Too Scot to Hold (The Hots for Scots #8) - Caroline Lee Page 0,4

a bit longer to fall, but when I did…” He blew out a happy breath.

“ ’Twas good.” Graham nodded matter-of-factly. “Because if ye’d tried to woo Davina, I’d have had to kill my own brother.”

Kiergan burst into laughter and straightened to slap his hand on Graham’s back once more. “Aye, but ye didnae ken we were brothers then! Ye were still skulking about the passageways, and one day I should tell ye who I’d thought ‘twas who’d come to my room that first night!”

Graham had a good idea, since on their first night in the castle, he’d gone to Davina’s room to find her sister Katlyn missing. He and Vina had made good use of Kat’s absence that night, and the memory never failed to arouse him.

Last summer, he’d been in St. Andrews when she’d sent him word of the planned journey to Oliphant Castle in order to marry one of the laird’s bastard sons. He was a man who believed being fore-warned was to be fore-armed, so he visited the college’s library and found a treatise on architecture which included a map of the secret passages of Oliphant Castle.

He’d thought he was learning about an enemy stronghold, little realizing it was his own family’s history.

And meeting with Vina in secret—thanks to the passages few knew about—for those blissful few days had been the happiest of his life.

“Aye, ‘tis the MacKinnons aright. Soon ye’ll have answers, and my Kat will let me put my feet up and rest a bit.” Before Graham could do more than snort, Kiergan chuckled. “This really is verra much like my watch last summer. All that is missing—”

“Ho! Kier! Have ye seen Graham—Och, there ye are!”

Kiergan groaned as Rocque came bounding up the steps. “—is Rocque.”

As Kiergan slid behind him—as if Graham could somehow hide his tall frame—Graham murmured, “Are ye avoiding Rocque?”

“I’m avoiding Rocque’s nose. I dinnae ken how his wife can put up with all that honking and wheezing and no’ get— Oh, hello, Rocque.”

Ignoring him, Rocque reached for Graham and pulled the smaller man into a hug. ‘Twas possible his brains were being squeezed out of his ears, but Graham awkwardly patted this huge brother of his on the back and tried to stay out of range of what he now saw was Rocque’s runny nose. As the larger man—beaming happily—released him, Graham took stock of his ribs and tried to remember how to breathe.

“I’ve been hoping ye’d return soon, Graham! Dinnae think I dinnae see ye cowering over there, Kier, but ye’ll no’ convince me to forgo punishment for missing this morning’s sparring session.”

Kiergan groaned again. “I told ye, I had two letters to draft for Da’s seal! These things take time!”

“Aye, and so does perfecting yer sword arm!” Rocque sniffed hugely, then wiped his nose across his forearm. “If we go to war—”

“If we go to war, ye’ll lead the warriors, ye clot-heid! Ye’re the commander.”

“And a good one too!”

Rolling his eyes, Kiergan snapped, “Aye, I’ll no’ deny it. But I dinnae ask ye to answer the correspondence, nor draft replies and trade agreements and contracts.”

When Rocque shuddered, a glistening drip rolled from one of his nostrils to get stuck in the thick red hair above his lips. Graham watched in fascination, his gaze flicking between the two men. His MacVanish cousins treated one another with cool indifference, but these brothers of his looked ready to launch into violence at any moment.

“Can we just agree that I’ll no’ give ye shite about missing training if ye dinnae force me to practice my letters?” growled Rocque.

“Aye!” Kiergan sounded relieved. “ ’Twas my point all along.”

“Then why were ye cowering?”

“I wasnae cowering!” Kiergan threw a glance at Graham. “Tell him.”

Shrugging, Graham watched the MacKinnon contingent creep closer. “Ye looked as if ye were cowering to me.”

Kiergan scoffed. “I was staying out of range of his snot! Have ye seen how sick he is?”

“I’m no’ s-s-sick!”

Rocque had barely managed to get the word out before a huge sneeze caught him unaware. Graham, recognizing the signs, grabbed Kiergan and pulled him backward out of range of the spewed mucus.

“St. Columba, bless me,” murmured Kiergan, performing a quick Sign of the Cross. “Ye saved me, Graham.”

Rocque sniffed. “Dinnae be so melodramatic.”

“Me? Melodramatic?” Kiergan clutched at his chest. “Graham saved me. With reflexes like that, ‘tis safe to say he’s exempt from sparring too?”

“ ’Twas no’ like he threw himself in front of an arrow for ye.”

“Ye did have verra pointed snot,” Graham pointed out, “and