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

by Caroline Lee

  He brushed away her concern with a smile as they slowly made their way across the rush-covered floor. “Merewyn’s a healer, no’ a witch, Aunt Agatha. And I’m no’ sick.”

  “Ye look it,” she muttered. “Verra piqued.”

  Did he? Well, he wasn’t about to admit he’d spent the last few hours pacing in his solar, wondering how in the hell he was going to convince Lara to marry him. Because to his surprise, he very much wanted to marry her. He needed a wife, and a perfectly acceptable candidate had been under his nose this entire time.

  “I’m not piqued, Aunt,” he corrected her. “I’m squinting, trying to figure out who Da’s speaking to.”

  “Ye cannae tell?” The old woman pulled to a halt and cackled happily. “Ye cannae see the skirts peeking out around his big arse?”

  Frowning in concentration, Alistair peered across the hall, trying to see what his aunt had seen. For certes, there were skirts between Da and the wall; the laird had a lass trapped and appeared to be murmuring to her.

  Nay, not a lass. When William Oliphant finally straightened, Alistair smiled. ‘Twas Moira.

  The housekeeper was flushed and smiling. And then, as if the two of them were alone in the busy hall, Moira slapped at the laird’s arm and laughed, which set her ample curves jiggling. The laird reached out to grab her, but she darted away, both of them chuckling.

  Alistair hummed and glanced down at his great-aunt. “It seems yer Ghost is at work again.”

  The old woman threw her head back and laughed, which he’d expected. The Ghostly Drummer of Oliphant Castle was a legend much older than either of them, but Aunt Agatha was the one who’d done her best to propagate the story in recent years. And, Alistair had to admit, the Ghost had become much more active over the last decade.

  The legend said the Ghost wandered the castle, and anyone who was unlucky enough to hear him would be doomed. Aunt Agatha’s version of the story claimed they’d be doomed to fall in love.

  “Doomed!” she cackled gleefully. “Willie is dooooomed!”

  So his great-aunt shared his suspicions about Da and Moira’s relationship. Not only that, but she assumed they were in love.

  Interesting.

  “And how about ye, laddie?” she suddenly asked, pinching him. “Have ye heard the drummer lately?”

  “No’ lately, Aunt,” he murmured, bowing his head in acknowledgement. Oh, he’d heard an unexplained drumming sound a few times during the last years, but naught would convince him the castle was haunted.

  “Hmm. ‘Tis a pity. Ye need a wife.”

  “I dinnae need to be doomed to fall in love in order to find a wife, Aunt Agatha.”

  She cocked her head and studied him drily. “Do ye no’? Then mayhap ye are one of daftest of yer brothers. Now, let go of me so I can go find my seat.”

  Since she was the one holding onto him, Alistair didn’t respond. Instead, he watched her hobble toward her customary chair as he thought on her words.

  Did he have to be in love in order to find a wife? His brothers had all found happiness with their wives. He wanted to be happy, but more importantly, he wanted to be laird.

  Didn’t he?

  “What has ye frowning so fiercely, lad?”

  Alistair started, surprised by how quietly his father had moved up beside him. Or mayhap he’d just been too distracted.

  “Naught, Da.” He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Just thinking about…things which must be done.”

  Such as convincing Lara to marry him.

  But his father clucked his tongue. “Och, lad, I thought ye were finally learning how to relax. Ye’ve been different these past few days.”

  Ever since he’d made love to Lara. Nay, since she’d come to him in his solar and showed him how freeing it could be to give up control.

  When he didn’t answer, his father shook his head. “I ken ye’re worried what’ll happen next year when yer brothers’ wives start popping out my grandbairns, aye?”

  That hadn’t been what Alistair had been thinking about, but if that’s what Da wanted to discuss… “Aye?”

  The laird clapped a hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “Being laird isnae all ‘tis talked up to be, lad. It’s hard work and exhausting sometimes. ‘Tis why I was happy to turn the responsibility over to ye.” He sighed. “But I shouldnae have.”

  Alistair jerked under his father’s hand. “What?”

  Did Da regret giving him the opportunity?

