It's Getting Scot in Here

by Suzanne Enoch

  Had she hoped for a love match herself? Did she have a man she cared for, a man who’d asked for her hand, and one she’d had to turn away because of her parents’ agreement with Lady Aldriss? It hadn’t occurred to him previously, but it should have. And he didn’t like the idea. At all. “Lass, do ye—”

  “Goodness, Amy,” Eloise broke in, her cheeks turning red. “I hope you don’t begrudge me a bit of that luck you mentioned.”

  “No, of course not,” Amelia-Rose returned on the tail of that, also flushing. “I apologize. That—it didn’t sound the way I intended.”

  “Apology accepted,” Eloise said promptly, smiling again. “Let’s speak no more about it.”

  Niall wanted to speak more about it, but apparently that wasn’t a conversation they were to have in front of others. “I reckon the lass doesnae need to apologize for pointing out that ye and Mr. Harris here are sugary enough that ye’re making my teeth ache,” he said aloud, narrowing one eye at his younger sister.

  “Oh, stop it, Niall,” his sister returned. “I know you and Coll and Aden would have loved to be able to approve of Matthew before he asked for my hand, and I’m certain that would have entailed the drinking of much whisky and some brawling, but it didn’t happen that way. He asked Mama for my hand, and she gave her permission.”

  Niall eyed his sister’s betrothed, and had the satisfaction of seeing Matthew Harris shift a little and suddenly find something interesting to view outside the barouche. “Aye, we’re too late to have had a hand in yer choosing a lad, piuthar, but I dunnae believe it’s ever too late for whisky or brawling. We’re some of the finest brawlers in the Highlands, if I say so myself.”

  “Niall, no punching,” Eloise stated again.

  He sat back and crossed his arms. “Nae promises.”

  They might be jesting, but he hadn’t made up his mind about Mr. Harris yet. Aye, he could assess a man’s character fairly quickly, but this particular lad had in mind to marry the MacTaggerts’ only sister. Learning whether he was fit to do that would take more than a minute. It didn’t help that Matthew Harris likely knew Eloise better than did her own brothers. They should have visited her, however they felt about Francesca. They should have written, at least; they shared blood and heritage, whether she’d ever been exposed to the latter or not.

  “I’m willing to have a glass or two of whisky, if that’s satisfactory,” Matthew put in.

  “Ha. Either ye have a bit of spleen, or ye’ve nae met a Highlander before. I’ll see what I can arrange.” He sent Eloise a glance. “Nae interference.”

  “Amy, I may now have some envy of you for being an only child,” his sister stated, but since she continued to seem amused Niall reckoned he hadn’t done any damage.

  Finally they turned into a large, green expanse of trees and ponds and flowers. Niall took a deep breath. It was too orderly and civilized ever to be mistaken for the Highlands, but it wasn’t more buildings and noise. For Saint Andrew’s sake, he could actually hear birdsongs. “This is more like it,” he muttered, his shoulders lowering a little. The mere fact of being in London weighed on him, whether he’d realized it before now or not.

  Half a dozen bouncing, flapping lasses met the carriage as they stopped beside a handful of other vehicles. On the far side of the carriages a canopy stood, a spread of blankets on the ground beneath it, while a trio of footmen and a table laden with plates, baskets, bowls, and glasses stood close by and awaited their dining pleasure directly to one side. Ah, food.

  “—must be Lord Glendarril,” one of the young ladies, a bosomy redhead, said in between giggles, her gaze on him. “Oh, Amelia-Rose, he’s heavenly.”

  Amelia-Rose clambered over him and out of the barouche. “No, no, no. This—this is his brother—one of Eloise’s other brothers, I mean— Oh, dear. This is Niall MacTaggert.”

  Niall stepped down from the carriage. “Lasses,” he said, inclining his head.

  They all dipped curtsies like a flock of bobbing doves. Bloody hell. Perhaps he needed to be more thankful that Coll had dodged his responsibilities so far today; at least with Amelia-Rose by his side, Niall had a bit of protection from the muslin horde. On the other hand, if he wished for some companionship, that would be easy enough to find.

