Niall dismounted. Miss Baxter, still up on Mirabel, held out a gloved hand to him and smiled. Blowing out his breath, he stepped forward. His ancestors had fought off the English for decades. Surely he could keep one lass at arm’s length for one morning while he told her charming and complimentary tales about his eldest brother. And then with any luck, he could hand her over to Coll and go take a gander at other lasses—ones who weren’t practically engaged already. Ones he could imagine leaving behind while he returned to the Highlands.
Chapter Four
If she’d known that the first MacTaggert with whom she would have to interact this morning would be Niall rather than Lord Glendarril, Amelia-Rose might have had a less fitful night’s sleep. Or perhaps a more fitful one.
His brother the viscount had an almost aggressive handsomeness to him, rather like a dark-haired lion who hadn’t decided whether she was a friend or a meal, but not only did Niall have a face that half her friends would simply swoon over, but his sense of humor almost dared her to misbehave. And that was not a good thing. Whatever she decided to do about this marriage nonsense, she wanted it to be her decision, not something she accidentally destroyed or got trapped into because of her unreliable tongue.
Perhaps the youngest MacTaggert brother had only been attempting to counter his brother’s fierceness last night, but he’d made an impression, regardless. Those light, light green eyes, complemented by long, dark lashes, a nose and jaw to which not even Michelangelo could do justice, wild brown hair that practically begged her fingers to brush it from his temple—if he hadn’t been Scottish, he would very nearly have been perfect. Or rather, he would be perfect for some other young lady. The name on the agreement her parents had signed was Coll MacTaggert.
While John saw to Jane Bansil, Niall approached her and Mirabel. She held out a hand for assistance in reaching the mounting block, but before she could do more than grip his shoulder he put his hands around her waist and lifted her out of the saddle without any apparent effort. The sensation of being lighter than air, of flying, quite took her breath away.
A gentleman should ask for permission before grabbing hold of her so intimately. Everyone knew that. But then he was a barbarian Highlander and barely a gentleman even if he seemed to know how to dress like one. “That was improper,” she said a little breathlessly, reaching up a hand to straighten her bonnet as he set her feet on the ground.
He kept his hands around her waist. “Should I put ye back up, then?”
“No, it’s done now. Do release me.” That wasn’t what she wanted to say, but it seemed like the proper response. “We wouldn’t want your brother to see you putting your hands on me.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Nae. We wouldnae want that. So being helpful is a sin?”
“Of course it isn’t. But … Oh, never mind.” As if she was qualified to give lessons in propriety. “Just ask a female before you lift her into the air.”
That brought another devastating grin to his lean face. “Aye. I checked the wind first, though, and I reckoned it wasnae strong enough to carry ye aloft, even with that great hat on ye.”
She opened her mouth to retort that by some standards her bonnet was quite modest, but that would trip over her mother’s advice never to apologize for being well dressed. Aside from that, Amelia-Rose saw the twinkle in his eye. “Troublemaker,” she muttered, taking a step backward.
When Jane took her arm, Amelia-Rose actually jumped. “You said he was handsome,” her companion whispered, “but goodness’ sake. I look forward to comparing him to the one with the title.” She chuckled. “Perhaps you could send this one toward one of your less discriminating friends. Rebecca Sharpe doesn’t require a titled gentleman, does she?”
No, Rebecca’s father was already a viscount, and a wealthy one at that. All Rebecca required was a pretty face. And perhaps someone to balance her rather … self-absorbed character. Somehow, however, Amelia-Rose couldn’t imagine Niall MacTaggert blithely fetching sweets and glasses of Madeira every time Rebecca snapped her well-manicured fingers.
“I think he would eat Rebecca for breakfast,” she whispered back, ignoring Jane’s surprised look as they reached the coffeehouse door.
That was neither here nor there, anyway. She was here to give Lord Glendarril another opportunity and, according to her mother, to give herself another chance to charm their best hope for a title since Baron Oglivy, who was nearly sixty years old. That, of course, had made her wonder if her intentionally acting like a complete shrew would cause this horridly unfair agreement to fall apart. It would likely ruin her, but she still wasn’t ready to discard the idea entirely.
At the same time, she couldn’t help reaching for hope. The little Niall had mentioned about his father’s antipathy toward the English certainly hadn’t encouraged her at all, but if his brother the viscount simply felt forced into something he didn’t want, she could muster a large degree of sympathy. A Highlander who would remain in London might do, though his rudeness and lack of propriety certainly wouldn’t either curb her own tendencies or encourage her to improve. But she couldn’t know anything for certain until she spoke with him again. Over a cup of coffee, as it were.
John waited outside with the horses, and she followed Niall’s broad back around the crowd of tables and morass of conversations to a spot close by the front windows. He held a chair for her, and she took a seat, impressed that he did have some manners.
When he’d seated Jane as well, he vanished back into the crowd. Coffeehouses, she knew, weren’t quite as popular as they’d once been, but The Constantinople buzzed with conversation. Mostly male conversation, but her mother had always pointed out that she wouldn’t find a husband in a dress shop.
Of course she had a man now, at least on paper, even if she didn’t particularly want him—and even if he didn’t seem to be present. Niall took the chair opposite her and set a heaping plate of biscuits on the table. Jane reached for one of the treats, and for a second Amelia-Rose thought Niall might pull the plate away. “You appear to be hungry,” she noted.
“Aye. I dunnae see the point of a shop that serves a drink but nae any food. A man could starve to death.” He wolfed down a biscuit and then a second one.
The cups of coffee arrived at the table, and she took a sip of the hot, rich brew before adding a trio of sugar lumps. As Niall alternated between biscuits and gulps of coffee she watched him. A man with an appetite, clearly. Was it just for food, she wondered, then blushed at the thought.
This had nothing at all to do with the morning she’d imagined for herself, but at the moment she couldn’t call it disappointing. Even so, her mother would ask how she’d gotten along with Lord Glendarril, whether they’d dealt better today than they had last night.
“I can’t help noticing,” she said aloud, “that your brother doesn’t seem to be here.”
Niall looked up at her. “Aye, he does seem to be a wee bit tardy, doesnae?” he said around a honey biscuit. “Mayhap he found a broken carriage and stopped to hold it up while they change the wheel.”
“So he’s heroic, is he?”
“Oh, aye. Pulled a trio of sheep out of a bog all on his own just a fortnight ago. He had to go for a swim in Loch an Daimh just to get the top layer of muck off himself. I’m surprised he didnae get mistaken for a cirein cròin and get himself shot.”