  “I should’ve split the responsibility between yer brothers, Alistair.” Da shook his head wearily. “It shouldnae have fallen on yer shoulders exclusively. Finn is good with the trade agreements, but ye have enough to handle—”

  “I’m delegating.” When his father swung a surprised glance his way, Alistair suddenly felt a little awkward. “ ’Twas recently pointed out to me that Kiergan could do with some more responsibility around here. He’ll be handling the clan’s correspondence for the foreseeable future.”

  Da grunted in approval and patted Alistair’s shoulder. “Good lad. Good.” His gaze drifted toward the gathered family and clan members who were settling down in their usual seats to be served the evening meal. Moira and the other servants bustled between them. “Carrying that much on yer shoulders ‘tisnae wise,” he murmured. “A man needs the chance to find his own happiness, aye?”

  Alistair followed his father’s gaze to where Moira was laughing at something Finn had just said. “Da,” he began hesitantly, not sure how to ask the question. “Have ye…found happiness?”

  The laird sighed again, then tugged at his beard. “In a way, aye.”

  “I ken yer marriage wasnae ideal—”

  “ ’Twas made in hell, if that’s what ye’re being too polite to mention.” He shook his head again. “Calling Glynnis a harpy is rude to harpies, but she gave me yer sister, and I’ll be forever grateful for that.”

  Grateful enough, he kept trying to marry the poor lass off to distant Henrys. But that’s not what he wanted to ask Da about. Aunt Agatha’s accusation was still on his mind.

  “I ken ye were in love once, Da. But yer marriage to Glynnis…”

  “Thinking about yer own future, eh?” The laird folded his arms across his chest. “Aye, I was in love once. Flora. A bonny MacVanish lass. Her father was against us marrying; he wanted to use her to make an alliance with a stronger clan. But Flora and I…” Behind his beard, his lips twitched sadly. “Ye cannae stand in the way of true love. If she hadnae died, I would’ve married her and lived a happy life.” He cut his eyes toward his son. “Of course, then ye and yer brothers wouldn’t be here.”

  ‘Twas common knowledge among the clan—and even farther afield—that when Laird Oliphant had lost his love, he’d consoled himself in the arms of more than a few wenches. Alistair and Kiergan had been born first, right here in the castle, and the other two sets of twins had followed.

  But that wasn’t what Alistair was asking. “Since ye lost Flora, could ye imagine finding love again? Mayhap with Glynnis?”

  Da snorted. “No’ with her. But then, I didnae expect to. Her da offered her as a political alliance, and I accepted, kenning I needed an heir. When she died without giving me a living son, I swore never again. I had ye and yer brothers, and Nessa, and I wouldnae risk tying myself to another bitch like Glynnis.”

  “But”—Alistair’s gaze slid back toward Moira—“have ye found happiness again? Especially since ye’ve given up so many of the headaches of being laird?”

  Da glanced at him, saw where he was looking, and smiled. A genuine smile, one bright enough to be seen through that bush of a beard he wore.

  “Och. Well, lad…” He dropped his arms, then slammed a hand down on Alistair’s shoulder. “I’ve found a certain kind of happiness. Mayhap no’ the same as when I was young and in love, but there’s something to be said about a woman who makes ye laugh and smile and feel good inside, aye? One who wants to take care of ye and make ye the best man ye can be.”

  Al
istair considered his father’s words. “I think I ken what ye mean. ‘Tis a different kind of love.”

  “Aye. But—and this is me aulder and wiser here, saying this—‘tis better. What I had with Flora, aye, that kind of love burned bright and hot.” His gaze crept back to Moira. “But the other kind—the caring, the learning to rely on each other and valuing one another’s thoughts—that kind of love can come with heat too, but ‘tis more. That’s the sort of love that will last for a verra, verra long time.”

  Watching his father watch Moira, Alistair felt emotion clogging his throat. He’d never assumed his father had loved his mother—all his brothers knew Da had only been using their mothers in his grief. Finn and Dunc’s mam still lived in the village, married to the blacksmith, and her relationship with the laird was cordial, but naught more.

  The only time he’d seen his father in a real relationship had been with that bitch, Glynnis, and the poor man had been pitied more than aught else.

  But now…?