  His sister took his arm and yanked on it. She couldn’t have budged him if she wanted to, but he relented and moved a few steps away with her. “If ye’re worried, I’ll nae brawl with anyone here,” he said under his breath. “Unless there’s stronger drink than what I spy.”

  “These ladies are all—or most of them are—my friends. Don’t ruin any of them.”

  Niall lifted an eyebrow. “All I did was say hello,” he returned with a half grin.

  She tightened her grip on his forearm. “Mama said you’re to find an English wife. Even if you don’t want to, I know you’re at least thinking about it. Don’t let what our parents did cause you to misbehave with these nice young ladies.”

  “Piuthar, I’m four-and-twenty. I’m nae some pup getting the scent of my first fox. And if I reckoned these lasses were to blame for my predicament, ye’d nae find me escorting Coll’s lady just to keep everyone else happy.”

  That didn’t sound quite right, because the only person being kept happy by all this subterfuge, as far as he could tell, was Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert. And perhaps Amelia-Rose’s parents. Which didn’t mean that he was unhappy, because she looked like warm springtime in that yellow gown, and the smile on her lips made him think about kissing.

  “My sweet, everyone wants to meet your brother,” Matthew Harris said, stepping in to take Eloise’s free arm. “And I’m being peppered with questions for which I have no answers.”

  Niall shrugged out of his sister’s grip. “Dunnae ye fret, lass,” he said. “I’m charming as the devil.”

  “And just as wicked, no doubt. Behave, Niall.”

  What she’d said, despite his attempts to shrug off her words and remember at least half the names of the lasses present, started something roiling in his gut. He’d been sent down here. Dragged down here. He’d been told to behave. He’d been told to find himself a wife. No room for questions. But now he abruptly did have one or two of those, and it had occurred to him that he hadn’t asked himself many questions about anything lately.

  Days at Aldriss Park were busy, filled with tending to the property, aiding the cotters, shearing sheep, farming crops, fishing, hunting—all the things he’d done practically since he could walk, with the notable exceptions of drinking and women. Those had come later and been well worth the wait. But they were all things he did. Ways he occupied himself and helped those for whom his family was responsible.

  This could not be another of those times, where he simply did whatever was asked of him because firstly it was simpler, and secondly he was that charming man who liked it when the people around him were happy. Now he needed to ask himself a damned question, and he needed to find the damned answer for it. What the devil did he want?

  “Niall,” Amelia-Rose said, walking toward him and arm in arm with another of the pretty young lasses, “this is Lady Margaret, daughter of the Marquis of Hampfer. Peggy, this is Niall MacTaggert, Eloise’s brother and youngest son of Earl Aldriss.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. MacTaggert,” the marquis’s daughter cooed, curtsying.

  “And ye, Lady Margaret. Thank ye for including me in yer festivities.”

  She giggled. “I had an additional pheasant prepared when Amy told me how hungry you were likely to be.”

  He sent Amelia-Rose an appreciative grin. “I thank both of ye, then.”

  “So tell me, Mr. MacTaggert, we had expected to meet Lord Glendarril. Is Amelia-Rose merely teasing us, and such a person doesn’t actually exist?”

  “Oh, he’s real enough, lass. We dunnae come into London often, though, and when we do, he has a thing or two to tend to. He may be here later.”

  “I hope so.” She spied another carriage full of arriving guests and pran
ced off to greet them.

  “I do hope you’re able to keep your stories straight,” Amelia-Rose said in a low voice.

  He looked at her, trying to pay attention to her words and not how her eyes matched the color of the deep-blue afternoon sky. “What?”

  “You told me that your brother is adjusting to London and your mother’s demands. Now you’ve said he’s attending to business. Since he’s known at least by rumor to be nearly engaged to me, I would appreciate if you kept your tales in order. I do not wish to be embarrassed by his poor behavior or your lack of ability to prevaricate about it.”

  “Och, ‘prevaricate,’ is it?” he returned, leaning his head closer to hers as they made for the stream to the right of the canopy and blankets. “Ye English’ve made an art of using long words for simple things.”

