Page 70 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
“Oh, you’re going to be Lady Macbeth!” Eloise abruptly put a hand over her mouth. “Am I allowed to say it?”
With a chuckle, Temperance nodded. “It’s an odd tradition. Saying the name of the character is perfectly permissible; it appears in the play several times, after all. It’s only saying the name of the play that we’re all petrified of.”
“Thank heavens.” Eloise scooted her chair closer. “Is it true what Coll said? That someone is trying to hurt you?”
“It’s either that, or I’ve been having some very poor luck lately.”
Coll didn’t like that she kept trying to put it all to coincidence, though he could certainly see why she would wish to do so. “It’s nae poor luck,” he stated. “It’s good luck that so far ye’ve had but some scratches and bruises.”
Footmen approached the tables, trays of sandwiches and sweet treats in their arms. Thank the devil. A man could starve before etiquette permitted him to eat. While the others at the table were offered a choice of sweet wines, Smythe appeared with a wee tray holding a glass of lemonade, which he set down at Coll’s elbow.
“Thank ye, Smythe,” he grunted. It hadn’t taken over a day for all of the Oswell House servants to figure out that he didn’t drink liquor. In fact, he could swear that on morethan one occasion, a liquor tantalus disappeared shortly before he entered a room. He did have a temper when he drank, but he’d only inflicted that on the house once—and it hadn’t been entirely his fault. Aden had been the one to drag him back before he’d sobered up, after all.
“My lord,” the butler returned with a nod, disappearing toward the luncheon table again.
As he looked up from the lemonade, he caught Temperance looking at him, a contemplative expression on her face. “What is it?”
“You could make the next few weeks so much easier on yourself,” she murmured. “A pleasant young lady, a quiet ceremony, an intimate luncheon in the garden, and a glass of lemonade for the groom.”
“If that was all I wanted, I could have had it weeks ago,” he countered, reaching beneath the table for her free hand. “I prefer a fight, and fire, and roast venison in gravy with my lemonade. And my woman.”
On his left, Eloise cleared her throat. “You told me this was for show,” she whispered.
“And ye didnae tell me that the countess had sent for Da,” he returned.
“She didn’t,” his sister protested. “She sent him a letter saying she was worried that you’d gone too far because he hadn’t bothered to tell his sons about the agreement until payment was due on it.”
“So ye knew there was a letter.” He lifted an eyebrow.
“And you didn’t think there would be one?” she shot back.
The thoughthadoccurred to him. Even so, the idea that his father would travel south to London, especially at his estranged wife’s request, had seemed so far-fetched that he could scarcely believe that the earl was actually sitting there beside Niall and Amy. “It was a wee bit more effective than I might have expected,” he said finally.
“I know. That’s actually my papa.” Eloise squeezed Matthew’s hand. “We’ve corresponded for years, but I never thought…” A tear ran down one cheek. “We’re all here. All the MacTaggerts in the same garden. It’s been seventeen years.”
The remainder of the guests—Lady Aldriss’s and Miranda’s friends—seemed to have realized the same thing. The conversation seemed muted for a wedding celebration, and the Sassenachs all clung together like chickens when they thought they’d heard a fox.
“Dunnae put much hope in it lasting, Eloise,” he said after a moment. “Ye’re too young to remember, but I recall all the squabbles and the cursing.”
“Considering that I’ve spent seventeen years waiting to set eyes on you and Aden and Niall, I will put hope in whatever I choose,” his sister retorted. “And don’t change the subject. Do you mean to marry Mrs. Jones? Where is Mr. Jones?”
Nails dug into his hand, and he shut his mouth over the retort he’d been about to make. “For some reason,” Temperance said, “being a widow is much more acceptable to the world than being unmarried. Mr. Jones is a construct. Without him, I could never have rented a house, and I likely would have never been offered a contract with the Saint Genesius.”
“A silent husband,” Eloise said, with a sly nod. “I like it.”
“Grand,” Matthew quipped, grinning. “I haven’t a chance now of ever getting a word in, have I?”
“None,” his betrothed answered brightly.
“Eloise,” Lady Aldriss called from the table she shared with Aden, Miranda, and Miranda and Matthew’s parents. “A moment, if you please.”
Obediently, Eloise and Matthew rose, and after a word with the countess, they ended up taking seats with Matthew’s aunt and her three bairns.
“Did ye see that?” Coll grunted. “She didnae want Eloise landing on our side of an argument.”
“I can’t blame her,” Temperance whispered. “I shouldn’t have let you talk me into coming. Then you might have had a happy family reunion.”
“Nae, because it would have been all of them against me. With ye by my side, I reckon my odds are much improved.”
