When he turned around, the dog had his front paws up on the bed and looked like he meant to jump onto the soft mass of pillows and blankets. “Nae!” he bellowed.
With a yelp the black mutt ducked beneath the bed and disappeared. Aden frowned. If he’d had a previous master, the man hadn’t been kind. But for the moment the dog could stay where he was. His own generally restless sleep wouldn’t benefit from a battalion of fleas added into the bedsheets.
Pulling off his proper Sassenach coat and waistcoat and yanking his fine, soft shirt over his head, he dumped the clothes over the dressing table’s chair. His kilt followed, while he tossed his road-scuffed boots over by the door. Then he dressed again, immediately more comfortable in his old work clothes and heavy work boots and a simple white shirt that had seen better days.
“Come along, lad,” he said, crouching by the door. “Brògan.”
Toenails tapped beneath the bed, but the beastie didn’t reappear.
“Brògan. Come on, lad. I’ll nae have ye in here flinging fleas onto my things. If ye mean to stay, ye need a bath.”
Whether it was his words or the tone of his voice, Brògan seemed reassured enough to stick his nose from beneath the coverlet, then crawl into the open. Tail tucked and wagging slowly, he crept forward until he could stuff his nose into the palm of Aden’s hand.
“I dunnae ken who ye were, lad,” Aden murmured, “but ye’ve annoyed the butler. That’s good enough for me. Let’s see what kind of companion a Sassenach stray can make for a Highlander who’d rather be back in Scotland.”
Straightening, careful to keep his motions slow and unthreatening, he opened the door and walked down the hallway. A moment later the dog followed, leaving more smudges along the bottom two feet of wallpaper as he sniffed from one side of the hallway to the other. At the top of the main staircase Aden paused, eyeing the very clear set of paw prints trailing up the steps and the two maids with buckets and brushes already attacking the bottommost stairs. Cursing under his breath, he squatted down to put one arm under the dog’s neck and the other beneath his hindquarters. Annoying Smythe was one thing; making more work for the lads and lasses of the house was quite another.
The fellow weighed forty pounds or so, light enough for a man accustomed to hauling about sheep for shearing. Up this close the beastie’s scent nearly made him gag, but he locked his jaw shut and descended the stairs. Continuing on through the rear of the house, he juggled the dog so he could open the back door and then went outside.
As usual Smythe had exceeded his orders, providing both a bucket and a tin trough that must have come from the stable. Both already contained water, and a generous pile of rags sat a few feet away. For a broomstick-up-his-arse Sassenach, Smythe wasn’t so bad, Aden supposed.
With a glance to see that the garden gate was closed in case the beastie decided to make a run for it, and not bothering to question why he’d decided Brògan would be staying on at Oswell House, he set the dog down in the half-filled trough. “Let’s see what we can make of ye, lad,” Aden grunted, and went to work with the bucket and the rags.
Five more buckets of water, some scissors, cursing, splashing, and a good brushing later he had what looked to be a black English springer spaniel and another curious development. “Lad, I’m sorry to be the one to tell ye, but ye’re a lass,” he commented.
Brògan wumphed and buried her face in the rag he’d been using to dry her.
“Och, ye knew that already. Ye’ve been using yer feminine wiles on me all along, havenae?” He looked at the dirty, furry carnage they’d left on the garden steps and at the same stuff caking the front of his shirt and his kilt. “I’d be more swayed if ye hadnae left half of London on my front.”
A male throat cleared from the direction of the top of the steps behind him. “Master Aden,” Smythe intoned, “I’m to remind you that you gave your word to Lady Eloise that you would attend her luncheon.”
Aden turned his head to eye the stone-faced butler. “Aye, I said I would, and so I will. What’s got her bonnet full of bees?”
“The luncheon began twenty minutes ago, sir. Your brother Lord Glendarril is in attendance, as are Master Niall and Mrs. MacTaggert.”
“Niall got himself vertical, did he?” Aden intoned, straightening. “Tell Lady Eloise I’ll be down in ten minutes. Come on, Brògan.”
“Did I hear you referring to that … Brògan as a female?” Smythe queried, his expression unchanged.
“Nae, ye didnae. I’ll be needing a bowl of scraps for the lad; he’s had a long journey.”
The butler craned his neck sideways, clearly trying to see Brògan’s undercarriage. “I’ll see to it, sir. Lady Eloise did stress that you were already late, however, and that she would not be pleased if you broke your word.”
She wouldn’t, would she? Well, when a Highlander gave his word, he kept it. “I’ll still need the scraps,” he said, patting his damp thigh as he headed up the shallow steps back into the house.
Luckily the dog kept right on his heels; no doubt she’d sensed that he remained her best chance for a meal and a safe place to sleep. They’d somewhat reversed roles now, since she was damp but clean, and he was slathered with mud. But Eloise seemed to doubt that he meant to make an appearance, and that he meant to keep his word. And buried beneath that, the idea of walking into the small dining room looking as he did, especially when by now most every female of his sister’s acquaintance knew he needed to find a wife, appealed to him more than a little.
“Behave,” he muttered over his shoulder, half to Brògan and half to himself, and he pushed open the double doors of the small dining room.
A wall of high-pitched chatter hit him like a smack to the face—and then all at once dropped into silence.
“Ladies,” he drawled, sketching a loose bow. “I’ve nae had a—”
“Is that Brògan?” Eloise interrupted, leaving the table and hurrying past Aden to crouch in front of the damp dog. “Oh, he’s darling! Why didn’t you ever say you’d left him behind in the Highlands?”
Immediately a herd of females shoved past him to form a circle around Brògan, all the cooing and baby talk nauseating. At the same time, it fascinated him, like watching a worm eat its way through an apple. When a hand patted him on the shoulder, he jumped.
“What do ye expect?” Niall muttered, clearly amused. “The beast’s clean. Ye look like a pigsty.”
Aden half turned to view his younger brother. “Ye look a bit disheveled yerself, bràthair. Almost as if ye havenae worn clothes in nearly a week.”
“Shut yer gobber, Aden,” the newlywed returned, his expression darkening. “I’ll nae have ye embarrassing Amy.”
That made sense. Niall wasn’t just Niall any longer. He was Niall and Amelia-Rose—Amy, for short. At the moment the young lady with the golden hair and forthright manner was ruffling Brògan’s ears, but Aden nodded anyway. “Aye. She has enough of a burden, being married to ye.”
“That’s more like it,” his brother commented, grinning again. “So is that the dog Coll said tried to steal yer boot?”