Hit Me With Your Best Scot (Wild Wicked Highlanders #3) - Suzanne Enoch Page 0,15
the morning to go prancing about the park and ogle all the eligible English lasses there,” he said, and ducked outside to grip the garden rose trellis. Thorns made a wreck of one shirtsleeve, but he tucked it up into his jacket sleeve as he reached the ground.
As he made his way to the stable he brushed rose petals from his jacket and trousers. Out in front of the wide double doors Gavin, the groom they’d brought with them from Aldriss, shoved an English fellow away from Kelpie’s bridle as the bay stomped restlessly. “Gavin, it’s too bloody early for a brawl,” Niall warned him.
“This amadan says all the horses in the stable are in his charge. I’m about to introduce his backside to the ground.”
The older man tugged on his coat. “I am Farthing, Lady Aldriss’s head groom,” he said stiffly. “This … buffoon is permitted in my stable only as long as I say so.”
“Gavin, ye buffoon, dunnae shove Farthing unless ye reckon Nuckelavee’s about to eat him,” Niall ordered, naming Coll’s notoriously bad-tempered stallion. There was a reason Coll had named him after the black demons of the northern isles.
Gavin snickered. “Aye. I reckon I could be persuaded to save the Sassenach’s life.”
“Good.” Taking the reins, Niall swung up on Kelpie. “Now. How do I get from Upper Brook Street to Wigmore Place, Farthing?”
Farthing furrowed his brow. “Weymur?”
Niall sighed. “Wigmore,” he repeated, enunciating it as Mrs. Baxter had last evening when Amelia-Rose’s mother had insisted on the outing.
“Oh. Wigmore Place. Head that way”—he pointed east—“on Upper Brook Street, then north up Duke Street. Turn right onto Wigmore Street, and you’ll find Wigmore Place on your left. It’s just about half a mile from here.”
With a nod, repeating the street names to himself, Niall kneed Kelpie into a trot. He’d been to Inverness on half a dozen occasions, so the crowded streets of a town weren’t entirely foreign to him. London, though, felt more like a noisy, smelly maze than a place where anyone would choose to live.
Kelpie didn’t like it, either; the bay skittered every time an orange girl scurried into the street or a milk cart rattled out in front of them. Niall patted the gelding’s withers. “Easy, lad,” he crooned. “We’ll nae be here for long.”
That didn’t reassure either one of them, but since Farthing’s directions were good, at least they didn’t become lost in this devil’s bog. He turned Kelpie up Wigmore Place, hopeful that he remembered the street number he’d heard from Mrs. Baxter. He did not want to spend his morning riding up and down the road to find his brother’s Sassenach lass.
The door at 129 opened as he approached, and a stoop-shouldered man in black livery stepped into the doorway. “Lord Glendarril, I presume?”
“Nae. I’m his brother. He sent me to fetch the lass.”
The butler opened his gobber and shut it again. “Your calling card, then,” he said, holding out a hand, “and I’ll inform Miss Baxter of your arrival.”
“I’ve nae card. Tell her Niall’s here, and I’ll be taking her to the damned coffeehouse to meet Coll.”
“Hm. Wait here … Niall.”
The door shut again. Well, that was fine, then. He was dressed very respectably, if he said so himself. If the residents of Baxter House thought him too shabby, then they could go soak their heads. Coll wouldn’t have stayed standing here on the bloody front step.
The door opened once more. Amelia-Rose stepped outside, wearing an extremely proper blue bonnet that hid her sunshine hair and most of her face, and a pretty peach muslin gown that revealed a nice portion of her bosom. A blue shawl that matched the bonnet covered her shoulders. Abruptly Niall was grateful that Oscar had found him some English-style finery to wear, himself. She was a bonny lass, Amelia-Rose Baxter was. Damned bonny.
“Good morning,” he said, remembering his manners enough to incline his head.
She dipped a curtsy. “Mr. MacTaggert.”
“Niall, if ye please. My other brother’s a Mr. MacTaggert, too, and it’s confusing.”
Her mouth curved a little. “Niall, then. Let’s go meet your brother, shall we?”
“Aye. The—”
He stepped sideways as a second woman emerged from the doorway. This one was a giant, nearly six feet tall with coal-black hair scraped back into a bun that looked solid as iron. Her gown of green-and-brown muslin was nice, if plainer than Amelia-Rose’s, but the dress didn’t do her straight figure any favors.