“Done.”
“What?”
“A bet, brother-in-law. Five years to see a complete change here.”
Aaron frowned, his expression sour. “I just want my sister happy.”
“That, too. A case of fine Scottish whisky if I’m wrong.”
Aaron nodded. “Against a case of brandy.”
“French brandy? Och, you English can’t even make a good spirit.”
“We make good women,” the man returned as he fell in step with the women.
“I canna argue that,” Liam said.
“I can,” Connall said as he made it to Liam’s side. “You’re a fool to throw over Mairi for that one, heiress or not.”
Liam turned. “Mairi’s a right fine woman,” he said. “And if you see her worth, then why haven’t you put a ring on her finger?”
“Because it’s always been aimed at you.”
He shrugged. “Not anymore.” He looked at his oldest friend. They had been best friends and rivals from the day the bawling brat had been born. Liam was older by a year and, by all accounts, had been unimpressed when they’d first met. And though Liam had looked beyond Scotland for answers to his problems, Connall’s faith had always been right here in their homeland. Liam respected the choice, even if he disagreed, and there wasn’t a finer woman than Mairi. “I suggest you get courting afore she turns her head elsewhere.”
Connall laughed. “When I need your advice on women, I’ll have my head examined.” Then he sobered. “Truth, Liam, but you’ve cocked it up for sure. There’s no way that lanky Sassenach can set this place to rights.” He looked around. “Not with all the men gone and the women set against her.”
“Be damned to the lot of ye,” he said, abruptly losing his patience. “Not a one of you can see the use of a woman beyond your cock, and that’s a right shame.”
“It’s not the woman that’s the fault. It’s the English in ’em,” Connall said.
“Done. Your copper against my whisky, that she’ll outshine us all. Give me one year.”
Connall grinned. There was nothing the man liked more than a good wager. “Done.” Then he chuckled. “I hope she swives like a goddess because you’ll not have your whisky to console you when it’s done.”
“And I pray that a pesky Sassenach turns your brain inside out.” That was, after all, exactly what had happened to him.
Connall and his men had a good laugh at that. They took their leave soon afterwards. Proper manners required the man to voice his thanks to Clara, but Liam knew that was best forgotten. Whereas his own clan had gladhanded with the English for survival, Connall’s people had fought bravely at Culloden and died. He’d been reared on a hatred of the English much darker than anything Liam had known, and so his prejudice ran deep. It was best if Connall and Clara never met until she’d proved her worth.
And now the hall was empty except for him. Even the dogs were gone and the mess that remained would bring vermin and stench. He had a mile-long list in his head about what changes he wanted to enact here. None of them included cleaning up the dining hall. But a man started with what was in front of him, and so he rolled up his sleeves and began to scrub.
