Hit Me With Your Best Scot (Wild Wicked Highlanders #3) - Suzanne Enoch Page 0,16

then?”

“I cannot go anywhere with you unless Miss Bansil is present,” Amelia-Rose put in. “It would be scandalous to do otherwise.”

“Well, we dunnae want anything scandalous,” Niall returned dryly.

Coll’s almost-intended took a step toward the street, then stopped. “Where’s your carriage?”

Niall frowned. “Carriage? I rode my horse. Kelpie.”

She faced him. “So you think to carry the three of us on Kelpie?”

He tilted his head at her. Was she teasing at him, or was she genuinely annoyed? “I didnae think that far in advance at all,” he admitted.

“Ah.” Amelia-Rose turned around. “Hughes, have John saddle Mirabel and Daisy,” she told the butler. “And a mount for himself.”

“At once, Miss Baxter,” the vulture returned, and sent a footman back into the depths of the house.

“If I’d known we were forming a parade, I’d have brought drums and a piper,” Niall observed, taking Kelpie’s reins back from the waiting groom.

“That would b…” She trailed off, sending Miss Bansil a quick glance. “We’ll be down shortly,” Amelia-Rose amended, as she and the tower turned back to the house.

Niall was fairly certain she’d been about to say something witty. A shame she’d stopped herself. “What, are ye off to gather more people to ride with us?” He kept his expression cool, but beneath that he continued his long barrage of silent profanity at Coll. Neither of them had any real experience with escorting fashionable ladies to fashionable places, and this morning he’d clearly waded into the loch and found himself in waters well over his head.

“I’m not dressed to ride,” the blond lass returned, her tone amused, as if she’d never run across anyone who wouldn’t know that a horse gown was different from a carriage gown. “Wait by the stable if you don’t care to come inside.”

Well, no one had invited him inside, but he preferred the stable anyway. Horses, he understood. “Aye.”

The groom from whom he’d reclaimed Kelpie had vanished, so with the bay following close behind him he headed around the side of the house toward the strongest smell of hay, mud, and manure. Kelpie bumped him in the shoulder, and he shifted to let the gelding draw even with him.

“Dunnae ye complain,” he said, patting his mount on the neck. “Ye’ve had breakfast, at least. Coll’s likely at some tavern downing half a hog right now. I’d be happy with a bowl of cold porridge and a handful of wild berries.”

He had to ask the groom who’d be accompanying them how to find St. Alban’s Street, then had to fit that into the nearly blank mental map he was trying to put together in his head. It wouldn’t do to lead the lass into a dangerous part of Town, however much the idea of brawling with a Sassenach or two might appeal to him at the moment. Alone he reckoned he could manage just about anywhere, but evidently he was to lead an entire brigade today.

A dozen bruised-looking apples sat in a bucket by the stable door, and he snagged one when no one was looking. It was overripe and mealy, so after one bite he gave the rest of it to Kelpie. The bay wasn’t as particular as he was. If not for the sandwich Eloise had provided him last night he would likely have perished from hunger by now. The damned coffeehouse, if they ever reached it, had best be stocked with an entire roasted cow. A large one.

Mirabel turned out to be a spirited gray mare, which surprised him given the delicate lass meant to ride her. Amelia-Rose seemed very … breakable, even if her tongue had been a wee bit sharp last night. The companion’s horse, Daisy, on the other hand, slept through being saddled. Miss Baxter liked to ride, even if her companion didn’t. That boded well; Coll rode nearly every day, as did he. One thing in common was at least a beginning, even if Lord Glendarril meant to have as little as possible to do with his unwanted wife—if he ever reappeared to marry the lass.

The side door of Baxter House opened, and the two lasses emerged once more. The tall stick wore a plain brown riding habit, but as she stepped aside, something deep in Niall’s chest—and somewhere a bit lower—jolted. Amelia-Rose had donned a crimson riding habit that boasted little black buttons from her waist to her chin. Rather than being demure, though, the heavy material showed every curve above her waist, while the red skirt flowed around her hips and swirled