It's Getting Scot in Here Read online

  She walked slowly outside to stand in front of the doorway. Her gown of deep blue likely would have sparkled in sunlight, but there was none of that to be found today. “I see I won’t need to inform the neighbors that my sons have arrived,” she said, her voice that cool, sophisticated accent he’d found very exotic as a bairn. Now it merely sounded English. Unlike his own. “Thank you for that.”

  “Aye, we’re here,” Coll returned, his eyes narrowing. “Thanks to yer threats, Francesca. Ye managed to put Da on his deathbed and took me away from mending the irrigation ditches, but ye’ve brought us out of the Highlands.”

  Her left hand flew up to her throat and a delicate gold necklace there before she lowered it again. “Your father has passed away?”

  “He might’ve, by now. Made us swear nae to delay heading south and risk ruin for Aldriss, so we’ve nae idea. Pogan—our butler, if ye’ve forgotten—is to send us word.”

  “I haven’t forgotten Pogan,” she returned. “Nor will I discount Angus’s dislike for London. Until I hear otherwise I shall credit his so-called deathbed antics to be just that—antics.” Rubbing her hands together, she took a breath and stepped to one side of the doorway. “Now. Given that the future of Aldriss lies in you agreeing to my wishes, I do wish you would come inside.”

  Niall stole a glance at Coll. At nine-and-twenty, the current Viscount Glendarril and future Earl Aldriss had the clearest memory of Francesca; he’d been twelve when she’d left for London, after all. Coll stood four inches above six feet, and men—much less women—generally didn’t argue with him. Even fewer attempted to order him about. This might not be an order, but it was close enough. Niall wondered if Francesca realized she’d just invited a bull into her glassware shop. An angry bull.

  Coll met Francesca’s gaze, then turned his back on the house. “Keep playing, lads,” he called, then whistled for the wagons to pull onto the drive. “We’ve a bloody mountain of luggage to move inside, and I’d rather hear the pipes than the groaning of the footmen.”

  “Or the neighbors, I reckon,” Niall muttered. He hadn’t put much hope into Coll’s plan of stomping up to the Oswell House front door, bellowing that Francesca had best rethink her plans because the MacTaggert brothers did not bow to anyone, and marching back to the Highlands. They looked to be trapped here for a few days, at least.

  He looked up at the half-a-hundred windows that adorned the front of the grand house. None of the past six days had gone as he expected, though he had enjoyed the ride down from Scotland. Instead of a head-to-head battle, he would have chosen to find a London-based solicitor of their own to fight Francesca’s agreement. Another Englishman would have had better odds of finding a way out of an English agreement than Coll and his preference for straight-up brawling. That suggestion had been overruled as well, of course, because everyone knew a Highlander couldn’t trust a Sassenach. Not even one in his own employ.

  Either way, he’d never been averse to making trouble. While Coll and Aden issued orders to their outriders and the Oswell House staff, he strolled up the pair of low steps to the front doorway. “I’m told I knew ye when I was seven years old,” he drawled, sticking out his hand as Francesca looked at him. “I’m Niall.”

  She faced him, taking a quick half-step forward before she stopped again. Being a MacTaggert in the Highlands meant running across plenty of men wanting to make their own reputations on his back, to prove their strength or power or wealth by attempting to set him on his arse or in his grave. He’d become deft at determining who was an actual threat and who was actually angry or terrified or—more than likely—drunk. That was how he knew he’d just struck a blow against Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert, and that he’d hurt her. While he generally didn’t hold with battling a woman, she’d started it.

  Lifting her chin a little, she moved again, reaching out to grip his hand. “You don’t need to introduce yourself to me, Niall. For goodness’ sake.” Her fingers trembled just a little, but as he shifted to let go, she tightened her hold on him. “I expected your hair to be red.”

  Shrugging, he ran his free hand through the overlong mess hanging into his eyes. “It got darker. Brown mostly, with a wee bit of fire here and there in the sunlight.”

  “You were a handsome young boy, but my heavens. You’ll have half the girls in London swooning at your feet. And those eyes of yours—they’re very like your sister’s, you know. Such a pale celadon, like new leaves in sunlight.” She reached a hand toward his face.

  Niall stepped sideways into the house, freeing his hand and avoiding her caress in the same motion. One hello did not make them friends, or family. In the strictest sense it made them acquaintances. Aye, that’s what they were—barely acquainted, with the caveat that Francesca happened to hold the purse strings that could determine the future of the estate and all their tenants. His future as well.

  “It seems to me,” Aden drawled, stepping between them and into the long, dark foyer beyond, “that if ye had a curiosity about the color of Niall’s hair or his pretty eyes, ye had a simple way to satisfy it. A visit, mayhap. Or a letter.” The middle MacTaggert brother hefted a monstrous stuffed boar’s head mounted on an oak plank. “Where am I lodging?”

