It's Getting Scot in Here

by Suzanne Enoch

  “What the devil is a water diamond?” the viscount retorted, snorting.

  “It’s an expression,” Amelia-Rose returned. “My mother exaggerates, of course.”

  He lifted a straight eyebrow. “So ye’re nae a diamond?”

  “I’m … I have rarely wanted for a dance partner,” she stumbled. How did one explain a brag without sounding either too humble or too haughty?

  “Ye like to dance, then.”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” she exclaimed. Perhaps he was just nervous, too, and had less practice at polite conversation. Well, she excelled at conversation, and she’d been working on the polite part. “Especially the waltz. This Season has been mad with balls, and Lady Jenkins’s soiree had three waltzes. It was scandalous, but now everyone else wants to do the same. Do you dance, then, my lord?”

  “Nae if I can avoid it.”

  She caught her expression before it could fall. For heaven’s sake, he wasn’t even trying to be pleasant. “What do you enjoy then, my lord?”

  “What do I do that hasnae a purpose, ye mean? When I’m nae seeing the sheep sheared or the crops planted, the cotters fed, roofs repaired, and whatever else comes to my attention? I reckon I drink, and I curse, and I brawl. What do ye do that isnae for yer own enjoyment?”

  Amelia-Rose kept her lips tightly closed. What a rude, insufferable man. If her parents thought for one second that she wanted this … Highlander for her husband, in her bed, well, they were very, very mistaken. And they might as well realize that now. “I am n—”

  “Amelia-Rose,” her mother interrupted, “tell Lord Glendarril about the Sundays you’ve spent aiding the poor.” Victoria leaned forward, evidently unwilling to leave the explanation to her daughter. “On the third Sunday of every month our church donates clothing, shoes, and hats to the poor. Amelia-Rose always attends, helping women find the most charming ensembles. She is much beloved, I assure you.”

  That sounded horrid. Is that how her mother actually saw it—that she was helping underprivileged women play dress-up? “It’s not that frivolous,” she said in a low voice, forcing a smile.

  The gaslights along the front of the stage sparked into life, and the crowd below them tittered and quieted. It dawned on her that she didn’t even know which play they were here to see. Hopefully a comedy, something to lighten the mood and amuse the brute beside her. Because even though she’d resolved not to marry this man, she didn’t wish to sit next to a giant, angry Highlander for hours and hours.

  The curtains opened, and a single man in hose and doublet took center stage and began to speak.

  Two households, both alike in dignity,

  In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,

  From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

  Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.

  Oh, wonderful. Shakespeare. And not Much Ado About Nothing or A Midsummer Night’s Dream. No, Lady Aldriss had invited them to see Romeo and Juliet. Now she was meant to sit there and listen to a tale of misunderstanding, of families at war, of a love that ultimately ended in yet more misunderstandings, tragedy, and death. And during the intermission, she would no doubt be expected to be polite and charming while he would continue to glower and call her frivolous.

  “Dunnae faint yet, lass,” the mountain rumbled from beside her. “Tell me about the weather or someaught. Or what passes for weather here in the south.”

  The weather. That was what he thought of her, that she was just some simpering, empty-headed miss. Well. Her pony had just left this race. “I might, my lord, if I thought you would understand what ‘cumulous’ and ‘precipitation’ mean. Perhaps I should just say ‘rain wet’ or ‘sun warm.’ Or is that more than you expect of me? I could nod silently, of course, but then you wouldn’t have dialogue over which to bully me. ‘Dialogue.’ That means ‘words.’”

  Lord Glendarril’s jaw clenched, and he stood. In Gaelic he muttered something to his brother seated behind them, and then he shoved out through the curtains at the back of the box. “What was that?” Lady Aldriss asked quietly as the play continued below them. “I’m afraid I never learned much more than ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ in Gaelic.”

  “Coll went to find someaught to wet his whistle,” the other MacTaggert brother, Niall, replied after a beat. “He’ll be back shortly.”

  “He is fond of English beer,” Lady Aldriss said in a voice that sounded a bit too flippant, as if she’d realized what a disaster Amelia-Rose had just precipitated.

