“No joke, dear. I’ve had only a few commissions since my injury.”
MacGregor stopped before a pair of oak doors. “Bonny sir. And sir.” He bowed.
“Tapadh leat, mac Griogair,”Christina said, thanking him.
He smiled quickly.“Tha Gaidhlig mhath agad.”
“What was that?” John asked.
“He said I have good Gaelic,” Christina replied. “Our mother was born in the Highlands,” she explained to the butler in that tongue. “She taught her children the Gaelic.”
“Very good, it is!” MacGregor replied.
“I have forgotten most of what I learned,” John said in rough Gaelic. “My sister taught in a Gaelic school in Fife a few years ago.”
“Helping Highland people! Good, good! I am thanking you.”
He knocked on the door, then opened it to peer cautiously into the gap. Then he stood back and waited for Christina and John to enter.
Christina saw a lovely room, but had no time to notice anything else. A blur of motion and sound whirled toward her, and a man’s hand lashed out in front of her face. She heard the smack as he caught something. His fist brushed the tip of her nose, knocking her eyeglasses askew. Gasping, she stumbled back against the door jamb.
A sun-bronzed hand clutched a teacup in long fingers. Broad shoulders in a black wool coat filled her view. Stunned, she saw Aedan MacBride peering at her as he lowered his arm. “Welcome, Mrs. Blackburn.”
“Well done, sir!” John crowed. “Excellent catch.”
“It comes of practice. Madam, I apologize.” Aedan MacBride held the teacup he had caught before it struck her nose. Christina blinked at him.
“Tcha,”MacGregor said behind them. “Needing an umbrella in there, you are.”
“Och, puir lass!” An elderly lady in black, seated on a sofa, called out. “Do come in and sit doon. Miss Thistle!” She snapped as something small and brown—a cat?—scurried under a draped table. Two young women, blonde and lovely, chased after it. One of them bent to look under a linen-covered table.
Bewildered, Christina glanced at Sir Aedan.
“Please excuse the rather unusual reception, madam.”
“Sir Aedan,” she said, holding out her hand as if they had not met in the middle of the night. “So nice to see you.”
He took her fingers, his touch light but firm, his smile appealingly mischievous. In daylight, he was a stunning fellow, eyes keen blue, hair a thick, deep brown, nearly black. His suit of black wool was neat, though slightly mud spattered, as were his boots.
“And Mr. Blackburn,” Sir Aedan said, taking John’s hand firmly. Then the laird took her elbow, his touch firm and warm through her sleeve. Christina glanced up at him and felt her heart patter at a ridiculous pace.
His powerful maleness was distracting. She remembered the strength of his arms around her, the brush of his lips in the darkness. Blushing, she let him draw her into the room.
*
With Christina Blackburnon his arm, Aedan faced a room swirling with chaos. Amy lifted her lavender skirts and stepped back as Miss Thistle scrambled behind a drapery. Lady Balmossie fluttered her fan over her bosom, while Lady Strathlin went to her knees, skirts spreading, to coo at and coax the elusive monkey.
“Thistle!” his aunt moaned. “How could you! We have guests!”
One by one, Aedan calmly introduced his kinswomen to the startled guests. Amy smiled brightly, then squealed as Thistle scuttled under her skirts and then peered out.
“Mrs. Blackburn, please have a seat. Pardon the—commotion. Mr. Blackburn, if you will, take a seat as well.” Aedan guided her to the sofa beside his aunt, who turned her fan to flap it helpfully in Christina’s face.
John took a seat, laughing quietly, while his sister glanced around as if bewildered.
“Mrs. Blackburn, can we fetch you some tea? Or smelling salts?” Aedan asked wryly.
“Oh no, I’m quite fine. What interesting commotion.” She smiled up at him.
