A familiar traveling coach was pulled up before the front door.
Uncle Leith.
No need to wonder why his uncle was here.
Ethan’s lack of reply to his letters had undoubtedly spurred Uncle Leith northward, intent on forcing Ethan to heel. And his uncle, being an old-fashioned sort who eschewed locomotive travel, had made the journey by his habitual carriage.
Sighing, Ethan handed his horse off to a farmhand and turned for the house.
“I have quitmy lease in London,” Uncle Leith announced a quarter hour later, a teacup and saucer balanced in one hand, a biscuit held in the other. “I have heard word there is an importer in Aberdeen who might be interested in a shipping contract. So I am returning home.”
Ethan sighed, reaching for his teacup.
Malcolm glared at their uncle, his own teacup untouched before him.
The fact that the household could produce a tea tray and shortbread at such short notice when Viola had given birth less than twelve hours previously was a testament to Thistle Muir’s efficiency.
“And ye couldnae write tae us of your intentions?” Malcolm asked.
Uncle Leith’s eyebrows rose at Malcolm’s tone.
Ethan shot his brother a warning look. No need to rile their uncle. Ethan would prefer to not be on the receiving end of the man’s irritable tongue for the journey to Aberdeen.
“I saw no need,” Uncle Leith replied. “Besides given how unreliable Ethan has been as a correspondent, I didn’t suppose my sending ahead a warning would have mattered.”
His uncle likely intended the remark to sting, but it only ruffled Ethan’s testy mood.
He did not want to return to Aberdeen with Uncle Leith. He didn’t want to be forced to woo and charm another investor.
He was so tired of this Catherine wheel.
But could he flat-out refuse?
“I hear congratulations are in order, Malcolm,” Uncle Leith continued conversationally. “Your wife delivered a fine baby boy, I understand.”
“Aye.” Malcolm folded his arms. “This morning.”
Every line of Malcolm’s body communicated his aggravation at their uncle’s presence.
“This morning?!” Uncle Leith sounded scandalized. As if Malcolm were at fault for permitting visitors at such an inauspicious time.
Ethan mentally rolled his eyes, setting down his teacup.
“Well, I certainly cannot spend the evening here then,” their uncle frowned.
“Nae, ye cannae,” Malcolm agreed.
“Ethan will see us to an inn in Fettermill tonight,” Uncle Leith decreed. “We can leave from there tomorrow morning.”
Ethan pressed two fingertips to the bridge of his nose.
He couldn’t leave Allie, not without knowing how things fared with Kendall. Not without having one final conversation about themselves and what their future might be.
Uncle Leith rightly read Ethan’s hesitation.
“I have permitted you to gallivant about this business with Kendall, but it is apparent that nothing has come of it,” his uncle said. “We must retrench and consider other options. You will return—”
“Kendall was wounded this evening,” Ethan interrupted, “so I cannot say what will come of your shipping request.”
