He’d not lost his brother twice before to bid him any kind of fare-thee-well now. Clans weren’t like modern-day families. Highland clans stayed together, worked together, played together, and raised their children together. Conquered their own little corner of the world and stuffed it to overflowing with their unique, proud heritage.
Hence Dageus and Chloe had taken up residence in the castle, settling happily into a suite in the west wing, opposite Drustan and Gwen in the east.
And each eve without fail, at seven sharp, they met to dine (their wives insisted they dress for it, and he would have donned any blethering thing she’d asked to see his wee Gwen in such dresses and sexy shoes as twenty-first-century women wore), and the stone walls of the castle were filled with laughter, fine conversation, and the warmth of love.
Cocking his head, Drustan glanced up at the portrait of his father, Silvan, and his next-mother, Nell, hanging above the fireplace. He fancied Silvan’s painted brown eyes twinkled merrily and Nell’s smile curved more sweetly. Aye, life was rich. After all their trials and tribulations, it had settled into a peaceful cadence, with no life-or-death complications, no oath-breaking, no time-traveling, no curses, no evil Druids or Gypsies or crazed seers or Tuatha Dé.
He was looking forward to a very long stretch of unbroken peace and quiet. The rest of his life would serve well.
He pushed aside his plate and was about to suggest they adjourn to the library, when their butler, Farley, came blustering in, white hair bristling, his tall, hunched frame now ramrod straight. Something had clearly ruffled him.
“Milord,” Farley said with a disgruntled humph.
“Mister MacKeltar,” Drustan corrected for the umpteenth time, with a this-is-really-wearing-thin-but-I’m-determined-to-be-patient smile. No matter how many times he told Farley that he was not a laird, that he was simply Mr. MacKeltar, that it was Christopher (his modern-day descendant who lived up the road in the oldest castle on the land) who was actually laird, Farley refused to hear it. The eighty-something-year-old butler, who insisted he was sixty-two and who had obviously never before buttled in his life until the day he’d arrived on their doorstep, was determined to be butler to a lord. Period. And he wasn’t about to let Drustan interfere with that aspiration.
If not for Gwen, Drustan might have been more adamant about correcting him, but Gwen doted on Ian Llewelyn McFarley, and had since the day he’d arrived, followed by so many other McFarleys to be employed in and around the castle that Drustan was no longer certain some days if it was Castle Keltar he lived in or Castle Farley.
If might made right, he thought wryly, it was Castle Farley by sheer numbers alone. At last count he employed fourteen of his butler’s children and spouses, seventeen grandchildren, and there were twelve wee greats on the premises, from toddler to teen. The McFarleys were a prolific bunch, reproducing like the clans of yore. Drustan looked forward to trying to catch up. He would certainly enjoy the trying, he thought, gaze raking possessively over his wee, sensual wife.
“Aye, milord MacKeltar.”
Drustan rolled his eyes. Gwen snorted into her napkin.
“As I was trying to tell you, milord, ’tis a visitor you’re having and, though mayhap ’tis not my place to say so, she’s a most”—sniff—“improper lass. Not at all like young Miss Chloe here”—huge, infatuated smile—“or our delightful Lady Gwen. Verily she puts me more in mind of that one”—he nodded toward Dageus—“when first he arrived. There’s something not right about her, not right at all.”
Drustan felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Peace and quiet was on the agenda. Naught more. He glanced questioningly at his wife.
Gwen shrugged and shook her head. “I haven’t invited anyone, Drustan. Did you, Chloe?”
“No,” Chloe replied. “What’s not right about her, Farley?” she asked curiously.
An annoyed humph. A few ahems, then a thoroughly miffed, “She’s a fine enough lass, that is, when one is able to actually look at her, but”—he broke off with a deeply aggrieved sigh and cleared his throat several times before continuing—” ’twould appear she’s having, er . . . solidity problems.”
“What?” Gwen said, frowning. “ ‘Solidity problems’? What on earth does that mean, Farley?”
Drustan inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. He didn’t like the sound of this. Solidity problems did not bode well for the serenity of the occupants of Castle Keltar.
“ ’tis precisely as I said. Solidity problems,” Farley reiterated, obviously loath to commit further to describing their unexpected guest.