In Scot Water - Caroline Lee Page 0,46

better in the last few decades, I have to admit. Still nae music, exactly. Just pounding blessedly away, foretelling doom!”

Oh dear. What kind of place had she landed in? Evelinde swallowed. “Doom?”

With a huff, Nessa tossed her embroidery into her lap. “Aunt Agatha has this crazed notion those who hear the drummer—”

“Are doomed to fall in love!” the old woman cackled gleefully. “Dooooooomed!”

“ ’Tis stupid,” Malcolm’s sister sighed. “I’ve heard the damned thing for ages, and have I been lucky in love? Nay.”

Lara shifted a burbling Tomas to one shoulder and reached over to pat Nessa’s arm. “Yer da will come around,” she said softly. “He cannae keep betrothing ye indefinitely.”

“Nay,” Nessa agreed mulishly. “Eventually one of the Henrys will live long enough to marry me, and then I’ll be a wife instead of a curse.”

Evelinde had heard the story when she’d joined the women in Agatha’s solar, at the old woman’s insistence. Apparently, Laird Oliphant’s attempts to broker a marriage for Nessa—his only legitimate child—had resulted in much heartache. Each of her betrotheds had died before reaching the altar, the most recently only a sennight before.

And each of them had been named Henry.

Actually, the young woman didn’t seem particularly heartbroken. If anything, she was irritated by her father’s attempts to marry her off. Come to think of it, Evelinde would be irritated too if she were in the other woman’s slippers. After five failed betrothals, it’s no wonder Nessa—and the men her father kept trying to marry her off to—thought of herself as cursed.

But still, Evelinde liked Nessa. She could be dour, aye, but she had the most refreshing views on education, even if her choices of themes to learn were a little unorthodox.

Eyeing the embroidery the laird’s daughter held in her lap, Evelinde could see a figure; half-man, half-horse, with a huge erect member, waving a sword. There was blood on the sword, and— Was that a severed head at his feet?

Aright. Her choices of themes were verra unorthodox.

Still, she was different and easy to like. So Evelinde offered a smile. “If ye’d heard the drummer, milady, and ‘tis said to foretell falling in love, then I am certain ye will end up married to a good man.”

Like I have.

Evelinde hid her wince—she still wasn’t certain of her feelings since discovering who her husband really was—when Nessa rolled her eyes.

“Dinnae call me milady! We’re sisters now, are we no’?” Nessa tossed the intriguingly obscene piece of embroidery into a basket by her side and sat forward. “I’ve been collecting sisters this summer, it seems, since Da’s ultimatum. But ye’re the first one to bring me nephews, so I’ve decided to like ye the most.”

Evelinde wanted to ask about the “ultimatum,” but was too distracted by the compliment, which caused her to flush slightly. “I— I like ye all too.” ‘Twas the truth. She did like them. “I just hope Liam is behaving, wherever Malcolm has taken him. And I hope Tomas doesnae make a mess—”

Exhibiting perfect timing, the bairn chose that moment to burp.

And spit up.

“Oooph!” Lara hurried to get the rag under his mouth and clean her gown. “When did ye say this laddie will be on solids?”

“I’m so sorry,” Evelinde cried, already halfway across the room and reaching for the bairn. “I should’ve warned ye he likes to—”

But Lara stood, waving her away and handing Tomas to Nessa, who was reaching for him. “ ’Tisnae the worst thing to happen to me, Evelinde.”

“But yer gown—”

“Will clean up fine.” She wiped the last of the baby spit from her shoulder and handed a clean rag to Nessa, who tucked it under Tomas’s chin just in case. “But I’m going to talk with Cook about boiling up some fruit for the wee laddie. We can mash it up.”

Still eyeing her son nervously—Please dinnae spit up on yer new aunt!—Evelinde sank down on a much closer chair, prepared to launch into action.

“I’ve been trying him on porridge.” Of course, the porridge she made at home had been a pale comparison to the delicious meal she’d had this morning. There’d been honey and nuts, and Liam had had three servings. “But thus far he’s been more interested in rubbing it in his hair than eating it.”

“Well, of course he would!” Aunt Agatha called out, jabbing one long finger their way. “Why would that wee laddie want porridge, if the alternative was sucking on a tit? All men are the same! If ye want to distract him from yer breasts, lass,