Drop It Like It's Scot (The Hots for Scots Book 5)

by Caroline Lee

  Alistair hummed. “It seemed Moira’s housekeeping skills are flagging.”

  “What do ye mean?” His brother’s voice had dropped to a murmur, as if sensing danger. But when he stepped up beside Alistair, and saw the bucket, he snorted a laugh. “Do ye think ‘tis full of water?”

  “If our brothers set this up, and who else would have, ‘tis likely full of piss.”

  From inside the room came Kiergan’s—definitely Kiergan’s—call. “What’s taking ye so long?”

  “Och, there appears to be a bit of trouble out here,” Alistair said in a conversational tone, watching the room now. All he could see from that angle was part of the window and the end of his cot.

  From inside the room came a muffled chuckle, which was quickly hushed.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Alistair caught Rocque’s gaze and rolled his eyes. “We appear to be beset by either an inept housekeeper, or a roving band of wee lads with naught better to do than set up stupid traps.”

  Footsteps. “What do ye mean?” came Kiergan’s innocent question, moments before Alistair saw his twin’s shadow through the opening.

  Counting under his breath, Alistair knew he had to time this perfectly. At the moment he saw his brother’s kilt swing into view, Alistair gave a mighty shove to the oak door, then stepped backward.

  As he’d planned, the bucket—St. Elzear hope ‘twas just water—came splashing down with the violent removal of its supporting door. Fortunately for Alistair, he was out of range of the splash. Unfortunately for his twin, Kiergan wasn’t.

  As the door swung open, Alistair and Rocque got a good view of Kiergan jumping back from the liquid with a curse and their other three brothers chuckling at the sight. Duncan was seated in Alistair’s usual chair, Finn was lounging on the cot, and Malcolm stood with a flagon in his hands by the hearth.

  Raking them all with a glare, Alistair stepped over the puddle, kicked the bucket toward his twin, then stomped into the room. “Was there a reason for this invasion, or did ye just call for the meeting to try to get my head wet?”

  Kiergan was examining his boots, though unfortunately, it looked as if the man had managed to stay mostly dry. “Mayhap we thought ye needed a bath.”

  “Oooh,” rumbled Rocque, peering at the bucket. “When ye said Moira’s housekeeping skills are flagging, ye meant the bucket.”

  He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the smithy, was he?

  Duncan rolled his eyes. “Aye, Rocque, she’d have to be seriously flagged to leave a bucket full of water atop a door.”

  “I thought so,” Rocque said with a nod, then headed for his twin. “Did ye bring enough ale for everyone?”

  Malcolm jerked his thumb toward the flagon on the mantel. “Nay, just ye.”

  “Excellent. Dinnae think I missed the fact ye were all missing from this morning’s training.”

  “I was with Fiona,” Finn offered as explanation. “She’s still puking her guts out each morning.”

  “I was at the smithy,” Duncan said with an unapologetic shrug.

  Malcolm looked abashed. “I just overslept, sorry. Wee Tomas is teething and had us up most of the night.”

  “I thought they’d moved into the nursery?” Alistair asked, as he reached his desk and began rolling up parchments to store in the cubbyholes along the wall.

  “Aye, they are. But when the laddie wants his mother, naught can be done except to let the poor thing sleep with us—or dinnae sleep with us, as was the case last night.”

  Rocque took a draft of the ale and raised a brow at Kiergan. “What’s yer excuse for no’ joining us for sparring?”

  Kiergan shrugged, grinning unabashedly. “I’m lazy as sin and had better things to do?”

  “Is ‘better things’ a euphemism for fooking Minnie in the chapel again?” Malcolm asked.

  “First of all, I have nae idea what you-feminism means.” Kiergan wiped his hands against his kilt and sauntered for the desk. “Second of all, now that Father Ambrose is settling in, he’s made the chapel his domain, and ‘tis nae longer a good place for assignations.”

  “Because, as he claims,” interrupted Malcolm, crossing himself piously and raising his eyes to the Heavens as he lowered his voice in an impression of the unusual priest, “Doth the Holy Books no’ tell us ‘tis a sin to no’ be paying attention to my sermon and instead be thinking of fornication, I can tell all ye bastards are thinking it right now, dinnae pretend otherwise, now drag yer eyes away from her tits and listen to what I’m saying!”

