“And you have another brother?” Patricia LeMere went on.
“Aye. Aden.”
“Also unmarried?”
Ah, so that was it. “Aye. Nae a one of us is wed, yet.” He put on a thoughtful look. “And I do hear ye have some lovely soirees in London.”
“That, we do.”
By the time he’d heard about every ball, dinner, and dance held so far this Season in London, the pheasant came around. Niall wasted no time in polishing off his plate, despite the raised eyebrows around him. They could be dainty if they wished; he was hungry.
“Would the gentleman like more?” one of the servants asked, and Niall handed up his plate.
“Aye, the gentleman would.”
“You weren’t jesting about being hungry, were you?” Amelia-Rose asked from beside him.
“Since I arrived in London I’ve had one sandwich, some biscuits, a handful of fruit, one scrawny chicken leg, and this pheasant.”
“And you really do hunt your own deer and go hiking about on cliffs?”
He liberated a slice of roasted potato off her plate and popped it into his mouth while he waited for his second helping. “We all hunt; there’s a butcher’s shop at the village a mile down the loch, and a bakery, but we try to supply our own table. It’s a large household, Aldriss. What’s left over goes to the cotter widows and bairns.”
“Deer don’t generally graze on cliffs, though.”
Niall chuckled. “Nae. Birds nest there, though. A man tires of chicken eggs from time to time. And chicken.”
“What else do you do?”
“Do ye truly want a list of my chores? Most of them involve mud.”
She smiled. “Actually, I’m trying to find a way to inform you that my mother is determined Lord Glendarril will escort me to the Spenfield ball on Thursday. We’re to show well there together, after which my parents and your mother will be able to make our engagement known officially.”
Thursday. That would give them three more days to find Coll if Aden hadn’t already hunted him down. And three days to remind his brother that he’d lost the card cut more or less fairly, and that they all had a duty to see to the future of Aldriss Park. And for him to convince himself that Amelia-Rose was merely trouble where he was concerned, and trouble he didn’t need.
She might not be the timid wisp Coll had planned for, but she had a strong streak of logic, did Amelia-Rose. She might not disagree with being left behind in London, if Coll didn’t fall head over heels for her and hie with her back to Scotland. But the sooner Coll realized she was a good fit to be his viscountess, the better for all of them. Or so he would continue to tell himself until he believed it.
“I’ll see to it,” he said aloud, when he realized she likely expected a response of some sort.
“Amy, you already have one of them. Leave us the others,” Lady Margaret said loudly. It was evidently amusing, because half the lot of them giggled and snickered.
Amelia-Rose blushed. “Mr. MacTaggert escorted me here on his brother’s behalf. I have no wish to monopolize him, though. By all means, steal him away.”
Niall didn’t much like that, and he scowled. “Ye trying to be rid of me, lass?”
“I’m trying not to encourage gossip,” she retorted nearly soundlessly.
“Ah, the meek side. Cannae say I’m impressed with it,” he noted, rocking up onto his knees and making his way around her. “I’m all yers, lasses. Have at me.”
An afternoon of conversation with the other lasses did serve a purpose: It illustrated very clearly that he preferred escorting Amelia-Rose about to chatting with any one of these flighty things who’d realized he was marriageable. And he’d been telling her the truth: The meek side of her, the one Coll wanted, didn’t much interest him at all. The other side, the one she’d been trying so hard to stifle, near drove him mad. Until she decided which lass she wanted to be, he’d be much wiser to keep his damned distance.
Chapter Six
As the barouche turned up the Oswell House drive, a muffled bellow sounded from somewhere deep inside the halls. The sight of Loki being led into the stable confirmed for Niall what the yelling had already told him: Aden had found Coll—and Coll wasn’t happy about it.
He vaulted out of the barouche as it rolled to a halt. “Gavin,” he stated, spying the groom they’d brought with them down from Aldriss, “ye’re Eloise’s chaperone now.”
“I—Aye, Master Niall,” the servant called back as Niall ran for the door.
