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.
“Won’t you…” The butler fellow cleared his throat. “Won’t you come inside?” he repeated, more loudly.
“They havenae played ‘Killiecrankie’ yet,” Coll returned. “And ye’ve nae introduced us to all these folks who’ve lined up so proper to say hello.”
Because he’d been watching the doorway, Niall saw Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert, Countess Aldriss, the moment she left the shadows. He’d been but seven years old the last time he’d set eyes on her, but he would have recognized her among a crowd of hundreds. Aye, her black hair had lightened to a peppered gray, and the angel’s face he recalled had widened a bit at the jaw, but it was her. In fact, the one thing he hadn’t expected was that she would be so … tiny. The top of her head wouldn’t even come to his shoulder.
She walked slowly outside to stand in front of the doorway. Her gown of deep blue likely would have sparkled in sunlight, but there was none of that to be found today. “I see I won’t need to inform the neighbors that my sons have arrived,” she said, her voice that cool, sophisticated accent he’d found very exotic as a bairn. Now it merely sounded English. Unlike his own. “Thank you for that.”
“Aye, we’re here,” Coll returned, his eyes narrowing. “Thanks to yer threats, Francesca. Ye managed to put Da on his deathbed and took me away from mending the irrigation ditches, but ye’ve brought us out of the Highlands.”
Her left hand flew up to her throat and a delicate gold necklace there before she lowered it again. “Your father has passed away?”
“He might’ve, by now. Made us swear nae to delay heading south and risk ruin for Aldriss, so we’ve nae idea. Pogan—our butler, if ye’ve forgotten—is to send us word.”
“I haven’t forgotten Pogan,” she returned. “Nor will I discount Angus’s dislike for London. Until I hear otherwise I shall credit his so-called deathbed antics to be just that—antics.” Rubbing her hands together, she took a breath and stepped to one side of the doorway. “Now. Given that the future of Aldriss lies in you agreeing to my wishes, I do wish you would come inside.”
Niall stole a glance at Coll. At nine-and-twenty, the current Viscount Glendarril and future Earl Aldriss had the clearest memory of Francesca; he’d been twelve when she’d left for London, after all. Coll stood four inches above six feet, and men—much less women—generally didn’t argue with him. Even fewer attempted to order him about. This might not be an order, but it was close enough. Niall wondered if Francesca realized she’d just invited a bull into her glassware shop. An angry bull.
Coll met Francesca’s gaze, then turned his back on the house. “Keep playing, lads,” he called, then whistled for the wagons to pull onto the drive. “We’ve a bloody mountain of luggage to move inside, and I’d rather hear the pipes than the groaning of the footmen.”
“Or the neighbors, I reckon,” Niall muttered. He’d hadn’t put much hope into Coll’s plan of stomping up to the Oswell House front door, bellowing that Francesca had best rethink her plans because the MacTaggert brothers did not bow to anyone, and marching back to the Highlands. They looked to be trapped here for a few days, at least.
He looked up at the half-a-hundred windows that adorned the front of the grand house. None of the past six days had gone as he expected, though he had enjoyed the ride down from Scotland. Instead of a head-to-head battle, he would have chosen to find a London-based solicitor of their own to fight Francesca’s agreement. Another Englishman would have had better odds of finding a way out of an English agreement than Coll and his preference for straight-up brawling. That suggestion had been overruled as well, of course, because everyone knew a Highlander couldn’t trust a Sassenach. Not even one in his own employ.
Either way, he’d never been averse to making trouble. While Coll and Aden issued orders to their outriders and the Oswell House staff, he strolled up the pair of low steps to the front doorway. “I’m told I knew ye when I was seven years old,” he drawled, sticking out his hand as Francesca faced him. “I’m Niall.”
She faced him, taking a quick half-step forward before she stopped again. Being a MacTaggert in the Highlands meant running across plenty of men wanting to make their own reputations on his back, to prove their strength or power or wealth by attempting to set him on his arse or in his grave. He’d become deft at determining who was an actual threat and who was actually angry or terrified or—more than likely—drunk. That was how he knew he’d just struck a blow against Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert, and that he’d hurt her. While he generally didn’t hold with battling a woman, she’d started it.
Lifting her chin a little, she moved again, reaching out to grip his hand. “You don’t need to introduce yourself to me, Niall. For goodness’ sake.” Her fingers trembled just a little, but as he shifted to let go, she tightened her hold on him. “I expected your hair to be red.”
Shrugging, he ran his free hand through the overlong mess hanging into his eyes. “It got darker. Brown mostly, with a wee bit of fire here and there in the sunlight.”
“You were a handsome young boy, but my heavens. You’ll have half the girls in London swooning at your feet. And those eyes of yours—they’re very like your sister’s, you know. Such a pale celadon, like new leaves in sunlight.” She reached a hand toward his face.
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?”