It's Getting Scot in Here (The Wild Wicked Highlanders #1)(5)
Niall stepped sideways into the house, freeing his hand and avoiding her caress in the same motion. One hello did not make them friends, or family. In the strictest sense it made them acquaintances. Aye, that’s what they were—barely acquainted, with the caveat that Francesca happened to hold the purse strings that could determine the future of the estate and all their tenants. His future as well.
“It seems to me,” Aden drawled, stepping between them and into the long, dark foyer beyond, “that if ye had a curiosity about the color of Niall’s hair or his pretty eyes, ye had a simple way to satisfy it. A visit, mayhap. Or a letter.” The middle MacTaggert brother hefted a monstrous stuffed boar’s head mounted on an oak plank. “Where am I lodging?”
The skinny butler skittered up on Aden’s heels. “That … Perhaps one of the footmen could carry that for you, sir. John? And—”
Ignoring that, Aden started up the wide, elegant staircase and paused at the landing where the steps separated to climb to the left and right wings. “Give me a direction, or I’ll just choose whichever room strikes my fancy.”
“Smythe, show Aden to his bedchamber,” Francesca said.
“Of course, my lady.”
“Och, ye remembered my name, Francesca,” the lean twenty-seven-year-old drawled. “Then again, I am rumored to be unforgettable.”
“When you’ve deposited your trophy, join us in the morning room,” the countess instructed, turning to head into a room just off the foyer. “Niall, please join me, won’t you?”
Time to do a bit of scouting the terrain, then. Niall started after her, then stopped abruptly when a hard hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Ye shook her hand,” Coll muttered.
“And I introduced myself, as if we’d nae met before. I’m charming, if ye’ll recall. But I’m nae a traitor.”
“Dunnae forget that, bràthair. Ye heard Da’s warning. She may look a flower, but many a man’s been drowned in a soft voice and tears. If ye dunnae have the stomach for this, then step back. Aden and I will manage it.”
If they went by Angus MacTaggert’s last description of his estranged wife, the one he’d presented them from his self-proclaimed deathbed, Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert was a weeping, fainting damsel in distress who used her feminine wiles to manipulate every man within hearing into fulfilling her whims. Niall didn’t know if he believed all that or not; contrary to what he’d said, he did have a few memories of her, and she’d been warm and pleasant in most of them. And she’d smelled of lemons. But then he’d been a bairn, and he wasn’t one now. Far from it.
“The only good reason to marry an Englishwoman would be because the weeping pansy would do as I said, and I could leave her behind in London,” he returned in a low voice. “It worked for Da, after all.”
“Aye. As ye say. Nae marrying one at all is my first choice, though. Especially one some stranger’s picked out for me,” Coll returned, releasing him again to follow him inside the room.
Niall took a seat close by the morning room door, while Coll stomped around for a bit, eyeing the neat shelves of books and vases and delicate, feminine knickknacks. The moment Aden reappeared, the two of them took command of the couch to Niall’s left. That left Francesca facing the doorway into the foyer and well able to see the ridiculous chaos of things they’d toted down from Scotland as each was brought into the house. This should be interesting, at least, even if he doubted it would go as well as Coll hoped.
“My boys,” she said, her quiet voice just audible over the bagpipes outside.
“Ye’ll have to speak up,” Coll announced. “The lads are enthusiastic this morning.”
“I said I’m more pleased than you could ever know to see my boys again,” the countess restated, her voice firmer now.
“We’re nae yer boys,” Coll returned. “Ye summoned us here with a threat, and so we’re here to answer in kind. If ye wanted affection, ye should’ve asked more kindly, and written more frequently.”
She sank down in the available blue chair, her skirts rustling around her as she folded her hands onto her lap. Every move she made seemed studied, as if she had a painter in the next room ready to leap out and sketch her portrait. “So I’m to take the blame for your father not bothering to inform you that we’ve had an agreement for seventeen years. Very well. I can accept that.”
Aden tilted his head. “He didnae leave us behind, Francesca.”
Looking down, she opened her mouth and shut it again, while Niall waited for the weeping and lamenting and pleas for sympathy to begin. Instead she cleared her throat. “My greatest fear was that Angus would raise you boys as wild, unmannered barbarians, and evidently I had the right of it. That said, as we all know that your futures depend on you doing as I say, let’s begin with this: You will not call me Francesca. I am your mother, and you will show me some respect. I’ll give you four choices—you may refer to me as Mother, Mama, my lady, or Lady Aldriss.”
That didn’t sound at all weepy. “Then might ye tell us where we can find our sister, Lady Aldriss?” Niall asked, covering his surprise.
“I might,” she conceded, “if you’ll give me your word that you won’t blame her for the agreement or for her engagement. It’s not her fault that you’re here.”