  The play below them continued, the men in the crowd roaring approval when the famous actress Persephone Jones took the stage as Juliet. Not everyone had eyes only for the onstage tragedy, though; Amelia-Rose could see the glint of opera glasses turned in her direction—or more specifically, at the chair beside hers.

  Having her almost-betrothed absent now was almost worse than having him glowering there beside her. Everyone knew they were to be a match. At least, all of her friends knew, and that meant everyone else likely knew as well. And what they saw was her, sitting there with an empty chair. Oh, dear.

  She’d done it again. Perhaps they should all leave, and later they could claim some unforeseen emergency had arisen to call them away. That would be better than her having to explain tomorrow why Lord Glendarril had vanished five minutes into the play and twenty minutes later hadn’t returned. Had he left? Was he coming back at all?

  She half turned to suggest an exit to her father, but then stopped when something rustled behind her. Abruptly the seat beside her wasn’t empty any longer. Stifling a sigh, annoyed with herself for being relieved that he’d returned when she’d already decided she didn’t like him, Amelia-Rose sent him a sideways glance and opened her mouth to apologize.

  “I couldnae see from back there,” the viscount’s brother Niall MacTaggert said from beside her. “Coll can boot me out when he gets back. If ye reckon ye dunnae mind me sitting here.”

  Considering that he lacked only an inch or two of his brother’s height, she “reckoned” he could see quite well from any spot in the theater. But he’d bothered to move, and in the dark no doubt one Highlander looked nearly like another to the theatergoers below. “He’s not coming back, is he?” she whispered back at him.

  She could feel those nearly colorless green eyes gazing at her. “Nae. Ye insulted his knowledge of the weather; that’s nae someaught ye do to a Highlander. We ken all the words for snow, and for rain. Precipitation, rather.”

  That, she hadn’t expected. At all. Her lips curved before she could catch her expression. “You heard that?”

  “Aye. I’ve been led to believe that all English lasses are soft and gentle and weepy and nae in the least bit contrary. Is that nae so?”

  “I…” She trailed off, swallowing. “I spoke too sharply,” she confessed, not certain why she was doing so.

  “Ye’re generally softer, then?”

  Amelia-Rose hesitated again. “I try to be,” she said, even though admitting such a thing couldn’t possibly benefit her. “I will apologize to him. This … he … took me somewhat by surprise.” No, she didn’t want Glendarril, but neither should she have chosen the least politic method to tell him so. She had put her own reputation in jeopardy—again.

  “There’s nae need. His leaving had naught to do with ye, truthfully. None of us knew till six days ago that he’d an obligation to marry a lass of Lady Aldriss’s choosing.”

  “It would have been nice if someone had mentioned that to me earlier,” she returned. “I didn’t have much notice, either, and you don’t see me stomping about or trying to encourage people to faint or cry.” Oh, she likely shouldn’t have said that, either.

  “Ye’ve a slightly better hold of yer temper than Coll does.”

  “A dragon would seem to have an easier temper than your brother,” she blurted, then put a hand over her mouth. What was wrong with her tonight?

  He snorted. “I cannae argue with that.” Niall MacTaggert leaned a breath closer. “Now. The lot of ye En
glish dunnae speak like those Montagues and Capulets on the stage, do ye? Because it sounds like frilly nonsense. I barely ken a word of it.”

  That made her grin again, and she lowered her hand. Her parents couldn’t see, so they couldn’t chastise her later for being frivolous after driving away her almost-beau. They had several other things to chastise her about, after all. “No. Saying hello would take far too long, and we’re all quite busy discussing the weather, you know.”

  For a second she worried that she’d gone too far again, but his amused expression only deepened. “Aye,” he returned. “We stopped on a hill above London, and all ye Sassenach looked like a colony of ants scurrying about. It was enough to make even a great, stout heart like mine shiver.”

  The idea of this big, well-muscled man being afraid of London made her chuckle. She’d expected a brute, and had found one in Coll MacTaggert. The brother, though, could at least carry on a conversation. Nor, at least for the moment, did he seem to find her “too free with her opinions” or “trying to pretend she was more than a silly girl,” as her mother frequently complained.

