Page 46 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
“I wish Laird Glendarril had been here,” Gavin muttered as they walked. “He’d have jumped into the wagon and yanked that damned villain out of his seat. And there I was, doing naught but hanging on with my fingernails and trying nae to fall into the street.”
She could imagine Coll doing just that, leaping from one vehicle to another, kilt flying, and then wrestling the wagon’s horses to a halt with one hand while he held the driver aloft with the other. The image made her smile, despite the scratches and bruises.
“What’s got ye so amused, then?” the groom asked, frowning.
“My apologies. Does Coll—Lord Glendarril—often leap to the rescue and fling people about?”
“Oh, aye. Far more often than ye’d think a man would need to do such a thing. Once he waded into a bog to rescue a wee lamb and ended up finding the bairn’s twin and his dam already near-drowned in the mud, and he hauled ’em all out.”
“What about the rumor that he went running down Grosvenor Square naked but for a sword?”
Gavin squinted one eye. “Well, ye see, that’s part of a long tale that I’m nae to spread about. I will tell ye that he was after a villain who nearly shot his brother, Master Aden, and that that villain may have a claymore-shaped puncture now in his arse.”
“Truly? You’re not bamming me?”
“Me? Nae. Aden stared the man down and then let him go, but Glendarril reckoned he needed more of a lesson toremember the MacTaggerts by. The bastard regrets going against us every time he sits down, I’d wager.”
She hadn’t met any of the other MacTaggerts, though if they were half as impressive as Coll, they were likely formidable, indeed. Tales of their handsome appearances and barbaric ways had certainly reached backstage at the Saint Genesius. “This tale you’re not to tell, is it in order to protect the MacTaggert reputation?”
“Nae. It’s to protect a lass who’s to become a MacTaggert by the end of the week. And that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”
Aden MacTaggert would be marrying Miss Miranda Harris on Saturday, she knew, because the Society page had been filled with opinions on whether such a prominent marriage should be allowed to proceed so swiftly, which she interpreted to mean that some members of thetonwere upset not to be invited to the ensuing party. The youngest brother, Niall, had arranged an elopement with his bride-to-be, Amelia-Rose Baxter, all the way up in Gretna Green. Well, the official word was that it had been planned. Rumor said otherwise.
Why any of that mattered, she had no idea. As she’d told Coll, titled men did not marry actresses. And she didn’t intend to wed anyone, regardless. In a sense, though, hearing all of this felt… comforting. Clearly the women who’d trusted the MacTaggerts had found themselves cared-for and protected. And at this moment, that sounded very tempting.
When Gavin whistled for a passing hack to stop, the sound made her jump. How was she supposed to continue like this? For heaven’s sake, she would be onstage in a week, in front of hundreds of people—any of whom could secretly wish her dead. For years, she’d preferred to let her parts define her, allowed herself to be seen asJuliet or Cleopatra or Katherine or Rosalind, rather than as… herself. For goodness’ sake, she lived a quiet life on a quiet street with neighbors who thought she owned a wig shop.
That actually made her potential list of enemies fairly small. And the answer she kept coming up with made her insides cold and shaky with a dread she couldn’t even put into words. If her suspicions were correct, she needed help. But that would mean trusting someone—trusting Coll, because she couldn’t conjure anyone else on whom she might call. And since she’d told him earlier to mind his own business, she didn’t know if help would be forthcoming, even if she screwed up the courage to ask for it.
Gavin walked her to her front door and didn’t move until Gregory pulled it open. “Ye’re the man here, aye?” the groom asked.
Gregory lifted a thin eyebrow. “I suppose I am. You’re one of the Highlanders.”
“That I am. Ye see Miss Persie inside, ye lock the door behind her, and ye make certain all the other doors and windows in the house are secured. And ye dunnae open them until Laird Glendarril arrives. Do ye ken?”
The footman frowned. “I ken, sir, but we do not, in this household, make a habit of following other people’s orders. Do you ken that?”
Persephone stepped past him into the foyer. “Do as he says, Gregory. Please.”
“Th—of course.”
Only when Gavin was gone and she heard the front door lock did Persephone let out her breath. And then she collapsed onto the foyer floor.
Coll looked over at the wee woman holding his fingers. A stiff breeze would likely send her flying, but her father was a duke’s nephew, and that made her acceptable as a wifeto a viscount. They reached the end of the line of dancers and he bowed to her, letting her fingers go as she curtsied. Then, one on either side, they pranced up the double lines of dancers and met again at the far end.
“I’ve heard that every clan has a motto,” she said airily. “What would yours be?”
“Spem Successus Alit. Success nourishes hope.”
“Latin, yes? It’s quite lovely. Clan MacTaggert seems very civilized.”
“There’s nae clan MacTaggert. We’re part of Clan Ross. That’s Ross’s motto.”
“Oh. You don’t have one, then? A motto?”
“We’ve a family crest. A dragon standing atop a lion. And the words ‘Dèan sabaid airson fuireach.’That’s nae Latin. It’s Scots Gaelic.”
She blinked. “And what does it… mean?” she asked, her voice noticeably subdued.
