A Question for Harry: Questions for a Highlander, #5

Chapter 1

Men! I’m surrounded by them! Outnumbered and outranked. Sadly, there is nothing to be done for it when one is the youngest of eleven siblings and the only lass amidst a herd of lads at that.

~From the diary of Lady Fiona MacKintosh—April 1895

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The Old Course

St. Andrews, Scotland

April 1895

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Francis!

Nay, Blossom. I willnae consider it!

Francis!

Nay! And dinnae be getting yer feathers in a bunch about it!

It was an incredibly simple thing to tell when her brothers felt passionate about something. Their usually cultured accents gave way to the heavy brogues of their ancestors when they were angry, frustrated, or drunk.

And Fiona was fairly certain—at least at this particular moment—that they weren’t drunk.

However, they weren’t the only ones who were frustrated by this conversation either. As much as she preferred to approach the trials of life with ebullient good cheer, Fiona was becoming downright infuriated with her brother.

It was nothing new, of course. The MacKintosh siblings, all eleven of them, were known to be mercurial in temperament, and it would be safe—even a bit of an understatement—to say that there was no shortage of verbal outbursts and occasional physical bouts in the MacKintosh household.

One might postulate that the character trait—Fiona refused to consider it a flaw—might have weakened by the time her parents got to her. But Fiona MacKintosh, last of the bunch and the only female among them to boot, possessed all the hot-headedness of any of her older brothers as well as whatever excess that might have remained.

As a toddler, her father had taken to calling her Blossom because even then she had been as prickly as a heather blossom. Among her brothers, the nickname had stuck, only to be validated again and again as the years went by.

And would likely be confirmed once again quite soon if her eldest brother, who had been most accommodating of her wants and wishes throughout the course of her twenty years, became any less obliging now.

Francis, this is ridiculous, she grumbled with no little exasperation. Lord Ramsay is the man I want to marry.

"If Ramsay is the man ye truly want to wed, Blossom, I’ll eat my hat." Fiona’s eldest brother, Francis MacKintosh, the Earl of Glenrothes, told her as he considered a chip shot from the fringes of the seventeenth green of the St. Andrews Old Course where they were playing an early round on a perfect spring morning.

A perfect morning, she had thought, to partake in her beloved pastime with her brothers on their favorite course and to address the matter of her future, however the conversation wasn’t going at all how she had imagined it.

One of the other gentlemen present harrumphed. And if he is, we hae no’ given ye enough options.

Vin! Fiona spun around to gape at the next eldest of the ten MacKintosh brothers in astonishment. Maybe they were drunk. Fiona couldn’t think of another reason for their contrary behavior. A denial from one was rare. Two, unheard of. And to have Vin deny her? He, especially, had pampered and indulged her since his return to Scotland two years past. Options? I’ve seen the options. Lord Ramsay is the only one who’s come up to snuff!

He’s not come up to snuff, Blossom, the third of her brothers, Richard, weighed in. Unlike the two oldest brothers, Richard’s temper hadn’t yet been tapped if his brogue were any indication. In fact, he seemed rather entertained by the entire conversation...which only served to heighten Fiona’s displeasure. He’s simply not as smart as the others.

What’s that supposed to mean?

I’ll be happy to explain, Richard said, swinging one of his golf clubs casually before lifting it to point in her direction. You, my dear sister, are shockingly direct, far too progressive, and disconcertingly liberal-minded.

Having not a word to offer in opposition to his words, Fiona merely waited impatiently for him to continue. Inarguably she was all those things and more. Her determination to have her way wasn’t a mere byproduct to having been spoiled by her brothers. They had raised her following their parents’ deaths to think and act independently, to fight for what she wanted.

I dinnae think that comes as a surprise to anyone here, Richard. What’s your point? Glenrothes said, his heavy brogue ebbing with his anger as he chipped his ball onto the green.

"My point is that Blossom’s...shall we call it unique perspective on life isn’t at all what most gentlemen are looking for in a wife in this day and age. My apologies, dear lass, but that shouldn’t come as much of a surprise either," he added.

She only shrugged. It wasn’t.

