by Jackie Ivie
As if it was part of the attire.
Neal glanced about and got that answered. Aside from him, every man in the assemblage – with the exception of MacAffrey’s heir, who was too young yet – had facial hair. Perhaps Neal shouldn’t have shaved earlier. Even five o’clock shadow would have sufficed.
Discard it, Neal.
Not your issue.
He was here for one reason. Circumvent Garrick’s claim. Get the betrothal portion of the will handled. Nothing in the will said he had to wed with anyone. All he had to do was get the engagement portion taken care of. After that, he could do as he liked. Wed if – and when – he so wished. Or not at all. He’d still be Duke of Straithcairn.
For life.
Mason had even winked at him while speaking of it.
So. Neal had one mission tonight, arrange an engagement. It couldn’t be hard. He’d been running from one for years. And, as soon as this was accomplished, he could move onto what really mattered. All he had to do was get through what amounted to an oddball bit of protocol.
Easy.
He just needed to use patience. Bring out his negotiating skills. Neal snuck a hand beneath his sporran and scratched surreptitiously at his groin. He also needed to ignore the continual scrape of a woolen garment against bare skin, as well as the sensation of air. The day had turned into a storm-filled one, with a lot of accompanying wind gusts. He hadn’t even noted them until dismounting the horse. Garrick, and everyone in his Honor Guard got an eyeful then, which wasn’t all that embarrassing. Neal wasn’t a small man. But nobody else seemed to have this trouble. Then again, he had just returned from London. He wasn’t used to wearing what amounted to a knee-length skirt with attached, one-shoulder shawl. Why, he was so accustomed to wearing trousers his own valet had set them out today.
Twice since then, Neal had smacked a hand to the back of his left thigh, certain his ass was on display. He didn’t have that problem on his right side. The claymore in its scabbard hung from the belt at his waist. That kept the plaid secured on that side. It felt like the material was continually slipping though, despite the four daggers stabbed through it from behind his belt. The two smaller knives were labeled as skean-dhu. Mason had tucked them into Neal’s socks, one per foot, where they rubbed occasionally against his ankles in case he needed a reminder of their presence. It was a lot of weaponry. The men about him looked similarly armed. Neal wondered if this was how one dressed for a ceremony at the neighbor’s, what must they take into battle?
It was a farce. He felt like a complete fraud. This attire was more difficult to wear than any English gent’s could possibly be. But it would all be over soon. He could change back into clothing he recognized, even if it was poorly fitted. He just needed to get through the next hour or so.
The official introductions had turned into a long, incredibly drawn-out affair. Whiskey was brought out. A dram poured out and swigged by just about everyone. One thing was immediately clear. The Scots really did make great whiskey, and apparently, they always had.
From the chieftain room, the Laird of MacAffrey had moved the assemblage back into the great hall. Neal had been escorted to a dais, climbed onto it, and shuffled into position before one of two throne-like chairs at the center of the raised platform. He’d been accompanied by Garrick and the Honor Guard. Garrick was at Neal’s immediate left. Five men were on his left. They were the ones who’d be seated. Seven more clansmen stood behind.
Good thing everyone knew their place. Neal was clueless.
MacAffrey’s entourage had done pretty much the same maneuvering, except his heir sat at his far side, followed by an Honor Guard. The MacAffrey laird had said some more words of welcome, and they’d sat. Drunk more whiskey. Made more toasts. Someone in Neal’s camp had signaled the Straith bladier to present himself and bring up the reason for their meeting. The man had done his duty, assumed the orator spot before the dais and announced that the Duke of Straithcairn had come to speak about a matter of legal proceedings.
Their host – who requested to be called Dughall – had stalled the proceedings, by loudly thanking the man for the announcement. Dughall had then waved his arm, and called loudly for refreshments. Neal had lifted his brows and watched the table spread with platters of all kinds of unidentifiable things that turned out to be stuffed sheep tongue, blood puddings, haggis, flat oatcakes called bannock, and cold smoked salmon. All of it was accompanied with large tureens containing ale, while they continued to pour out raw whiskey.