  Finn grinned. “I dinnae remember Father Stephen sharing such interesting Bible passages with us.”

  “Aye,” his twin grunted. “Surely I’d remember if fornication was mentioned.”

  Things were getting off topic.

  “And third?” Alistair asked drily.

  When his brothers looked at him, he stifled a sigh. “Kier had a first-of-all and a second-of-all for missing sparring this morning, so…?”

  “So third,” Kiergan declared, swiping a scroll up and brandishing it triumphantly, “I was busy with this.”

  “This?” Rocque repeated.

  “Plans for Da’s birthday celebration.”

  Well, that hadn’t been what Alistair had expected to hear. He propped one hip against the desk, folded his arms across his chest, and raised a brow at his twin. “What?”

  “Da turns fifty in a sennight, aye? Well, this morning he and I sat down—with a few others—to decide how to celebrate.”

  Growing up, Da had never been big on celebrating the anniversary of his—or anyone’s—birth. With six lads, all born so close together, ‘twas hard to celebrate many things. Finn and Duncan’s mother had married the smith in the village, so they had a second family with whom to celebrate. Rocque and Malcolm’s mother’s father had banished her to a distant croft when it became obvious she was pregnant, and when the twins finally made their way back to Oliphant Castle, they didn’t know their exact date of birth.

  Alistair and Kiergan knew theirs, as they had been born right there in the castle to a kitchen maid who’d died giving them life. Moira had been the housekeeper even then, and she’d done her best to help Da raise them. Still, ‘twas impossible to deny the frustrations of caring for six lads all at once.

  And, as Da was fond of saying, he wasnae even sure he’d found all of his bastards.

  But, the man had been laird of this clan for almost thirty years, had made a hell-spawned marriage to a harpy in order to keep the clan safe, and had raised the seven of them—his bastards and his legitimate daughter, Nessa—mostly alone. So if he wanted a birthday celebration, he’d get one.

  “So?” Duncan prompted. “What’s the plan?”

  Kiergan slapped the scroll against his opposite palm. “Da wants the celebration to be in a fortnight. Music, dancing…the whole nine yards.”

  Finn sat up. “The whole nine yards of what?”

  Kiergan shrugged. “A kilt? I assumed that’s what he meant. I mean, what else uses nine yards of material?”

  “No’ a fooking kilt, man.” Duncan shook his head.

  “A fooking kilt?” Finn repeated. “Are there non-fooking kilts? Personally, ‘tis my Fiona’s favorite part of our unique dress.” He slid out a booted foot and cast an admiring glance at his own thighs. “Kilts are easy to flip up and foo—”

  “I dinnae mean it like that!” Duncan scowled. “I just meant… Do ye even ken how long nine yards is? ‘Tis too long for a kilt.”

  Rocque lifted his flagon. “Remember Auld Marvin? He was fat enough that it might’ve taken nine yards for his kilt.”

  His brothers pursed their lips in consideration, then one-by-one shrugged and nodded.

  “Och, he was practically spherical,” Malcolm admitted.

  “Aright, so Da wants a new kilt?” Finn prompted.

  “With nine yards, ye could make him two new kilts,” Duncan muttered.

  And Alistair shook his head. “Let us assume Da just meant he wanted a
grand celebration, aye? Can we move on?”

  “Certainly.” Kiergan winked. “Lara is in charge of the menu. Ye ken she and Cook will come up with something wonderful, aye?’

  Since his twin was looking right at him, Alistair nodded in answer. Aye, Lara was young, and few Oliphant realized what a genius she was when it came to combining flavors, but somehow, Alistair had been made aware of it. Oh, aye, ‘twas over the winter when Kiergan—who was friends with the lass—had sat him down and let Lara feed them.

  The memory of the lass’s berry tarts was enough to require an extra Hail Mary as penance.

  Another memory assailed him; one he’d prefer to forget. At Malcolm’s wedding celebration, he’d watched Kiergan laughing with Lara, and the ale had loosened Alistair’s tongue enough for him to blurt out, “Why do the two of ye no’ just get married already?”

  His twin had been surprised and claimed Lara was naught but a friend to him. And Lara…? Lara had blushed and claimed her heart lay elsewhere.

