Back to being Prince Not-So-Charming, Jamie turned to Duncan and began to discuss plans for the next gathering in a low voice. Duncan cast me a helpless glance that I took to mean he’d rather be socializing than talking official business. But it’s not like he had much of a choice, as someday soon his brother would be in charge—Jamie was the heir and Duncan merely the number two. The spare.
A quarter hour later, Fergus leaned back in his chair and caressed his bulging belly with meaty hands. “I dinna think I can eat another morsel.” Although I had not personally eaten two whole pizzas, like the big man, I still echoed his sentiments. Best pizza ever!
Fiona cast Fergus a teasingly stern look. “’Tis a good thing, Fergus Lockhart, because I don’t think Mario has a morsel left ta spare.” Through most of the meal, she’d remained silent. Observing. I doubted there was much of anything she failed to pick up on.
“Sì.” Mario, the mustached restaurateur who’d been the benefactor of our incredible meal, joined us with a chuckle. “Ma va bene se gli piaceva la mia cucina.”
Fergus looked blearily at Duncan, his brain likely struggling to process the conversation due to his food coma. “What’d he say?”
Trying to suppress his laughter enough to translate, Duncan replied, “He said, ‘It’s fine as long as you enjoyed his food.’”
“His cooking, Duncan,” Jamie interjected with a hint of superiority. “Cibo is food. Cucina means cooking.”
Duncan rolled his eyes. “Cucina also means kitchen, Jamie. My translation was contextual rather than literal.” His impish wink at me made it clear Duncan was baiting his brother. Although I had no idea why. To me it seemed as advisable as poking a bear.
Jamie glared from across the table, his dark eyes narrowed as a muscle in his jaw ticked. “Are you saying that your Italian is better than mine?”
Duncan nodded in the affirmative. “Sì, certo!”
The brothers jumped to their feet in unison, causing Mario to raise his hand to his forehead. In thickly accented English, he exclaimed, “Not again. Ragazzi!” Other than Mario’s admonishment, no one else in the tavern appeared particularly alarmed that the princes were on the verge of coming to blows over a translation.
After a moment of testosterone-fueled opposition, Jamie’s lips began to twitch and Duncan’s shoulders started to quake. In a strangled voice, Jamie said, “Italian aside, can we not agree, brother, that Fergus’s new tam is the ugliest hat in all the realm?”
Between heaves, Duncan replied, “Aye.” Laughing too hard to say more, he collapsed back into his chair, tears leaking from the corner of his eyes.
Fergus looked from one prince to the other in astonishment, finally settling on his future leader. “Wha’s wrong with m’ tam, exactly?”
Besides the bright yellow pom-pom? In the marketplace, I’d seen lots of people wearing tams of the Doonian plaid—called the Auld MacCrae, which I’d learned thanks to Fiona—with a green or blue toorie on top. But nothing quite like Fergus’s. To my left, I heard Vee muffling giggles behind her napkin and I couldn’t help but cave.
Truth be told, he was a big man … in a little hat.
With his pride at stake, the giant turned to Fiona. “You care for it, don’t ye, Fee?”
Fiona blinked at him, her face deliberately placid despite widened eyes. After a moment she stood and smoothed her skirt. “I want ta pop round and see my mum before returning ta the castle. So if ye don’t mind, I’ll take my leave.”
In a surprisingly lithe move, Fergus sprang to his feet. Before Fiona had taken a half dozen steps, he was at her side. She paused and lifted her lovely face toward her massive shadow. “What’re ye doing, Fergus Lockhart?”
“Escorting ye.” His face colored ten different shades of mottled pink, but he didn’t back down.
“Because the streets o’ Doon are so unsavory?” Undeterred by Fergus’s size, Fiona placed a petite hand on his sternum and pushed. “Shove off! I can fend for m’self.”