  Da’s eyes followed Moira’s movements as the woman moved to teasing wee Liam, who was trying to grab at a tart. When she smiled, Da did too.

  “Ye deserve to be happy, Da,” he murmured.

  “Aye! I do. ‘Tis almost my birthday, ye ken.” The laird cleared his throat. “Now, enough of this imparting of my great wisdom! Let’s go eat.” He slapped a big hand on his son’s shoulder, then took off toward the laird’s chair.

  While considering the bits of fatherly wisdom he’d just received, Alistair trailed after him.

  The week following the disastrous encounter with Alistair, when he asked her to marry him, was one of the longest in Lara’s life.

  Disastrous? Worst in yer life? Are ye no’ being a bit melodramatic?

  Well, aright. The week she found out the Oliphant bastards—including Alistair—had to get married—that had been a horrible week.

  And the week when she’d eaten those raw oysters, despite being suspicious they were no’ as fresh as the merchant had claimed, and had been unable to quit puking long enough to beg for mercy, that had been a horrible week.

  Oh, or the week when she’d gotten her first menses, and had been certain the devil and all his little demons were playing a pipe-and-drum parade across her lower back, that had been a horrible week.

  And let us not forget the week when Brohn had tricked her into rubbing nettles across her arms and shoulders, telling her ‘twould make her smell good to the lads, and she’d been inflamed and red and in pain for days—

  Actually, that one wasn’t so bad, because she’d gotten back at her older brother by putting soap in his stew.

  Heh.

  Still, this week was among the worst she’d ever experienced. If she would’ve been able to just hide in her chamber, or the kitchens, or even the great hall, and avoid Alistair, it might’ve been one thing. But nay, she had to actually see the man; sit with him, talk to him…and not touch him.

  Blessed Virgin, but the not touching part was the hardest of all.

  She wasn’t certain how she made it through those meetings with him, discussing his father’s birthday celebration. She sat on that same stool, the stool she’d moved to his side of the desk the afternoon she’d helped him relax, and ‘twas impossible not to sit there and think of that day.

  Or the evening they’d spent in her bed.

  Or the afternoon he’d proposed marriage to her.

  Or the myriad of heated glances and breathless—

  Aye, impossible no’ to think of it apparently.

  They didn’t speak of those times, the kisses nor the lovemaking nor his cock. They didn’t bring up his erroneous assumptions that she’d had other lovers besides Treenis, nor did he ask who the man was whom she’d given her heart to. And they most definitely didn’t bring up his ill-thought-out marriage proposal.

  Instead, they talked about the birthday celebration. She was certain she could’ve handled the planning process alone, but she liked being with him. And she liked that—now that he’d turned the clan’s correspondence over to Kiergan—he had more time for rest.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t look more relaxed. Whenever she was with him, he seemed…awkward. He kept looking at her as if he couldn’t figure her out.

  As if he was confused.

  And that made her heart ache.

  She’d set out to make him laugh as often as possible, and oftentimes it worked. When he smiled or laughed, she felt as if she’d succeeded in taking care of him. He’d relax then, slumping back in his chair and asking her opinion or thoughts on something-or-other, and that gave them a chance to talk about all sorts of things.

  But never love-making. Nor marriage. Nor his father’s contest to determine who would become the next laird.

  Because bringing up any of that would likely cause her heart to break even further.

  “Why are ye in such a snit?”

  Lara jerked her attention away from her task—which she hadn’t been too successful at anyway—to glare over her shoulder at Nessa. “I’m no’ in a snit. Who says snit, honestly? And what in damnation is a snit anyhow?”

  “Damnation!” roared little Liam, who was playing with carved soldiers on the rug by the hearth in the women’s solar. “Damnation!” He made the sound of an explosion, and knocked over five little figures, as Nanny—the large, hairy hound who was his nursemaid—lifted her head and whuffed inquisitively.

  “Oh, excellent,” hissed Nessa, “ye taught him a new word!”

  Shaking her head, Lara turned back to wee Tomas, who was sitting in the chair in front of her, propped up by pillows. She was trying to get him to eat some of the mashed peaches she’d made, so he’d have something besides his mother’s milk, which he was always spitting up.