He yanked it open, then paused to look back at his sister. “Dunnae come upstairs,” he ordered, and jabbed a finger at Matthew Harris. “Especially nae with him.”
The house had erupted in chaos, with half the servants trying to crowd into the hallway and the other half hauling buckets of water up the stairs. He didn’t know if Francesca was home or not, but he hoped she was elsewhere. Aye, they’d meant to disrupt London when they’d arrived, but he didn’t want her deciding Coll wasn’t fit to be married and yanking Aldriss out from under them before they had a chance to secure the estate’s future.
At the top of the stairs he turned up the hallway where the three of them had been lodged. Servants carried water into Aden’s room and emerged again, while the door to Coll’s bedchamber across the hallway stood closed—with Aden leaning back against it.
“There ye are,” the middle MacTaggert brother grunted. The door shook; he rebounded an inch or two away from it, then settled back against the hard oak again.
“Was he at Gentleman Jackson’s?”
“Nae. They pointed me to several dodgier establishments, though, including one called The Pugilist.” The door thudded again, and he shoved back against it. “They’ve a pit in the basement where they put a likely lad, and he takes on all comers until one of ’em knocks him out, then that fella takes the first fella’s place.”
Niall scowled. “And Coll was in the pit?”
“Aye. With a bucketload of black eyes and bruised and broken ribs scattered about the room.”
“They’re lucky he didnae kill anyone.” Stupid, bloodthirsty lobsterback English.
Aden did his best to shrug as he and the flimsy-looking lock kept the door shut. “I reckon they thought they had a thickheaded laird with more money than brains, put someaught in his drink so they could shove him down there, and then didnae reckon on how much he would dislike it. They were happy enough to help me haul him out of there once I got him to swear he wouldnae break any of ’em in half.”
“And now?” Niall asked, indicating the abused door.
“He’s blaming me for nae allowing him to pummel anybody, and I reckon the potion they slipped him has got his head coming off his shoulders.”
“He’s been drinking?”
“Oh, aye. He smells like a whisky barrel.”
One of the footmen stopped in front of them. “Master Aden, the … um, the bath is ready. Should we—”
“Go away,” Aden cut in. “We’ll see to it.”
The last of the servants charged down the stairs before he could even finish speaking. Niall gazed after them. “We might’ve used the help.”
“Aye, and our great bear might’ve liked discussing his frustration about London with any Sassenach in reach.”
Aden made a good point. Luckily his brother’s door and Coll’s were directly opposite each other, so it would be a straight path to the copper bathtub the servants had hauled into the bedchamber. Niall rolled his shoulders. “Are ye ready?”
“Nae, but let’s do it.”
“One, t—”
“What in heaven’s name is going on here?” Francesca demanded, stalking into the hallway.
With a muttered curse Niall met her halfway, stopping her forward progress and putting a hand over her mouth. “We’ll manage,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“But—”
“I’ll meet ye downstairs in half an hour,” he cut in. “We can have a chat then.” He lowered his hand.
Meeting his
gaze with her fern-green eyes, finally she nodded. “Is my oldest son a bedlamite?” she whispered.
She actually looked … concerned. Worried. Not over her reputation, but about Coll. Niall shook his head. “Nae. Thirty minutes.”
Without another word she turned on her heel and left for the stairs. Hm. That had gone more smoothly than he expected. Shaking his head, he returned to Aden. “Where were we?”
“Three!”
Aden yanked open the door as Coll charged it. The viscount came stumbling into the hallway, and Niall and Aden each grabbed one of his arms and kept him moving forward until they could twist him around and shove him into the bathtub.
They stepped back from the explosion of water. Coll, flinging water and curses, scrambled upright. “It’s fucking freezing, ye bastards!”
“We didnae have a loch to throw ye into,” Aden said calmly. “Sit back.”
“My damned clothes are on!”
Well, his dress kilt and boots were. The shirt, waistcoat, and coat had vanished somewhere in the last eighteen hours, likely never to be seen again. Coll looked a mess, himself, with a black eye, a pair of bloody scratches across his chest, bruised knuckles, and his dark hair madder than a bird’s nest.