That’s not much of a point, Richard, Vin pointed out.

No, it wasn’t.

Richard lifted a brow. But it is. Oh, she might appeal to gentlemen at first because she’s quite lovely, attractively wealthy, and on any normal day, reasonably good-natured, but she’s bold as brass and not at all shy with her opinions. It’s disconcerting for most of the eligible gentlemen she’s met and distinctly terrifying for others.

Thank you, Richard. I’m feeling ever so good about myself just now.

Just wait, there’s more, he warned and continued, Now there are two exceptions to this rather regrettable trend. First, there is the rare, yet heretofore, unseen gentleman in possession of comparable intelligence and enough backbone to find such qualities admirable.

And second?

There is Lord Ramsay.

Vin threw back his head and laughed at that, somehow comprehending the joke before the punch line was even revealed. Aye, Ramsay. Too daft to know what he’s getting himself into!

Fuming silently, Fiona settled a glare of displeasure upon the two men until their laughter faded away. How terribly amusing you both are.

Amusing or no’, Glenrothes said, following his ball onto the green to line up the long putt he was left with, there is some truth to what Richard has said. You’ve only known Ramsay for two short weeks. Hardly enough time to consider marriage.

Not considering, she corrected. Lord Ramsay is a fine enough gentleman, heir to an earldom, a fair rider and an adequate golf player. We share a passion for the sport and I wish to marry him.

A shared interest in a sport is no reason to wed, Blossom, Richard offered more seriously.

At times, we must make do with the opportunities we are given. What else do you expect me to do, remain single for an indeterminate amount of time? Become a spinster?

Wait until you find a man you can love, her eldest brother said.

Or at least one we could respect, Vin added under his breath, but she heard him anyway and her temper spiked again.

If I were to wait for that to happen, Vin MacKintosh, she snapped, I may very well be past my thirtieth year before I start filling my nursery.

She winced as Glenrothes and Vin both glowered at her. It was a low, unnecessary blow as both of their wives were just beginning to fill their nurseries at thirty.

Richard punctuated the sudden silence with a low whistle and took an extravagant step back.

I should like to see ye repeat that sentiment to Eve’s face, as her advanced age hisnae seemed to be such a detriment to her happiness, Glenrothes said in a soft, deadly burr while Vin only shook his head.

"Och, Francis! Vin!" She began to apologize but her eldest brother held up his hand to halt her rebuttal.

That is neither here nor there. I ken how ye are when ye get a thought into that head of yers, Blossom. Yer as tenacious as a filly wi’ the bit between her teeth. But, bugger it,  I willnae stand to the side and watch ye wed in haste to a man ye met on a golf course, for pity’s sake.

Bloody hell but she shouldn’t have picked on Eve, Fiona bemoaned. She loved her sister-in-law dearly and knew quite well that there was nothing in this world that angered Francis more than a slight to his wife. Her insult couldn’t have been more badly timed since Eve had delivered another daughter for Francis just a month past.

Another baby to remind Fiona just how much she was missing in her own life.

All the more reason to get on with it.

You must admit, Blossom, ’tis hardly the proper setting to meet a gentleman, Vin said quietly. Since he was of a more even keel temperamentally than most of the family, Vin’s anger tended to fade away more quickly. Far more quickly than hers.

Proper? Fiona scoffed, twisting the handle of her putter against her palm. "You’re a fine one to talk about anything relating to propriety, Vin. Besides, it is the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews."

What Vin is saying is that young ladies such as yourself are usually introduced to young eligible men in a more suitable setting, Richard said.

I’ve been trotted about to high society balls and teas and introduced to eligible men for two years without finding a single gentleman I like better, she reminded them. Besides, given my passion for golfing, isn’t it only fitting that I met someone here that suits me?

It just seems a bit dodgy that you meet this fellow at the clubhouse, yet he won’t step out with you publicly, Richard told her.

Dodgy? He’s the nephew and heir of the Earl of Carron. What could be more respectable than that?