  “I can say ‘lie’ if that will convince you to do as I ask.”

  “I’ll keep my tales untangled, adae, if ye’ll answer a question.”

  She slowed beside him. “What question might that be?”

  “What did ye have in mind for yourself before yer parents made an agreement with Lady Aldriss?”

  “That’s none…” She trailed off. “We all have our fairy-tale dreams, Niall. I haven’t quite given up on mine, silly as they may be, and your brother will have some work ahead of him if he means either to live up to them or to convince me to give them up.”

  He admired her for saying that, even if it didn’t bode well. This damsel wasn’t going to sit by and wait while Coll stomped about London being angry. They had an estate and a great many cotters relying on his brother doing the correct thing. And now he hoped that Coll didn’t show up this afternoon. They needed to have a serious conversation first.

  “I told ye we were led to believe we’d find naught but delicate, mild, fainting lasses this far to the south. Give a man a day to think, adae.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not mild, then?”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it again. “I honestly havenae a bit of an idea how to answer that question without getting myself smacked in the head,” he finally replied.

  Amelia-Rose sent him a sharp look, then shook her head. “You make me forget.”

  “Forget what?” he pressed, far more interested in her answer than he likely should be.

  “To mind my tongue.” She gave a rueful smile. “Answer me honestly, if you please.”

  Niall rather liked her tongue, and all her other parts. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “Then nae, I’d nae choose ‘mild’ to describe ye. Keen-eyed, mayhap. Or clever-tongued.”

  The grimace on her face didn’t look entirely displeased, though he reckoned it was supposed to. “Your brother wants someone mild, then, does he? Someone meek and unassuming, easily cowed and led about?”

  “If I said aye to that, would ye be inclined to be the lass he wants, or the lass he doesnae want?”

  Her gaze focused somewhere past him, on the lines of trees and the small stream at their feet. “Last year I decided I would be myself. I acquired one proposal, made a baron’s son weep, and had to convince my parents I was not trying to ruin my own chance for marriage. Your brother isn’t the only man in London who prefers meek and mild, Niall.”

  “Ye said that was last year,” he prompted, abruptly angry. And not at her. Her parents, and most everyone else, apparently, had tried hobbling her. They’d tried to break her. And now she couldn’t decide if she was wild or tame. “What of this year?”

  “This year I am attempting—and failing, according to you—to be more … ladylike. I have three proposals, not counting the one your mother gave on behalf of your brother, and no one has shed a tear. Not in public, anyway.”

  He smiled, though what he truly wanted to ask was whether she was happier this Season. “I reckon Coll and I are more damaging to yer calm than most men would be. We being barbarians and all.”

  When she looked at him again, a trace of humor had returned to her expression, thank Saint Andrew. “Lord Glendarril did make an impression.”

  “Aye, like a great boot in the mud.” Niall turned them back in the direction of the canopy and the growing group of picnickers. “Between ye and me, adae,” he went on, lowering his voice, “I’ve told ye what Coll says he wants, and ye could be that lass if ye tried, I imagine. I’m nae certain, though, that’s what’s best for ye. I reckon I’ll get clubbed for telling ye this, but at this moment I’m nae convinced ye and Coll are compatible. And ye willnae be compatible unless ye decide to cast aside the keen-eyed lass I spy before me. The…” He trailed off, deciding he’d potentially caused enough trouble.

  Blue eyes held his attention, drew him to her. “Please go on,” she whispered.

  He wanted to. Badly. “I like ye as ye are, lass,” he settled for saying. “The sweet and the sour. I cannae be the only one.”

  For a second he thought he’d made her cry, but she whisked a hand across her face and nodded. “You’ve given me some things to consider, Niall. I very much appreciate your honesty.”

  Not at all certain whether he’d made things better or worse, he seated himself on the ground between Eloise and Amelia-Rose and locked a smile on his face as he memorized more names—even though half of them were Mary or Elizabeth—and pretended to enjoy the conversation about who’d danced the most divinely at the last soiree.

