The man subsided. “It ran in past me, the wretched thing. And it’s ruined the carpet, I’ll wager. If you’ll wait here, I’ll get a rope and—”
“Nae,” Aden interrupted. “Ye willnae. This is my dog, Brògan,” he decided, settling on the Gaelic word for “boots” since the lad had attempted to steal one from him. “He’s come all the way from the Highlands to find me, and ye’ll do naught but put a bucket of warm water and some rags out in the garden so I can clean him off after his long journey.”
“That is not—I saw you giving it a biscuit in exchange for your boot not five minutes ago!” the butler exclaimed.
“Aye, because he brought it back to me,” Aden returned coolly. “He’s a fine beastie.”
“That… thing walked all the way from Scotland,” Smythe countered skeptically. “And found you here, at Oswell House.”
“Ye see him with yer own eyes, do ye nae?” Aden said, nodding at Coll as his brother topped the stairs. “Coll, this Sassenach butler is near to calling me a liar. Tell him, will ye, that this is my dog Brògan, all the way from Aldriss Park? I told ye the lad had a fine nose.”
His oldest brother’s deep-green eyes narrowed as he took in the scene, then he pinned the increasingly alarmed-looking butler with his gaze. “Were ye calling my brother a liar, Smythe?”
“I…”
“Because I’ll swear it to ye if ye insist, and I barely recognized him beneath the mud, but that’s Bogan.”
For a second Smythe looked like he’d swallowed histongue. “I thought his name was Brògan,” he forced out between his teeth.
“Oh, aye,” Coll drawled easily, his expression shifting to amused. “Good lad. Dunnae let him anywhere near me while he’s that filthy, Aden. And I changed my mind, brother. I believe I dunnae owe ye any blunt.”
Hiding a grin, Aden nodded. “I believe ye to be correct,bràthair.”
“Aye.” With that Viscount Glendarril vanished into his borrowed bedchamber and shut the door behind him.
“A bucket of water and some rags,” Aden said again. “We’ll be down in five minutes.”
“I… Yes, Master Aden. As you wish.”
Hm. All the antics of the past month hadn’t seemed to trouble the butler overly much, but a muddy, flea-ridden dog might have just broken him. Grinning, Aden leaned over and shoved open his door. “In there, lad,” he said.
Thankfully the dog stood, removing his arse from Aden’s foot, and ambled into the bedchamber as if he’d been inside it a hundred times. Shutting them in, Aden made his way to the overlarge wardrobe and pulled out an old work shirt and his most faded kilt. He wasn’t even certain why he’d bothered to bring them south with him, except they’d added to the general mass of nonsense they’d loaded into that pair of wagons. The work clothes and pair of well-worn boots were here because of that, as was the large, stuffed boar’s head Aden had placed above his bedchamber door.
When he turned around, the dog had his front paws up on the bed and looked like he meant to jump onto the soft mass of pillows and blankets. “Nae!” he bellowed.
With a yelp the black mutt ducked beneath the bed and disappeared. Aden frowned. If he’d had a previous master, the man hadn’t been kind. But for the moment the dogcould stay where he was. His own generally restless sleep wouldn’t benefit from a battalion of fleas added into the bedsheets.
Pulling off his proper Sassenach coat and waistcoat and yanking his fine, soft shirt over his head, he dumped the clothes over the dressing table’s chair. His kilt followed, while he tossed his road-scuffed boots over by the door. Then he dressed again, immediately more comfortable in his old work clothes and heavy work boots and a simple white shirt that had seen better days.
“Come along, lad,” he said, crouching by the door. “Brògan.”
Toenails tapped beneath the bed, but the beastie didn’t reappear.
“Brògan. Come on, lad. I’ll nae have ye in here flinging fleas onto my things. If ye mean to stay, ye need a bath.”
Whether it was his words or the tone of his voice, Brògan seemed reassured enough to stick his nose from beneath the coverlet, then crawl into the open. Tail tucked and wagging slowly, he crept forward until he could stuff his nose into the palm of Aden’s hand.
“I dunnae ken who ye were, lad,” Aden murmured, “but ye’ve annoyed the butler. That’s good enough for me. Let’s see what kind of companion a Sassenach stray can make for a Highlander who’d rather be back in Scotland.”
Straightening, careful to keep his motions slow and unthreatening, he opened the door and walked down the hallway. A moment later the dog followed, leaving more smudges along the bottom two feet of wallpaper as he sniffed from one side of the hallway to the other. At the top of the main staircase Aden paused, eyeing the very clear set of paw prints trailing up the steps and the two maids with buckets and brushes already attacking the bottommost stairs. Cursing under his breath, he squatted downto put one arm under the dog’s neck and the other beneath his hindquarters. Annoying Smythe was one thing; making more work for the lads and lasses of the house was quite another.
The fellow weighed forty pounds or so, light enough for a man accustomed to hauling about sheep for shearing. Up this close the beastie’s scent nearly made him gag, but he locked his jaw shut and descended the stairs. Continuing on through the rear of the house, he juggled the dog so he could open the back door and then went outside.
As usual Smythe had exceeded his orders, providing both a bucket and a tin trough that must have come from the stable. Both already contained water, and a generous pile of rags sat a few feet away. For a broomstick-up-his-arse Sassenach, Smythe wasn’t so bad, Aden supposed.
With a glance to see that the garden gate was closed in case the beastie decided to make a run for it, and not bothering to question why he’d decided Brògan would be staying on at Oswell House, he set the dog down in the half-filled trough. “Let’s see what we can make of ye, lad,” Aden grunted, and went to work with the bucket and the rags.
Five more buckets of water, some scissors, cursing, splashing, and a good brushing later he had what looked to be a black English springer spaniel and another curious development. “Lad, I’m sorry to be the one to tell ye, but ye’re a lass,” he commented.