  Niall MacTaggert’s humor made her reassess his brother’s bullying. They couldn’t be so different after all, could they? Perhaps Lord Glendarril had merely been put back on his heels by this entire morass, and after another day or two to become accustomed to all this, he could be reasoned with. The idea did give her a little hope that they might find themselves on the same side—and thank goodness for a little hope. And for Niall MacTaggert.

  Chapter Three

  “Your brother is aware of the consequences of his actions, is he not?” Francesca snapped, shedding her gloves as Smythe the butler pulled open the front door of Oswell House.

  “Aye, he’s aware.” Niall had nothing to remove for the butler, but he paused in the grand foyer anyway. As much as he wanted to confront Coll, reasoning with his brother would have to wait until the woman who funded their livelihood stopped raging. Damn his brother anyway. The man had never wielded more than an ounce of patience.

  “Then just what does he expect I will—”

  “I said he’s aware,” Niall interrupted. “I’m here. Dunnae bellow at me. When I find him, then ye can yell at him.”

  “I…” Francesca took in a deep breath through her nose. “Yes. Do that. And inform your brother that he is taking Amelia-Rose to breakfast in the morning. That is decided. If he doesn’t, I will have to—”

  “He will,” Niall broke in again. “We didnae come all this way to lose Aldriss.”

  She looked at him for a moment, her green eyes assessing. Lasses. Just when he thought he had them all figured out, one of them stood up to Coll in admirable fashion.

  “Yes, you came to save Aldriss from my unforgiving claws, didn’t you?” Francesca said, handing her shawl to the butler, as well. “Then you’d best keep that in mind. Smythe, please have peppermint tea sent up to my bedchamber. Is Eloise home yet?”

  “Yes, my lady. She returned an hour ago.”

  “Send her up to my room also, if you please.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Niall watched the countess up the stairs until she vanished down the western-facing hallway. “Has my brother returned?” he asked, facing the butler.

  “Neither of your brothers is presently here, Master Niall,” Smythe informed him.

  Of course they weren’t. The devil knew where Aden had gone, and while Coll would generally be found either at the Bonny Lass or in the bed of any one of half a dozen actual bonny lasses, down here in London, Niall had no idea where to even begin looking. Somewhere with food, he hoped; one of them might not starve, that way.

  Sidestepping into the morning room, he picked up the whisky decanter and headed for the stairs. “Good night, Smythe.”

  “Shall I send Oscar up to tend you?”

  “What for? I reckon I can put myself to bed. Havenae had a mama to kiss me good night since I was a wee bairn.”

  “Good night, then, Master Niall.”

  Pausing on the stairs, Niall looked down at the butler. “Just Niall, for Saint Michael’s sake. Ye’ll give me a swelled head.”

  Between “Master” this and “have a cup of tea” that, he’d be wearing a crown by the end of the week. The English seemed to think very highly of themselves and their so-called civilized ways. Or most of them did, anyway. Amelia-Rose’s conversation hadn’t been remotely what he’d expected. She’d handily sent Coll fleeing, and even after that hadn’t been able to rein in her tongue. Not entirely. Not even the Scottish lasses spoke that way to him or his brothers, because however friendly they might be in bed, the MacTaggerts were, after all, their lairds, and Laird Aldriss, their chieftain.

  No wonder Coll had fled—his oldest brother had pushed her, expecting compliance and submission, and she’d snapped back at him like a fox in a trap. Unless he was greatly mistaken, Amelia-Rose wasn’t any happier at any of this arranged marriage shite than Coll was. His brother should have noticed that, and taken it into account.

  Niall had noticed, but then she was striking. Despite the tongue-twisting name the lass was pretty, fresh-faced, and blond. No MacTaggert male had ever complained about that combination. With a night to consider, Coll might well come around. Keeping Aldriss funded was important to all of them, but especially to its heir. He could still leave the lass behind in London, regardless of whether she meekly agreed to it or not. Though firstly Amelia-Rose seemed a lass who just might put up a fight about being abandoned, and secondly, leaving her all alone in a grand marriage bed would very likely be a sin.

  On the main landing, Niall patted Rory the deer on the head, noted that someone, likely Aden, had given the buck a cravat around his neck and a blue beaver hat over one nine-pronged antler, and continued up the stairs. He pushed open the door of his borrowed bedchamber and immediately scented, then spied, the thick ham sandwich on the dressing table. Thank God. Shrugging out of his proper black jacket, he made for the food and the small note propped beside it. He unfolded the missive. Idiot. Eloise, was all it said, and he grinned as he took a huge bite. Evidently having a sister about could be more useful than he’d realized.

