Mia Marlowe by Plaid Tidings

She was certain no lady’s maid had a hand in this mess.
    “Brodie MacIver!” she hissed. “Ye’re petulant as a spoiled child. What do ye think ye’ve been doing?”
    The ghost appeared hovering over, but not quite resting upon, the striped chintz cushion on the window seat.
    “A spoiled child, is it? If I were child ye wouldna have left me.”
    Brodie had taken plenty of risks to accompany her to Edinburgh and Dalkeith. His relief at being safe inside the stone edifice where he couldn’t be blown away was palpable. But he didn’t relish being alone in a strange place.
    “I canna stay inside with ye all the time,” Lucinda said as she picked up one kid-soled slipper and knelt to peer under the bed in search of its mate. “Unlike some parties to this conversation, I have a life to live.”
    “No need to drag me unfortunate deceased state into it, but since ye’ve brought it up, those of us who dinna have a life have precious little to occupy ourselves with. The truth is if ye didna want me to meddle with yer things, ye ought to have stayed inside,” he said tetchily. “Bad enough I’ve been dragged hither and yon in a bouncing carriage—and let me tell ye I had no easy time of it crammed in next to yer fulsome auntie—but then once we finally arrive in a civilized location, ye leave me in the palace alone whilst ye trip blithely away to moon over that blasted Englishman and his cricket bat.”
    “Lord Bonniebroch is not a blasted Englishman. He’s my betrothed.” Lucinda stowed her reunited slippers in the wardrobe and began to refold her stockings and place them in the lilac sachet-scented drawers. “’Tis no’ considered mooning to admire a man I’ll be marrit to in only a few days.” Remembering the feel of the hard hot length of him sent a delicious tingle to her nether parts. “Besides, ye’d have approved of the way he handled his bat, I’m sure. The lad played for the Scottish team and they won.”
    “Hmph.” Brodie floated up to the heavily beamed ceiling and did a leisurely backstroke across the room.
    “Dougal is here,” Lucinda said, trying to change the subject.
    “Is he, now?” Brodie floated down and smoothed out the wrinkles he’d made in her gowns with a blast of his cold, ghostly breath. It was the closest thing to an apology Lucinda was likely to get, but since the pink taffeta was hopelessly rumpled, she’d take it. “I like yer brother. There’s a young man with a head on his shoulders.”
    “And I’d like to see it stay where it is. There’s still a price on Dougal’s head, though I doubt there’s a Scotsman alive who’d turn him in,” she said. “But havin’ to look o’er his shoulder every little whipstitch is no way to live. My brother needs a pardon. My marriage to Lord Bonniebroch will help Dougal.”
    Brodie frowned. “I take yer point. An English brother-in-law might go a long way toward turning the eye of the law aside from any MacOwen.”
    Dougal had been living rough in the Highlands since he’d been outlawed after the failed rebellion. Lucinda almost hadn’t recognized him under that thick mat of hair and full beard. Even so, it was wonderful to finally be with him again, but she worried her lip as another thought struck her.
    “There are other places where a wanted man might find work, places where he’d be less likely to run afoul of the authorities,” she said. “Why do ye think Dougal is here at Dalkeith?”
    Brodie was uncharacteristically silent for the space of several heartbeats.
    “This is where the English king will come in high summer.”
    Her heart sank to her toes. “Surely Dougal isna so stupid. He wouldna dare try such a thing.”
    “When I said Dougal had a good head on his shoulders, I may have misspoken. But ye canna deny his heart’s in the right place. Scotland’s freedom pulses with every beat.”
    “That’s no receipt for freedom for anyone.” Lucinda wadded up the rest of her stockings and shoved them into