“Tighter than a nun’s arse,” I say.
“Thank you for that disturbing visual,” Cameron murmurs.
“I doubled our usual contingent of guards,” I continue, ignoring him, “half of ‘em are dressed up and mingling as guests tonight. We’re using the same catering company as last year, but I re-vetted everyone, of course. We’ve locked all the entry and exit points in the building down to three. Any sensitive rooms, like the study, have a guard to redirect curious visitors.”
“Good work,” he nods. “I’ll see yer ugly faces in three hours. No feckin’ around with Ma’s black-tie rule. No one should be setting off Lady Elspeth tonight if you want to live.”
Despite myself, I shudder at the vision of Ma’s expression if we don’t show up properly kitted out. “Aye, the only thing Lady Elspeth enjoys more than expensive footwear is instilling fear in people.”
“My handsome sons.”
Lady Elspeth MacTavish, our mother and a she-dragon feared by all, strolls past us with an approving smile. She’s still one of the most beautiful women in Scotland and she wields that power like a blunt instrument.
“As ordered,” mumbles Lachlan, who clearly has lost his will to live, because Ma rounds on him.
“What was that, dear? You don’t wish to give back to the community that has supported us all these years?” She smiles up at his alarmed face.
“Ma, it’s fine,” he groans, adjusting his sporran. As ordered, we’re all resplendent in our MacTavish kilts and black Prince Charlie jackets.
“Look at it this way,” I pat his shoulder as she moves on to terrorize the waitstaff, “at least with Scottish formal wear, the use of weapons in this getup is encouraged.”
He smirks, patting the dirk visible at his waist, though I’m pretty sure he’s got at least three more hidden on his person. Like Cormac, Lachlan’s obsessed with knives. I’m fine with a gun. It’s quick. Gets the job done. No fuss.
“Is it over yet?”
Mala, Cormac’s wife leans against his shoulder, eyes closed.
“How are ya’ feeling, lass?” I say sympathetically. Cormac and Mala’s twins are precocious, clever and full of mischief in a way that makes me want to apologize to my mother for everything I’d ever done as a child.
“Good,” she groans, “I just don’t know if the duct tape I used to put the twins in their beds is going to hold.”
I think she’s joking. I’m pretty sure.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Cormac soothes, “you just disappear upstairs and I’ll make your excuses. There’s not a soul here with a big enough death wish to complain.”
“I think it works even better when you’re actually holding the baby in your arms,” Morana adds, kissing Cameron. Their son Beathan is newly born and she won’t let him out of her sight, so her excuse for an early exit is inarguable.
“Everything looks so pretty!” Sorcha’s the youngest of us and spoiled incessantly as the only daughter. The great hall does look grand, the massive chandelier sending shards of light along the dance floor and endless elaborate flower arrangements. Sorcha sneezes. “Except for the flowers. Why does there always have to be a full-on pollen attack when Ma throws one of these parties?”
“A well-designed arrangement sets the tone for the evening,” Morana and Mala reply together.
“Aye, spoken from the Book of Elspeth,” Sorcha says, sneezing again.
“Cormac, my boy!” A sound slap on my shoulder as I turn to glare at my Uncle Brodie. “Pardon, Dougal. You two look so much alike.”
“Good to see ya’ Uncle. No worries, though I think you should always clarify that I am the best-looking between us.”
“Aye, of course,” he chuckles, wandering off in search of a drink.
Da likes to brag that we got all the best genetic characteristics of our parents; his height and then everything else from Ma. But Cormac and I got our dark hair and blue eyes from him, as well as his ferocious temper when provoked.
“Game faces on,” Cameron says between gritted teeth. The huge oak and iron front door is open and the well-dressed flood of gawkers is already surging through.
Chapter Six
In which Isla crashes the party.
Isla…