I’ll tell ye what, Glenrothes said flatly, calm once again. Respectable is a man who courts you in public. Respectable is a man who knocks on my door to ask for your hand like a gentleman. This Ramsay has worked an entire courtship behind our backs. Richard’s right, it all seems a wee bit cagey.

He tapped his golf ball lightly, sending it across the short grass and into the cup with a soft clink. Turning, he motioned for her to take her turn but she was too incensed just then to find the peace needed to sink the long putt awaiting her from the fringes of the green.

Oh, Fiona said with wide-eyed innocence. Is that how it’s supposed to be? Because I don’t seem to remember any of you courting your wives that way. Let’s run up a tally, shall we? She pointed the business end of her putter at Richard. Richard, you courted Abby...oh, no, you didn’t, did you? You married with a special license and abandoned her to a scandal. Francis, you created a scandal with Eve and married her with a special license...

Blossom, Glenrothes growled the warning, but Fiona went on, leveling the putter at Vin.

And Vin...well, I think you have the weakest ground to stand on, don’t you?

Blossom!

Caught kissing Moira like a preacher’s daughter by none less than Reginald Wallis, the scandalmaker of Edinburgh! And married her also with a special license, she finished. I hardly think any of you have the right to dictate to me on the proper execution of courtship.

Silence fell at that but Fiona’s oldest brother caught and held her eye with a frown. Are ye finished yet, Blossom?

Fiona set her jaw and glared back at him, fighting the urge to fling her favorite putter at his head.

Glenrothes sighed. Take yer bloody shot.

* * *

Swishing her skirts to the side, Fiona stomped over to her ball and addressed it. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself enough to make a decent go of it, but as she stared down at the ball, she was nearly overcome by the urge to scream...or beat the green to a pulp with her club.

She did neither. Not only because she refused to give them the satisfaction of labeling her behavior as childish and—in that way that only brothers can—extend the label to all of her actions and decisions, but also because the greens keeper at St. Andrews might ban her from the course for tearing up his precious green. Given her love of the game, it was a risk she would never take.

But no, she wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. She loved all ten of her brothers dearly, but as Richard had said, they had raised her to think independently and to act the same. She was used to either doing as she pleased or expecting them to acquiesce to her wishes. She was what they had made her. How could they possibly expect her to change all of that now?

They should be glad that she hadn’t consigned her life to the international league of spinsters after the hand romance had dealt her.

Might I remind you, she said tightly, turning on them again. "That you—all of you—have been lamenting my age and impending spinsterhood this past year. Haranguing me—with an annoying degree of repetitiveness, I might add—to settle upon a husband?"

There has been no haranguing, Blossom, Vin countered calmly. Don’t exaggerate. Besides, that wasn’t what I or any of the others said at all. I believe for the most part our concern was that you were generally ignoring the natural progression of life in favor of a golf course.

I cannot believe you would say that as if it were a bad thing as we are all at this moment engaged in that very sport, she said, pointedly returning to her ball and taking a quick putt, sending the ball across the green. It rimmed the cup and traveled a few more yards before rolling to a stop. Frowning at the ball, she mentally placed the blame for the miss on her brothers’ shoulders.

At least we all have other things to occupy our time, her eldest brother volleyed back, but he, too, had reined in his temper. We have families, spouses, and children to focus on. We were only expressing our hope that you would soon have the same.

Fiona sighed, rolling her eyes as she counted to ten. And so I shall, as soon as Lord Ramsay and I marry. I am eager to wed, Francis. The sooner the better. I even turned down an invitation from Miss Isette Pearson herself to take part in the Ladies Open Championship at the Royal Wimbledon this summer so that I might marry Ramsay straight away.

Is that some sign of serious commitment? But you did not decline the membership to the Ladies’ Golf Union she offered. Richard looked up at her from where he was squatted down on his haunches lining up his putt.

Was he mad? Good Lord, of course not, she answered. It’s an honor.

I’m sure you think so, but have you considered whether this Ramsay fellow would allow his wife to spend all of her days on a golf course? Vin asked.

A valid enough question. It was the age of men, after all. Despite the modern times and the fact that women were gaining more control and rights over their lives every day, men still legally owned their wives—tales of Eve’s first, disastrous marriage to the previous Earl of Shaftesbury had verified that.

