remarkably surprised by the depth of his musical talents and how amusing he could be. Behind closed doors he was positively charming as well as handsome. It was a pity he was nothing more than a Scottish fighter and not a titled man with money, like Conner.
“Yes,” Penelope whispered to herself as the horses drew the carriage down the narrow London roads. “What a pity.”