  His evenings generally didn’t end until much closer to dawn, so as he ate, washing down the meal with a generous portion of the whisky he’d liberated, he wandered over to the bookshelf located perpendicular to the trio of windows. A compilation of Byron poems, some Shelley and Wordsworth, three Shakespeare folios, and a history of Hereford cattle. All very English, and very unappealing tonight.

  Laid flat on a lower shelf and topped by a black-and-white porcelain cow, though, he found an unexpected treasure—The Lord of the Isles by Sir Walter Scott. So Francesca did have Scottish things other than her three sons in the house; she merely preferred to keep them hidden. Pulling off his boots and tossing them over by the door, he took the book, the sandwich, and the whisky decanter, and hopped onto the over-pillowed, too-soft bed to read. And drink.

  He woke confused, half inside a dream where Amelia-Rose Baxter kept asking him to dance and then twirling away before he could answer, and half aware of Oscar flinging open the bloody curtains—until he become fully aware of the sunlight stabbing him in the eyes.

  “What the devil do ye think ye’re doing?” he growled, putting a pillow over his head.

  “I’m waking ye up. It’s near eight o’clock,” the valet answered.

  Eight o’clock? “Fetch me a damned pistol.”

  “A pistol? Why do ye require a pistol?”

  “Because I’m going to shoot ye for waking me up when I didnae ask ye to do any such thing, ye damned lummox. Go away and leave me be.”

  “I cannae. Yer mother—her ladyship, that is—is asking where yer brother is, and why he’s nae on his way to escort the Sassenach lass to the coffeehouse.”

  Niall shoved the pillow aside and sat up. “Coll’s nae returned?”

  The valet shook his head. “I checked the bedchamber. Nae a rumpled sheet or muddy boot in sight. And the wi
ndow’s latched, so he didnae come in and slip out again.”

  That didn’t bode well. Aye, Coll had been annoyed, but mere annoyance wouldn’t have kept him out all night when Aldriss was at stake. “Does Francesca know that?”

  “Nae. She sent her maid to ask me to fetch him down. Hannah—that’s her highness’s maid—said the lady wasnae at all happy.”

  With a curse, ignoring the pounding of his skull, Niall lurched to his feet. “Tell Hannah that Coll left to meet the Sassenach lass already. Say he stopped to fetch her some posies to apologize for last night.”

  Oscar began nodding. “Aye. I can do that. But what will ye be up to? I cannae fool everyone.”

  “I’ll be getting dressed. Tell Gavin to saddle Kelpie, and I’ll go meet the damned lass myself. Keep an eye out for Coll; ye’ll have to tell him what we’ve decided he’s been up to before the countess catches sight of him and he bellows out the truth.”

  “I’ll see to it. Saint Andrew knows it willnae be the first time I’ve bent the truth into a knot for one or the other of ye.” The valet sniffed. “I put clean clothes out for ye,” he went on, pointing a finger toward the chair by the dressing table.

  “Tapadh leat,” Niall returned, thanking him with a grateful nod. “Where’s Aden? I’ll wager ye didnae try waking him up.”

  “That Smythe fella said he came home about dawn. Ye can sack me, but I’m nae risking my neck to wake him up unless his bed’s on fire.”

  Niall finished pulling on his dark-brown buckskin trousers. “First of all, this isnae home. Scotland is home. Aldriss is home. This is our prison, where we’re to stay for a time because that woman ordered us here. Second, aye, leave Aden be. He sounds like he’ll be more trouble than he’s worth. Go tell yer tale before someone else delivers the countess a different one. If Aden wakes, tell him, too.”

  “Aye.” With a resigned scowl Oscar fled, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  Niall stifled his cursing long enough to shave. Damned Coll knew how important this match was. Even if the viscount didn’t want the lass, he needed to at least make it look like he’d put some effort into courting her, and make the failing look like her doing. And he couldn’t go about saying things like he had last night. They weren’t the only Scotsmen in London.