However, her brothers were assuming that it was her intention to continue playing golf after her marriage with the same frequency she did now and that wasn’t at all the case. As much as she did enjoy the game, she only played as often as she did to distract herself from the fact that life was beginning to pass her by.

She knew what she wanted from life, and despite mocking her brothers regarding their methods, each one of them had the life she secretly longed for: a family of their own.

Her chance at it—the first that had ever come her way—was almost within her grasp.

But as much as she wanted it, Fiona’s unusual upbringing had also made her rather radical about the role women should play in life and marriage, and she wasn’t about to hand over control to just anyone without some assurance that her life would remain her own.

If she was not destined for a marriage like those her brothers had found, where equality was borne of love and respect, she was dogmatically adamant about having a marriage where she held the reins.

If she wanted to travel, she would. If she wanted to smoke as she had seen some women do, she would do just that. If she wanted to play golf wearing trousers...well, perhaps not that. Unfortunately, golf clubs like the Wimbledon Royal had unyielding regulations regarding how female players must be attired.

Ramsay was the perfect choice in that regard. He would yield to her wishes and would never think he might control her or own her person. Own her thoughts.

Own her heart.

Of course, he will. Lord Ramsay is everything that will make me happy.

While Glenrothes might not have gotten the lion’s share of temper in the family, he was cursed with a vexing amount of tenacity on par with her own. I simply cannot believe that.

I agree, Richard said as he took his shot and sank the ball into the cup.

Fiona frowned at him, though his success in achieving par where she had failed might have been more aggravating than his concurrence. And why not?

That you do not know the answer to that shows that you do not know him well enough to marry him. I hardly know him at all, but even I’ve seen that Ramsay is a spineless namby-pamby, Blossom. You’d walk all over him, Vin announced, stepping up to take his turn, impatient for the game to move on.

Richard chuckled at that. Indeed, you’d have him under your thumb in no time...If you haven’t already.

The three men nodded in sanctimonious agreement that had Fiona blinking owlishly before she countered dryly, Truly? And that wouldn’t make me happy?

Blossom, Vin sighed heavily with a shake of his head as if he truly regretted disappointing her.

If he did have regrets, he was the only one. Instead of defending her, however, Vin turned away to tap his short putt in. Both Francis and Richard remained unmoved by her sarcasm.

Regardless of what you think, you don’t want a man who will cater to you. You’d be bored to death inside a week, her eldest brother said unequivocally. You’ll never be happy until you can find a man who will push back when you push him too far. Someone who can beat you at your own game every so often.

Aye, Vin nodded in turn. Someone who won’t always let you get your way as we do. The man for you, Blossom, is one who stands up to you and gives as good as he gets.

Turning her back on them, she closed her eyes as a memory wafted through her mind much as the breeze from St. Andrews Bay caressed her cheeks.

She knew a man like that. One who did give back everything she dished out with equal spirit, who matched her in wit and in pure stubbornness. One who made her feel joy, frustration and anger. One who made her heart ache at the mere thought of him...

No!

Fiona pushed the memory away and opened her eyes, turning into the stiff breeze from the bay to dry the tears gathering in her eyes...or at least provide an excuse if they were noticed. Looking back solved nothing. The future was all she had and she meant to seize it.

Lord Donovan Ramsay was that future. He was tall, dark, handsome, and charming. Whatever other fine qualities Lord Ramsay might possess, what mattered the most to Fiona was that he was happy to let her have her way. He conceded to all her requests and wishes promptly and would never dream of saying no. He was—yes, she could admit it, if only to herself—extremely manageable. Malleable.

Times being what they were, a woman needed a man with those particular qualities at home.

With Ramsay, she could have everything she wanted without risking her heart.

Glenrothes shook his head as he returned his putter to his golf bag and lifted the bag onto his shoulder. Perhaps if I had paid more attention I might hae seen it coming, but as ye so kindly pointed out, I hae been focused on filling my nursery.

Fiona winced but refused to feel any more shame for her flippant words. Lord knew these men had offered enough of their own that afternoon to provide a proper counterbalance.

