If Francesca spoke any Gaelic, all three of them might have woken this morning to find themselves destitute, cut off from their mother’s funds. Because Coll hadn’t said he was going off to find an English beer during Romeo and Juliet. No, Viscount Glendarril had declared he would stab himself in the eye before he’d wed a sharp-tongued harlot who’d likely try to make him prissy and English. And that was a very large problem. The only positive thing he’d done was to say it in a language both the lady and his own mother didn’t understand.
Oscar had laid out a brown waistcoat and a cravat in addition to the buckskin trousers and a blue long-tailed coat; evidently they were supposed to dress like Sassenach here. Well, they’d dressed up on occasion, for some lass or other’s come-out party, so he supposed he could manage it again. He didn’t have time to dig through drawers and find where the valet had stashed all his clothes, anyway.
As he shaved and dragged a comb through his unruly hair it occurred to him that he did this fairly often. Not go out to escort English ladies promised to his oldest brother, but sweep up after Coll’s misadventures. A large man with a larger stubborn streak, a title, and a very short temper frequently didn’t consider how a sharp word from him could be construed as a blast from a twenty-pound cannon by most mortals.
Aden had mastered the technique of stealth, which left him free of most of the consequences of the MacTaggert brothers’ follies, including his own, but Niall couldn’t manage that. He liked mayhem in general, but when it affected people without their resources or standing, he’d always felt … responsible for setting things right again. And here he was, doing it once more. In this instance, with the outcome vital to not only their futures but those of the nearly three hundred cotters and villagers on Aldriss land, it seemed both necessary that he step in, and very nearly unforgivable that Coll continued to make himself scarce.
He put a simple knot into his damned cravat and headed for the bedchamber door, nearly taking a blow to the head as it flung open again. “Oscar, how many times have we asked ye to knock before ye barge in, for the devil’s sake?”
“I knew ye didnae have a lass in here,” the valet returned, looking over his shoulder as he crowded into the room and shut the door again. “I told her majesty yer brother went out already, and now she’s headed up here to, and I quote, ‘see if Niall can provide me with some insight into Coll.’”
Niall cocked his head. “Ye do a fine Sassenach accent,” he noted. “For a minute I almost thought ye were civilized. Did ye tell Gavin to saddle Kelpie?”
“Aye.”
Retreating toward the window, Niall pushed it open. “Then I’ve left for the morning to go prancing about the park and ogle all the eligible English lasses there,” he said, and ducked outside to grip the garden rose trellis. Thorns made a wreck of one shirtsleeve, but he tucked it up into his jacket sleeve as he reached the ground.
As he made his way to the stable he brushed rose petals from his jacket and trousers. Out in front of the wide double doors Gavin, the groom they’d brought with them from Aldriss, shoved an English fellow away from Kelpie’s bridle as the bay stomped restlessly. “Gavin, it’s too bloody early for a brawl,” Niall warned him.
“This amadan says all the horses in the stable are in his charge. I’m about to introduce his backside to the ground.”
The older man tugged on his coat. “I am Farthing, Lady Aldriss’s head groom,” he said stiffly. “This … buffoon is permitted in my stable only as long as I say so.”
“Gavin, ye buffoon, dunnae shove Farthing unless ye reckon Nuckelavee’s about to eat him,” Niall ordered, naming Coll’s notoriously bad-tempered stallion. There was a reason Coll had named him after the black demons of the northern isles.
Gavin snickered. “Aye. I reckon I could be persuaded to save the Sassenach’s life.”
“Good.” Taking the reins, Niall swung up on Kelpie. “Now. How do I get from Upper Brook Street to Wigmore Place, Farthing?”
Farthing furrowed his brow. “Weymur?”
Niall sighed. “Wigmore,” he repeated, enunciating it as Mrs. Baxter had last evening when Amelia-Rose’s mother had insisted on the outing.
“Oh. Wigmore Place. Head that way”—he pointed east—“on Upper Brook Street, then north up Duke Street. Turn right onto Wigmore Street, and you’ll find Wigmore Place on your left. It’s just about half a mile from here.”
