Page 35 of Too Scot to Handle
“If there was trouble, you two would be in the thick of it. My day got away from me.”
“We called on Cousin Dougal,” Rhona said, arranging three sandwiches on a plate and setting it beside Colin’s teacup. “He and Patience are in anticipation of a blessed event. As laird, you should settle a sum on the child.”
The tea was strong and hot, the biscuits buttery and sweet. Colin would get to the sandwiches.
“Ham’s the laird.” Hamish was also the duke, poor sod. Now that he’d snabbled Megan Windham for a duchess, the duke part doubtless rested more lightly on his broad shoulders.
“The clan counsel met,” Edana said, waving at Hamish’s letter. “They decided that because Ham’s the duke, you should take up the responsibilities of laird, at least until Hamish gets his dukedom sorted out.”
Meaning, until a ducal heir or three was on the way.
“I’m the laird now?” Colin considered the third sweet. “I’ll have a wee word with Hamish over this nonsense. It’s a dirty damned trick to play on me, when I’m stuck here in London and can’t speak for myself at the counsel. They want free whisky at their gatherings. Excellent, free, legal whisky.”
Though Colin was pleased. Being laird these days was mostly a matter of attending weddings and christenings, presiding at games, and settling squabbles.
“It was my idea,” Rhona said. “Hamish has enough to do, learning to be the duke. You’re next in line, and if you didn’t take the job, I might have been stuck with it.”
“You might still be,” Colin said, demolishing the last biscuit. “I’ve better things to do than listen to the women argue over which red dye to use in the hunting plaid.”
Edana kicked him under the table—an affectionate blow, from her. “We got Hamish married off. Behave yourself or you’re next.”
A fly had the temerity to buzz near Colin’s sandwiches. Edana flicked her serviette, and the insect was either killed in mid-flight or inspired to disappear into thin air.
“You got Hamish married off?” Colin countered, starting on the sandwiches. Chicken with a dash of French mustard, his favorite. “To hear the Windhams tell it, a certain English duke was involved, along with a bloody lot of meddling cousins.”
Good fellows, those cousins. One of them had escorted Anwen in the park that morning—more or less.
“Who dragged Hamish the length of the Great North Road?” Rhona asked. “Who endured his muttering and pouting the whole way? Who argued with him for the duration of a Highland winter to take us to London? Who made him bring his formal kilts, in which he looks so very fine despite being the shyest man ever to call Perthshire his home?”
“In which he looks verra fine,” Colin mimicked, “despite bein’ the shyest mon ever to call Pairthsher his hame? You get very Scottish when you’re on your dignity, Ronnie mine, and in answer to your questions, I did. Hamish and I nearly came to blows several times.”
Rhona smiled, snatched Colin’s sandwich, took a bite, then set it back on his plate. “I am verra Scottish, and that’s Lady Ronnie to you, laddie. We got Hamish married off. Our work here is done, unless you’ve a notion to stick your dainty foot in parson’s mousetrap.”
“Now you sound daft and English,” Colin said, picking up a locket sitting by Rhona’s plate. A cameo brooch was suspended on a gold chain, and the links had become knotted up. “It’s you two who should be looking over the eligibles.”
“We have,” Edana said, “and they’re more eligible than interesting. Don’t break that locket, please. Your friend Mr. Montague isn’t a bad sort.”
Colin considered Edana’s casual tone, considered her absorption with the top of the garden wall thirty yards away. He also considered the knotted-up chain, lest she kick him for simply looking at her. The gold was delicate, but the locket was unwearable in its present condition.
Damn Hamish for running back home with his duchess. He was the eldest, the brother who ought to deal in awkward truths.
“You could do worse than attach Win Montague’s interest,” Colin said, rolling the knotted links gently between his fingers. One did not describe one’s best friend as a lazy tomcat, and yet what did Win do but make wagers, lay about at the tailor’s, pine for Mrs. Bellingham, and swill spirits at his clubs?
“I suppose he has a ladybird,” Edana muttered. “English gentlemen do, before they take a wife. I know that.”
And in pragmatic Scottish fashion, she was prepared to accept reality. “Eddie, Win hasn’t one special ladybird,” Colin said. “I can’t see that he has much of anything to support a wife with either.”
The chain was loosening, as chains often did when patience, light pressure, and warmth were applied.
Edana snapped her serviette at another pesky fly. “I have funds of my own.”
Ronnie was taking half the day to consume the remains of Colin’s sandwich. No help there.
“Those are your funds.” Colin unclasped the necklace so he could more easily untangle it. “That money is for you, and for your daughters should their father die before making provision for them.” Not for supporting the lazy younger son of an English lord.
“I have to marry somebody,” Edana retorted, balling up her serviette and pitching it at Colin’s face. “If I don’t marry, I’ll turn into Auntie Eddie, the old lady all the braw half-drunk lads stand up with at the ceilidh when they lose a bet. Some toothless crofter will offer for me when I’m too old to have children, and I’ll accept him just to get away from the pity of my siblings.”
“Eddie,” Rhona said, holding out a biscuit. “Cease your dramatics. Colin will take us home, and we can be done with this London nonsense. One brother’s a duke, the other’s a laird, we’ve our own funds. We’ll not want for dances.”