Knowing that an apology for her harsh words was unlikely to be forthcoming, Glenrothes continued, I know ye, Blossom. I raised ye. Yer a temperamental and impulsive lass, but I never had reason to doubt yer judgment. I cannae fathom why ye would leap into anything as important as marriage so rashly. Glenrothes pressed his fingers into the base of his skull as if the pressure would bring understanding. Why no’ wait?

Wait? Already she was tired of life passing her by, tired of seeing her friends wed and begin their families. Tired even of filling her time with round after round of golf and sports trying to fill the void.

Tired of waiting on pins and needles for something that was never going to happen.

I’m tired of waiting, Francis; I want to be married and start a family of my own.

Wi’ this Ramsay? How could ye hae been witness to my first marriage to Vanessa, compare it to what I now hae wi’ Eve, and think that ye will find happiness in a marriage where there is nae love?

Who says he doesn’t love me?

Is he claiming that he does after only two weeks’ acquaintance?

Fiona shot him an arch look. It was a rather hypocritical question coming from a man who claimed to have fallen in love at first sight. How long does it take, Francis?

Sometimes it can take a lifetime, Vin spoke up, sparing Glenrothes from answering. Richard and I knew Abby and Moira for years.

And Francis knew Eve for five minutes, she shot back. Time is irrelevant.

Glenrothes held up his hand to halt her retort. "Fine, Blossom, I will no’ speak any more to his feelings but I will express my concern for yers. Do ye love this man? Is he a man ye can love and respect?"

No, she did not love Ramsay and that did not matter. To her, at least. He was easy, and subsequently, safe. Fiona set her jaw stubbornly but did not, could not answer. She hated to give her brother the satisfaction of being right.

But all he did was nod, even-tempered in the face of her silence. You do not love him then. You cannot even say that you respect him. Why then, Blossom? What is this really about?

Fiona just shook her head again. Her reasons were her own and her brothers didn’t need to know what really drove her ‘haste.’ That was a conversation that would be even more trying than this one already was. Also, she didn’t need their pity.

If you want to discuss motivations, why don’t you tell me what your refusal is really about? You’ve let me make my own decisions for years. Even if you believe this one will be a mistake, shouldn’t it be mine to make as well? Lord Ramsay asked me to marry him and I said yes.

Well, he has no’ asked me, Glenrothes said, his brogue thickening again, and added without regret, and even if he did, I wouldnae gi’ my permission.

Permission? Francis, really, it is nearly the twentieth century, Fiona said with barely contained frustration, resisting the urge to stomp her foot petulantly as she picked up her golf bag and hefted it over her shoulder. See? I can carry my own clubs, pick my own husband...I can even dress myself. Did you know that?

But ye still cannae marry wi’out my permission, lass. And I willnae gi’ it. No’ wi’ him, he shot back as they all set out toward the eighteenth and final hole. The clubhouse loomed in the distance like an oasis in the desert and he, parched not from the sun but from an argument gone on too long, longed to quench his thirst with the fine whiskey within its four walls.

Good God, Francis! I’m not some wee toddler any longer. I know my own mind!

But ye would deny yer heart, he shot back, sounding more like the lordly earl than the doting brother she usually faced. And he’d managed it despite the sentimental emotion of his words.

And you would deny me my choice.

A short bark of laughter had Fiona looking back at Vin and Richard who were following close behind. It was Richard who had laughed but Vin was shaking his head in bemusement.

Blossom, you are an intelligent lass, smart as a whip. But I could pick a husband for you this very moment with far more consideration than I believe you have given to the matter.

Pick one for me? she parroted, laughing incredulously. Well, thank God this isn’t the Middle Ages!

But her brother didn’t join her laughter. None of them did. Glenrothes shook his head tiredly. You want to marry him? Truly?

Yes.

Then I will agree...

Grinning with satisfaction, Fiona beamed at him while Vin and Richard gawked at Glenrothes incredulously. How could they be so surprised, she wondered. Didn’t they know Francis always let her have her way?

