Scot Under the Covers Page 2

  He grinned. “Aye, Eloise. I’ll wear someaught to cover my nethers as well, even without ye reminding me.”

  “Mm-hm. One hour, Aden.”

  As he reached his bedchamber something crashed downstairs. Several voices began yelling, and he turned around yet again. Coll had been in a fine enough mood during their ride, but that had been all of five minutes ago and he’d lost forty quid since then. Or mayhap Eloise had reminded the viscount that they were to attend a proper luncheon with proper lasses.

  Before he’d managed two steps back toward the stairs something black and smelling of wet and cabbages hurtled up the hallway and crashed into his legs. Staggering, he grabbed the wall to keep himself upright. “What the devil?”

  The filthy thing wound around his legs, muddy paw prints all over the tops of his bare feet and patterning the green carpet runner around him. Finally it sat on his left foot and leaned hard against his knee.

  Smythe the butler came into view, a walking stick raised in one hand and his generally bland expression locked into one of shocked affront. “Have you … There you are, you little piece of filth. Off with you! Out of this house!”

  Tilting his head, Aden blocked the downward swing of the stick with his forearm. “I reckon ye’ll have to go through me before ye hit this wee beastie,” he drawled, catching and holding the butler’s angry gaze.

  The man subsided. “It ran in past me, the wretched thing. And it’s ruined the carpet, I’ll wager. If you’ll wait here, I’ll get a rope and—”

  “Nae,” Aden interrupted. “Ye willnae. This is my dog, Brògan,” he decided, settling on the Gaelic word for “boots” since the lad had attempted to steal one from him. “He’s come all the way from the Highlands to find me, and ye’ll do naught but put a bucket of warm water and some rags out in the garden so I can clean him off after his long journey.”

  “That is not—I saw you giving it a biscuit in exchange for your boot not five minutes ago!” the butler exclaimed.

  “Aye, because he brought it back to me,” Aden returned coolly. “He’s a fine beastie.”

  “That … thing walked all the way from Scotland,” Smythe countered skeptically. “And found you here, at Oswell House.”

  “Ye see him with yer own eyes, do ye nae?” Aden said, nodding at Coll as his brother topped the stairs. “Coll, this Sassenach butler is near to calling me a liar. Tell him, will ye, that this is my dog Brògan, all the way from Aldriss Park? I told ye the lad had a fine nose.”

  His oldest brother’s deep-green eyes narrowed as he took in the scene, then he pinned the increasingly alarmed-looking butler with his gaze. “Were ye calling my brother a liar, Smythe?”

  “I…”

  “Because I’ll swear it to ye if ye insist, and I barely recognized him beneath the mud, but that’s Bogan.”

  For a second Smythe looked like he’d swallowed his tongue. “I thought his name was Brògan,” he forced out between his teeth.

  “Oh, aye,” Coll drawled easily, his expression shifting to amused. “Good lad. Dunnae let him anywhere near me while he’s that filthy, Aden. And I changed my mind, brother. I believe I dunnae owe ye any blunt.”

  Hiding a grin, Aden nodded. “I believe ye to be correct, bràthair.”

  “Aye.” With that Viscount Glendarril vanished into his borrowed bedchamber and shut the door behind him.

  “A bucket of water and some rags,” Aden said again. “We’ll be down in five minutes.”

  “I … Yes, Master Aden. As you wish.”

  Hm. All the antics of the past month hadn’t seemed to trouble the butler overly much, but a muddy, flea-ridden dog might have just broken him. Grinning, Aden leaned over and shoved open his door. “In there, lad,” he said.

  Thankfully the dog stood, removing his arse from Aden’s foot, and ambled into the bedchamber as if he’d been inside it a hundred times. Shutting them in, Aden made his way to the overlarge wardrobe and pulled out an old work shirt and his most faded kilt. He wasn’t even certain why he’d bothered to bring them south with him, except they’d added to the general mass of nonsense they’d loaded into that pair of wagons. The work clothes and pair of well-worn boots were here because of that, as was the large, stuffed boar’s head Aden had placed above his bedchamber door.

  When he turned around, the dog had his front paws up on the bed and looked like he meant to jump onto the soft mass of pillows and blankets. “Nae!” he bellowed.

