For a second she worried that she’d gone too far again, but his amused expression only deepened. “Aye,” he returned. “We stopped on a hill above London, and all ye Sassenach looked like a colony of ants scurrying about. It was enough to make even a great, stout heart like mine shiver.”
The idea of this big, well-muscled man being afraid of London made her chuckle. She’d expected a brute, and had found one in Coll MacTaggert. The brother, though, could at least carry on a conversation. Nor, at least for the moment, did he seem to find her “too free with her opinions” or “trying to pretend she was more than a silly girl,” as her mother frequently complained.
Niall MacTaggert’s humor made her reassess his brother’s bullying. They couldn’t be so different after all, could they? Perhaps Lord Glendarril had merely been put back on his heels by this entire morass, and after another day or two to become accustomed to all this, he could be reasoned with. The idea did give her a little hope that they might find themselves on the same side—and thank goodness for a little hope. And for Niall MacTaggert.
Chapter Three
“Your brother is aware of the consequences of his actions, is he not?” Francesca snapped, shedding her gloves as Smythe the butler pulled open the front door of Oswell House.
“Aye, he’s aware.” Niall had nothing to remove for the butler, but he paused in the grand foyer anyway. As much as he wanted to confront Coll, reasoning with his brother would have to wait until the woman who funded their livelihood stopped raging. Damn his brother anyway. The man had never wielded more than an ounce of patience.
“Then just what does he expect I will—”
“I said he’s aware,” Niall interrupted. “I’m here. Dunnae bellow at me. When I find him, then ye can yell at him.”
“I…” Francesca took in a deep breath through her nose. “Yes. Do that. And inform your brother that he is taking Amelia-Rose to breakfast in the morning. That is decided. If he doesn’t, I will have to—”
“He will,” Niall broke in again. “We didnae come all this way to lose Aldriss.”
She looked at him for a moment, her green eyes assessing. Lasses. Just when he thought he had them all figured out, one of them stood up to Coll in admirable fashion.
“Yes, you came to save Aldriss from my unforgiving claws, didn’t you?” Francesca said, handing her shawl to the butler, as well. “Then you’d best keep that in mind. Smythe, please have peppermint tea sent up to my bedchamber. Is Eloise home yet?”
“Yes, my lady. She returned an hour ago.”
“Send her up to my room also, if you please.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Niall watched the countess up the stairs until she vanished down the western-facing hallway. “Has my brother returned?” he asked, facing the butler.
“Neither of your brothers is presently here, Master Niall,” Smythe informed him.
Of course they weren’t. The devil knew where Aden had gone, and while Coll would generally be found either at the Bonny Lass or in the bed of any one of half a dozen actual bonny lasses, down here in London, Niall had no idea where to even begin looking. Somewhere with food, he hoped; one of them might not starve, that way.
Sidestepping into the morning room, he picked up the whisky decanter and headed for the stairs. “Good night, Smythe.”
“Shall I send Oscar up to tend you?”
“What for? I reckon I can put myself to bed. Havenae had a mama to kiss me good night since I was a wee bairn.”
“Good night, then, Master Niall.”
Pausing on the stairs, Niall looked down at the butler. “Just Niall, for Saint Michael’s sake. Ye’ll give me a swelled head.”
Between “Master” this and “have a cup of tea” that, he’d be wearing a crown by the end of the week. The English seemed to think very highly of themselves and their so-called civilized ways. Or most of them did, anyway. Amelia-Rose’s conversation hadn’t been remotely what he’d expected. She’d handily sent Coll fleeing, and even after that hadn’t been able to rein in her tongue. Not entirely. Not even the Scottish lasses spoke that way to him or his brothers, because however friendly they might be in bed, the MacTaggerts were, after all, their lairds, and Laird Aldriss, their chieftain.
No wonder Coll had fled—his oldest brother had pushed her, expecting compliance and submission, and she’d snapped back at him like a fox in a trap. Unless he was greatly mistaken, Amelia-Rose wasn’t any happier at any of this arranged marriage shite than Coll was. His brother should have noticed that, and taken it into account.
Niall had noticed, but then she was striking. Despite the tongue-twisting name the lass was pretty, fresh-faced, and blond. No MacTaggert male had ever complained about that combination. With a night to consider, Coll might well come around. Keeping Aldriss funded was important to all of them, but especially to its heir. He could still leave the lass behind in London, regardless of whether she meekly agreed to it or not. Though firstly Amelia-Rose seemed a lass who just might put up a fight about being abandoned, and secondly, leaving her all alone in a grand marriage bed would very likely be a sin.
On the main landing, Niall patted Rory the deer on the head, noted that someone, likely Aden, had given the buck a cravat around his neck and a blue beaver hat over one nine-pronged antler, and continued up the stairs. He pushed open the door of his borrowed bedchamber and immediately scented, then spied, the thick ham sandwich on the dressing table. Thank God. Shrugging out of his proper black jacket, he made for the food and the small note propped beside it. He unfolded the missive. Idiot. Eloise, was all it said, and he grinned as he took a huge bite. Evidently having a sister about could be more useful than he’d realized.
His evenings generally didn’t end until much closer to dawn, so as he ate, washing down the meal with a generous portion of the whisky he’d liberated, he wandered over to the bookshelf located perpendicular to the trio of windows. A compilation of Byron poems, some Shelley and Wordsworth, three Shakespeare folios, and a history of Hereford cattle. All very English, and very unappealing tonight.
Laid flat on a lower shelf and topped by a black-and-white porcelain cow, though, he found an unexpected treasure—The Lord of the Isles by Sir Walter Scott. So Francesca did have Scottish things other than her three sons in the house; she merely preferred to keep them hidden. Pulling off his boots and tossing them over by the door, he took the book, the sandwich, and the whisky decanter, and hopped onto the over-pillowed, too-soft bed to read. And drink.
He woke confused, half inside a dream where Amelia-Rose Baxter kept asking him to dance and then twirling away before he could answer, and half aware of Oscar flinging open the bloody curtains—until he become fully aware of the sunlight stabbing him in the eyes.
“What the devil do ye think ye’re doing?” he growled, putting a pillow over his head.
“I’m waking ye up. It’s near eight o’clock,” the valet answered.
Eight o’clock? “Fetch me a damned pistol.”
“A pistol? Why do ye require a pistol?”
“Because I’m going to shoot ye for waking me up when I didnae ask ye to do any such thing, ye damned lummox. Go away and leave me be.”
“I cannae. Yer mother—her ladyship, that is—is asking where yer brother is, and why he’s nae on his way to escort the Sassenach lass to the coffeehouse.”
Niall shoved the pillow aside and sat up. “Coll’s nae returned?”
The valet shook his head. “I checked the bedchamber. Nae a rumpled sheet or muddy boot in sight. And the window’s latched, so he didnae come in and slip out again.”
That didn’t bode well. Aye, Coll had been annoyed, but mere annoyance wouldn’t have kept him out all night when Aldriss was at stake. “Does Francesca know that?”
“Nae. She sent her maid to ask me to fetch him down. Hannah—that’s her highness’s maid—said the lady wasnae at all happy.”
With a curse, ignoring the pounding of his skull, Niall lurched to his feet. “Tell Hannah that Coll left to meet the Sassenach lass already. Say he stopped to fetch her some posies to apologize for last night.”