Before partaking of anything on the platters, Niall had thanked the man for his generous repast and finished by remarking he’d come not on a neighborly visit, but to conduct business. That announcement didn’t get him any action. It merely got him toasted again. Nothing was said about a betrothal. Nothing about the purpose of his visit.
Nothing but stalling.
Neal wasn’t eating much. He nibbled and tasted, trying not to show that he had no idea what he was eating, or if it was even edible in its current state. Nothing had been refrigerated. Everything seemed to come with a lot of sauce around it. He was probably flirting with food poisoning. Or any number of digestive ailments.
And time kept passing.
They brought out torches. Stuck them in high holders that looked like lamp posts. Lit them. That added a lot of smoke to the gathering, but little light. Neal’s nose itched enough he had to dab at it occasionally using the cloth Mason had tucked into the sporran. Neal’s eyes stung. His belly roiled on him more than once. He was borderline inebriated. And they were no nearer his objective than when he’d first arrived.
This was truly great whiskey, though. He obviously needed to look into acquiring stock in it. No. Not just acquiring stock. He might as well own and operate a distillery. He’d need legal advice on how to trademark the operation here in the UK, but somebody needed to get this whiskey out to the rest of the world. Neal added it to his mental list. Right beneath coffee.
Wait a minute, Neal.
This was stupid. The amount of alcohol he’d consumed was fogging his thinking. There were too many variables when investing in grain-based products. It wouldn’t be a good idea until the government came up with crop insurance programs. Even then, it wouldn’t be a massive money-making machine like steel. He wished he’d been a little more interested in history. He’d know for certain what to invest in, and when.
Too bad it wasn’t closer to the twentieth century. He’d be first in line to purchase Bell Telephone stock. No! He needed to invest in Ford Motor Company. And make certain to back anything Nikolai Tesla was inventing. Neal was in a truly unique position. He actually had the ability to see that electricity was the energy source of an engine, and not fossil fuel! That hadn’t even occurred to him until right now.
Perhaps that was the rationale behind his teleportation to this exact year. Into this place. With his memory intact. There might be a higher power at work. It was possible...but he wouldn’t really know unless he succeeded. And then, it would be his future self that saw it.
Wait a minute.
Would he actually be re-born in the latter part of the twentieth century again? If so, would he be Neal Straithmore, CEO of Straithmore Enterprises? And, if that happened, what kind of stock would that Neal have in his portfolio? If energy conservation and environmental issues weren’t money-generating enterprises...just what would be?
The din ebbed and rose about him. Neal wasn’t paying much attention. Funds needed to be sent for his first acquisition. It wasn’t going to be coffee. Or whiskey. Or menswear. He’d been right the first time. He needed to corner the market in iron and then steel. That way, he’d have some sort of control when the automobile industry started.
He really needed to get this idea on paper, so even if he wasn’t around, a future Straith could see it to fruition.
Future Straith?
Neal jerked involuntarily. The move straightened his back. Bumped his shoulders against the back of the chair. Where in the hell had that thought come
from? He’d never wanted kids. For a reason. As far as he could tell raising children was a complete crapshoot. You could have the same set of parents. Same parenting involved. Same schooling, education opportunities, financial resources. Get completely different outcomes. Children were a financial, emotional, and mental drain. And worse of all, was the time depletion involved.
But...if he didn’t have any...would that mean Garrick’s progeny would eventually inherit?
What a horrid thought.
Neal snuck a glance to his left. It was a chore to sit beside Garrick. Neal hadn’t been mistaken earlier when they’d first met. An unpleasant vibe really did emanate from the man. What if the man’s children took after their sire? Did Neal really want them having this information? The ability to corner the stock market? Gain unimaginable wealth? And with it, unmitigated dominance? And why did that thought make every muscle in his body tense up?
Damn everything.
It was his destiny to control the stock market, and in so doing, save the environment. The absolute last thing he wanted was this much knowledge and power in the hands of an evil son-of-a-bitch. This was getting more and more problematic by the moment. He needed to get it written down. Look it over. Connect the dots. Evaluate things.
