She knew that, regardless of how well her husband had adapted to her century, part of him would always be a sixteenth-century feudal laird. When they’d first moved into their new home—instead of doing what a normal twenty-first century person would have done, and taken an ad out in the paper for staff or contacted an employment agency—Drustan had gone to Alborath and dropped word in the local grocery and barber shop.
Within two hours, Farley had appeared on their doorstep claiming to have “buttled in some of the finest homes in England” (the man had never been out of Scotland), and further claimed he could arrange the entire staffing of their castle.
They’d since been overrun by McFarleys. There were McFarleys in the kitchen, McFarleys in the stables, McFarleys doing the ironing and the laundry and the dusting. As near as Gwen had been able to count, they’d employed the man’s entire clan of nine children (and spouses), fourteen grandchildren, and she suspected there were a few “greats” floating about.
And though it had soon become clear that none of them had any experience in their respective positions, Drustan had pronounced them all satisfactory because he’d heard in the village that positions were hard to find.
In modern terms, the economy in Alborath was not good. Work was hard to find. And the feudal lord had surfaced, taking responsibility for the McFarleys.
She adored that about her husband.
A sharp knock at the bathroom door jarred her from her thoughts.
“Milord?” Farley inquired cautiously.
Gwen giggled and Drustan sighed. Farley refused to address him by any other title, no matter how persistently Drustan corrected him.
“Mister MacKeltar,” Drustan muttered. “Why is that so difficult for him?” He was determined to adopt twenty-first century customs. Unfortunately, Farley was just as determined to preserve the old ones and had decided that since Drustan was the apparent heir of the castle, he was a lord. Period, the end.
“Aye?” Drustan replied more loudly.
“Sorry to be disturbing you and the lady, but there’s a man here to see you, and I ken ’tis no’ of my business, but I’m thinking I should have you know that he seems a bit the dangerous type, though he’s polite enough as it is. Now the lass with him, och, in my opinion she’s a sweet wee and proper lass, but him, well, ’tis more of an air about him, you ken? I’m thinking you mightn’t hold well with me saying so, being as he looks so much like you, though no’ like you at all. Ahem.”
Farley cleared his throat, and Gwen felt Drustan go rigid behind her. She’d gone rather tense herself.
“Milord, he’s saying he’s your brother, but being as you’ve no’ mentioned a brother, despite the resemblance . . .”
Gwen didn’t hear another word because Drustan shot from the bath so fast that she got a thorough dunking and her ears were filled with water. By the time she surfaced, Drustan was gone.
Dageus had neglected to mention that his brother lived in a castle. Sheesh, Chloe thought, shaking her head, I should have expected it. Where else would such a man have come from? Old World, indeed.
It was an elegant castle, with a great stone wall and authentic barbican, with round turrets and square towers and probably a hundred rooms or more.
Chloe pivoted, trying to look everywhere at once. She’d not uttered a word since they’d entered the tree-canopied drive and begun their approach. She’d been too stunned. She was in Scotland, and they were going to be staying in a castle!
The interior of the great hall was enormous, with corridors shooting off in all directions. An intricately carved balustrade encircled the hall on the second floor, and an elegant double staircase swept down from opposing sides, met in the middle, and descended in one wide train of steps. A lovely stained-glass window was inset above the double entry doors. Brilliant tapestries adorned the walls, and the floors were scattered with rugs. There were two fireplaces in the hall, both tall enough for people to walk around in, bigger than the bathroom in her efficiency had been! Her fingers curled as she wondered how many artifacts she might get to examine.
“Do you like it, lass?” Dageus asked, watching her intently.
“It’s magnificent! It’s—it’s—” she broke off, sputtering. “Oh, thank you,” she exclaimed. “Do you have any idea how thrilling it is to me to be standing in an authentic medieval castle? I’ve dreamed of this moment.”
He smiled faintly. “Aye, the castle is magnificent, isn’t it?”
He couldn’t have sounded more proud if he’d built it himself, Chloe thought. “Did you grow up here?”