With a nod, repeating the street names to himself, Niall kneed Kelpie into a trot. He’d been to Inverness on half a dozen occasions, so the crowded streets of a town weren’t entirely foreign to him. London, though, felt more like a noisy, smelly maze than a place where anyone would choose to live.
Kelpie didn’t like it, either; the bay skittered every time an orange girl scurried into the street or a milk cart rattled out in front of them. Niall patted the gelding’s withers. “Easy, lad,” he crooned. “We’ll nae be here for long.”
That didn’t reassure either one of them, but since Farthing’s directions were good, at least they didn’t become lost in this devil’s bog. He turned Kelpie up Wigmore Place, hopeful that he remembered the street number he’d heard from Mrs. Baxter. He did not want to spend his morning riding up and down the road to find his brother’s Sassenach lass.
The door at 129 opened as he approached, and a stoop-shouldered man in black livery stepped into the doorway. “Lord Glendarril, I presume?”
“Nae. I’m his brother. He sent me to fetch the lass.”
The butler opened his gobber and shut it again. “Your calling card, then,” he said, holding out a hand, “and I’ll inform Miss Baxter of your arrival.”
“I’ve nae card. Tell her Niall’s here, and I’ll be taking her to the damned coffeehouse to meet Coll.”
“Hm. Wait here … Niall.”
The door shut again. Well, that was fine, then. He was dressed very respectably, if he said so himself. If the residents of Baxter House thought him too shabby, then they could go soak their heads. Coll wouldn’t have stayed standing here on the bloody front step.
The door opened once more. Amelia-Rose stepped outside, wearing an extremely proper blue bonnet that hid her sunshine hair and most of her face, and a pretty peach muslin gown that revealed a nice portion of her bosom. A blue shawl that matched the bonnet covered her shoulders. Abruptly Niall was grateful that Oscar had found him some English-style finery to wear, himself. She was a bonny lass, Amelia-Rose Baxter was. Damned bonny.
“Good morning,” he said, remembering his manners enough to incline his head.
She dipped a curtsy. “Mr. MacTaggert.”
“Niall, if ye please. My other brother’s a Mr. MacTaggert, too, and it’s confusing.”
Her mouth curved a little. “Niall, then. Let’s go meet your brother, shall we?”
“Aye. The—”
He stepped sideways as a second woman emerged from the doorway. This one was a giant, nearly six feet tall with coal-black hair scraped back into a bun that looked solid as iron. Her gown of green-and-brown muslin was nice, if plainer than Amelia-Rose’s, but the dress didn’t do her straight figure any favors.
“And who are ye?” he asked.
“I’m Miss Bansil. Miss Baxter’s companion.”
“Did we invite ye as well, then?”
“I cannot go anywhere with you unless Miss Bansil is present,” Amelia-Rose put in. “It would be scandalous to do otherwise.”
“Well, we dunnae want anything scandalous,” Niall returned dryly.
Coll’s almost-intended took a step toward the street, then stopped. “Where’s your carriage?”
Niall frowned. “Carriage? I rode my horse. Kelpie.”
She faced him. “So you think to carry the three of us on Kelpie?”
He tilted his head at her. Was she teasing at him, or was she genuinely annoyed? “I didnae think that far in advance at all,” he admitted.
“Ah.” Amelia-Rose turned around. “Hughes, have John saddle Mirabel and Daisy,” she told the butler
. “And a mount for himself.”
“At once, Miss Baxter,” the vulture returned, and sent a footman back into the depths of the house.
“If I’d known we were forming a parade, I’d have brought drums and a piper,” Niall observed, taking Kelpie’s reins back from the waiting groom.
“That would…” She trailed off, sending Miss Bansil a quick glance. “We’ll be down shortly,” Amelia-Rose amended, as she and the tower turned back to the house.
Niall was fairly certain she’d been about to say something witty. A shame she’d stopped herself. “What, are ye off to gather more people to ride with us?” He kept his expression cool, but beneath that he continued his long barrage of silent profanity at Coll. Neither of them had any real experience with escorting fashionable ladies to fashionable places, and this morning he’d clearly waded into the loch and found himself in waters well over his head.