  With a yelp the black mutt ducked beneath the bed and disappeared. Aden frowned. If he’d had a previous master, the man hadn’t been kind. But for the moment the dog could stay where he was. His own generally restless sleep wouldn’t benefit from a battalion of fleas added into the bedsheets.

  Pulling off his proper Sassenach coat and waistcoat and yanking his fine, soft shirt over his head, he dumped the clothes over the dressing table’s chair. His kilt followed, while he tossed his road-scuffed boots over by the door. Then he dressed again, immediately more comfortable in his old work clothes and heavy work boots and a simple white shirt that had seen better days.

  “Come along, lad,” he said, crouching by the door. “Brògan.”

  Toenails tapped beneath the bed, but the beastie didn’t reappear.

  “Brògan. Come on, lad. I’ll nae have ye in here flinging fleas onto my things. If ye mean to stay, ye need a bath.”

  Whether it was his words or the tone of his voice, Brògan seemed reassured enough to stick his nose from beneath the coverlet, then crawl into the open. Tail tucked and wagging slowly, he crept forward until he could stuff his nose into the palm of Aden’s hand.

  “I dunnae ken who ye were, lad,” Aden murmured, “but ye’ve annoyed the butler. That’s good enough for me. Let’s see what kind of companion a Sassenach stray can make for a Highlander who’d rather be back in Scotland.”

  Straightening, careful to keep his motions slow and unthreatening, he opened the door and walked down the hallway. A moment later the dog followed, leaving more smudges along the bottom two feet of wallpaper as he sniffed from one side of the hallway to the other. At the top of the main staircase Aden paused, eyeing the very clear set of paw prints trailing up the steps and the two maids with buckets and brushes already attacking the bottommost stairs. Cursing under his breath, he squatted down to put one arm under the dog’s neck and the other beneath his hindquarters. Annoying Smythe was one thing; making more work for the lads and lasses of the house was quite another.

  The fellow weighed forty pounds or so, light enough for a man accustomed to hauling about sheep for shearing. Up this close the beastie’s scent nearly made him gag, but he locked his jaw shut and descended the stairs. Continuing on through the rear of the house, he juggled the dog so he could open the back door and then went outside.

  As usual Smythe had exceeded his orders, providing both a bucket and a tin trough that must have come from the stable. Both already contained water, and a generous pile of rags sat a few feet away. For a broomstick-up-his-arse Sassenach, Smythe wasn’t so bad, Aden supposed.

  With a glance to see that the garden gate was closed in case the beastie decided to make a run for it, and not bothering to question why he’d decided Brògan would be staying on at Oswell House, he set the dog down in the half-filled trough. “Let’s see what we can make of ye, lad,” Aden grunted, and went to work with the bucket and the rags.

  Five more buckets of water, some scissors, cursing, splashing, and a good brushing later he had what looked to be a black English springer spaniel and another curious development. “Lad, I’m sorry to be the one to tell ye, but ye’re a lass,” he commented.

  Brògan wumphed and buried her face in the rag he’d been using to dry her.

  “Och, ye knew that already. Ye’ve been using yer feminine wiles on me all along, havenae?” He looked at the dirty, furry carnage they’d left on the garden steps and at the same stuff caking the front of his shirt and his kilt. “I’d be more swayed if ye hadnae left half of London on my front.�
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  A male throat cleared from the direction of the top of the steps behind him. “Master Aden,” Smythe intoned, “I’m to remind you that you gave your word to Lady Eloise that you would attend her luncheon.”

  Aden turned his head to eye the stone-faced butler. “Aye, I said I would, and so I will. What’s got her bonnet full of bees?”

  “The luncheon began twenty minutes ago, sir. Your brother Lord Glendarril is in attendance, as are Master Niall and Mrs. MacTaggert.”

  “Niall got himself vertical, did he?” Aden intoned, straightening. “Tell Lady Eloise I’ll be down in ten minutes. Come on, Brògan.”

  “Did I hear you referring to that … Brògan as a female?” Smythe queried, his expression unchanged.

  “Nae, ye didnae. I’ll be needing a bowl of scraps for the lad; he’s had a long journey.”

