Page 43 of A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
“I’m a lusty man!” bellowed their father. “I’m ready for Ramsay to become laird so I can rest.”
“Rest is right,” called out John. “I cannae imagine what the auld man’s put Mother through!”
They all roared with laughter, even Da, who shoved Ramsay down onto a stool and thrust a mug of ale at him.
“To yer safe return, son!”
Ramsay gladly drank with his father and brothers. Warmth spread through him, and he knew it wasn’t entirely thanks to the ale. “Where are the lasses?”
“Och, they’ll be here soon enough,” Paul quipped dismissively. “Megan took the next two to the barns—one of the bitches had a litter of pups they’re obsessed with.”
“And hopefully the triplets took Thelma and Louise to bathe,” pointed out Ringo as he lowered his ale. “They looked like mud mushrooms.”
John punched his arm. “Mud mushrooms arenae a thing.”
“They are! Have ye no’ ever seen—”
George interrupted the bickering. “And the two youngest are up in the nursery. Mother’s likely introducing yer wife to them. What’s her name?”
“Wife?” John and Ringo repeated incredulously.
Paul leaned forward and gestured smugly with his ale. “And son. When Ramsay makes an entrance returning from the dead, he doesnae fook around!”
Ringo shook his head. “St. Columba’s left ballock, Ramsay, ye’ve got some stories to tell!”
And Ramsay settled onto his stool, feeling the weight of the last days falling from his shoulders now that he was home. “Aye…aye, I do. I think we’ll need more ale.”
* * *
Ramsay’s head was aching,but in a familiar way. With a groan, he sat up from the bench where he’d stretched out in the great hall and rubbed at his temples.
Unlike the last month at St. Dorcas the Ever Petulant, this headache wasn’t the result of being smashed on the head by Henry Fooking MacDonald, but, rather, too much ale.
Aye, last night had been a night to remember; his family had welcomed Nicola and Relic with open arms and celebrated Ramsay’s return from the dead. There’d been feasting and ale, and more feasting and whisky and music, and George had too much of all of it and tried to kiss Nicola.
Nicola, for her part, had seemed reserved…cautious. He’d watched her watching his family, trying to figure out what she was thinking. Whenever Mother hugged her, or offered her a choice morsel of food, or praised her, Nicola looked surprised.
Remembering some of the stories she’d told him in those early days together, Ramsay assumed she was thinking of her own mother’s self-centered attitudes.
Mother had disappeared last night, ushering Nicola and Relic—and about half of the youngest children—up the stairs. Ramsay had been pleasantly drunk at the time and hadn’t thought anything of it.
Until he returned to the room he’d occupied for years, to find Nicola curled up in the middle of his big bed.
Well,fook.
He’d confessed to Da and his brothers that he wasn’t really married to Lady Nicola—but hadn’t explained neither of them were Relic’s parents. He knew they assumed he’d impregnated her last year and was only now trying to make things right…and he’d been too drunk to set them straight.
Nay, dinnae lie to yerself. Ye liked the thought of them considering the pair of ye together.
But standing there, staring down at her, with that gorgeous red hair spread across his pillows, Ramsay had known two things:
He should’ve warned her what his family was like, and
There was no way he could live through another torturous night of holding her, without making sweet love to her the way he wanted.
And he couldn’t do that before he figured out her feelings. So, with a groan, he’d turned to find a place to sleep in the great hall.
“Ye look like shite,” rasped George, from the next bench.
