Musicale

A t her mother's insistence, Daisy wore a traditional tartan arasaid for the Scottish evening. She hadn't really expected Rowan to agree to wearing a kilt. Elated when Kenneth confided he'd loaned her beau a Highlander outfit for the occasion, she knew Rowan wanted to marry her. She just hoped it also meant he loved her.

As soon as she arrived at the Withenshawe townhouse and saw him in the kilt and plaid, she knew for certain that she loved him. For years, she'd fought tooth and nail to deny the Scottish blood inherited from her mother, yet her knees went weak at the sigh of a handsome man in a kilt. Kenneth always looked imposing in his Scottish regalia, but Rowan…those long, well-muscled, hairy legs—oh my goodness.

He fidgeted nervously with the plaid draped across his broad chest until she declared, "Magnificent, my lord."

"I hoped you'd be pleased," he replied, squaring his shoulders as he eyed her outfit. "We look like a matched pair."

Och, aye ! Translated from male-speak that meant he loved her.

"Welcome one and all," Willow's father announced to the fidgeting audience. "I apologize for the lack of seating for some of you," he continued when he had everyone's attention. "We didn't anticipate such a large turnout but the footmen will soon have you all accommodated."

Seated in the front row, Willow couldn't relax. She wasn't worried about the shortage of chairs. In his usual bossy way, Rowan was chivvying the footmen to move more quickly. She had to admit he looked rather fine in his kilt and plaid. She was tempted to giggle when he bent over. Who knew her brother had such hairy legs? She still found it hard to believe he'd agreed to wear Scottish garb.

Her nervousness was for Niven who stood beside her father, bagpipes tucked under his arm. He didn't seem nervous. Indeed, he reminded her of pictures she'd seen of Highland warriors—proud, strong, invincible.

"Again, welcome," her father repeated when everyone was settled. "And thank you for your patience. Tonight, you'll hear traditional Scottish instruments played by a genuine Scottish Highlander. Most of you don't know that Niven King is a member of the family that distills the Uachdaran single malt whisky many of you enjoy."

Laughter and a few gasps of surprise greeted this piece of information, but Niven didn't move a muscle.

"You do know Niven as the man I came to rely upon heavily to take care of my business interests during my recent unavoidable absence. You're about to discover that he's also a gifted musician. I give you Niven King."

Willow could scarcely breathe when the man she loved stepped forward, doffed his jaunty bonnet and bowed.

Niven wasn't the only man dressed in traditional Scottish garb but he was the only genuine Highland laddie present at the gathering.

That truth, and Lady Willow's smile, boosted his confidence as he stepped in front of the audience after Withenshawe's glowing introduction.

He might not have Tavish's creative genius, nor Payton's bluster, but music was his forte.

He looked out over the silent audience. Every eye was riveted on him. He understood. A tall, well-muscled Highlander in full traditional regalia was an impressive sight—and an unusual one in a London drawing room. Small wonder the audience was large. The ton thrived on anything that had the potential to relieve boredom.

He'd given a lot of thought to which pieces he would play for the Duke of Withenshawe's invited guests, but he also wanted to impart to the large crowd something of the history of Scottish music.

" Fàilte ," he said, deftly putting his bonnet back on his head. "It means welcome in Gaelic. I hale from a wee village nay far from the Cairngorms and many folk there still speak the auld language. My uncle Gregor speaks it well, and often. I can just about hold my own."

Polite chuckles ensued and he realized he was rambling. "Anyway, ye came to hear me play, but I hope ye'll indulge a wee introduction o' this marvelous instrument o'mine."

Holding up his bagpipes, he explained each part, from the bag itself to the chanter, the blowpipe and the drones. "The instrument is properly called the Great Highland Bagpipes, or A' phìob mhòr in Gaelic.

"How the bagpipes came to Scotland is a matter o' debate; some say they originated in Egypt and were brought to us by the Romans; others claim ancient tribes from Ireland were responsible for their introduction. Safe to say that, o'er the centuries, 'twas the Highlanders who developed the instrument to its present form, making it our national musical instrument. I'll wager ye canna hear bagpipes without thinkin' o' Scotland."

Heads nodded as he braced his legs, tucked the bag under his arm and cleared the blowpipe.

The fidgeting stopped when the plaintive notes of Lord Lovat's Lament floated from the pipes. Niven slipped easily into the world he knew best.

Cat swallowed the lump in her throat, grateful when her husband took her hand and pressed it to his lips. The wail of Niven's pipes evoked memories of the life she'd left behind in Glengeárr, and Kenneth understood. Clearly lost to the music, the friend she'd known since childhoood switched seamlessly from laments to jigs, reels, and marches.

The crowd sat spellbound, and she wasn't the only one with tear-filled eyes. As the last note faded away, the members of the audience rose to their feet and applauded.

Niven stared, as if he'd forgotten they were there. A broad grin split his face when his wandering gaze fell on Willow Halstead. Cat wasn't surprised. The mutual attraction was easy to see. As a commoner who'd married a duke, she knew only too well the censure they faced and could only hope they might find happiness together.