It's Getting Scot in Here (The Wild Wicked Highlanders #1)(3)
The scattering of farms gave way to densely packed shops, businesses, hotels, inns, brothels, taverns, and stately homes, looming out of the fog like giant, steep-edged ravines to tower halfway into the sky. Along with the buildings came the people, shouting in a hundred accents and several languages, offering oranges, fish, pies, glimpses of the far-off Orient, and themselves. So these were the civilized folk, turning to stare at the trio of riders as they passed—as if the Highlanders were the odd birds. “It’s a madhouse,” he muttered, reining in Kelpie to avoid a scampering, nearly skeletal young girl scooping horse shite into a bucket.
“What in Saint Margaret’s name is that?” Aden commented, flicking the end of his reins toward a street corner.
Niall followed the gesture to spy a tall, thin man dressed in a lime-green jacket so tight he wouldn’t have been able to lift his arms above the elbow. The points of his shirt, white and stiff, dug into his earlobes, and his blond hair had been curled tighter than sheep’s wool. His trousers were a peacock blue, his waistcoat a patterned yellow and green, and the black boots he wore shone like water and had heels as deep as a horse’s hooves. “I saw one of ’em in a fashion catalog Eppie had on her bed stand,” Niall replied. “That, Aden, is a dandy.”
“I’m stunned enough that I willnae ask what ye were doing in Eppie Androw’s bedchamber. A dandy. Do ye reckon he can walk?”
“If he takes wee-enough steps, aye. And ye know damned well what I was doing in Eppie’s bedchamber. I’m four-and-twenty, nae eleven.”
Ahead of them Coll consulted a folded paper, then headed right down a narrower, quieter lane. The houses here were larger and didn’t share common walls, with more windows and quaint-looking gardens in the back. A street or two beyond them, the homes had short front drives, overhanging roofs for leaving carriages without getting rained on, and stables alongside the gardens in the rear.
Though Coll had initially been against it, they’d sent word that the MacTaggert brothers were traveling down to London. Niall could see the benefits of surprising Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert, putting her back on her heels and maybe even frightening her into tearing up the damned agreement. On the other hand, she’d sent the letter announcing Eloise’s betrothal, so she would have a fair idea that her sons would be arriving sooner rather than later. And he personally didn’t relish the idea of having to sleep in the stable because no additional rooms had been opened for them.
They trotted past a small park dotted with bairns in frilly dresses or short pants, together with women dressed in caps and dowdy gowns—nannies, he supposed—before Coll led them down another lane. A labyrinth of climbing roses and wrought-iron gates surrounded them now, not as closed in as the bordering streets but just as suffocating. When Coll finally drew Nuckelavee to a halt, Niall felt somewhat relieved; he could imagine a hell where one rode through flower-choked lanes endlessly searching for a tavern that would never appear.
“This one,” Laird Glendarril grunted, his gaze on the stately gray house on the right.
“Write out the direction for me before we step outside again,” Aden requested. “I’ll nae find it again otherwise.”
“With any luck we’ll be back home before ye have to memorize it,” their oldest brother returned, and sent the big black warhorse up the half-circle drive. “Hallo the house!”
The front door opened. Servants started fleeing the house in front of them, maids and kitchen help and footmen all straightening caps and coats willy-nilly as they ran out the door. For a hard half a dozen heartbeats Niall thought they’d caught the house on fire and were running for their lives, until he realized they were lining up on either side of the doorway. He did a swift count—fifteen of them. With that many servants, a man wouldn’t even have to hold his own kerchief to blow his nose.
“We’ve merited a parade,” Aden noted. “Do ye reckon they do this every time someone approaches the house?”
Niall stifled a grin. “That wouldnae seem very practical, but the English are all mad anyway.”
The narrow man with the most gentlemanly attire bowed as the three of them lined up on horseback. “Welcome to Oswell House, Lord Glendarril, Master Aden, Master Niall.” Down the line the other servants bowed and curtsied in fairly impressive unison. “Lady Aldriss awaits you inside.”
Behind them the first wagon turned onto the drive and stopped, the other one just behind it. Charles and Wallace, the two men seated beside the drivers and brought down expressly for one purpose, stood and pulled their bagpipes from beneath their wooden seats. At Coll’s nod and after a few off-key groans to fill the bags with air, they began playing “The White Cockade” at full volume. Now that felt like a proper greeting.
Niall dismounted, handing Kelpie’s reins off to a stunned-looking lad who wore stable livery. Windows of the neighboring houses began flying open, maids and footmen and anyone else in earshot trying to get a look at whatever was making that noise. Before the first refrain they’d gathered a crowd on the street behind them, clapping to the reel.
“I reckon we’re overdressed,” Aden commented as he handed Loki off to another stableboy.
Sweet Andrew, Oswell House seemed to have a lad for every horse in the stable. “That was the point, wasnae?” Niall straightened his fox-fur sporran and fell in with his brothers. Scarlet plaid with thick lines of black and green, the colors of clan Ross had to be the grandest and brightest in the Highlands. And with the three men all pushing past six feet tall, they were definitely not about to be missed—or mistaken for anything but what they were.