  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 bagpipe
s 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.”

  They’d already decided that among themselves, but Coll hadn’t liked losing to begin with. Having it shoved at him all over again wouldn’t gain Francesca any affection. Lord Glendarril stood, all six feet four inches of him coiled and ready for a fight. Moving quickly, Niall climbed to his feet, as well. “Coll said it should be him,” he lied, “so ye’ve nae surprised us, Lady Aldriss, though I doubt ye can find an Englishwoman to match him.”

  His jaw clenching, Coll flexed his fingers. “Aye. Ye find me some swooning, untouched lass, then. I reckon we’ll deal as well as ye and Angus MacTaggert did.”

  Her cheeks paled a shade or two. “The young lady I’ve selected will make you a fine Viscountess Glendarril, and a better Lady Aldriss when your father does see fit to expire,” she returned, ignoring his other comments. “You’ll meet her tonight at the theater. You may bring one of your brothers; I don’t wish her overset by the three of you all glowering at her.”

  “Ye might give me a bloody day to catch my breath before ye bring the axe down on my neck,” Coll snapped.

  She sent him a smile that wouldn’t have warmed ice. “There’s no sense in wasting time. What if Eloise and Mr. Harris were to elope? You might lose everything over poor timing.”

  Well, this hadn’t gone at all the way Coll had described. Niall would have been amused with the way Francesca had stomped all over him if that wouldn’t have encouraged his oldest brother to punch him. But still, thank God he had at least a small say in finding his own bride, a milquetoast lass like Coll had described, a woman he could bed and then leave behind while he went back to the Highlands and lived as he pleased. “Ye might as well set eyes on her, Coll,” he said aloud.

  Coll swiveled his head around. “Niall likes the theater. He’ll join us tonight.”

  Niall took a breath. Bloody wonderful. “Och, I’d be delighted,” he lied. Just what he wanted, to spend an evening watching Coll trying to make some weak-willed lass faint from his mere presence. At least, he supposed, if any of the nearby females succumbed as well, he’d have his first chance at finding a weepy, dim-witted one for himself.

  Francesca wanted them tied to London, it seemed. The countess likely hadn’t reckoned on them pursuing a set of lasses none of them wanted anything to do with. One visit to London, and perhaps a second one from Coll to make himself an heir, and Aldriss Park funded permanently. Not ideal, but better than whatever Francesca imagined for them.

  Chapter Two

  “I’m nae wearing that, Oscar.” Niall turned away from the dressing mirror to eye the large, emerald cravat pin nestled in an ornate gold setting. He could swear the figures of mini cherubs frolicked along the rim.

  “Yer ma brought it to me especially for ye,” the valet said. “She said it belonged to her da, the old Laird Hornford.”

  No doubt Francesca had sent a bauble to Coll and Aiden, as well, and now she waited in the foyer to see which of them would wear her gift. It wasn’t going to be him. “Put it down,” he ordered. “I’ll wear the thistle pin, and naught else. I’m nae some English dandy.”

  “Aye,” Oscar said, setting the fancy thing on the table. With a sigh he retrieved the small silver thistle pin Niall generally wore with his dress kilt. “I’d appre
ciate if ye’d make certain the lady kens that I did as she asked.”

  “Dunnae ye fret about what some underhanded Sassenach lass thinks of ye. We’ll nae be here long enough for it to matter.”

  “What about the brides ye and Master Aden are supposed to find here? And the one Laird Glendarril’s to wed? Ye have to be here long enough for that.”

  Niall frowned at his reflection in the dressing mirror. Coll might still claim it hadn’t been settled yet, but that conversation in the morning room had sounded fairly definite to him. “Only long enough for a wedding. I reckon Da’s been living a fine life in the Highlands without his wife for the past seventeen years. Nae reason we couldnae do the same.” The more he thought about it the more sense it made—marry some Englishwoman about whom he didn’t give a damn in order to save Aldriss, and not have anything else to do with her. That would show Francesca she couldn’t control everything, and especially not her sons.

  That was still the worst-case scenario, though, to be used only if he and his brothers couldn’t persuade Lady Aldriss that they weren’t fit for English consumption. She’d yet to see them in public, after all. Perhaps after an evening of uncooperative Highlands lads, she would return to Oswell House and tear up the agreement of her own accord and send them packing back to Scotland.

  A soft rap sounded at his door. “Aye?” he called.

  He saw her in the dressing mirror’s reflection, a petite, slender sprite with long dark hair piled atop her head, nearly colorless green eyes made even more striking by a deep-emerald evening gown, and a smile that looked hopeful and nervous all at the same time. His heart thumping, Niall climbed to his feet.