"If, Glenrothes added, bursting her bubble. He will agree to an engagement of one year. A year to prove that that you didn’t make this decision in haste and to make sure it’s the right one."

A year? Fiona gaped. That’s ludicrous.

Or traditional, Richard said with a shrug. Depending on how you look at it.

This family has never managed a year-long engagement! Fiona shook her head, dumbfounded. You’re balmy on the crumpet. All of you.

Mayhap that’s what happens when you start having your babies past thirty, Vin said softly as they reached the tee box for the eighteenth hole and Fiona cringed.

Vin might forgive easily, but his temper could spike just as quickly and flare hotter, too. Baiting him was like poking a tiger and she usually tended to refrain from doing just that.

Unfortunately, when she was angry, she tended to speak without thought, though usually didn’t regret what she said—but perhaps she had gone too far. She chewed her lip. Was this their way of punishing her for her flippant tongue?

This is ridiculous. I don’t want to wait a year.

Or... Glenrothes went on. If it’s a husband you want more than Ramsay himself—and given the madness of your decision, I have to think that is the case—then find another suitor who will convince me that your future will at least be a happy one.

She eyed him suspiciously. Another suitor? How do you suggest I do that? Let’s face it, if Donovan Ramsay is not acceptable, another Season in Edinburgh is not going to produce another eligible bachelor for me to consider.

We’ll go to London for the Season.

Horror seized Fiona’s insides, freezing her mind and taking her breath. London? she gasped, shaking her head vehemently. No.

Three sets of male brows shot up in surprise. Clearly none of them were expecting such a flat rebuttal.

Why not? You’ve always wanted to have one, haven’t you? Vin asked.

I did. When I was seventeen!

We had already been planning on taking you down to London for the Ladies’ Open... Glenrothes went on.

I told you, I withdrew, she said quickly.

I believe Hobbes might have withheld the letter from the post just in case it was sent in haste, he told her. A London Season will expose you to a whole new crop of bachelors.

Bachelors? She scoffed inwardly. A Season would expose her to much more than that.

No.

Glenrothes sighed. A year then. If Ramsay will wait that long.

I doubt it, Richard murmured under his breath.

Damn, Fiona thought. Caught between a rock and an even harder place. It was not a comfortable place. Three months.

A year.

Six months, she countered. A compromise, Francis.

Here’s my compromise, her brother said. "You go to London and show a concerted effort toward finding a more appropriate match. Concerted. If I feel you are doing your part and at the end of the Season you are still set on Ramsay..."

And he is willing to wait on you, Richard reiterated.

Then I will consider his suit for a six-month engagement.

A wait of a year or a Season? Neither was a palatable option for her.

But the Season is almost over, she stammered, scrambling for an excuse.

Not true at all. Indeed, it had hardly begun, but the simple fact of the matter was that the Season in London was always almost over even as it began. But there had to be something, some excuse that would confine her time in London to a golf course and keep her from the ballrooms.

What of Eve? Surely she shouldn’t be traveling so soon after Alice’s birth?

Glenrothes just waited, ignoring her excuses.

From the end of the Season? she clarified and her brother nodded in turn. No, I’ll be twenty-one come September. Let me wed then and you have a deal.

He nodded again but added a caveat. But a true effort, Blossom. You will partake of the Season fully and allow acceptable gentlemen to court you with an open mind.

Oh, I’ll be the belle of the ball, Francis, Her voice was as cold as the dread that ran like ice through her veins. I will simper, giggle, and mince with the best of them, but in the end,  things will still be as I planned and you will have done little more than waste my time and theirs.

You might be surprised, he countered. I think you’ll find that you have options where you might least expect them.

* * *

Fiona turned without another word and stalked off the green. The sharp spikes of her shoes sank into the low grass as she left them behind, but instead of heading for the clubhouse, she left the fairway entirely steering herself blindly toward the pair of carriages awaiting them beyond.

Waving a waiting footman aside when he rushed forward to help her, she carried her heavy rattan golf bag herself, if only to prove a point to the trio of men she knew were still watching her.

Her brothers might think that they could get medieval with her but Fiona had never