  Hearing the sweet lass, his younger sister’s best friend, was in love with a man…it had struck him like a blow to the gut. Or mayhap that ‘twas the ale as well. Either way, he’d been looking at her differently since then.

  She was no longer the little girl who’d tagged after Alistair and his brothers growing up. She’d become a woman.

  Kiergan was still peering at him intently, so Alistair gave himself a mental shake and frowned at his twin. “Aye, she is a creative baker and will make sure Da’s menu is superb.”

  “She’s a hell of a fine cook too,” Kiergan said, his gaze intense, as if daring Alistair to say otherwise, “but her tarts are the best I’ve tasted.”

  “Aye,” Rocque called out. “I’d no’ mind putting them into my mouth any day.”

  His twin scoffed. “Ye’re married and should no’ be admiring any woman’s ‘tarts.’ ”

  Rocque looked confused. “This isnae one of those you-feminisms ye were talking about earlier, is it?”

  Aye. They’re speaking of her tits.

  Alistair wanted to say the words, but for some reason, the thought of putting Lara’s tits—tarts—in his mouth had made his throat go dry.

  “And the rest of it?” asked Finn from where he sat on the cot, his elbows on his knees.

  Kiergan shrugged and slapped the scroll against his palm once more. “Da was verra clear about that too. Someone’s got to arrange for the merriment and the decorations and oversee the menu.”

  “So let Lara do that. Or her mam,” Rocque pointed out.

  “Lara could, of course, but Moira’s far too busy keeping the rest of the household running, and Da wanted one of us to oversee things.” Kiergan explained.

  A sinking feeling in his belly, Alistair straightened from the desk. “Who?” he asked coldly.

  “Well, Da kens that Duncan’s busy in the forge, and of course Rocque, as commander, has enough responsibility. And Mal and Finn, with their growing families, are too distracted.”

  Now, Alistair dropped his hands to his side and stepped toward his twin. “And ye?” he growled.

  “Me?” Kiergan blinked innocently. “Oh, Da kens I’m far too busy doing—doing…”

  When he trailed off, Malcolm snorted. “Doing Minnie? Elizabeth? Rachel?”

  “Doing things,” Kiergan finished with a smirk. “Also, Elizabeth’s auld enough to be my mother.”

  “Has that stopped ye before?”

  “So if ‘tis nae ye or me or Mal or Dunc or Finn…who’s in charge of the celebration?” rumbled Rocque, and from the corner of his eyes, Alistair saw Duncan roll his eyes and drop his head into his palm.

  Kiergan smiled and brandished the scroll toward Alistair. “Da kens the best way to get something done is to give it to someone who is already used to running things.”

  Finn pushed himself to his feet. “He’s making Alistair do it? Does he no’ do enough?”

  Alistair’s twin brother held his angry gaze and shrugged languidly. “Mayhap Da feels as though Alistair needs to be doing something else instead.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Alistair growled.

  He knew his twin wasn’t mean-spirited. He knew Kiergan had plenty to offer the clan besides just his skill at pleasuring women. But at that moment, Alistair wanted naught more than for Kiergan to laugh, and admit it had been another joke, like the bucket of water. He wanted Kiergan to confess Da had asked him to plan the celebration, and he’d finally be helping to take some of the weight off Alistair’s shoulders.

  Kiergan didn’t.

  Instead, he smiled and waggled the scroll in Alistair’s face. “It means, brother dear, that ye and Lara will be working together to ensure Da’s celebration is a success.”

  Working with Lara?

  And the order had come from the Oliphant, so there was naught Alistair could say against it. Now that the trade agreements were all signed, and the harvest rotations seemed settled, he’d been looking forward to a fortnight of less duties. Mayhap he could focus on training more, or finally go for the morning rides he’d been missing.

  Or find yerself a lass and fook some of this frustration out of yer system.

  But nay. He’d be planning a birthday celebration instead.

  Muttering something unflattering, he snatched the scroll out of his twin’s hand and unrolled it. Aye, he’d be working with Lara for the next fortnight, and for some reason, the knowledge he didn’t have time for this nonsense suddenly didn’t seem quite so bad.

  And that, in itself, was a bad sign.

