Page 39 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
He’d thought she might protest, but she nodded again. “And if it is Claremont? What will you do?”
“I’ll solve the problem,” he said flatly.
“Coll, he’s an earl.”
“And I’m a MacTaggert.” He went to the door and opened it. “Huddle! Ye stay here in this doorway until my man comes to take yer place.”
“I… yes, of course. Thank you, my lord.” The stage manager hurried up to the dressing room door, a hammer clutched in one hand. “This madness must stop. Persie, if we lose you, we—”
“Ye’re nae losing Persephone,” Coll cut in. “Ye’re making certain she stays safe.”
He wanted to stay. He wanted to be the one watching over her. But he couldn’t be in two places at once, damn it all. Turning on his heel, shoving aside the sensation that he was already in far deeper water than he’d realized, Coll strode toward the theater’s back door. Gavin and the barouche waited on the far side of the alley, the groom standing in front of the pair of bays and feeding them treats from his pockets.
“Ye ready to head to Hyde Park, m’laird?” he asked, parting with a last carrot. “I’ve a good feeling ye might find yer bride today.”
“Someone just tried to kill Persephone,” Coll said flatly. “I want ye in there, and I dunnae want ye to take yer peepers off her until I get back.”
“What?” Gavin blinked. “The lass?”
“Aye, the lass. I’m going to sort things out.” Hopping up to the driver’s perch of the barouche, Coll freed the reins.
“For Saint Andrew’s sake, fetch one of yer brothers first,” the groom called after him as he sent the team into the street at a fast trot.
Coll ignored the advice. He could fight his own battles. Aside from that, his brothers were undoubtedly occupied with whatever shite accompanied being newly married or nearly married. As the oldest, he generally watched over them. It wasn’t their duty to watch over him.
At the same time, he knew better than anyone that this was London—Mayfair—not the Highlands. A lad couldn’t settle a disagreement the same way here as he might do there. And he wasn’t entirely certain Claremont was the one to blame for these two so-called accidents, anyway.
Cursing, he turned up Bond Street. The earl’s house was but two or three streets south of Oswell House, and the proximity felt… significant. He’d met enough of his so-called peers to understand that while a good handful of them did have morals and at least some care for the less-fortunate folk, there were likely even more who didn’t give a damn about anything but their own wealth and power and comfort.
Perhaps if he’d been raised in London among the peerage instead of in a place where he went out daily to meet with those who depended on MacTaggert protection, and worked side-by-side with men simply trying to earn enough to put food into their larders, he might see it all differently.
But he had grown up in the Highlands. He’d been born but eight years after the repeal of the Act of Proscription, before which kilts, bagpipes, and firearms were allmade illegal in the Highlands by British Parliament. Aye, he’d been born into a privileged house, but he’d grown up alongside fishermen, farmers, and peat cutters. All of that had given him a certain contempt for Sassenach lords who only ventured to their country homes to throw parties or oversee in expensive renovations of their drawing rooms.
“Farthing, saddle Nuckelavee for me,” he said as he stopped the barouche in front of the Oswell House stable.
His mother’s head groom collected the team, but gave Coll a grimace. “Wouldn’t Gavin be better suited to—”
“Gavin’s nae here. Which of my brothers is inside?”
“Both, my lord. Sh—”
“Saddle Loki as well, then,” he decided, naming Aden’s chestnut Thoroughbred. The middle MacTaggert brother could convince a bee to part with its honey, and cunning seemed a better match in confronting Claremont than Niall’s famous charm.
“I would prefer not to work with Nu—”
“Nuckelavee!” Coll bellowed, and the stallion whinnied from inside his stall. “Behave yer damned self!” As a responding nicker sounded, he nodded at the groom. “He’ll stand for ye.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He rarely ordered the black to behave his damned self, but that was the phrase he and Gavin had used when training him, and the one Nuckelavee would obey beyond all others. Without waiting to see whether his mother’s groom had realized that or not, Coll strode up to the house, entering through the kitchen and snatching up an apple from the table as he passed. The sight of his mother and Eloise in the hallway just outside the library made him frown. Something was afoot, but whatever it was, he didn’t have time for it.
“Where’s Aden?” he asked.
“In there,” Eloise said, pointing at the closed door.
“Thank ye.”
“Don’t you dare—” his mother began, but by then he’d already pushed down on the handle and was inside the room.