  “I’ll wager you have magnificent soirees in Aberdeen,” one of the young ladies, Tulip or Petunia, he thought, said enthusiastically. “All those kilts and red-haired ladies.”

  “Aye,” he said, wishing the footmen would get on with handing out the edibles.

  “Oh, you must say more than that,” the flower demanded, to the encouragement of the other lasses. The men didn’t seem to care about Scottish soirees any more than he did.

  “Aye, I imagine they do,” he drew out. “But I dunnae ken for certain because Aberdeen is in the Lowlands, and I’ve nae been there. I’ve attended a grand soiree or two in Inverness, and aye the lads wear the tartans of their clans, and there are a handful of ginger-haired lasses. Most of them have Irish in their blood, which I cannae hold against them as they’d nae say in it.”

  “I … Oh.” The flower cleared her throat. “Which clan are you, Mr. MacTaggert?”

  “Clan Ross.” Finally the trio of servants began setting out small bowls of orange wedges and whortleberries and cherries. Of all the things that had troubled him about this trek to London, starving hadn’t been one of them. Until now. He scooped up a pile of whortleberries and began devouring them.

  “A clan is like a gentlemen’s club, isn’t it?” one of the lads, a Turner, he thought, asked. “You belong to clan Ross the same way I belong to White’s?”

  “Could be. When ye swear an oath, is it to God, White’s, and England?”

  “What? No. Of course not.”

  “Then it’s nae the same. My oaths are to God, Ross, and Scotland.” They also on occasion swore to Robert the Bruce, Saint Andrew, or the Wallace, but he was apparently making a point about something or other.

  Eloise nudged him in the elbow. “Be nice,” she whispered.

  “I am being nice,” he returned in the same tone. “I cannae ignore the questions and still be polite, ye ken.”

  “You don’t have to answer so pointedly,” she insisted.

  Niall sent her a glance. “Ye dunnae know me very well, do ye, piuthar? This is as round as my points get.”

  “What are the colors of clan Ross?” Amelia-Rose asked, breaking what was becoming a nervous silence.

  She knew that, as she’d seen Coll and him in their plaid at the theater … Saint Andrew, had it only been last night? But he had reason to be more circumspect with her, both because of her importance to Aldriss Park, and because her sharp edges and softer ones near to mesmerized him. Her sharp edges, in particular. “Deep red, with a plaid of black crossed with green. Our chief for the past two years is Lieutenant General Sir Charles Lockhart-Ross of Balnagown.” />
  “But you’re not a Ross, yourself,” someone else, another of the men, put in.

  “I am, on my grandmother’s side. Ross and MacTaggert blood’s been mingled for the past three or four centuries, I reckon.”

  “So you’re not a member of White’s, then,” the Turner fellow put in again.

  “Nae.” Finishing off the whortleberries, Niall leaned forward a little. This man meant him ill; of that he was certain. He could practically scent it on the wind. No, it wouldn’t be a ball to the skull or a blade in the back, but Turner had brought the conversation back to White’s membership twice, as something he had and Niall did not.

  “I’ve a clan,” he went on. “I’ve nae need for a gentlemen’s club. Out in the Highlands if I fall from my horse while hunting deer, or I slide down a cliffside because I’ve misjudged my footing, my clan will come to find me. Nae just my brothers. My clan. Hundreds of ’em. Just as I’ve gone to their aid. I dunnae prize a chair because I’m the only one allowed to sit in it. I prize those who’ll watch my back, who’ll bleed for me if necessary, as I’ve bled for them.” He selected half an orange and straightened again. “Did ye have a question I missed, then?”

  Turner surveyed the line of carriages for a moment. “No. No question. Just a statement of interest.”

  “So it’s your brother Lord Glendarril who’s to marry Amelia-Rose?” another of the lasses, a pretty, petite brunette with green eyes, asked.

  “If we’re compatible,” Amelia-Rose put in swiftly, with a smile that to his eyes looked forced, especially since he’d been sporting one of those for the past thirty minutes, himself. “He’s been so busy; I’m looking forward to spending more time with him.”

  He remembered the brunette lass’s name. “Aye. As Miss Baxter says, Miss LeMere.”