  “Shite.”

  Chapter 2

  Chicken would be special.

  Not that chicken itself was special, but the fact so many animals would have to be sacrificed for the meal, as opposed to slaughtering just one hog to feed the Oliphants.

  Lara frowned at the slate in her hand, absent-mindedly doodling along the margin. What would go well with chicken? Nay, before she got to side-dishes, she’d have to determine how to prepare the chick—

  “The light’s better over here.”

  Nessa’s announcement caused Lara to startle, and she smiled sheepishly at her best friend. “Nay, I’m no’ really making a list, just brainstorming.”

  “Brain-what-ing?” Nessa was sitting in her favorite chair beside the open window, working on her embroidery.

  “Brain-storming, ye ken? ‘Tis one of my mother’s words. Floofing a bunch of thoughts together in yer mind like a storm and seeing what comes out of it.”

  “Ah.” Nessa nodded, her attention on a particular stitch. “Like Malcolm’s idea of ‘throwing a bunch of ideas at the wall and seeing what sticks.’”

  Leaning back on her stool, Lara tried to maintain her balance as she stretched. “But that bit of nonsense made less sense. Have ye ever thrown bread dough at a wall? It sticks, and ‘twould no’ be a good idea to use it afterward.”

  Her best friend looked up long enough to cock a brow in Lara’s direction. “Oh?” Nessa hummed. “And how often have ye wasted perfectly good bread dough to test this theory?”

  “Have ye met me? I dinnae waste food at all.” Lara patted her curves good-naturedly, then shook her head. “ ’Twas my mam doing the throwing, and my brother doing the ducking.”

  “Brohn?” Nessa’s question was a little too high-pitched, a little too fast. She ducked her head once more, but Lara saw her friend’s blush.

  She’d known Nessa since they were both wee lassies. Lara’s mother had come to the keep as the housekeeper and worked beside her husband, the steward. Lara’s father had died shortly before her first birthday, and Moira had raised her and her older brother, Brohn—and most of the Oliphant bastards and Nessa too—alone.

  Although Nessa was a result of the laird’s only marriage, neither Lara nor Nessa remembered Glynnis, Lady Oliphant, but there were enough stories about the sharp-tongued harpy to make them both glad they’d had Moira instead. The housekeeper could be a terror when riled, but she cared deeply for her own children and Lair
d William’s children as well.

  Brohn was close friends with the Oliphant bastards and had recently been made Rocque’s second-in-command and was given his apartment in the barracks when Rocque moved in with Merewyn in the village. Lara’s brother was crowing about his good fortune, but Nessa was moping about it.

  Hmm.

  “Aye, Brohn,” Lara said slowly, straightening once more and placing the slate down on the table in front of her. “He’d been teasing Mam and Cook about something.”

  Nessa sighed, her gaze on her embroidery, even though she didn’t make a stitch. “He used to be such a horrible tease.”

  There had been a time when Brohn had teased Nessa as much as he’d teased his own little sister. But that was before he realized Nessa had grown up. Lara knew for a fact her brother one day looked at Nessa—gorgeous and vibrant and giving absolutely zero fooks about what everyone else thought was proper—and saw not just his little sister’s best friend, but, well, Nessa.

  And Nessa had always been half in love with Brohn, the same way Lara was half in love with one of Nessa’s brothers.

  Damnation. She’d doodled tiny penises all around the slate’s border again.

  In order to distract herself as she hurriedly wiped away the chalk marks, she blurted, “So…any updates on the no’-wanting-to-get-married situation?”

  She could hear the scowl in her friend’s voice when Nessa said, “Da is working on another marriage contract.”

  “Already? Henry Stewart isnae yet cold in his grave.”

  Nessa scoffed and stabbed at the linen in her hands. “Think that matters to Da? He’s determined to marry me off to some distant Henry. He’s already had Alistair send a letter to the Campbells.”

  “I thought ye’d already been betrothed to a Henry Campbell?” Lara asked, as she dusted off her hands.

  “Aye, but apparently there’s another Henry Campbell the family doesnae like too much, since they’re willing to marry him off to me.”

  Lara shook her head and stood. “Dinnae say that. Eventually ye’ll catch a Henry who doesnae die before the wedding ceremony.”