“Then take ’em off,” Niall replied, kicking the door shut. All they needed was for Eloise to see another brother’s arse today. Or worse, his front bits. “I thought me saying ye were off to find a beer was just an excuse.”
Coll slung off his kilt, threw it at Aden, and sank back into the cold water to wrestle off his boots. Aden deftly dodged the wet thing and went to claim the dressing table chair.
“I went to find someaught to punch,” Coll rumbled, tossing away both boots and then dunking his head. “But all I found was civilization, and then I got a wee bit angry.”
“Which is the last time ye should be drinking,” Niall pointed out, folding his arms over his chest. Coll knew that; hell, they all knew that. But they also knew how frustrated he was by all this. “I should’ve followed ye.”
“I dunnae require a nanny, Niall. Some damned coffee and someaught to eat, aye.”
Niall eyed his oldest brother. “And ye’ll nae leap out and drown Aden the moment I leave?”
Coll narrowed his eyes, sending a sideways glance at their middle brother. “Nae. I was stupider than a new lamb, wandering into a Sassenach lair, letting ’em convince me to have a drink, and then downing everything they put in front of me. I knew they wanted a fight, but I wanted one, too. Didnae reckon they’d put laudanum in my whisky and then throw me in that wee hole with nae a ladder in sight.” He shuddered a little.
Saint Andrew. Drinking and small spaces, and laudanum to put Coll more out of control than the drink or the small space would have made him each on its own. Those fools were luckier than they deserved. But his brother sounded more than half on the sober side already, so with a nod at Aden he slipped out of the bedchamber and made for the stairs.
Lady Aldriss waited in the middle of the foyer, Eloise lurking in the morning room doorway just off to the left. Niall acknowledged their presence but went past them to the kitchen and requested bread and a chicken soup and some strong coffee. “Knock on Aden’s door, leave it on the floor outside, and go away,” he ordered, and the footman present gulped and nodded.
That was bonny. Now the MacTaggert brothers were both barbarians and monsters, and he couldn’t say or do much to convince anyone otherwise—especially since the barbarian part had been intentional. He shed his damp coat, putting it over one arm as he returned to the main part of the house.
“In there,” he said as he reached Francesca, indicating the morning room. “I’ll tell ye both.”
Once inside he shut the door and went to sit on the front edge of the deep, brushed-velvet couch. Eloise sat beside him, but the countess kept her hands clasped in front of her and paced to the window and back.
“He didn’t take Amelia-Rose Baxter to coffee this morning,” she stated after a moment. “That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Aye. Is that what ye want to chat about, then?”
“No. Of course not. But evidently everyone”—she shot a look at her daughter—“has been lying to me, and I’m attempting to decipher a bit of truth.”
“Is Coll well?” Eloise asked, putting her hand around his arm.
“Aye. He … About three years ago we figured Coll needed to stop drinking. Liquor. At all. He mostly doesnae drink any longer, but then in the space of a week we thought Da fell on his deathbed, we discovered we were all ordered to wed English wives, and then Coll lost—won—the card turn so he had to marry the lass Fran—Lady Aldriss chose for him. Then without a night to sleep in London he gets dragged off to the theater to meet the lass, and he…”
Niall trailed off. How did he describe this part? Coll had called Amelia-Rose a sharp-tongued harlot, but that was hardly fair. The viscount had barely spent five minutes talking to the lass, and it would take far longer than that to decipher Amelia-Rose Baxter. She wasn’t sharp-tongued. She was interesting and had opinions, with steel enough in her spine to convince him to take her to the picnic this afternoon.
“He what?” Francesca prompted.
“She’s nineteen. He’s nearly thirty. At first glance he didnae think they’d be compatible.” There. That didn’t insult either one of them. “He went off to go find a brawl, and ended at an establishment called The Pugilist.”
The countess’s cheeks paled. “He didn’t.”