  The butler craned his neck sideways, clearly trying to see Brògan’s undercarriage. “I’ll see to it, sir. Lady Eloise did stress that you were already late, however, and that she would not be pleased if you broke your word.”

  She wouldn’t, would she? Well, when a Highlander gave his word, he kept it. “I’ll still need the scraps,” he said, patting his damp thigh as he headed up the shallow steps back into the house.

  Luckily the dog kept right on his heels; no doubt she’d sensed that he remained her best chance for a meal and a safe place to sleep. They’d somewhat reversed roles now, since she was damp but clean, and he was slathered with mud. But Eloise seemed to doubt that he meant to make an appearance, and that he meant to keep his word. And buried beneath that, the idea of walking into the small dining room looking as he did, especially when by now most every female of his sister’s acquaintance knew he needed to find a wife, appealed to him more than a little.

  “Behave,” he muttered over his shoulder, half to Brògan and half to himself, and he pushed open the double doors of the small dining room.

  A wall of high-pitched chatter hit him like a smack to the face—and then all at once dropped into silence.

  “Ladies,” he drawled, sketching a loose bow. “I’ve nae had a—”

  “Is that Brògan?” Eloise interrupted, leaving the table and hurrying past Aden to crouch in front of the damp dog. “Oh, he’s darling! Why didn’t you ever say you’d left him behind in the Highlands?”

  Immediately a herd of females shoved past him to form a circle around Brògan, all the cooing and baby talk nauseating. At the same time, it fascinated him, like watching a worm eat its way through an apple. When a hand patted him on the shoulder, he jumped.

  “What do ye expect?” Niall muttered, clearly amused. “The beast’s clean. Ye look like a pigsty.”

  Aden half turned to view his younger brother. “Ye look a bit disheveled yerself, bràthair. Almost as if ye havenae worn clothes in nearly a week.”

  “Shut yer gobber, Aden,” the newlywed returned, his expression darkening. “I’ll nae have ye embarrassing Amy.”

  That made sense. Niall wasn’t just Niall any longer. He was Niall and Amelia-Rose—Amy, for short. At the moment the young lady with the golden hair and forthright manner was ruffling Brògan’s ears, but Aden nodded anyway. “Aye. She has enough of a burden, being married to ye.”

  “That’s more like it,” his brother commented, grinning again. “So is that the dog Coll said tried to steal yer boot?”

  Of course Coll would have told their youngest brother the actual story—or part of it, anyway. “Aye. Did he also mention he lost forty pounds to me because he throws with all the finesse of a bull?”

  Niall glanced over to the table where Coll still sat, devouring half a baked chicken and helping himself to a good portion of the hot rolls. “He must’ve forgotten that bit. Is that why ye were throwing boots about?”

  “Aye. He questioned my word about Oscar.”

  “Aden,” Eloise said, prancing up hand in hand with a lass in a yellow-and-green gown, “Brògan is not a male dog.”

  Aden sent a glance at the pair of pretty brown eyes and an upcurved mouth standing beside his sister. If this was the lass Eloise had selected for him today, his sister at least knew how to find a bonny one. With a few exceptions most of her friends were bonny, though. It was the tittering, the unwavering commentary on the weather, the sighs and giggles that made him shiver. And almost without exception every one of Eloise’s friends he’d met so far suffered from that disorder.

  Stepping between his sister and her bonny friend, he lowered his head. “I gave Brògan a biscuit in exchange for my boot, and she followed me into the house,” he murmured. “Smythe wanted to toss her out, but I dunnae hold with turning away guests. So I told a wee white lie about Brògan being my dog from Scotland. A boy dog. As far as Smythe knows, that’s what she is. Ye ken?”

  “Aye,” Eloise answered. “And you ken that I’m trying to help you find a wife, and that making an appearance at my luncheon looking like the inside of a chimney isn’t at all helpful, aye?”

  “Aye,” he returned, hiding his scowl. Eloise, sister or not, was English-raised, and a bit of mud and fur was no doubt enough to overset the stoutest Sassenach.

  “Good.” She lifted on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ve always wanted a dog. But Smythe will figure out eventually that you’ve bamboozled him, you know.”