  “Liam,” she called over her shoulder, scooping up another small bite of the mashed baby food, “dinnae use that word. But if ye do, tell yer father ye learned it from Brohn, aright?”

  “Damnation, Brohn!”

  Nessa gasped, “Dinnae blame yer brother for yer own terrible vocabulary!”

  “Why no’?” Lara shrugged and waggled the spoon with a smile, adopting a sing-song tone. “He likely taught it to me, did he no’? Aye he did, he did. Open up for Auntie Lara’s peaches, angel.”

  “Yer brother is a saint, Lara Oliphant,” Nessa snapped from her chair where she was embroidering.

  “Nay, he isnae, and ‘tis glad ye are of the fact,” Lara teased, still trying to coax the bairn to open up.

  Her friend’s huff was enough to make Lara smile, knowing Nessa had all sorts of interesting feelings for Brohn, despite her father’s sixth betrothal contract with the second Henry Campbell still being negotiated.

  When the bairn finally opened his mouth, and she was able to push some of the mashed peaches inside, she felt like crowing with victory.

  “Lasses, stop bickering. Ye’re giving me a headache.” The command came from the opposite side of the room, where Lady Agatha sat knitting. “And Lara, ye have been in a snit. Spit it out.”

  As if he understood his great-great-aunt’s order, wee Tomas opened his mouth and pushed all of her hard work right down his chin.

  “Damnation,” she muttered, reaching for the rag she kept nearby for this very reason. Tomas was not a clean eater and would vomit with the least provocation. Still, he was a happy bairn, and that was enough to make her forgive him.

  “Lara, stop saying damnation,” snapped Agatha.

  “Daaaaammmmmmnnnnation!” called Liam. “Doooooooom!”

  “Och, well,” quipped Nessa, “I can see who he’s been listening to.”

  “Shut yer wind-flapper.” Agatha dropped her knitting to her lap with a sigh. “I’m never going to get these hand-stockings finished, am I? My fingers are half-frozen already. Lara, let that poor laddie go play with his brother. Liam, stop repeating naughty words. Nessa, Brohn is nae angel.”

  The three of them chorused, “Aye,” as Lara lifted Tomas down. The bairn crawled toward Liam’s toys.

>   “Now,” said Agatha with a satisfied sniff, “tell us what’s got ye so snitty, Lara.”

  “I am no’—”

  But Nessa rolled her eyes and began to fold her embroidery. "Ye seemed so happy after I sent ye off to chat with Alistair, but ye havenae been the same in the past week. What happened that day? What’s happened since then?"

  There was no way she could tell her best friend what had happened that day in Alistair’s solar. But…she did need some advice.

  So she folded her hands in her lap and directed her attention to them.

  “Alistair asked me to marry him,” she confessed quietly.

  The other two women were silent for long enough Lara risked a peek. Her best friend looked confused.

  “But…that’s a good thing, right? Ye’ve loved him for ages.”

  The way Agatha cocked her head and studied them told Lara the old woman must not have guessed. “Ye’ve heard the drummer then, lass?”

  The drummer? What did the Ghostly Drummer of Oliphant Castle have to do with—

  Oh.

  Lara just managed to keep from rolling her eyes when she recalled Lady Agatha’s theory about the drummer foretelling doooooom…dooming the listener to fall in love.

  “Aye, milady. I’ve heard the drummer.” Not recently, but she’d heard the pounding coming from the walls before.

  The old woman nodded in satisfaction. “Then I give ye permission to love my great-nephew. He’s a good lad.”

  “He is,” interrupted Nessa, “so why are ye so disappointed about him wanting to marry ye?”

  “Because I’m no’ sure he wants to marry me for me,” Lara whispered.

  “Ah.” Her best friend nodded. “Ye think he wants to win Da’s stupid ultimatum? That he’ll marry just anyone?”

  Nay, just anyone who lets him fook her.

  Unconsciously, she winced, knowing she wasn’t being fair to Alistair. What they’d done hadn’t been fooking—they’d made love. Twice. And he’d asked her to marry him because he wanted to take care of her. That had to count for something, did it no’?

  Unfortunately, Nessa had seen the wince. “What are ye no’ saying— Ah.”