“Aye. Aden and I reckon those buffoons at The Pugilist figured they’d waylay and rob him, and they … convinced him to have a whisky. A few whiskies. And one of ’em with laudanum in it, as far as we can tell. Then they tossed him in the fighting pit, likely with the idea of wagering on who could beat him down. Coll doesnae like small places.”
The countess had moved to place one hand over her heart. “I remember. Before you were even born, Niall, he and Aden were playing and Coll got locked in a wardrobe. It took us four hours to find him. He avoided small places after that.”
Niall nodded. “He still does. So nae, he isnae a bedlamite. He is angry and mayhap a bit shaken, with a splitting head and too much drink in him.” Narrowing his eyes, he willed them to take the next part seriously, for all of their sakes. “I’d nae recommend coddling him or pitying him, because he’s likely to fling it straight back at ye. If he wants ye to know someaught, he’ll tell ye. Otherwise, I’d feign ignorance.”
“Amelia-Rose said he’s to escort her to the Spenfield ball on Thursday,” Eloise said, her expression somewhere between relieved and worried. And that over a brother she’d never met until yesterday. Eloise was a better sister than the lot of them deserved, and he needed to see to it that Coll and Aden both knew that.
“Aye. I reckon I can convince him to give her a second look.”
When Lady Aldriss opened her mouth, he shrugged out of his sister’s grip and stood. “I’m nae yer toady, màthair, and I’m nae yer ally. I’m here to help Aldriss Park.” With that he went back upstairs to make certain he still had two brothers alive.
* * *
Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert sank onto the couch beside her daughter. Her oldest son was nearly six and a half feet tall. A man grown. Well grown. Nearly thirty, as Niall had said. And small spaces still troubled him. She never would have suspected such a thing, and in an odd way she found it encouraging. Not Coll’s troubles, but the fact that Niall had told her about them. They might still be a united front against her, but she wasn’t entirely an enemy.
It wasn’t that, however, that made tears run down her cheeks. “Goodness,” she said.
Eloise hugged her. “They’ll come around, Mama,” she said. “It’s only been a day, and they seem to be very stubborn. I’m certain they don’t detest you.”
“That’s not why I’m weeping, my darling,” Francesca returned, smiling. “Niall just called me màthair. That’s Gaelic for ‘mother.’ He called me mother.”
Her youngest son. The one she�
�d had the least hand in raising, and the one who had least cause to remember her. The one about whom she’d been the most worried, even knowing the well-earned reputations of the other two. How odd, and heartwarming, that Niall Douglas MacTaggert also seemed to be the one who most closely shared her sensibilities. She couldn’t tell him that; he wouldn’t believe her, and would likely be offended at the suggestion.
But then she’d managed to navigate thirteen years with the volatile Angus MacTaggert, and then another seventeen in London keeping her reputation, her wealth, and the entire Aldriss empire intact despite living the length of Britain away from her legal husband. Whether that made her a protector, or a diplomat, or something closer to a martyr, every day of those seventeen years away from her sons had hurt. She’d put aside her own happiness so they could grow up free and wild and independent, not smothered by the rancor festering between their parents.
Now that she had them back, she wasn’t about to let anything happen to drive them away again—even if it meant pushing them to marry women they might not otherwise have considered. If they’d known Eloise better, if she hadn’t taken her daughter south at such a young age, the brothers might have had more connection with the females of the family. They might even have visited from time to time. That was only one of several regrets she had. Balancing the life Eloise had in London against what she would have found in a wild corner of the Highlands couldn’t be measured, though. That had been her compromise.
Francesca looked toward the stairs. From the ease with which Niall had stepped in to keep Coll’s disappearance a secret—to give Amelia-Rose a satisfactory-enough explanation that Miss Baxter had apparently not only accepted his presence but lied to allow it to continue—he’d done it before. Given a choice between calling him charming and crafty or charming and protective, she would of course prefer the latter.
She took a breath, standing and pulling Eloise to her feet beside her. “You must tell me how Niall and Matthew got along. I have no doubt that he’ll tell Aden and Coll exactly what he thinks of your betrothed, and if there’s to be warfare, I would like to know in advance.”
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