Of course, his bad mood meant little to his great-aunt.
“My hands are the worst. Like ice, feel them!” She shifted her grip until she was the one clutching his forearm. They were cold. “Aye, like ice. Soon I’ll have to wear two sets of stockings over my hands as well as my feet.”
“Hand stockings, Aunt Agatha?” Alistair asked, paying only half attention.
During their slow descent, his eyes were scanning the room, and he knew why: he was looking for Lara. She wasn’t there, but Da was. He was standing near the hearth with his head bent low, speaking to someone.
“Hand stockings, lad, pay attention! I’m going to cut five finger-holes into a set of stockings and slide them over.” She waggled a set of fingers. “I think ‘twill work.”
Dragging his attention back to her, Alistair lifted his brow. “That would work, Aunt. Positively brilliant. Ye rival Malcolm when it comes to strange new inventions.”
She snorted. “Who do ye think came up with the idea? That lad’s no’ as stupid as the rest of ye. If they can keep my foot-fingers warm, they’ll keep my hand-fingers warm!”
“Foot fingers?”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Foot fingers! Ye know, the thingies on the ends of— Toes! That’s it, toes.”
Finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, Alistair hid his smile. “Aye, toes. The fingers of the feet. But yer hand-stocking willnae keep yer finger-fingers warm, will it? Since ye’ve cut the holes into the stocking?”
“Mayhap if I fashion five wee-er stockings—a sort of sausage casing—I can sew them to the openings.”
“Congratulations, Aunt. Ye’ve invented gloves.”
She paused, then shrugged. “Well, I didnae say I was the first to wear hand-stockings, did I? I simply think they need a better name.”
“Gloves,” he repeated again dryly. “And they’ll come in handy during the winter too.”
Squinting up at him, his great-aunt frowned. “Did ye just make a pun? I’ve never heard ye make a joke. Are ye ill? Are ye feeling weak? Do ye need me to fetch the priest? Or Merewyn can burn some sage over ye and mumble strange incantations.”
He brushed away her concern with a smile as they slowly made their way across the rush-covered floor. “Merewyn’s a healer, no’ a witch, Aunt Agatha. And I’m no’ sick.”
“Ye look it,” she muttered. “Verra piqued.”
Did he? Well, he wasn’t about to admit he’d spent the last few hours pacing in his solar, wondering how in the hell he was going to convince Lara to marry him. Because to his surprise, he very much wanted to marry her. He needed a wife, and a perfectly acceptable candidate had been under his nose this entire time.
“I’m not piqued, Aunt,” he corrected her. “I’m squinting, trying to figure out who Da’s speaking to.”
“Ye cannae tell?” The old woman pulled to a halt and cackled happily. “Ye cannae see the skirts peeking out around his big arse?”
Frowning in concentration, Alistair peered across the hall, trying to see what his aunt had seen. For certes, there were skirts between Da and the wall; the laird had a lass trapped and appeared to be murmuring to her.
Nay, not a lass. When William Oliphant finally straightened, Alistair smiled. ‘Twas Moira.
The housekeeper was flushed and smiling. And then, as if the two of them were alone in the busy hall, Moira slapped at the laird’s arm and laughed, which set her ample curves jiggling. The laird reached out to grab her, but she darted away, both of them chuckling.
Alistair hummed and glanced down at his great-aunt. “It seems yer Ghost is at work again.”
The old woman threw her head back and laughed, which he’d expected. The Ghostly Drummer of Oliphant Castle was a legend much older than either of them, but Aunt Agatha was the one who’d done her best to propagate the story in recent years. And, Alistair had to admit, the Ghost had become much more active over the last decade.
The legend said the Ghost wandered the castle, and anyone who was unlucky enough to hear him would be doomed. Aunt Agatha’s version of the story claimed they’d be doomed to fall in love.
“Doomed!” she cackled gleefully. “Willie is dooooomed!”
So his great-aunt shared his suspicions about Da and Moira’s relationship. Not only that, but she assumed they were in love.
Interesting.
“And how about ye, laddie?” she suddenly asked, pinching him. “Have ye heard the drummer lately?”
“No’ lately, Aunt,” he murmured, bowing his head in acknowledgement. Oh, he’d heard an unexplained drumming sound a few times during the last years, but naught would convince him the castle was haunted.
“Hmm. ‘Tis a pity. Ye need a wife.”
“I dinnae need to be doomed to fall in love in order to find a wife, Aunt Agatha.”
She cocked her head and studied him drily. “Do ye no’? Then mayhap ye are one of daftest of yer brothers. Now, let go of me so I can go find my seat.”
Since she was the one holding onto him, Alistair didn’t respond. Instead, he watched her hobble toward her customary chair as he thought on her words.
Did he have to be in love in order to find a wife? His brothers had all found happiness with their wives. He wanted to be happy, but more importantly, he wanted to be laird.
Didn’t he?
“What has ye frowning so fiercely, lad?”
Alistair started, surprised by how quietly his father had moved up beside him. Or mayhap he’d just been too distracted.
“Naught, Da.” He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Just thinking about…things which must be done.”
Such as convincing Lara to marry him.
But his father clucked his tongue. “Och, lad, I thought ye were finally learning how to relax. Ye’ve been different
