Memories of Canna floated through his thoughts, and he felt at peace. At the moment, he would give a fair amount to have that peace restor—
A whoop went up from the ladies.
Hadley and Tristan turned to see Ethan Penn-Leith lifting a cup of milk above his head in triumph, his foot on the milking stool. Beside him, the mother goat butted her head against his hip.
“Success!” Ethan called, smile stretching wide. Even at a distance, Tristan could feel the tug of the poet’s charisma and bonhomie.
“Excellent! Let’s move on to the fourth round.” Hadley clapped his hands. “Whose turn is it to throw first?”
Though the earl had to be approaching sixty years of age, he wore it well. Hadley had the strength of a much younger man, despite the streaks of gray in his light-brown beard.
“Mine.” Malcolm Penn-Leith lifted a hand.
“And what does the loser have to do?”
Malcolm drew a scrap of paper out of Hadley’s hat sitting on the grass.
“Row the old dinghy across the lake and back,” he read. Lifting his head, he pointed toward the water at the end of the lawn and the small boat already half sinking below its surface.
“Hah!” Hadley laughed. “That should be enjoyable to watch. I hope ye gentlemen can swim.”
Mac guffawed again. James meowed. Ethan marched his cup of milk over to a laughing Allie and presented it with an exaggerated bow.
As the only Englishman present, Tristan had to squelch the urge to show these rowdy Scots how a true gentleman behaved.
You love your wife, he reminded himself again. What number was he on? Thirteen?
Clearly reading his thoughts, Isolde caught his gaze and mouthed the wordsI love you.
Pinching his lips together, he stared at her, this lovely woman who knew him better than any other soul on earth.
You owe me, Tristan mouthed back.
Isolde lifted her eyebrows suggestively, a sultry smirk dimpling the corners of her mouth. Her expression promised all sorts of delectable wickedness once they were alone.
Tristan felt immensely cheered. He was an idiot not to have married Lady Isolde years ago.
Scratching his thick beard, Malcolm stepped up to the mark and grasped the heavy chain in both hands, the bulk of his muscular shoulders casting a wide shadow on the grass. A gentleman farmer himself, he was no stranger to physical labor.
“Hurrah for Malcolm!” cheered the man’s wife—the noted novelist Viola Brodure Penn-Leith—from underneath the ladies’ canopy, blond curls framing her face.
Saluting his wife, Malcolm spun in a quick circle—once, twice—before releasing the stone to fly down the lawn in a long arc.
James lifted a hand and marked off the stone’s location with a stick before wrapping the chain around his fist and dragging it back to the starting line.
Hadley was next, the stone sailing down the turf. Despite his age, the Scot made an impressive showing. Ethan, Mac, James, and Tristan would likely be vying for last place once more.
Ethan’s throw was respectable, as were those of James and Mac.
Tristan had just stepped up for his turn when he noticed everyone’s head swivel toward the house. Following their gazes, he saw Hadley’s stern butler striding across the lawn with what appeared to be letters on a silver salver. Tristan paused, frowning, as he watched the man approach. The post had already come and gone for the day.
“What is it, Patterson?” Hadley asked as the butler drew near.
“Express post, my lord, for Mr. Ethan Penn-Leith and His Grace.” Patterson presented the salver to Tristan. “As both letters have Her Majesty’s seal, I assumed them to be urgent.”
Tristan took his letter from the tray. Indeed, it was sealed with the coat of arms of the British monarchy.
What the devil?
