The Lass Who Lost a Shoe Lee, Caroline (great novels .TXT) 📖

planted his hands on his hips as he studied his new friend incredulously. “You’re dressed in King Arthur’s cast-offs, and you think I need to be more comfortable? How do you expect to dance in that?”

“Och, this isnae complete plate armor.” Roland smacked his fist against the breastplate he wore. “I can move around just fine.” The way he waggled his hips left no confusion as to what kind of moving he meant. “The ladies willnae mind me being a bit harder in some places than usual.”

Chuckling, Max crossed the room, stopping to pound a fist into his friend’s armor-covered shoulder as he went. “You look like a relic, friend.”

“And ye look like a savage American, newly arrived in our fine Highlands.”

“Och, weel,” Max quipped, trying his best to mimic the thick accents he’d gotten used to in his time on Oliphant Land, “I suspect I’ll no’ fit in, nae matter how I look.”

Besides, “Savage American” fit him much better than the life he’d been leading since this Prince brother had taken him under his wing.

As Roland stepped in front of the mirror to adjust the fit of his helmet, Max reached for the hat he’d worn on the steamship from New York. It had been the trip of a lifetime, and sometimes he still felt as if he were living a dream. Imagine him, plain old Max, rubbing elbows with actual lords—lairds—and ladies. Taking tea and scones and making small talk in a real castle.

Roland Prince was a good man, and as friendly as Max himself was. He’d taken Max under his wing, and the two had become fast friends. But as the second son of the laird, Roland had responsibilities and training of his own Max couldn’t even imagine.

After tonight, after this introductory ball was out of the way, he was looking forward to settling into a routine at Oliphant Engraving. He’d already toured it, many times, and felt he understood the process well enough to handle the big picture and leave the mechanics—gears and levers and the little fiddly engraving—to men who were better suited to handle them.

He was itching to get started.

With a firm nod, Max settled his hat—a genuine cowboy’s hat—atop his curls. He’d enjoyed the fun Roland had shown him these last weeks, but he was ready to get to work.

“Ye ken I’ll no’ be the only knight here tonight, aye?” Roland asked, clanking his way toward the door. “Knights and such are prime choices for a masquerade, especially when ye live in a drafty auld castle with suits of armor moldering in every corner.”

He knocked his fist against the wallpaper in his bedroom as Max followed him through the door but didn’t stop on his way to the corridor.

Max, knowing Newfincy Castle—which the locals pronounced to rhyme with infancy—had been built only two generations ago and contained every modern convenience his own father’s house had back in Wyoming, snorted. “Yeah, that sounds like you, Roland. Willing to pour yourself into a moldering suit of armor, just to save your family the necessity of buying a new costume. You probably didn’t even clean it out first, did you?” he drawled, making a show of lifting one of Roland’s arms. “Is that mouse shit in your armpit?”

With a mild curse, his friend yanked his arm out of his grasp and made a show of smoothing down the armor. “It is no’ mouse shite, thank ye verra much.”

“Ah. Bat shit then? From the moldering?”

“Och, ye’re impossible. I had this breastplate scoured last time I had to wear it to a masquerade, I’ll have ye ken. Aye, I’ve worn the costume already, but no’ to an Oliphant Ball, and I could no’ pass up the chance to do so.” His visor was still up, so Max could see when he winked. “The ladies love a man in uniform.”

“I’ll bet. Because of the hardness,” Max managed with a straight face.

Another wink. “Aye.”

All the Oliphants—hell, probably most everyone in the Highlands—knew this particular Prince brother was a charmer. He was handsome too, even more handsome than Max’s older brother, Roy, Jr., who’d prided himself on his golden good looks. But where Roy, Jr. had been cruel to young Max, it was hard to imagine Roland being anything but kind and amiable.

Max had arrived in Scotland with a carpetbag and a letter of introduction from Andrew Prince, his friend from Everland, Wyoming. The older man was the wealthy owner of Prince Armory back in the states, but Max had been surprised to discover he’d also owned a business abroad.

Apparently, generations ago, the Oliphant lairds had planted a stand of walnut trees and founded an engraving school. Three generations ago, the laird’s daughter had married a man named Prince, which led to the current laird and his sons bearing the last name “Prince.” It had also resulted in the grove of trees going to Andrew Prince, despite him living in America.

The older man, with a shrewd business sense, had known limited supply would drive up prices of his already sought-after custom firearms, so he’d begun to produce the rifle stocks and revolver handles from the few walnut trees he had cut down and dried each year. And since the Oliphant engravers had developed a reputation across the continent for their art, he’d built a small factory to create and decorate the receivers and plaques and custom grips for his firearms.

The fact the components had to be shipped across the Atlantic only made the eventual custom firearm that much dearer. A genuine work of art, which he was paid top dollar for. And Prince had also been willing to pay Max DeVille—a man he trusted—to travel to Scotland to oversee and manage Oliphant Engraving so the older man could focus on his grandchildren and new wife in Everland.

It was humbling to Max, but exciting as well.

Yeah, Max had arrived in the Highlands as only a simple cowboy, but thanks to weeks under Roland’s tutelage, he was a bit more now. He owned