“Ye’re right,” she whispered.
“Well, of course we’re right,” snapped Agatha. “We’re aulder and wiser.”
Nessa cleared her throat. “I’m less than a year aulder.”
“But wiser?” her great-aunt pointed out.
“Och, mayhap no’. ‘Tisnae like I’m married to the man of my dreams yet.” When Lara met her friend’s eyes, Nessa was smiling softly. “Go to him, Lara. Tell Alistair ye love him. Tell him what ye’re feeling now, and what ye’ve always felt for him.”
“Do ye think ‘twill help?”
Her friend nodded. “Aye.”
“Aye,” snapped Agatha. “Now all of ye shut up so I can work on my finger sausages, would ye? Go away, Lara. Go to Alistair.”
So she did.
Chapter 9
Kiergan hadn’t been at the evening meal, and Alistair wondered where he’d been. It wasn’t exactly as though he’d gone looking for his twin, because his mind was so involved pondering his dilemma over Lara, but he wasn’t entirely surprised to find the door to the solar cracked open.
Sighing, Alistair tilted his head upward, expecting another balanced bucket or some kind of messy practical joke.
There was naught there.
Had he guessed incorrectly?
Nay, he’d left the door open when he’d gone down to the meal.
Funny. He still slept there and spent his time behind the desk…but in the last sennight, he’d spent more time out of the solar than usual. Thanks to Lara’s influence, he no longer thought of this space as solely his own.
And so, when he pushed the door open, he wasn’t entirely surprised to find his twin brother leaning against the desk, his arms folding in front of him, grinning.
If Kiergan’s blue gaze hadn’t darted sideways just briefly, Alistair might’ve gotten a face full of fur. But since it did, Alistair whirled around and darted forward, just in time to see Rocque lifting a goat over his head.
When he realized he’d been caught, the huge brother froze. In his hands, the goat bleated pitifully.
Cocking a brow, Alistair dragged his gaze upward. Rocque’s hands were placed under the animal’s neck and hind legs, and the mama goat—judging from the animal’s swollen udder—didn’t look thrilled to be there.
She bleated again.
“Rocque,” Alistair began slowly, “ye’re holding a goat over yer head.”
His brother blinked. “Aye?”
“Why are ye holding a goat over yer head?”
When Rocque glanced at the door, then at Alistair, it became clear. There hadn’t been a bucket balanced atop the door, but that hadn’t meant something hadn’t been planned to land on his head.
But his brother rallied, recovering well. With a grunt, he lowered the goat to around the level of his chin. Then, arm muscles straining, lifted the poor animal upward again. At the apex, the goat let out a pitiful, “Baaaaaaaah” and Rocque slowly lowered it.
Alistair folded his arms and watched his brother lift and lower the animal a few more times. At the top of each exercise, the goat bleated.
“Rocque?” he prompted.
“Aye?”
“The goat? An explanation?”
His brother offered a grin he probably thought was charming as he lifted the poor animal again. “Arm day?” he grunted.
Rolling his eyes, Alistair tried to hide his grin. “Ye were going to drop the damned thing on my head, were ye no’?”
Arms extended, the goat balanced over his head, Rocque froze. His eyes darted to Kiergan. “Was I?”
Kiergan shrugged innocently. “I dinnae ken how yer mind works, Rocque.”
“But ye said—”
Whatever Rocque had been about to confess, Kiergan ruined it by interrupting. “Do ye ken goats tend to piss when they’re afraid?”
Quick as lightening, Rocque dropped his arms, lowering the animal until its feet were on the ground. “What? I might’ve been pissed on?”
Kiergan clucked his tongue. “Someone was going to get a face full of goat piss, one way or the other.”
Glaring at this glib brother of theirs, Rocque shook a fist. “If I’d been pissed on, Kiergan, ye’d have been on triple guard duty for the next fortnight!”
Kiergan just smiled as he shrugged. “Then ‘tis glad I am she didnae piss on anyone.”
“Ye’re an arsehole.”
“Nay,” Kiergan corrected, “I’m a genius.”
Muttering something about goats and fools, Rocque stomped out of the room.
He’d left the goat, who had now wandered over to Alistair’s cot and began to snuffle around the coverlet, looking for something edible.
“Ye might be a genius,” Alistair said blandly, “if ye applied yer intellect to something more useful than practical jokes.”
His twin rubbed his chin. “Ye might say I’m udderly brilliant?”
With a groan, Alistair uncrossed his arms and scrubbed a hand over his face. “How long have ye been waiting to use that? Nay, dinnae answer,” he was quick to caution. “I dinnae care.” With a sigh, he lowered his hands to his hips. “How long are ye going to continue these ridiculous attempts to make me look the fool?”
Kiergan seemed genuinely surprised. “As long as it takes ye to laugh. I’m no’ trying to make ye look like a fool.”
“Good, because so far, ye have been the one to come out looking like a fool.”
“Then why have ye no’ laughed at me?” His twin shook his head. “I’m just waiting for ye to show some kind of humor, Alistair.”
Gaping, Alistair asked, “Why?”
His twin threw his hands in the air. “Because I miss my twin brother, damn ye! I miss the man ye used to be! Ye used to be able to laugh and take a joke and go for rides and talk about—about all sorts of shite! I thought ye were improving, but ye’ve been grumpy since I tried to drop those berry tarts on yer head and ye started asking about Lara’s virginity.”
The two of them stared at one another, Kiergan’s chest rising and falling heavily. Finally, Alistair blinked and looked away.
“I’ve been riding every day this week,” he offered, in an attempt to show he was still trying to relax.
“Ye have?”
“Aye. Lara talked me into sharing some responsibility with ye. Da approves, by the way. And with ye handling the correspondence…”
When he trailed off, Kiergan tentatively finished, “Ye have more time for yerself now?”
Alistair’s lips twitched. “Aye, a bit. And I still laugh, ye ken.” He’d laughed with Lara plenty of times this week. When he was with her, he just felt freer. “Just no’ at yer stupid tricks.”
His brother hummed. “So what yer saying is, I need to work on some better tricks?”
“Nay, what I’m saying is, ye should apply yer ‘genius’ and guile to the clan’s correspondence.”
Nodding, Kiergan turned to the desk and swept up a scroll. “ ’Tis why I’m here. I’ve negotiated the parameters of Nessa’s betrothal to Henry Campbell. The second one, I mean. Well”—he shrugged—“mayhap the fourth or twelfth Henry Campbell. I dinnae keep track of how often they reuse names.”