“I’m not dressed to ride,” the blond lass returned, her tone amused, as if she’d never run across anyone who wouldn’t know that a horse gown was different from a carriage gown. “Wait by the stable if you don’t care to come inside.”
Well, no one had invited him inside, but he preferred the stable anyway. Horses, he understood. “Aye.”
The groom from whom he’d reclaimed Kelpie had vanished, so with the bay following close behind him he headed around the side of the house toward the strongest smell of hay, mud, and manure. Kelpie bumped him in the shoulder, and he shifted to let the gelding draw even with him.
“Dunnae ye complain,” he said, patting his mount on the neck. “Ye’ve had breakfast, at least. Coll’s likely at some tavern downing half a hog right now. I’d be happy with a bowl of cold porridge and a handful of wild berries.”
He had to ask the groom who’d be accompanying them how to find St. Alban’s Street, then had to fit that into the nearly blank mental map he was trying to put together in his head. It wouldn’t do to lead the lass into a dangerous part of Town, however much the idea of brawling with a Sassenach or two might appeal to him at the moment. Alone he reckoned he could manage just about anywhere, but evidently he was to lead an entire brigade today.
A dozen bruised-looking apples sat in a bucket by the stable door, and he snagged one when no one was looking. It was overripe and mealy, so after one bite he gave the rest of it to Kelpie. The bay wasn’t as particular as he was. If not for the sandwich Eloise had provided him last night he would likely have perished from hunger by now. The damned coffeehouse, if they ever reached it, had best be stocked with an entire roasted cow. A large one.
Mirabel turned out to be a spirited gray mare, which surprised him given the delicate lass meant to ride her. Amelia-Rose seemed very … breakable, even if her tongue had been a wee bit sharp last night. The companion’s horse, Daisy, on the other hand, slept through being saddled. Miss Baxter liked to ride, even if her companion didn’t. That boded well; Coll rode nearly every day, as did he. One thing in common was at least a beginning, even if Lord Glendarril meant to have as little as possible to do with his unwanted wife—if he ever reappeared to marry the lass.
The side door of Baxter House opened, and the two lasses emerged once more. The tall stick wore a plain brown riding habit, but as she stepped aside, something deep in Niall’s chest—and somewhere a bit lower—jolted. Amelia-Rose had donned a crimson riding habit that boasted little black buttons from her waist to her chin. Rather than being demure, though, the heavy material showed every curve above her waist, while the red skirt flowed around her hips and swirled against her legs as she walked.
And she was walking now. Good glory. For a dozen hard beats of his heart he envisioned her with her blond hair tumbled past her shoulders, her expression wide-eyed and breathless, and all those buttons broken open and scattered to the floor. Beneath his proper trousers, his cock jumped again.
He shook himself. Every time he set eyes on her, she pulled at him. Aye, he could admire a bonny lass; he wasn’t dead, after all. But he shouldn’t be admiring this one. He damned well shouldn’t be lusting after her. Amelia-Rose was Coll’s lass. Niall was there merely keeping the agreement open until his oldest brother came to his senses. Nothing more.
Of course if Coll got a look at her this morning, he might just propose on the spot. She was a lithe, sensuous goddess. The thing that troubled Niall most was the idea that Coll could marry such a lass and then decide to leave her behind in London. No, that wasn’t the thought that troubled him the most. But he refused to acknowledge the other one. It would serve nothing but damned bloody trouble.
“Let’s be off, shall we?” she said pertly, apparently unaware she’d nearly made him split his seams. “We shouldn’t keep Lord Glendarril waiting.”
Lord Glendarril was most likely somewhere sleeping off a large dinner and a woman, but that wasn’t for her to know. “Aye.”
He let the groom boost her up into the sidesaddle; until his brain caught up with his cock he wouldn’t be touching her. If he hadn’t been tired, hungry, and boasting a headache so grand that even his hair hurt, he wouldn’t have been imagining doing anything naked and sweaty with Amelia-Rose Baxter. And still somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that was a lie, too.
