Page 13 of Wouldn’t it Be Scottish?

“Mabbe she isn’t as old an acquaintance as you, but that is half the fun. She wasn’t there when I skinned my knees and went howling to my mother, and she didn’t see me when I ate too much fruit cake and had to go to bed with a stomachache.”

That made her laugh. Her beautiful face lit up, her brown eyes sparkling, and suddenly the thought of losing her to a man like Belvoir was just too much. Even if she never came back to Donal, he still wanted to keep her from the sort of hurt that man was capable of.

“Mary,” he blurted out, “I wish you would no’ spend so much time with Mr. Belvoir. I have heard that he is no’ a good man.”

Instantly, the laughter left her face, and now she was glaring at him. Her pretty mouth pinched into a hard line, and her dark eyes narrowed. “We may have known each other since we were wee, but that does no’ give you the right to tell me what to do. ’Tis none of your concern what Mr. Belvoir and I do,” she informed him in a harsh voice. Her accent, which she had obviously been trying to lighten into something more acceptable to London society, was suddenly very strong, “And I refuse to hear Mr. Belvoir maligned by you just because you are jealous, Donal MacKenzie.”

Donal felt his face redden. He was jealous, but that wasn’t the point. He was trying to be a caring friend to her because he did not want to see her hurt, but he could tell she wasn’t going to listen to him. Her determined ignorance made him impatient and angry.

“Dinna expect me to pick you up when he injures your reputation then,” he retorted. He knew he sounded bitter, and that bitterness would not help in his quest to win Mary back, but she had pushed him too far.

She glared. “Dinna you worry, I willna. Ne’er again.”

Then she pulled free of his arms and left him there, in the middle of the dance floor, making a spectacle of herself and him as she strutted away. Donal stared after her in angry dismay. Well, that told him! And yet her anger had seemed rather extreme, so perhaps he had touched a nerve. Perhaps Mary knew deep in her heart that he was right about Belvoir. So maybe there was hope yet.

Agatha returned to his side not long after the dance finished. She was flushed and smiling, as if her time with Richard had gone a great deal better than his time with Mary. He wanted to be happy for her, but that flicker of emotion inside him felt more like jealousy. Donal told himself he really was a terrible person. And was he jealous because Agatha might get her sweetheart back, or jealous because he had enjoyed kissing her so much he wanted to do it again without the bother of Richard?

“Perhaps we should go now,” Agatha said, “before we garner too much attention. What did Mary say to you? There seems to be a lot of whispering going on.”

“I warned her about Belvoir, and she didn’t like it,” he said bluntly. “She said I was jealous.”

Agatha eyed him sympathetically. “Of course you are! And hurt. She is very silly if she doesn’t understand that.” She bit her lip, as if regretting her plain speaking. “Donal—”

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Thank you,” he said. “You should always tell me exactly whatever is in your heart. I much prefer it to lies and deception.”

She was blushing. “Oh, thank you,” she said. “Richard hates my bluntness, as he calls it.”

“I love it,” he said, and then wondered at himself. He was beginning to love a great many things about Agatha. “Where are your father and Mrs. Robinson?” he said quickly.

The older couple were waiting outside for the coach, and once Agatha and Donal joined them, they set off through the darkened streets of London toward Aunt Jennie’s Mayfair home.

Donal hoped she wasn’t sitting up, waiting to hear about the ball. She seemed to be taking a great deal of interest in his efforts to reclaim Mary, as well as his many social engagements with Agatha. Now he would have to tell her that he was beginning to think it was all a big waste of time, for him at least. Mary would never be his again, and suddenly he longed to go home to Bonnyrigg with the sort of ache that went deep into his bones.

Bonnyrigg. Donal had been only twelve when his brothers and his father and mother and little sister returned to take up residence there, so that Maxwell could assume the dukedom. He hadn’t found the transition quite so difficult, not like Callum and to some extent Rory. He fell in love with his home and had planned never to leave. If Mary had stayed, they could have made a life there, raised their children, and lived out their days.

Now he didn’t think that was going to happen, and if he went home, it would be alone.

A warm hand covered his, and he realized Agatha was watching him with those knowing eyes. “Donal? Will I see you the day after tomorrow?”

“The day after tomorrow?” he repeated, his mind a blank.

“We agreed to go on a picnic by the Thames,” she said gently. “Remember?”

He hadn’t remembered. His head was full of other things, none of them good, but he made himself nod and then when the coach reached Aunt Jennie’s house, he bid them farewell.

Aunt Jennie wasn’t waiting up for him, but Bothwell was watching him from the top of the stairs. The cat didn’t move as he approached, staring at him in silence. When he reached it, he bravely rested his hand lightly on its furry head. Donal knew it was a risk, but he desperately wanted some comfort, and Bothwell was all that was available to him.

“What would you do, eh?” he said quietly to the creature as it looked up at him. “Go home and be miserable, although my family would rally around me because they are expecting me to lose Mary. They’re waiting for me to give up and slink back so they can give me a hug. Or would you stay and keep trying, and mabbe even enjoy yourself a wee bit? Agatha isna like anyone else I have ever known, and I like her. I like her a mickle lot.”

Bothwell seemed to be considering the question and then he yawned, loudly, and trotted down the stairs.

Donal smiled. “Stay then, do you think? All right, thank you, I will.”

That night he expected to toss and turn, full of regrets and sorrow, but to his surprise he didn’t. He slept very well, and it was Agatha he dreamed of and not Mary, replaying that kiss in the garden over and over again.

Chapter Eight

Agatha was worried about Donal. She didn’t say so aloud, but she was concerned. Something had happened between him and the horrible-but-beautiful Mary Davidson. They had been dancing and he had been smiling, and then suddenly an argument had developed, and Mary had broken away and left him alone on the floor. People had noticed. People had been whispering.