“Well…” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes, some of these friends of mine…well, they’d talk about these ladies who helped them—or their wives—find happy endings together. I guess you might say I’m a little more open than most to the possibility of there being a secret international cabal of old ladies who meddle in the affairs of the oblivious.”
Evangeline sipped her tea. “We’re not all old.”
Knowing he’d won a victory by the fact she wasn’t denying the rest, Max inclined his head. “Of course not.”
The woman carefully placed her cup down and sniffed. “Very well, young man. You are correct. We are…matchmakers.”
Time to see if his other guess was correct. “Since coming to the Highlands, I’ve been wined and dined like I’m one of the Princes myself. I know that’s not who I am, not really, but it’s been like a dream. And I’ve met someone. Someone I…”
Broca leaned forward. “Someone ye want to spend the rest of yer life with?”
Max stared into his murky tea. What was it with these people and their tea? Give him a good beer any day of the week.
“I love her,” he said simply. “I shouldn’t—I’ve only known her a little while—but I do love her, and I’d like to marry her.”
Build a future with her.
As one, all the godmothers sighed, although the oldest one somehow turned it into a coughing fit. As the young one pounded on her back, the wrinkled old lady pulled out what looked to be a pipe—or might’ve been some instrument of medieval torture; it was hard to tell with these Highlanders—and knocked it against the table as she waved the other one off.
“Willa! C’nyen ogle m’backbone fer gossakes?”
“Sorry, Grandmother.”
“Och, wic’n throwball or two, eh? It workened!”
Max blinked, but the other godmothers were nodding, beaming away.
“So…can I assume you all had a hand in that?” he asked hesitantly.
“Of course!” Grisel was practically bouncing in her seat. “It was Evangeline’s idea. She pointed out there’d be nae way ye could ignore a woman showing up at the ball dressed like that! The gown alone was worth hundreds of dollars, ye ken—good thing we still have our connections in the dressmaking industry, eh?” She winked at Broca. “And that mask was just perfect—a touch of whimsy, but not enough to confuse her with all the other be-feathered and be-sequined lassies.”
“Is that a word?” Broca growled.
“Be-sequined? I think ‘tis.”
Evangeline leaned forward. “Despite their bickering, they’re correct.”
“Be-sequined is a word?” Willa blurted.
The leader glared. “Don’t be silly. I meant they’re correct about the plan. Yes, young man. We were the ones to arrange for your mystery princess to attend the ball. Of course, she got there on her own—we can’t do all the work—but the gown and the mask were all thanks to us.”
They didn’t understand, did they?
“Not the shoes,” Max whispered.
“Oh, no, not the shoes.” Evangeline sat back in her chair. “Did that on her own. But we did arrange for her to lose one so you could be properly intrigued and carry it around to all the ladies in the land, searching for the right foot, until you found your True Love.” She nodded seriously. “It’s expected in these kinds of stories. Narrative causality, you know.”
All four of the other godmothers nodded together. “Narrative causality,” they intoned in unison, although the old one might’ve just been coughing.
Max shook his head and carefully placed the teacup on the table. “I’m sorry…but you think I’ve been traveling all over the Highlands with a shoe?”
“Searching for yer True Love,” Willa whispered. “Ye must find the lassie whose foot fits the shoe.”
“And then what? I’ll marry her based on her shoe size?” Max was thinking about that red shoe, tucked into the drawer of his desk at Oliphant Engraving. “Do you have any idea how many women live around here that wear the same size shoe? They’re not even standardized sizes, and I’ll bet I could find three dozen who could fit in that thing.”
“So ye do have it!” Broca declared triumphantly.
“Of course I still have it! I have to return it to her, don’t I?”
The same godmothers nodded seriously again. “Narrative causality,” they intoned creepily.
But Evangeline was peering suspiciously at him. “You’re saying that, despite having the shoe, you haven’t gone door to door, looking for its owner? How have you found the woman you want to marry then?”
“I found her— What does it matter? I got to know her, and I think she’s wonderful.”
“But she’s not the princess from the ball?” Evangeline threw her hands up in exasperation. “Look, young man, we did our part. You were supposed to fall in love with the princess.”
Max shook his head. “Why? I’m not a prince! I’m a simple man. Besides, it turns out I have fallen in love with the lass who lost her shoe.”
Grisel sucked in a breath and leaned forward, placing her hand on his arm. “The serving lass? Ye fell in love with the serving lass, and no’ the princess?”
“I fell in love with Ember,” Max said sternly, pulling his arm out from under hers and resting his palms on the table, glaring at each of the women in turn. “She’s not a princess, but she’s not just a serving lass either. She’s a brilliant inventor and artist, and she’s funny and talented, and she makes me happy.” And ridiculously aroused, but he wasn’t going to mention that here. “I like being around her, and I like learning about her skills. There’s absolutely no reason for me to have fallen in love so quickly, but I can’t stand the thought of not having her in my future. I figure that must mean there’s some magic in it, huh?”
Willa whispered, “The Highlands are a magical place.”
“And the godmothers helped.” Broca planted her elbows on the table. “But ye were supposed to fall in love with the princess.”
Why did they keep coming back to that? “I was intrigued by the
