Hattie untied the strips of rags and pulled them from Barbara’s hair. Blonde curls sprang from the cocoons as the chambermaid unwrapped each one. She primped the ringlets framing the lass’ face while Mary perched on the chair and practiced her fan language. She tried not to use the diagrams spread on the table before her, but checked her accuracy after each subtle movement. With practice, her movements had become more delicate—according to Barbara.

The young mentor inclined her head away from Hattie’s comb. “If I were you, I’d just clonk my brother over the head with your fan. Sometimes Donald needs a good whack, I say.”

Mary buried her face behind the darned thing and laughed. Goodness, Barbara could tickle her funny bone. The ironic thing was there was nothing Mary would rather do. Of course, Sir Donald had been congenial since his return two days past, but he’d been in meetings with everyone under the sun—had scarcely taken a meal with Mary and his guests, and when he did make an appearance in the dining hall, he was distracted by his gazette or missives, or anything rather than Mary. For all she knew, her fan would be better served used to shoo away the pigeons from the windowsill.

Barbara held up an ivory box. “You should apply a dusting of face powder ’Twill blend those freckles.”

Mary’s smile fell and her eyebrows pinched. “I thought you said you liked my freckles.”

“I do, but for every day. This eve we are attending a royal ball.” Barbara leaned over with the box and managed to place it on the table without falling off her perch. “Just a wee dusting so you do not appear like a harlot.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mary tried to affect her most exasperated expression. Easy for her to say. Miss Barbara looked like she belonged in the king’s court, and Mary? Well, if she were in London they might mistake her for a milkmaid—though a rather slender sort of milkmaid.

Taking the box, Mary moved to the mirror and examined the powder stuck to the underside of the puff.

“Put a cloth across your gown afore ye use it,” said Hattie. “Ye wouldn’t want to muss that fine pink taffeta, miss.”

Mary did as instructed and gave her face a once-overonceover.” Peering closely, the powder did make a significant difference. She could scarcely see the most prominent freckles crossing the bridge of her nose.

“Give us a look,” said Barbara coming up behind.

Mary turned. “Well? Too much?”

Flicking her fingers across Mary’s cheeks, Barbara gave an approving hmm. “’Tis just the most subtle application needed. And my pearls are perfect with your gown.”

“Hopefully someone will notice.”

“Donald will for certain…and if he doesn’t I ken the duke will.”

“Is he not married?”

Barbara fanned her face with her gloved hand. “He was married, but the duchess left him for a convent in Flanders. ’Tis well known Lord Gordon is a rake.”

Mary nearly swooned, unsure if her reaction was from shock or that her stomacher was cutting into her abdomen making it difficult to breathe. “Truly? You’re taking me to the manse of a rake?”

Tossing her curls, Barbara looked at Mary with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “His lustful reputation aside, he’s a duke—though he’ll notice every woman in the room, mind you.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Once—at Edinburgh Castle when he was Governor. Fortunately I was very young at the time—nowhere near as…ah…voluptuous as I am now.” The neckline of Barbara’s silvery-blue gown dipped so low it amply displayed her breasts. In fact, the lace trim barely reached her shoulders, revealing so much flesh it was difficult not to stare.

Swiping a hand across her eyes, Mary averted her gaze. “You don’t say?”

“Aye. He held the castle for King James as long as he could after William’s ‘Glorious Revolution’.” She spat the words as if they were served with a bitter tonic.

“Then what happened?” Mary asked.

The lass huffed. “Not sure—I suppose that’s about the time the duchess left him.”

“So then he’s a Jacobite?” Mary quickly covered her mouth.

Barbara’s gaze flicked to Hattie while she cleared her throat. “Mayhap. No one kens who’s on what side anymore.” She rapped Mary’s shoulder with her fan. “Remember no one utters the word Jacobite south of the Great Divide—’tis treasonous.”

Mary pursed her lips. A number of remarks came to the tip of her tongue. Though Hattie was loyal to the family, it was best not to speak of the cause around anyone in these parts.

Barbara regarded herself in the mirror and patted her ringlets. “I do believe we will be the two best dressed lassies at the ball.”

Mary bit the corner of her mouth. Truly, her pink frock with its gold damask embroidery embellishing her stomacher and full, virago sleeves was splendid—made her feel pretty all the way down to her three silk petticoats and pink satin slippers. But in her eyes, she paled in comparison to Sir Donald’s sister. “Your gown is simply stunning.”

Barbara flicked one of the satin bows at Mary’s elbow, sticking her tongue out the corner of her mouth. “I was thinking the same about yours, silly. I wish I had ginger tresses, too.”

