Of course Coll would have told their youngest brother the actual story—or part of it, anyway. “Aye. Did he also mention he lost forty pounds to me because he throws with all the finesse of a bull?”
Niall glanced over to the table where Coll still sat, devouring half a baked chicken and helping himself to a good portion of the hot rolls. “He must’ve forgotten that bit. Is that why ye were throwing boots about?”
“Aye. He questioned my word about Oscar.”
“Aden,” Eloise said, prancing up hand in hand with a lass in a yellow-and-green gown, “Brògan is not a male dog.”
Aden sent a glance at the pair of pretty brown eyes and an upcurved mouth standing beside his sister. If this was the lass Eloise had selected for him today, his sister at least knew how to find a bonny one. With a few exceptions most of her friends were bonny, though. It was the tittering, the unwavering commentary on the weather, the sighs and giggles that made him shiver. And almost without exception every one of Eloise’s friends he’d met so far suffered from that disorder.
Stepping between his sister and her bonny friend, he lowered his head. “I gave Brògan a biscuit in exchange for my boot, and she followed me into the house,” he murmured. “Smythe wanted to toss her out, but I dunnae hold with turning away guests. So I told a wee white lie about Brògan being my dog from Scotland. A boy dog. As far as Smythe knows, that’s what she is. Ye ken?”
“Aye,” Eloise answered. “And you ken that I’m trying to help you find a wife, and that making an appearance at my luncheon looking like the inside of a chimney isn’t at all helpful, aye?”
“Aye,” he returned, hiding his scowl. Eloise, sister or not, was English-raised, and a bit of mud and fur was no doubt enough to overset the stoutest Sassenach.
“Good.” She lifted on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ve always wanted a dog. But Smythe will figure out eventually that you’ve bamboozled him, you know.”
“I’m not so certain of that, Eloise,” her friend put in. “People see what they want to see, and that is generally what’s most convenient for them.”
Aden straightened. Insightful, and not a thing about the weather at all. That had only been one sentence, though. How would she fare with two, this lass with the dark eyes and dusky-brown hair? “And who might ye be, lass?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Eloise exclaimed, squeezing her friend’s hand. “Aden, this is Matthew’s sister, Miranda Harris. Miranda, my middle brother, Aden MacTaggert.”
Now that he knew the lady was related to Eloise’s fiancé, he could see the similarities. The dark-brown hair with its hints of sunset gold, the eyes dark as liquid chocolate. Miranda’s face was narrower than her brother’s, her features more delicate, and while she didn’t have Matthew’s height, the top of her head did come to just above Aden’s shoulder. She was a tall lass, since he stood an inch above six feet himself. And he was the short brother.
“Miss Harris,” he said, remembering enough of his manners to incline his head. It wasn’t that he was struck by her. It was just that she’d surprised him a little. He’d still be willing to wager that weather would enter the conversation within the next two minutes, though. Aye, Brògan was the most promising lass in London so far. All she wanted was food and a blanket, and she didn’t pretend to be after anything but that.
The lass—not the dog—curtsied smoothly. “I’m so pleased you and your brothers are here,” she said, her accent very cultured and very English. “Eloise has been telling stories about you for ages.”
Since the stories had apparently come to Eloise via their father, Angus, Aden had to doubt their authenticity. Lord Aldriss did like a good tale. He should have come down to London with them and seen his daughter for the first time in seventeen years, but Angus had decided he was about to perish from the shock of learning of his wee bairn’s engagement. Or more likely, he was too scared of Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert to leave the safety of the Highlands. “I reckon she told ye tales about Coll mostly, a handful about Niall, and nae a one about me.”
Miranda Harris tilted her head. “Only if the story about you starting with a shilling, going wagering, and ending up with a horse a day later is false.”
He grinned. She hadn’t fainted or blushed, or mentioned the chill in the air. Yet. “I’ll give ye that one, then.”
Eloise released her friend. “I’ll be right back,” she said, sending Aden a swift wink that clearly said she thought she’d found him his future wife. With that she dove back into the dog-petting circle.
“If ye kept straight which tale was about which brother,” Aden commented, “I have to give ye credit for paying attention. Here in London I’m at best ‘a MacTaggert brother,’ and at worst I’m ‘one of those Highlanders.’”
She folded her hands primly in front of her. Miranda Harris had long fingers, he noticed. Gambler’s hands, some called them. And those dark-brown eyes, her lips slightly pursed now in either a stifled grin or an escaping grimace, he could tolerate. More than tolerate, as long as her next sentence wasn’t about the damned weather—as if a soft Sassenach even knew what weather was.
“I did pay attention,” she said in her proper tones, “especially because of the wagering. I detest gambling. And gamblers.”
That straightened him up a little. Nothing much caught him flat-footed these days. Miss Miranda Harris had just accomplished that feat. “That was admirably direct,” he drawled. “Well done, lass.”
Her grimace deepened. “I was not offering you a compli—”
“I know ye didnae intend to say anything I’d admire,” he cut in, taking half a step closer and setting aside the inner question of why he was bothering to verbally fence with a woman who’d apparently set herself against liking him before they ever met. Perhaps it was because he generally made a point of being fairly likeable. And because even if he didn’t like the words, she’d bothered to speak her mind—when most of the Sassenach in London wouldn’t dare spit out a direct insult to save their own lives. He’d seen fewer twists in a snake. “Ye need to keep in mind that I’m nae some wilting English dandy. In the Highlands we like to disagree with our fists. What ye said almost sounded like flirting to me, Miss Harris.”
For a second she looked like she wanted to give the fisticuffs a go. “You don’t seem to be obtuse,” she returned, her voice clipped, “so I will assume you are deliberately misreading my statement. I shall be more clear, then. I know what Eloise was about, and I have no interest in a match with a gambler, a wagerer, someone who views the inferior skills of others as an invitation to rob them.”
Aden kept the loose grin on his face—mainly because it seemed to annoy her, but also because he’d never expected to cross paths with such a sharp-tongued lass in this soft country. A bit of fire. “That’s a shame, lass, because wagering is about patience and finesse, about intimacy, and about having hands that know how to do more than shuffle cards.”
The fine color of her cheeks darkened just a shade. “I could say the same about being a rat catcher. And he doesn’t trick people into poverty.”