And if they ever manage to finalize this betrothal nonsense, he would.
Another round of whiskey was poured. More toasts given. More stalling occurred. Neal accepted a drop or two more in his tankard. He’d given up trying to keep up with his host’s drinking, resorting to taking a slight sip for every toast. He’d never been a drinker, not even in his early twenties in college. He knew enough not to go head-to-head with a man who was.
All of which was getting him absolutely nowhere.
Neal dabbed at his nose, before turning to his right, and addressing his host. “MacAffrey! My good man! You do know that I am here on business? Yes?”
He spoke loudly enough the man had to have heard. But MacAffrey ignored him, speared another joint of roast mutton onto the platter before him, split open a roll next, shoved a huge pat of butter within it, smashed it shut, and then, finally, the man answered.
“Aye. That I do.”
“Do you have a chamber for our use?”
“What the devil for?”
“It’s a private matter!”
“What you have to say can be heard by all.”
Neal raised his brows. “Very well. I’ll begin.”
“Grant! Start up a pipe!”
Strains of pipe music started infiltrating the scene, adding unnecessarily to the cacophony. Neal had to yell his next words.
“I’ve come to solidify a union with our clans!”
The man replied with his own yell. “Thought as much, your grace. So, we did.”
The lone piper had been joined by more of them, adding more sound to the din. Neal’s head started pounding. He put a hand to his forehead, only to connect with his wound. That smarted. He winced. This was ridiculous.
“I’m seeking a betrothal with your daughter!”
“Lileth, is prepared to receive you, too…just as soon as—. As soon as—well.” The man hiccoughed. “We need more to eat! And more whiskey, MacGruder! Bring out another keg! All around!”
Another keg? And more stalling?
“I am here about the betrothal, Dughall!” He had to speak over the din. He didn’t have much choice.
“And a fine duchess Lileth will make.”
“Lileth? Who said anything about Lileth? I’ve come to ask for your daughter, Ainslee!”
Neal shouted it. His host looked stunned. Everything else seemed to stop. Movement. Sound. Everyone stopped talking. The pipers ceased playing, although wails of sound leaked out of their pipes as air got expelled. The Laird of MacAffrey’s mouth kept opening and closing, looking like a fish out of water. A big, loud, drunken, red-bearded fish.
“Ainslee? Did you say—? I thought I heard—? Surely, your grace is mistaken. Or...I heard you wrong?”
The man was sputtering. That might have been amusing in another time or setting. Neal should probably be grateful Dughall’s voice had lost quite a few decibels. He wasn’t. He was annoyed. His head was throbbing. And his belly wasn’t thrilled with him, either.
“You do have a daughter named Ainslee? Yes?”
“Aye. That, I do. But…Ainslee?”
The man’s voice reflected shock or something close.
“I’m here to betroth your daughter. I’ve asked for the hand of Ainslee. We can set a date for the wedding at a later meeting.”
“You can na’ be serious! She—! She—! Why, I do na’ believe she’s even left the schoolroom.”
“Is she of marriageable age?”
“’Tis most unexpected. I mean, surely you jest. Ainslee?”
Neal gritted his teeth at the man’s obstinacy. He could really use an acetaminophen. But they hadn’t been invented. Hell. Aspirin hadn’t even been invented yet, that he knew of. The smoke wafting about wasn’t helping. He narrowed his eyes. “I asked if Ainslee is of marriageable age.”
“She is,” the man admitted, albeit in a grudging manner.
“I fail to see the trouble then. Let us settle. Allow me to meet with her.”
The man’s eyes looked like they might pop out. When he answered, he was stammering. “M-m-meet with her? To-to-tonight?”
“Well. Yes. Perhaps you’ll grant us a bit of privacy, too? Just long enough to give her the Straith betrothal ring. If need be, I’ll accept a chaperone.”
“You are toying with me, your grace. And it is na’ pleasant, let me assure you. Surely you mean Lileth.”