With a sigh, Mary ran her fingertips across the mounds of flesh swelling above her own bodice. “You don’t think I’m a wee bit too exposed?” She wasn’t quite as bare as Barbara, but still, she felt almost naked.

Barbara pushed against her stomacher, adjusting her own well-formed cleavage. “My dear, this is the best opportunity Glasgow has had in two seasons to find a suitable husband. Our wares must be properly, though discretely, presented—which I believe we have accomplished with utmost expertise and attention to detail.”

“What about Sir Coll?”

The lass winked. “He’ll be in attendance, will he not?”

Shocked, Mary stifled a giggle by clapping a hand over her mouth. Little good that did—she still snorted. Holy Moses, for a lass of nineteen, Barbara surely did seem wizened. Though Mary was beginning to wonder if her friend’s bravado was more talk and show. That very morning when Sir Coll had appeared to break his fast, Barbara had turned into a blushing, tongue-tied nymph.

Regardless, Mary was relieved to have her companionship. She offered her elbow. “Shall we?”

Sipping sherry in the parlor with Sirs Coll and Kennan, Sir Donald had his pocket watch in hand when the two women arrived in the doorway. But when he looked up, it slipped from his palm and dangled from its chain.

Drop-jawed, his gaze swept down her body, then back up and met her stare, his eyes growing darker by the second. Had his brief once-over paused at Mary’s cleavage? By the tingling, her breasts seemed to think so.

Holy Moses, Mary’s knees wobbled. How on earth could the man grow more beautiful every time she laid eyes on him? Tall and exquisitely clad in a navy velvet cape lined with satin. Everything was perfect from his starched lace cravat, velvet doublet, satin breeches and hose secured just below the knee with ribbon of gold. Of course, he wore a ceremonial sword at his hip and a dirk angled across the front of his belt. He looked bonnier than a portrait. And this time, the long periwig of tawny curls cascading over his shoulders made him more masculine, more regal, and with the dark glint in his midnight eyes, more commanding.

Mary shivered right down to her toes.

“Sir Coll, Sir Kennan, you look as if your grooms spent an entire day on your costumes,” said Barbara moving toward the other two men, but Mary couldn’t pull her eyes away from Sir Donald if she’d wanted to.

Collecting his pocket watch and slipping it inside his doublet, Sir Donald’s tongue moistened his bottom lip before he slid his foot forward and bowed deeply. “Miss Mary you are a vision to behold.”

Me? Dear Lord, no man should be clad thus. How am I supposed to think when he is near? He took her hand, the midnight of his eyes growing darker still. “I hope you are planning to dance with me this eve.”

She gulped and gave a single nod.

Again he bowed, though this time he pressed warm, moist lips to the back of her hand. She caught the delicious spiciness of his scent as his breath caressed her flesh. If only he would steal a kiss from her this night—one as passionate as the one he’d given her in the bedchamber a week past—his hand on her breast—

“Do you not agree, Miss Mary?” asked Barbara.

As if floating, Mary turned her attention to her friend’s expression. “Ah, of course.” How else could she respond?

Sir Kennan stepped forward, bowed and kissed Mary’s hand as well. Though a practiced peck, the gesture from the younger man wasn’t half as impassioned or welcomed as the kiss from Sir Donald.

“You look stunning,” said the Cameron heir. “Both of you ladies are beautiful beyond all imagination.”

Mary waited for Kennan to draw his hand away. Then Sir Donald moved in beside him and offered Mary his elbow. “The coach awaits. Shall we?”

Everything seemed so surreal, like a fairytale.

The coach ambled along the cobbled street while Mary’s shoulder rubbed against Sir Donald’s powerful arm. Even through the layers of taffeta and velvet, the strength in his arm felt like solid rock. On her other side, Sir Kennan sat with his hands folded, smiling at her.

Barbara and Sir Coll sat on the bench opposite, Don’s sister looking like she’d just eaten the best plum tart ever. William sat on his sister’s right, his arms crossed as he watched out the window.

Mary regarded the Cameron heir and wrung her hands. Why on earth was Sir Kennan smiling her way? He was two years younger for heaven’s sake. “I do believe we should have had two more ladies in our party,” Mary said, wishing Lilas was there—goodness, her younger sister would die if she knew Mary was in a coach sitting between two of the brawniest Highlanders in all of Scotland. Not to mention, Lilas would be an ideal dance partner for Sir Kennan—or mayhap she’d fancy William. Though quiet, Donald’s younger brother certainly was comely to look upon.

