Hit Me With Your Best Scot (Wild Wicked Highlanders #3) - Suzanne Enoch Page 0,13
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.”
Oscar began nodding. “Aye. I can do that. But what will ye be up to? I cannae fool everyone.”
“I’ll be getting dressed. Tell Gavin to saddle Kelpie, and I’ll go meet the damned lass myself. Keep an eye out for Coll; ye’ll