“My offer is for Ainslee. Unless, she’s affianced elsewhere?”
“But—. But—. Wait! You may wish to reconsider. Lileth has a large dowry. The woman comes with two thousand pounds! Two thousand, man! Sterling! ’Twas settled upon her by her mother, who was a member of the Sinclair Clan!”
“We’ve already wasted time, Dughall. Now, we are wasting words. I came here to betroth your daughter. Nothing in the documents state which daughter; just as nothing specifies my name as the reigning duke. Now, I ask again, and this is the final time, for the hand of your daughter, Ainslee. Is your answer yes. Or no?”
MacAffrey’s face turned a mottled shade of red before he answered, amidst more stammering and sputtering. “But…your grace! We all assumed...! We thought—! Lileth is first-born. ’Tis right and proper that she be wed first.”
Neal waited several long moments as he contemplated their host. The standing members of his Honor Guard stepped forward. Those who’d been sitting shoved their chairs back and also stood. Nobody had a sword drawn, but the menace being displayed was obvious. It simply remained unspoken. Something of the tension taking place on the dais must have filtered through the crowd about them. He could hear the shuffling of feet. Whispers. Groans.
“Does this mean you’re…turning down my offer?”
Neal asked it with a loud enough voice nobody in the vicinity could fail to hear it correctly. And then he waited. The Laird of MacAffrey was frowning. They both knew if the offer was declined, the agreement would be nullified. MacAffrey would lose the Duke of Straithcairn as a son-in-law, and Neal would be free. He watched the man’s comprehension of it, and knew exactly when it happened. The fellow’s shoulders sagged visibly. And he sighed.
“I will have Ainslee shown to the library. My man, MacGruder, will show you the way. Ainslee? By God in heaven, I can na’ believe it.”
The man stood on unsteady legs and shoved at his son until the lad also stood. Neal followed suit, and then had to wait before Garrick finally rose, as well.
“Get a move on, Mitchell! You heard the man. Ainslee! Send a message to your mother! Send another to Ainslee! And somebody get me another whiskey! I am going to need it.”
The man looked older of a sudden. Feeble. He was still shaking his head as he left the platform.
CHAPTER TEN
She’d given up hope and was well in
to plans for Lileth’s elopement with her Robert, when a heavy knock came. Ainslee stopped pacing, swiveled from the far wall, sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward, and crossed straight to her door. She should’ve asked who knocked first. It was her second half-brother, William, standing in the gloom of her hall. He looked pleased. That didn’t bode well.
“William.”
It wasn’t a greeting. It was a statement of unpleasant fact. Her voice reflected it. She would have shut the door on him, but couldn’t have succeeded. He was a product of a MacHugh and MacAffrey union, and, as such, he towered over her and outweighed her by at least two stone.
He sneered. She smelled whiskey on him.
“My. My. Aren’t ye fancied-oop this eve? Almost like you were expectin’ someone.”
“What do you want?”
“Father sent me to fetch you.”
Her heart dropped with a sickening motion. A chill ran through her. She knew the color drained from her face. She felt it. The combination was debilitating. She barely kept it from sounding in her voice.
“Father?”
“Aye. He is requiring yer presence. In the library. Right now.”
“The…library?”
Her voice warbled slightly, but he heard it, and was thoroughly entertained by it, if his grin meant anything. The younger MacAffrey lads were all tucked in for the night and Lileth had managed to portray an illness so severe the Lady of MacAffrey was in attendance at her stepdaughter’s bedside. That meant there wasn’t anyone Ainslee could call on to get out of her predicament.
All of which ran through her mind while William watched.
She didn’t need to ask what had transpired. It was obvious. The all-mighty Duke of Straithcairn hadn’t done as she’d begged this morn. The bastard had asked for Lileth. The men had then spent a large amount of time celebrating, allowing even the younger MacAffrey males to tipple a dram or so. Then someone had triggered Father’s memory about Ainslee’s transgression and the punishment he’d promised. It had probably been William.
Punishment was always meted out in the library.