The carriage’s movement smoothed. “We’re crossing the bridge.” Sir Donald pointed out the big window in the door. “Can you see the river?”

The water sparkled like Mary’s insides. “Aye, and thank heavens it isn’t raining.”

“My word,” said Barbara unabashedly batting her eyelashes at Sir Coll. “It simply wouldn’t do to rain on the eve of such a momentous occasion.”

“Did you place a special order for fine weather on Sunday?” Sir Coll looked as rapt as the woman sitting beside him.

Barbara leaned a bit closer to him. “I most certainly did.”

William shook his head. “Ah, my sister, Saint Barbara, summoner of sunshine and royal balls.”

The lass shook her fan at her brother. “And you’d best thank me.”

Mary chuckled, letting her shoulder ease into Donald’s. Who cared about the ball? The coach ride was fun on its own and she hadn’t been across the River Clyde yet.

But all too soon, the coach rolled to a stop outside a glorious stone manse. Though not fortified as an archaic castle, the manse seemed to sprawl forever. Mary counted four stories, innumerous leaded glass windows and two sandstone sculptures of lions at the foot of the stairs leading to the ornate front door.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Barbara said as if she thought she needed to.

“Why would I worry?” Mary took Donald’s hand and allowed him to help her from the coach. Though they both wore gloves, his touch infused her with confidence. “I am the daughter of a Highland chieftain.”

“Aye, lassie, and never forget it.” Sir Donald whispered in her ear in a deep rolling burr that took all her self-assured pomp and sent it swarming like butterflies in her stomach.

Everywhere she looked, people dressed in finery processed up the stairs to the great home. With her hand resting on Sir Donald’s elbow, all she could do was move with the crowd. Ahead, a deep voice announced the guests as they entered. The Duke and Duchess of Hamilton and the Earl of Mar were titles she didn’t miss.

Sir Donald handed his card to the attendant and soon they stood at the head of the reception line. “The Baronet of Sleat, his sister Miss Barbara, his brother Mr. MacDonald, Miss Mary of Castleton, Laird Coll MacDonell of Keppoch, and Sir Kennan Cameron of Locheil.” Goodness, it sounded like a litany of Highlanders.

Dressed in a satin coat of gold and breeches with a chestnut periwig even more outrageous than Donald’s with a cavernous part through the middle, the Duke of Gordon bowed and took Mary’s hand. “Ever so charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Mary. I kent your father in the wars…” His gaze met Sir Donald’s as if he wanted to say more, but opted to remain silent. His two children, Anna and Alexander were introduced, but there was no woman beside His Grace.

Odd for a man who has a reputation of being a libertine.

Proceeding into the enormous hall, Mary realized the reason for the duke’s brevity of conversation. Through the growing crowd, a group of a dozen or so red-coated officers stood beside the marble hearth, watching the guests arrive with feigned indifference. Though she knew better. Redcoats suspected all Highlanders of being Jacobites.

Mary froze. A gasp catching in the back of her throat, her fingers dug into Sir Donald’s arms. Is it? It couldn’t be.

As they moved toward the great hall, her line of sight was blocked. Rising to her toes, she strained for a better look, her heart hammering against her stomacher. Good heavens, her head swooned. Curses, I wish Hattie wouldn’t gird my stays so tight.

“Is all well?” Sir Donald asked.

“No.” Mary shook her finger in the direction of the group of officers. “I thought I saw Balfour MacLeod.”

“That lout?” Sir Donald stretched and looked above the crowd. “Why on earth would he be in Glasgow?”

“My exact thoughts.” She clutched his arm. “Do you see him?”

“Nay. Are you certain it was he?”

“No—only saw the man’s profile. Perhaps it was someone else.” Dear Lord, she prayed it was so.

Sir Donald patted her hand. “I’m sure after your ordeal, anyone wearing a Government uniform would make you nervous. I’m certain the lieutenant is far from here. Pay it not another thought.”

Mary nodded, looking to the musicians who were playing a madrigal. If only it were that easy.

Sir Kennan touched Mary’s arm. “Will you reserve the first dance with me?”

“Ah…” She looked to Sir Donald who indicated his approval with a nod—blast him. He’d given her no recourse but to accept. She bowed her head. “Thank you.”

“Excellent.”

Sir Donald inclined his lips to Mary’s ear. “All I ask is that you save the last set for me.”

Moving with balletic precision, she placed her fan over her heart—but only for a blink of an eye and only so Sir Donald could see.

Little good that did. The corner of his mouth ticking up, he bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a bit of business to tend.”

Sir Kennan offered his elbow. “Shall we?”