  “I’m not so certain of that, Eloise,” her friend put in. “People see what they want to see, and that is generally what’s most convenient for them.”

  Aden straightened. Insightful, and not a thing about the weather at all. That had only been one sentence, though. How would she fare with two, this lass with the dark eyes and dusky-brown hair? “And who might ye be, lass?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Eloise exclaimed, squeezing her friend’s hand. “Aden, this is Matthew’s sister, Miranda Harris. Miranda, my middle brother, Aden MacTaggert.”

  Now that he knew the lady was related to Eloise’s fiancé, he could see the similarities. The dark-brown hair with its hints of sunset gold, the eyes dark as liquid chocolate. Miranda’s face was narrower than her brother’s, her features more delicate, and while she didn’t have Matthew’s height, the top of her head did come to just above Aden’s shoulder. She was a tall lass, since he stood an inch above six feet himself. And he was the short brother.

  “Miss Harris,” he said, remembering enough of his manners to incline his head. It wasn’t that he was struck by her. It was just that she’d surprised him a little. He’d still be willing to wager that weather would enter the conversation within the next two minutes, though. Aye, Brògan was the most promising lass in London so far. All she wanted was food and a blanket, and she didn’t pretend to be after anything but that.

  The lass—not the dog—curtsied smoothly. “I’m so pleased you and your brothers are here,” she said, her accent very cultured and very English. “Eloise has been telling stories about you for ages.”

  Since the stories had apparently come to Eloise via their father, Angus, Aden had to doubt their authenticity. Lord Aldriss did like a good tale. He should have come down to London with them and seen his daughter for the first time in seventeen years, but Angus had decided he was about to perish from the shock of learning of his wee bairn’s engagement. Or more likely, he was too scared of Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert to leave the safety of the Highlands. “I reckon she told ye tales about Coll mostly, a handful about Niall, and nae a one about me.”

  Miranda Harris tilted her head. “Only if the story about you starting with a shilling, going wagering, and ending up with a horse a day later is false.”

  He grinned. She hadn’t fainted or blushed, or mentioned the chill in the air. Yet. “I’ll give ye that one, then.”

  Eloise released her friend. “I’ll be right back,” she said, sending Aden a swift wink that clearly said she thought she’d found him his future wife. With that she dove back into the dog-petting circle.

  “If ye kept straight which tale was about which brother,” Aden commented, “I have to give ye c
redit for paying attention. Here in London I’m at best ‘a MacTaggert brother,’ and at worst I’m ‘one of those Highlanders.’”

  She folded her hands primly in front of her. Miranda Harris had long fingers, he noticed. Gambler’s hands, some called them. And those dark-brown eyes, her lips slightly pursed now in either a stifled grin or an escaping grimace, he could tolerate. More than tolerate, as long as her next sentence wasn’t about the damned weather—as if a soft Sassenach even knew what weather was.

  “I did pay attention,” she said in her proper tones, “especially because of the wagering. I detest gambling. And gamblers.”

  That straightened him up a little. Nothing much caught him flat-footed these days. Miss Miranda Harris had just accomplished that feat. “That was admirably direct,” he drawled. “Well done, lass.”

  Her grimace deepened. “I was not offering you a compli—”

  “I know ye didnae intend to say anything I’d admire,” he cut in, taking half a step closer and setting aside the inner question of why he was bothering to verbally fence with a woman who’d apparently set herself against liking him before they ever met. Perhaps it was because he generally made a point of being fairly likeable. And because even if he didn’t like the words, she’d bothered to speak her mind—when most of the Sassenach in London wouldn’t dare spit out a direct insult to save their own lives. He’d seen fewer twists in a snake. “Ye need to keep in mind that I’m nae some wilting English dandy. In the Highlands we like to disagree with our fists. What ye said almost sounded like flirting to me, Miss Harris.”

  For a second she looked like she wanted to give the fisticuffs a go. “You don’t seem to be obtuse,” she returned, her voice clipped, “so I will assume you are deliberately misreading my statement. I shall be more clear, then. I know what Eloise was about, and I have no interest in a match with a gambler, a wagerer, someone who views the inferior skills of others as an invitation to rob them.”