Fiona were kidnapped was far from a jest.
“The whisky would be appreciated, and I will consider that your description of your sister’s behavior is mere dramatics.”
“Laddie, that was not dramatics. That was a promise.” Ian went to the sideboard and brought the decanter to the coffee table. “Help yourself.”
He wasn’t trying to be rude, but he wanted to note whether Spathfoy’s hands shook when he poured himself a drink. “I have to wonder, Spathfoy, why you didn’t simply ride out with Fee, bundle her onto the train in Ballater, and send us a wire she’s being held for ransom.”
“Ransom?” Spathfoy set the decanter on the table—his hands were steady, damn the man. “That is a ridiculous notion. Quinworth’s finances are quite sound. My mother and I have both seen to it.”
Ian would bet his horse Spathfoy hadn’t intended to make that disclosure. “Well, then your dear papa has gone daft, perhaps. I’ve yet to meet an English marquess who ignores his own granddaughter for years, only to demand possession of her with no warning or explanation. Does your father know how much trouble young females can be?”
Spathfoy studied the decanter. “Likely not. He’s turned my sisters more or less over to me, and never had much to do with them when they were younger.” He tossed back his drink and reached for the decanter.
“Then Fiona will at least have the company of some doting aunts,
“I shall take her south, Balfour. I know my duty, but no, her aunts do not reside at the family seat.”
“Married, are they?” Ian put the question casually while Spathfoy poured himself his third whisky. This was beyond chasing the damp away, past the medicinal tot, and fast approaching manly indulgence. Spathfoy was a big bastard, but he was drinking aged Scottish whisky like it was water.
Or like he was Scottish.
“Not a one of them is married. Not yet, which is the entire—” He fell silent, his drink halfway to his mouth. “They are lovely young women who enjoy the hospitality of various aunts and cousins for the summer. This is very good whisky, Balfour.”
“It is. When are you supposed to take Fiona into the loving arms of that stranger known as her grandpapa?”
Spathfoy stopped staring at his drink to peer at Ian. “Oh, yesterday, of course. With his lordship, everything is yesterday if not the day before.”
Which explained a few of Spathfoy’s unfortunate tendencies. “I can’t allow that. I need time to wire Fee’s mama at least. They will very likely head directly home by way of London, and Hester and Ariadne will need time to pack up Fee’s effects. I’ll want some assurances in writing regarding Mary Fran’s right to visit, as well as my own, Connor’s, Gilgallon’s, and Asher’s.”
“Who?”
“My brothers. With the exception of Asher, they’ve had as much of the raising of Fiona as I have.”
Spathfoy nodded. Being in anticipation of a title, he would comprehend a need to document any understandings. “You’ll draw something up?”
“Give me a week. This will require communicating with my men of business in Aberdeen, and they are not the most responsive bunch.” It would require no such thing, but Spathfoy was hardly going to deny Ian a week’s grace.
The English were stupid that way, though they called it being sporting.
“I’ll write to my father that we’ve had this discussion.” Spathfoy rose, and he did not weave on his feet in any manner.
Ian rose as well. “That’s all we’ve had, Spathfoy. This is discussion on my part, not agreement. I have one demand, though.”
“What would that be?”
“I’ll be the one to explain to Fiona what’s afoot, if and when the need arises. You’re not to be enticing the girl with fairy tales about golden coaches and spun-sugar castles.”
“Fair enough. You have a week, Balfour, and then I’ll be taking my niece south.”
“Our niece.”
They shook hands, and then Ian watched while his guest departed to once again get soaked to his English skin in the bone-chilling Scottish downpour.
A mean Scottish rain was sufficient to clear Tye’s head in short order, that and the sloppy lanes, which would have Rowan bowing a tendon if Tye weren’t careful. He brought the horse back to the walk and resigned himself to again getting thoroughly drenched.
Balfour had reacted with surprisingly good manners to Tye’s announcement, which pointed to two conclusions.
First, the man was up to something. At the end of a week, Tye would very likely have to snatch the child and make a dash for the south.
Second, Balfour had not, in the years of Fiona’s life, done a thorough enough investigation of the legalities involved in Fiona’s situation, or he would have known about Gordie’s will and possibly even sent the girl to her paternal relations. As head of the MacGregor family, particularly as the head of the local branch of the clan, Balfour would have had that authority.
This suggested Quinworth was up to something as well, which made Tye positively grind his teeth with frustration.
Rowan shied hugely at a bush swaying and bowing against the increasingly stiff wind, bringing Tye’s focus back to his horse.
“Settle, young man.” He ran his hand down the horse’s wet crest. “Nobody’s going to eat you until I’m safely out of Scotland.”
The horse walked on, though it managed to do so with a put-upon air. Tye was as relieved as the beast must have been to spot the stables when they trotted up the lane toward their temporary home.
And yet, guilt and resentment colored even such a simple emotion as pleasure at being warm and dry. Perhaps guilt and resentment were the dark twins of duty and honor. Tye put up his horse, discussing that very notion with the only being on earth who even appeared to care.
When Tye squished and slogged his way to the house, he went in by the kitchen entrance, finding Fiona sitting at the worktable doing sums.
“You should take your boots off, Uncle. The aunties will be wroth if you track mud on Mama’s carpets.”
“Oh, and what do the aunties look like when they’re wroth?” He peered over the child’s shoulder, but was careful not to drip on her.
“You’re cold,” Fiona said, shifting away from him. “Did you rub Rowan down before you put him up?”
“I rubbed him down, picked out his feet, sang him a lullaby, and listened to his prayers.” As the horse had so often listened to Tye’s. “Are you adding these?”
“I am. You can check them when I’m done.”
“Lucky me.” He moved away from the child, and finding the kitchen undefended by the indefatigable Deal, tossed some kindling under a burner, lit it, and took the kettle from the hob.
While the water heated, he went to the raised hearth and sat to remove his boots, which took some struggle. He didn’t have his boots made so tightly they cut off his circulation, but they were snug and wet, and had Fiona not been sitting several feet away, the occasion would have served nicely for a bout of swearing.
Fiona picked up her paper and eyed it, as if admiring a piece of artwork. “I’m done. Will you read me another story?”
“I am soaked to the bone, about to catch my death, and I have no doubt you can read every story in the library on your own. I will decline the proffered honor.” He put his boots in the back hallway, away from the damaging heat of the kitchen fire, then set about making a tea tray.
“I can’t read the French ones. We have the fairy tales in French and German. I like the German.”
“How is it you know the German?”
She shrugged. “The neighbors. When I go to Balmoral Castle to play, we sometimes speak German, though I don’t know all the words.”
