The skinny butler skittered up on Aden’s heels. “That … Perhaps one of the footmen could carry that for you, sir. John? And—”
Ignoring that, Aden started up the wide, elegant staircase and paused at the landing where the steps separated to climb to the left and right wings. “Give me a direction, or I’ll just choose whichever room strikes my fancy.”
“Smythe, show Aden to his bedchamber,” Francesca said.
“Of course, my lady.”
“Och, ye remembered my name, Francesca,” the lean twenty-seven-year-old drawled. “Then again, I am rumored to be unforgettable.”
“When you’ve deposited your trophy, join us in the morning room,” the countess instructed, turning to head into a room just off the foyer. “Niall, please join me, won’t you?”
Time to do a bit of scouting the terrain, then. Niall started after her, then stopped abruptly when a hard hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Ye shook her hand,” Coll muttered.
“And I introduced myself, as if we’d nae met before. I’m charming, if ye’ll recall. But I’m nae a traitor.”
“Dunnae forget that, bràthair. Ye heard Da’s warning. She may look a flower, but many a man’s been drowned in a soft voice and tears. If ye dunnae have the stomach for this, then step back. Aden and I will manage it.”
If they went by Angus MacTaggert’s last description of his estranged wife, the one he’d presented them from his self-proclaimed deathbed, Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert was a weeping, fainting damsel in distress who used her feminine wiles to manipulate every man within hearing into fulfilling her whims. Niall didn’t know if he believed all that or not; contrary to what he’d said, he did have a few memories of her, and she’d been warm and pleasant in most of them. And she’d smelled of lemons. But then he’d been a bairn, and he wasn’t one now. Far from it.
“The only good reason to marry an Englishwoman would be because the weeping pansy would do as I said, and I could leave her behind in London,” he returned in a low voice. “It worked for Da, after all.”
“Aye. As ye say. Nae marrying one at all is my first choice, though. Especially one some stranger’s picked out for me,” Coll returned, releasing him again to follow him inside the room.
Niall took a seat close by the morning room door, while Coll stomped around for a bit, eyeing the neat shelves of books and vases and delicate, feminine knickknacks. The moment Aden reappeared, the two of them took command of the couch to Niall’s left. That left Francesca facing the doorway into the foyer and well able to see the ridiculous chaos of things they’d toted down from Scotland as each was brought into the house. This should be interesting, at least, even if he doubted it would go as well as Coll hoped.
“My boys,” she said, her quiet voice just audible over the bagpipes outside.
“Ye’ll have to speak up,” Coll announced. “The lads are enthusiastic this morning.”
“I said I’m more pleased than you could ever know to see my boys again,” the countess restated, her voice firmer now.
“We’re nae yer boys,” Coll returned. “Ye summoned us here with a threat, and so we’re here to answer in kind. If ye wanted affection, ye should’ve asked more kindly, and written more frequently.”
She sank down in the available blue chair, her skirts rustling around her as she folded her hands onto her lap. Every move she made seemed studied, as if she had a painter in the next room ready to leap out and sketch her portrait. “So I’m to take the blame for your father not bothering to inform you that we’ve had an agreement for seventeen years. Very well. I can accept that.”
Aden tilted his head. “He didnae leave us behind, Francesca.”
Looking down, she opened her mouth and shut it again, while Niall waited for the weeping and lamenting and pleas for sympathy to begin. Instead she cleared her throat. “My greatest fear was that Angus would raise you boys as wild, unmannered barbarians, and evidently I had the right of it. That said, as we all know that your futures depend on you doing as I say, let’s begin with this: You will not call me Francesca. I am your mother, and you will show me some respect. I’ll give you four choices—you may refer to me as Mother, Mama, my lady, or Lady Aldriss.”
That didn’t sound at all weepy. “Then might ye tell us where we can find our sister, Lady Aldriss?” Niall asked, covering his surprise.
“I might,” she conceded, “if you’ll give me your word that you won’t blame her for the agreement or for her engagement. It’s not her fault that you’re here.”
Niall scowled, putting aside the thought that he’d suggested kidnapping her. That had been one of a dozen ideas thrown at the dartboard. “Do ye reckon we’re mad enough to mean harm to Eloise? She’s a MacTaggert. And she’s our wee sister.”
Something about what he’d said seemed to please her, because Francesca smiled. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. She wanted to be here, but she’d made a previous engagement to go shopping with some friends, and I made her keep to it. As I said, I wasn’t certain how she might be greeted. She’ll be home before dinner.”
“I reckon ye might want to tear up that agreement,” Coll stated. “Ye dunnae know who we are, or whether we might already have a lass in mind for marriage. If ye force us to wed some milquetoast female or other, ye may nae see grandbabies, my lady.”
“I know you’ve had less than a week to conjure some defense against your father’s and my agreement, but that’s the best you could come up with?” she countered. “No grandchildren? You are, after all, speaking to a woman who left her own sons behind.”
“Ye said ye were glad to see us,” Aden put in, scowling.
“I am. I hope that eventually you’ll understand how pleased I am. But the agreement stands. You will all three abide by it, or I will withhold the funds your father has been using for the past thirty years to keep Aldriss Park from collapse. I certainly don’t care about the place. But you do. I can see that.”
“Aye, we do, Lady Aldriss,” Coll growled. “And all our cotters and servants and villagers.”
“Then you know what you need to do. It’s very s…” She trailed off, her gaze on something in the foyer behind them. “Is that a stag?”
“Aye,” Aden returned. “That’s Rory. We keep him in the library.”
“Not in my library, you won’t.”
“I reckon he’d look just as fine on the staircase landing, then,” Coll took up. “Joseph, Gavin. Leave Rory on the stairs, so we can all admire him.” Lifting an eyebrow, Coll turned his gaze back to Francesca.
“Well,” she said, clearly not realizing she’d just lost that argument, or not caring, since she’d won the larger one. “I suppose we can decide on his placement later.” Rising, she walked over to the wall and tugged twice on a gold tassel pull by the doorway. “This does not need to be an adversarial business. For the moment, however, since you are all my prisoners and evidently are disinclined to engage in polite conversation, Smythe will show you to your rooms. Luncheon will be set out in the small dining room between one and three o’clock, and we sit for dinner tonight at seven. If you don’t sit for dinner, you will not have dinner.”
The butler appeared in the doorway. “Yes, my lady?”
“Aden’s seen his, but please show Coll and Niall to their bedchambers.” Inclining her head, she started out of the room. At the last moment she turned around again. “As you’ve read the agreement, I presume you’re aware that one of you is to wed a lady of my choosing. And as you’re the one with the title and inheritance, Coll, I’ve decided it should be you.”