Mandeville looked at his companion dubiously. “ ’Tis derring-do, old man.”
“What is that, some kind of Highland beverage, a dish made with sheep’s entrails, perhaps?”
“It’s sheer gall for the most part, though ladies like to think of it as the essence of heroism. They want derring-do in a man the way we want—” He rolled his hands out in front of his waistcoat, and nipped them in at his waist.
Speed looked into the mirror again, seeing something entirely different from his long, crooked nose, his small eyes, his thin, lopsided lips. “Surely we have plenty of that,” he said, and ran a hand through his greasy hair, practicing his most seductive smile, though he was missing two teeth.
“Indeed, but I fear MacNabb has more.”
“Then what are we to do? In London, we would simply start a rumor that he’s penniless, or call him out for cheating at cards and shoot him. How the devil do gentlemen deal with these matters in the Highlands?” Speed demanded, turning away from the mirror to pace again. “Not that it likely comes up often. There are few heiresses here of Lady Sophie’s caliber, and damned few gentlemen from what I’ve seen.”
Mandeville pushed his empty plate away and sat back. “Then I think we are free to make our own rules, wouldn’t you say? Think of the old Scottish custom of reiving, taking what you want.”
Speed stroked a pimple on his chin thoughtfully. “I thought that only applied to cows?”
Mandeville grinned. “Not at all. In days of old, a bold man simply took what he wanted, wedded it, bedded it, and the matter was settled to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Speed frowned. “Are we still talking aboutcows?”
Mandeville poured himself a glass of the innkeeper’s finest port and held it up to the light. He paused for a moment to stare into the ruby depths before turning back to his friend. “Not cows, no. But a fine woman is worth every bit of the same effort it takes to capture a fine heifer, I believe.” He set the glass down, and leaned toward Speed. “What if Glenlorne was accidentally injured—or worse? Dearest Sophie would be ours for the taking.”
Speed’s eyes lit. “Ah, derring-do!”
Mandeville nodded. “Precisely.” Mandeville picked up the glass and drained it.
Speed sat down at the table across from his friend. “But how will we do it? We could bash his head in on a dark night, or strangle him in his bed.”
Mandeville’s smile rolled up the flesh of his red cheeks like a sail. “It’s a fine land for hunting, don’t you think? I hear there’s plenty of game in these hills. Surely Glenlorne could be convinced to invite us out for a day’s shooting,” Mandeville explained. “ ’Tis the gentlemanly thing.”
Speed’s eyes glowed like the furnaces of hell. “I see. An accident, then—a shot through the heart.”
“Almost like a duel, a way to settle the manner honorably,” Mandeville agreed. “What could be fairer than that?”
“But how will we determine which of us will marry Lady Sophie in Glenlorne’s place?” Speed asked.
Mandeville folded his arms over his massive belly, giving his friend a friendly smile. “Whoever bags the earl shall win the lady.”
“And the loser?” Speed asked. “Seems a shame to go home empty-handed.”
“There’s still Lady Caroline.”
There was a discreet knock, and the innkeeper entered. “More wine, gentlemen, or ale, or another haggis?” he asked politely.
“Haggis?” Mandeville said, holding out his glass to be filled.
“I believe you referred to them as sausages when I brought the first one in, sir. I have never seen anyone eat nine of them in all my days.”
“The chill in the air gives one an appetite,” Mandeville said. “No, I am replete. Bring me some writing paper, if you have it, and find a lad to take a note to Glenlorne, sirrah.”
The innkeeper nodded and left. “You don’t mean to commit our arrangement to paper, do you?” Speed asked.
“Of course not,” Mandeville replied. He extended his hand across the table. “A handshake will do. I mean to write to Glenlorne, give him our congratulations, and get him to host us for a day’s shooting in the hills.”
Speed grinned gleefully. “Get him to ask us for dinner as well. I am not as fond of haggis as you are.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
The great hall was filled with people. Every MacNabb for miles around had come to the ceilidh to welcome the new laird home. They wore their plaids proudly, and the pipes to played him to his seat at the head of the table, and everyone declared that such a grand celebration had not been seen since before the Battle of Culloden, or after, when the wearing of tartan and the playing of pipes and even the speaking of Gaelic was prohibited by the English victors. Alec was the first new laird since that law had been repealed. If the English hoped the old ways would die out in the years between, they would be sadly disappointed to see that the spirit of the Highland clans was alive and well in Glenlorne tonight.
