“Och, there appears to be a bit of trouble out here,” Alistair said in a conversational tone, watching the room now. All he could see from that angle was part of the window and the end of his cot.
From inside the room came a muffled chuckle, which was quickly hushed.
“What kind of trouble?”
Alistair caught Rocque’s gaze and rolled his eyes. “We appear to be beset by either an inept housekeeper, or a roving band of wee lads with naught better to do than set up stupid traps.”
Footsteps. “What do ye mean?” came Kiergan’s innocent question, moments before Alistair saw his twin’s shadow through the opening.
Counting under his breath, Alistair knew he had to time this perfectly. At the moment he saw his brother’s kilt swing into view, Alistair gave a mighty shove to the oak door, then stepped backward.
As he’d planned, the bucket—St. Elzear hope ‘twas just water—came splashing down with the violent removal of its supporting door. Fortunately for Alistair, he was out of range of the splash. Unfortunately for his twin, Kiergan wasn’t.
As the door swung open, Alistair and Rocque got a good view of Kiergan jumping back from the liquid with a curse and their other three brothers chuckling at the sight. Duncan was seated in Alistair’s usual chair, Finn was lounging on the cot, and Malcolm stood with a flagon in his hands by the hearth.
Raking them all with a glare, Alistair stepped over the puddle, kicked the bucket toward his twin, then stomped into the room. “Was there a reason for this invasion, or did ye just call for the meeting to try to get my head wet?”
Kiergan was examining his boots, though unfortunately, it looked as if the man had managed to stay mostly dry. “Mayhap we thought ye needed a bath.”
“Oooh,” rumbled Rocque, peering at the bucket. “When ye said Moira’s housekeeping skills are flagging, ye meant the bucket.”
He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the smithy, was he?
Duncan rolled his eyes. “Aye, Rocque, she’d have to be seriously flagged to leave a bucket full of water atop a door.”
“I thought so,” Rocque said with a nod, then headed for his twin. “Did ye bring enough ale for everyone?”
Malcolm jerked his thumb toward the flagon on the mantel. “Nay, just ye.”
“Excellent. Dinnae think I missed the fact ye were all missing from this morning’s training.”
“I was with Fiona,” Finn offered as explanation. “She’s still puking her guts out each morning.”
“I was at the smithy,” Duncan said with an unapologetic shrug.
Malcolm looked abashed. “I just overslept, sorry. Wee Tomas is teething and had us up most of the night.”
“I thought they’d moved into the nursery?” Alistair asked, as he reached his desk and began rolling up parchments to store in the cubbyholes along the wall.
“Aye, they are. But when the laddie wants his mother, naught can be done except to let the poor thing sleep with us—or dinnae sleep with us, as was the case last night.”
Rocque took a draft of the ale and raised a brow at Kiergan. “What’s yer excuse for no’ joining us for sparring?”
Kiergan shrugged, grinning unabashedly. “I’m lazy as sin and had better things to do?”
“Is ‘better things’ a euphemism for fooking Minnie in the chapel again?” Malcolm asked.
“First of all, I have nae idea what you-feminism means.” Kiergan wiped his hands against his kilt and sauntered for the desk. “Second of all, now that Father Ambrose is settling in, he’s made the chapel his domain, and ‘tis nae longer a good place for assignations.”
“Because, as he claims,” interrupted Malcolm, crossing himself piously and raising his eyes to the Heavens as he lowered his voice in an impression of the unusual priest, “Doth the Holy Books no’ tell us ‘tis a sin to no’ be paying attention to my sermon and instead be thinking of fornication, I can tell all ye bastards are thinking it right now, dinnae pretend otherwise, now drag yer eyes away from her tits and listen to what I’m saying!”
Finn grinned. “I dinnae remember Father Stephen sharing such interesting Bible passages with us.”
“Aye,” his twin grunted. “Surely I’d remember if fornication was mentioned.”
Things were getting off topic.
“And third?” Alistair asked drily.
When his brothers looked at him, he stifled a sigh. “Kier had a first-of-all and a second-of-all for missing sparring this morning, so…?”
“So third,” Kiergan declared, swiping a scroll up and brandishing it triumphantly, “I was busy with this.”
“This?” Rocque repeated.
“Plans for Da’s birthday celebration.”
Well, that hadn’t been what Alistair had expected to hear. He propped one hip against the desk, folded his arms across his chest, and raised a brow at his twin. “What?”
“Da turns fifty in a sennight, aye? Well, this morning he and I sat down—with a few others—to decide how to celebrate.”
Growing up, Da had never been big on celebrating the anniversary of his—or anyone’s—birth. With six lads, all born so close together, ‘twas hard to celebrate many things. Finn and Duncan’s mother had married the smith in the village, so they had a second family with whom to celebrate. Rocque and Malcolm’s mother’s father had banished her to a distant croft when it became obvious she was pregnant, and when the twins finally made their way back to Oliphant Castle, they didn’t know their exact date of birth.
Alistair and Kiergan knew theirs, as they had been born right there in the castle to a kitchen maid who’d died giving them life. Moira had been the housekeeper even then, and she’d done her best to help Da raise them. Still, ‘twas impossible to deny the frustrations of caring for six lads all at once.
And, as Da was fond of saying, he wasnae even sure he’d found all of his bastards.
But, the man had been laird of this clan for almost thirty years, had made a hell-spawned marriage to a harpy in order to keep the clan safe, and had raised the seven of them—his bastards and his legitimate daughter, Nessa—mostly alone. So if he wanted a birthday celebration, he’d get one.
“So?” Duncan prompted. “What’s the plan?”
Kiergan slapped the scroll against his opposite palm. “Da wants the celebration to be in a fortnight. Music, dancing…the whole nine yards.”
Finn sat up. “The whole nine yards of what?”
Kiergan shrugged. “A kilt? I assumed that’s what he meant. I mean, what else uses nine yards of material?”
“No’ a fooking kilt, man.” Duncan shook his head.
“A fooking kilt?” Finn repeated. “Are there non-fooking kilts? Personally, ‘tis my Fiona’s favorite part of our unique dress.” He slid out a booted foot and cast an admiring glance at his own thighs. “Kilts are easy to flip up and foo—”
“I dinnae mean it like that!” Duncan scowled. “I just meant… Do ye even ken how long nine yards is? ‘Tis too long for a kilt.”
Rocque lifted his flagon. “Remember Auld Marvin? He was fat enough that it might’ve taken nine yards for his kilt.”