When everyone else was mounted he swung up on Kelpie and led the parade south and east. Lines of connected townhouses, broken up by small parks filled with more nannies and prams and bairns, gave way to fancy-looking shops, hotels, and gentlemen’s clubs.
The gray mare drew even with him. “Do you know where we’re going?” Amelia-Rose asked.
“More or less. I reckon ye’d inform me if I make a wrong turn.”
“Certainly. We’re a bit too far south at the moment, but this is the less complicated route.”
“I asked yer groom for directions,” he said, indicating the man riding at the rear of the parade. “He looked at me like I was an idiot, so it follows he’d give me the simplest route.”
She cleared her throat in what might have passed for a chuckle. “This is truly your first time in London?”
“Aye.” He felt more than saw her sideways glance at him. Next she’d be asking if he’d ever kissed a lass, because from what he’d always heard about the Sassenach, they thought every man who’d never been to London was no man at all. “Is that White’s club?” he asked, indicating the plain building front that looked very much the same as all the others, with the exception of its prominent bow window. He’d seen a drawing or two of that, as he recalled.
“Yes. Is your father a member?”
Niall snorted. More English snobbery. “Nae. My da is a chieftain of clan Ross. That’s the only club he’d ever care to join. A gaggle of Sassenach sitting about and arguing over how important they are is a bigger waste of time than milking a cat.”
Her smile loosened a little. “That’s a bit severe, isn’t it?”
Was it? “I’ve nae seen a thing to change my opinion.”
“That’s because you haven’t seen anything at all but an evening at Drury Lane Theater and a morning riding down the street.” She squinted one eye.
“Either ye’ve a twitch, or ye’re wanting to say someaught more, lass. Dunnae be shy with me. I dunnae offend easily.” Aside from that, he’d very much appreciated the way she’d blasted at Coll last night.
With a barely audible sigh, she nodded. “We’re to be friends, aren’t we? In-laws, if our parents have their way. Tell me, then, if your father so dislikes London and the English, why did he marry your mother?”
“That’s a question we’ve debated for two decades,” he answered truthfully. “He claims it was for her da’s money. I reckon he got cracked in the head by Cupid, but he willnae admit it now out of pride.”
Her mouth, with which he’d been fascinated all morning, quirked again. She’d be terrible at card games, because every emotion she felt mirrored itself on her pretty face. For God’s sake he hoped it wasn’t the same with him, or they’d all be in trouble.
“‘Cracked in the head by Cupi
d,’” she repeated, chuckling. “Not quite as poetic as being struck by the cherub’s arrow, but I imagine falling in love could be somewhat … chaotic.” She sent him another glance. “Would you agree? Have you ever been in love, Mr. MacTaggert? Niall, I mean?”
“I’ve been near to it half a dozen times, Miss Baxter,” he returned, spotting the next street plaque and turning the group north accordingly. “Nae close enough to fall over the cliff.” At this moment he was wishing one of those lasses had caught his heart; if he’d been already married, especially without knowing about the bloody agreement his parents had signed, he would likely have been excused from this mess and happily still in the Highlands.
But after last night, that wasn’t quite true, either. The play had been better than he’d expected, but so had the conversation. Especially when he’d thought to be seated in the back row watching while Coll attempted to speak to an empty-headed flower about nonsense. It had begun that way, aye, until Coll had pushed too hard. Had his brother suspected he was being bamboozled? More likely he’d just been overly annoyed by the entire thing, but she’d definitely taken her moment to speak her mind.
“What about your brother?” she asked.
Niall blinked. “What about him?”
“Has he … been in love?”
Oh, that. “Nae that he’s admitted.” He sent her another look, catching a glimpse of blue eyes slanted in his direction before she faced forward again. “Ye definitely caught his attention last night.”
“If you try to tell me he was intrigued rather than entirely put out, I will call you a liar, sir.”
A laugh burst from his chest. He tried to stifle it with a cough, but doubted he’d been at all successful. “He wasnae indifferent about it. I’ll admit to that.”
“Well, I shall be minding my tongue this morning, just so you know. I misspoke last night, however … provoking he might have been. I know better.”
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