Lachlan’s hands fisted, and he carved another crescent-shaped scar into his palm.
A penance, for all the good it did him. For all the good it did any of them.
“We might have been here a day earlier if you’d been able to sit a horse yesterday.” Despite his cool tone, guilt burned in Lachlan’s belly. Ciaran had been in no shape to ride after their brawl, and they’d been obliged to remain at the Horse and Groom for a second night so he could recover.
Ciaran snorted. “Yes, it’s a terrible pity. Just think, Isla. If we’d arrived yesterday, you could be dancing with some grand English lord even now. Either that or the exalted Lord Huntington would have already tossed us out on our arses, and we’d be on our way back to Scotland by now.”
“We’re not going back to Scotland.” Lachlan’s voice was hard. “No matter what happens with Lord Huntington. The sooner you accept that, Ciaran, the better.”
Ciaran’s brow lowered, and his jaw twitched with anger. “Perhapsyou’renot going back.”
Lachlan glanced down at the pristine white cravat he’d just knotted, and shot his brother a warning glance. “None of us are going back, and before you get it into your fool head to drag me from my horse for another brawl, keep in mind this isn’t some filthy inn-yard. It’s Grosvenor Square. And that, right there?” He jerked his chin toward the elegant mansion. “It’s not some country inn. It’s Lord Huntington’s home.”
An ugly sneer twisted Ciaran’s lips. “I know where we are, Lachlan. Christ, how could I forget it? I feel like a bloody Highland sheep dropped in the middle of a herd of overbred stallions.”
“This isn’t the place for another drunken brawl. Or do you think it will improve our chances with Lord Huntington if we show up in his ballroom with blackened eyes and bloodstained cravats?”
Ciaran didn’t answer, only gave him a sullen look.
Lachlan sighed, and made an effort to lighten his tone. “Behave yourself, Ciaran, and maybe Isla will find herself a duke with deep pockets who’ll keep you in wagering and whiskey.”
“She doesn’t want some bloody Englishman, do you, Isla?”
Ciaran’s tone was defiant, but Lachlan saw the bleakness in his brother’s eyes, and he jabbed his fingernails into his palms again. “She doesn’t know what she wants anymore.”
A sharp bark of laughter burst from Ciaran’s chest. “Jesus, Lach. Have you only just met Isla? She’s a Ramsey, isn’t she? She was born knowing what she wants. The fact she can’t have it anymore doesn’t change a damned thing.”
Isla let out a weary sigh. “I beg your pardon, but in case you’ve both forgotten, I’m right here. Kindly stop talking about me as if I can’t hear every word you’re saying. You do realize, Ciaran, you’re only making this harder.”
“Harder for who? Lachlan? You forget, Isla, he’s Lord Lachlan now. I’d say things are a good deal easier for him than they’ve ever been before.”
The way Lachlan saw it, there was nothing easy about becoming an English lord, but he didn’t deny things were a damn sight easier for him than they were for Ciaran. His brother didn’t mention Isobel Campbell, but Lachlan heard the echo of her name in every word Ciaran spoke, just as clearly as if Ciaran had said her name aloud.
Isla glanced at Lachlan, and her face softened. “Lachlan might be younger brother to a marquess, but as far as I’m concerned he’s a Ramsey, the same as you and me. He’s stillourbrother too, Ciaran, and he always will be.”
“Half-brother.”
Lachlan flinched as if Ciaran had struck him, but he remained silent.
Ciaran glanced at him, and blew out a quiet breath. “Then again, you’re still the same arrogant, overbearing arse you’ve always been, Lach, and I’d still choose to pummel the life out of you as soon as look at you. I guess that makes you my brother right enough, same as always.”
Lachlan shook his head, but a corner of his lip twitched. That was Ciaran. Stubbornly loyal, even when he’d rather beat you bloody.
“We’re going to have a devil of a time with these upright English sticks.” Ciaran pointed at his battered face. “Lachlan and I look like a couple of savages. Even if we do get past Lord Huntington, we’re sure to frighten away any of Isla’s future delicate English suitors.”
Isla grimaced. “Not so delicate as all that, I hope.”
“Of course they’re delicate. They’re English, aren’t they?” Ciaran straightened his coat, smoothed his cravat, and tried to tame his wild mess of dark hair. “There. Do I look fine enough to meet a marquess?”
“No. You look like a savage who’s been brawling in an inn-yard, but it’s too late to fix you now.” Lachlan glanced back toward the house. Damn it, brother or not, he didn’t care for the idea of confronting the Marquess of Huntington in a crowded ballroom, with every aristocrat in London gaping at him, but they’d come this far, and he wasn’t going to wait any longer. “How the devil will I find him? It looks like a crush, and I don’t even know what he looks like.”
“Like an English lord, I imagine.” Ciaran raised an eyebrow at Lachlan. “Whatever you do, try and scrape together a smile. You won’t get anywhere with your usual black scowl.”
Lachlan grunted. “I don’t scowl.”
Both Ciaran and Isla laughed. “Oh, of course not,” Isla said. “You’re not at allscowlish. You’re the very picture of good humor, Lachlan.”
Despite his denial, Lachlan felt a scowl creep over his face. “Scowlishisn’t even a word.”
