Squinting up at him, his great-aunt frowned. “Did ye just make a pun? I’ve never heard ye make a joke. Are ye ill? Are ye feeling weak? Do ye need me to fetch the priest? Or Merewyn can burn some sage over ye and mumble strange incantations.”
He brushed away her concern with a smile as they slowly made their way across the rush-covered floor. “Merewyn’s a healer, no’ a witch, Aunt Agatha. And I’m no’ sick.”
“Ye look it,” she muttered. “Verra piqued.”
Did he? Well, he wasn’t about to admit he’d spent the last few hours pacing in his solar, wondering how in the hell he was going to convince Lara to marry him. Because to his surprise, he very much wanted to marry her. He needed a wife, and a perfectly acceptable candidate had been under his nose this entire time.
“I’m not piqued, Aunt,” he corrected her. “I’m squinting, trying to figure out who Da’s speaking to.”
“Ye cannae tell?” The old woman pulled to a halt and cackled happily. “Ye cannae see the skirts peeking out around his big arse?”
Frowning in concentration, Alistair peered across the hall, trying to see what his aunt had seen. For certes, there were skirts between Da and the wall; the laird had a lass trapped and appeared to be murmuring to her.
Nay, not a lass. When William Oliphant finally straightened, Alistair smiled. ‘Twas Moira.
The housekeeper was flushed and smiling. And then, as if the two of them were alone in the busy hall, Moira slapped at the laird’s arm and laughed, which set her ample curves jiggling. The laird reached out to grab her, but she darted away, both of them chuckling.
Alistair hummed and glanced down at his great-aunt. “It seems yer Ghost is at work again.”
The old woman threw her head back and laughed, which he’d expected. The Ghostly Drummer of Oliphant Castle was a legend much older than either of them, but Aunt Agatha was the one who’d done her best to propagate the story in recent years. And, Alistair had to admit, the Ghost had become much more active over the last decade.
The legend said the Ghost wandered the castle, and anyone who was unlucky enough to hear him would be doomed. Aunt Agatha’s version of the story claimed they’d be doomed to fall in love.
“Doomed!” she cackled gleefully. “Willie is dooooomed!”
So his great-aunt shared his suspicions about Da and Moira’s relationship. Not only that, but she assumed they were in love.
Interesting.
“And how about ye, laddie?” she suddenly asked, pinching him. “Have ye heard the drummer lately?”
“No’ lately, Aunt,” he murmured, bowing his head in acknowledgement. Oh, he’d heard an unexplained drumming sound a few times during the last years, but naught would convince him the castle was haunted.
“Hmm. ‘Tis a pity. Ye need a wife.”
“I dinnae need to be doomed to fall in love in order to find a wife, Aunt Agatha.”
She cocked her head and studied him drily. “Do ye no’? Then mayhap ye are one of daftest of yer brothers. Now, let go of me so I can go find my seat.”
Since she was the one holding onto him, Alistair didn’t respond. Instead, he watched her hobble toward her customary chair as he thought on her words.
Did he have to be in love in order to find a wife? His brothers had all found happiness with their wives. He wanted to be happy, but more importantly, he wanted to be laird.
Didn’t he?
“What has ye frowning so fiercely, lad?”
Alistair started, surprised by how quietly his father had moved up beside him. Or mayhap he’d just been too distracted.
“Naught, Da.” He sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. “Just thinking about…things which must be done.”
Such as convincing Lara to marry him.
But his father clucked his tongue. “Och, lad, I thought ye were finally learning how to relax. Ye’ve been different these past few days.”
Ever since he’d made love to Lara. Nay, since she’d come to him in his solar and showed him how freeing it could be to give up control.
When he didn’t answer, his father shook his head. “I ken ye’re worried what’ll happen next year when yer brothers’ wives start popping out my grandbairns, aye?”
That hadn’t been what Alistair had been thinking about, but if that’s what Da wanted to discuss… “Aye?”
The laird clapped a hand on Alistair’s shoulder. “Being laird isnae all ‘tis talked up to be, lad. It’s hard work and exhausting sometimes. ‘Tis why I was happy to turn the responsibility over to ye.” He sighed. “But I shouldnae have.”
Alistair jerked under his father’s hand. “What?”
Did Da regret giving him the opportunity?
“I should’ve split the responsibility between yer brothers, Alistair.” Da shook his head wearily. “It shouldnae have fallen on yer shoulders exclusively. Finn is good with the trade agreements, but ye have enough to handle—”
“I’m delegating.” When his father swung a surprised glance his way, Alistair suddenly felt a little awkward. “ ’Twas recently pointed out to me that Kiergan could do with some more responsibility around here. He’ll be handling the clan’s correspondence for the foreseeable future.”
Da grunted in approval and patted Alistair’s shoulder. “Good lad. Good.” His gaze drifted toward the gathered family and clan members who were settling down in their usual seats to be served the evening meal. Moira and the other servants bustled between them. “Carrying that much on yer shoulders ‘tisnae wise,” he murmured. “A man needs the chance to find his own happiness, aye?”
Alistair followed his father’s gaze to where Moira was laughing at something Finn had just said. “Da,” he began hesitantly, not sure how to ask the question. “Have ye…found happiness?”
The laird sighed again, then tugged at his beard. “In a way, aye.”
“I ken yer marriage wasnae ideal—”
“ ’Twas made in hell, if that’s what ye’re being too polite to mention.” He shook his head again. “Calling Glynnis a harpy is rude to harpies, but she gave me yer sister, and I’ll be forever grateful for that.”
Grateful enough, he kept trying to marry the poor lass off to distant Henrys. But that’s not what he wanted to ask Da about. Aunt Agatha’s accusation was still on his mind.
“I ken ye were in love once, Da. But yer marriage to Glynnis…”
“Thinking about yer own future, eh?” The laird folded his arms across his chest. “Aye, I was in love once. Flora. A bonny MacVanish lass. Her father was against us marrying; he wanted to use her to make an alliance with a stronger clan. But Flora and I…” Behind his beard, his lips twitched sadly. “Ye cannae stand in the way of true love. If she hadnae died, I would’ve married her and lived a happy life.” He cut his eyes toward his son. “Of course, then ye and yer brothers wouldn’t be here.”
‘Twas common knowledge among the clan—and even farther afield—that when Laird Oliphant had lost his love, he’d consoled himself in the arms of more than a few wenches. Alistair and Kiergan had been born first, right here in the castle, and the other two sets of twins had followed.