Page 88 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
“And we’ll be in the audience, keeping watch from there,” his mother commented, strolling into the room. “This is your life, Temperance, and heaven knows you’ve earned the right to approach it as you choose. But please keep in mind that whether you decide to be known as Persephone or as Temperance, your last name will be MacTaggert.”
“And her title will be Lady Glendarril,” Coll put in. “Dunnae try yer guilt on her, my lady. Her parents did wrong by her. But she’s nae the only one who can make such a statement.”
Her lips thinned a little, but Francesca nodded. “That is true enough.”
“A bit harsh, wasnae?” Niall asked, as their mother left the room.
“I’m done with agreements that serve someone else’s purpose,” Coll shot back. “And now I reckon we’re off to the theater. I’ll see ye there tonight, aye?”
“Aye,” Aden said. “I’ll bring ye someaught proper to wear.”
“And in the meantime, we’ll be making a few more inquiries about who might call Caroline Rilence a friend,” Niall put in.
He would have to rely on them; he couldn’t be everywhere at once, and he needed to be by Temperance’s side.Whether they thought she would be safer onstage or not, he wasn’t only thinking about tonight. His mind was on all the other nights, for the rest of their lives. And he damned well wanted her in them.
The next few hours didn’t leave him any less worried, though he was impressed that Charlie had taken pains to stage men at every exit who would ask for tickets or for audience members to confirm they were who they claimed to be. Even so, on a performance night, the theater was full of people back and front, actors and their friends or family, stagehands looking to impress a lass or two with an introduction to Gordon Humphreys or Thomas Baywich or Persephone Jones or Clive Montrose, who was far too pretty for Coll’s liking.
They ran through the play once more, and for the first time, Humphreys even said the word “Macbeth” before he had to sit down and fan himself with his well-marked folio. It was a good performance—likely the best he’d seen, and he’d attended several throughout the Highlands. If he said so himself, Temperance’s Lady Macbeth had never and likely would never be equaled—and that was the damned rehearsal.
A dull muttering that began on the far side of the curtains slowly grew in volume until he couldn’t even hear himself think. “Is it always so loud?” he asked Temperance, watching Charlotte, a petite lass, finish pinning up the pitch-black hair Lady Macbeth would be sporting.
“On opening night, yes. Generally, no,” she answered, eyeing herself in the dressing mirror before adding a touch more rouge to her cheeks. “Healthy at the beginning, pale at the end,” she said aloud, sending him a quick smile.
A gong sounded from nearby. “Five minutes till curtain,” rang out. Persephone stood. “Time for a prayer to the theater gods,” she quipped, her humor at odds with the severe gray and burgundy gown she wore.
He straightened from where he leaned against the wall. “I’d like to kiss ye,” he murmured, catching her hand to place it over his arm, “but I’ll nae be blamed for ruining yer healthy bloom.”
“You, my dear, are the reason for my healthy bloom. I hardly need the face paint.” She twisted, leaning up along his chest, and slid one hand up to cup the nape of his neck. Her ruby-red lips met his, her kiss tasting of tea and desire.
Coll wrapped her in his arms and lifted her off her feet, deepening the kiss. Whoever the devil she dressed as and whatever name she went by, all that mattered was that she belonged to him, and he to her. “I love ye, lass,” he murmured.
“I love you, Coll,” she returned. “Now put me down.”
He did so, though he would much rather have locked her dressing room door and peeled her out of those somber, dark clothes and replaced them with his mouth. She pulled a kerchief from a drawer and carefully wiped his mouth, then fixed her own.
“Good—”
Swiftly, she slapped a hand over his mouth. “Donotwish me good luck,” she whispered. “That’s the worst luck imaginable.”
“Ye lot are all mad, ye ken,” he whispered back, kissing her palm and transferring her hand to his forearm. “I’ll nae wish ye ill.”
“Say something in Gaelic that would make me swoon in English,” she suggested, her gaze on his mouth.
“Tha mi airson a bhith còmhla riut an-dràsta.”
“That makes me want to swoon just hearing it,” she said softly. “Tell me what it means after.”
“Aye. That’s a promise.”
Coll left her on the stage with her fellows, while he hung back in the shadows, watching, as Charlie Huddle ledthem in a combination of prayer and witch’s spell for success. That done, the actors went to their opening positions, and he found a place to stand where he could see both Temperance’s dressing room and the stage.
The curtains parted to a resounding roar, and the three witches began their lines amid sounds of thunder generated by Harry Drew and his stagehands. As many times as he’d seen it rehearsed, his desire to watch the spectacle anew pulled at him. He sternly resisted. She might well be safer there onstage than anywhere else, but that didn’t mean he would stop looking for trouble.
As each of the actors made a first appearance, the audience reacted with applause and cheers, though none so loud as the round awarded to Temperance. He had no idea what the blue bloods would think if they ever discovered they were clapping for one of their own, a lass who dared defy them and their proper ways, and did so with skill and flair.
The play was short for Shakespeare, and they’d decided to forego an intermission—at least for opening night. The three murderers killed Banquo in rather spectacular fashion, causing at least one lass out in the audience to shriek, and then someone apparently fainted when Banquo’s ghost arrived at Macbeth’s banquet, all dressed in gray strips of muslin and clanking a chain for effect.
“You don’t think someone would attempt to do her harm here, do you?” a hushed voice came from beside him.
