What was a man to do with two fancy hats, when he had only the one head?
“Ye said those trousers of yers could bend, aye?” Roland called over his shoulder. “Bend them a bit faster; we’re late. I told Father I’d have ye downstairs before the doors opened. If ye’d just agree to stay here with us…”
“I’m not a castle sort of guy; you know that.” Max hurried to catch up with his friend. How’d the man walk so fast with all that armor on? Well, he had said he could dance with it on, hadn’t he? “I’m perfectly fine staying at the inn until my house is finished.”
One of the first things he’d done, after determining the Highlands were a place he could stay on a permanent basis and be happy, was commission a house to be built for him. It would be modest, which suited him fine, but with the opportunity to add on to it in the future, if necessary.
But the idea of adding on to the house necessitated having someone to share it with, and if Max were honest with himself, he was more than ready for that. He’d lived over half his life in Everland, and within the last few years, had seen all his friends fall in love and get married.
There was no one for him back home, but he’d been promised the Highlands were full of beautiful “lasses,” and he was looking forward to meeting more of them.
But even as he considered who he’d likely dance with that night, his mind went back to the girl he’d bumped into just a few hours ago. He’d been staying at the inn for a while now and had noticed her a time or two because of her uncommon loveliness when she smiled. She wasn’t one of the normal servers in the dining room, or he would’ve seen her up-close before that evening.
She’d been wearing a cap, which shadowed her face, but when she’d met his eyes, he’d been enthralled by that pretty blush which had swept up her throat.
And when he’d taken her hand…? Well, it was hard to forget the jolt of awareness which had passed through him.
“There ye are, laddie!” boomed the laird of the Oliphant Clan, Ewan Prince. He was big, bearded, and good-natured, and was currently dressed as a…chicken?
“What are ye supposed to be, Da?” Roland asked, as he jogged down the last few steps. “A pheasant? A grouse? An albino peacock?”
The older man harumphed and fluffed some of the feathers sewn around his expansive middle. “I’m a swan, ye young dobber. Everybody kens swans are expected attire for masquerades!”
“For young ladies, Father,” came the voice of Phineas, Roland’s younger brother, as he stepped up to their little group. “Swans are held in high regard as costuming choices for young ladies, due to the generally accepted truth of their mating for life.”
“Young ladies mate for life?” asked Max, confused.
Raising a brow, Phineas murmured, “I hope so. But I meant swans mate for life. It is apparently verra romantic.”
“Well, I can be a romantic, can I no’?” snapped their father. “And ye’re supposed to be…what? One of yer antique gentlemen ye’re so fond of reading about?”
With a haughty tilt of his chin, Phineas corrected his father. “I am dressed in the regalia of Ramesses the Second, pharaoh of the Nineteenth Dynasty.” Then he seemed to deflate a bit. “Well, not his actual regalia. That was only recently discovered and isnae even on display yet.”
Roland leaned over to whisper overly loud to Max, “Phin’s a bit obsessed with history.”
Max eyed the man’s legs. “I can see that. Is that a”—he cleared his throat—“um, well, it looks like a really long loincloth?” He’d seen a few Shoshone wearing them back home.
“I endeavor to accuracy,” Phin told him solemnly. “And if ye think I’m bad, ye should see Lyon.”
As one, all four men turned to the far end of the ball room. Max figured, had this been a true medieval castle, there’d likely be a giant fireplace or something there. But since this was practically the twentieth century, instead, there was a series of huge windows adorned with fancy blue draperies.
And in front of them, stood the laird’s heir, his arms crossed in front of his chest, wearing a scowl which would scare piss from a stone.
And a kilt.
Sure as shooting, his knees were bare to all the world to see above his boots.
“He looks positively medieval,” Phineas said with a sniff of disgust.
“Aye, but I thought ye liked history,” Roland teased, jabbing his brother with his elbow. “Do ye think he’s going to wear a mask?”
The laird answered instead, after a shake of his head. “I doubt he’ll stay for too long.”
Phineas nodded. “And he’s wearing his usual mask already, is he no’?”
Max didn’t know Lyon Prince well enough to judge if Phineas’s comment was a joke or not. The oldest Prince brother had obviously been caught in a fire at some point, and scars covered the left side of his face and disappeared under his shirt. The rest of him looked fit enough—and Max knew he was seeing much more of Lyon than he’d ever expected to, what with the skirt and all—but the man did always seem to wear a permanent scowl.
Tonight was no different.
Suddenly, the laird swung back in their direction. “Where’s yer sister? Is she ready yet?”
Soothingly, Roland patted his father’s arm. “She’s on her way, I’m certain. She’ll be dressed as a black cat.”
“Of course.” Phineas rolled his eyes. “Maxwell, I challenge ye to count fewer than four black cats tonight. And I suspect there’ll be an equal number of young ladies dressed as swans, much like our da here, though I do hope they will be better looking.”
“And dinnae forget Vestal Virgins,” Roland added with a grin, before his father could object to
