She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. Wasn’t he supposed to be at home, sleeping off all the ale and whisky and whatever other drinks he’d consumed last night?
Instead, he looked rested and refreshed, his hair combed and his face cleanshaven, and unlike her, it appeared he’d taken his time dressing for the day. Arabella pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, resisting the urge to touch her sleep-tossed braid.
She cleared her throat. “The bagpipes, Mr. McKenzie?”
“Aye, don’t ye love the plaintive sound of them?” He raised his voice to be heard over the garish notes.
“Is that how they’resupposedto sound?”
One corner of Mr. McKenzie’s mouth quirked. “Rory may not be the most accomplished piper in Scotland.”
She looked askance at him.
He shrugged. “In fact, it may be more accurate tae say he is still very much in thelearningphase. But he certainly gives it his all. Wouldn’t ye agree?”
Arabella glanced over at the man who continued to struggle through the song, rounded cheeks puffing. “But that doesn’t explain why he is playing themnow. It’s five in the morning!”
“It’s how we wake every morning, Miss Hughes. Ach, ye see. Here comes your grandmother.”
Just as he said the words, Grandmother came around the corner, face wreathed in a smile. “I worried I’d have tae wake ye for the playing of the bagpipes, but ye were up and gone before I could get these auld bones oot the door.”
“I wish I’d been informed of thisrituallast night,” Arabella said, quite ready to be done with Scotland’s many surprises.
“Ach, ’tis my own fault. I’m so accustomed tae it, I dinnae even think tae warn ye.”
“And how long will he play?” All she wanted was to go back to bed.
“An hour at most,” Mr. McKenzie assured her.
“Anhour? Each morning?”
“Refreshing, isn’t it?” Grandmother smiled contentedly. “A wonderful way tae start each day.”
Arabella wanted a pen and paper. If she couldn’t sleep, she planned to write alongletter to her mother, outlining the many woes she’d been subjected to.
But Grandmother and Mr. McKenzie were already walking around the back of the house, murmuring about some of the wood that needed to be replaced due to salt rot.
At last the man finished, breathing hard, forehead beaded with sweat.
“Thank you,” Arabella said, hoping he would interpret itto mean she was thankful for his playing and not surmise the truth—that she was grateful he had stopped.
“O’ course. ’Tis always a pleasure tae play my pipes.”
She offered a polite smile. “You must be quite dedicated to play every morning.”
“Well, yes. Though not usually fer an audience. And not at five in the morn.”
Arabella frowned. “You don’tusuallyplay at five in the morning, to wake everyone?”
The man looked confused. “Nay. Why would I?”
“Of all the...” Arabella strode forward but then stopped. “Do you, by chance, use forks and spoons? When you eat?”
His forehead creased. “I do,” he replied, the words long and drawn out as if she might be slow of intellect. “Doesnae everybody?”
“And do you wear this garb”—she gestured up and down, indicating his Highland clothing—“every evening to celebrate the Diskilting Act?”
“The Diskilting what?”
