Page 21 of Beware A Wallflower's Wrath
Robert was enjoying his brandy before the window. It had become a nightly ritual, sitting by the window, listening to the traffic and voices, daydreaming about a life with Annis and his two sons. A loud tattoo at the door made him frown. Who could possibly be at his door?
He slipped on his waistcoat and answered the knock. Before him stood Colin MacNaughton, dressed in a blue, red, and green tartan kilt, green waistcoat, and white linen shirt. He wore no cravat, exposing his muscular neck. A sporran was cinched around his waist, and the chain jingled as he pushed his way inside Robert’s room.
“Please, do come in,” he responded in an overly cordial tone. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“And I wasna expecting to ever see yer face in Glasgow again,” answered Colin. “But here we are.”
“Yes, here we are. May I offer ye a brandy?” Robert waved an arm toward the bottle near the window. He snorted when Colin made a face.
“Och, why would ye drink that when ye have fine Scottish whisky at yer disposal?” He looked around the room, then glared at Robert. “We’re going to The Pigeon for a wee swallow, you and I.”
“We are? I thank ye for the invitation but?—”
“It’s no’ an invitation.” The mountain walked to the door and opened it. “After ye, Lord Robert,” he said with a wave of his arm.
Apprehension skittered down Robert’s spine. Was he making sure Annis’s problem disappeared? Would he threaten Robert with physical harm? He smiled a little at that. Colin would be surprised if he wanted a fight. Outsized, absolutely. Outmaneuvered, never.
They walked along Trongate, then slipped down an alley and out onto another side street. The Scot didn’t try to make conversation, which was fine with Robert. Dusk was settling, and they passed a row of tenement buildings. On each side, pale yellow light tried to push through the paper or canvas covering the windows. Ropes were tied across the narrow walkway for drying laundry or passing buckets of supplies back and forth between apartments. Muffled voices, an occasional wail of an infant, or the bellow of an adult escaped the cracks of the dilapidated buildings.
This was the dark side of Glasgow, where the poor survived on next to nothing. He sidestepped a rat as they emerged onto the wet cobblestones of a main street, glistening under the weak light of the moon. The area bordered the less genteel side of town, as his London cronies might say. There were several shops, moneylender establishments, and public houses along this street. It wasn’t the most dangerous part of town, though any dark alley late at night, without a companion or proper protection, could be hazardous.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw a sign with a painting of a pigeon. So, Colin was taking him to a tavern. Robert finally spoke. “We’re out for a friendly drink, then? May I ask what type of establishment this is?”
“A place of conversation and camaraderie for merchants and tradesmen to discuss business—or escape a nagging wife.” Colin chuckled. “It boasts pretty barmaids and good food. Are ye hungry?”
A haze of peat smoke hung in the air, obscuring the heavy beams of the low ceiling. Robert breathed in the aromas of pipe tobacco and roasting meat. Now that they had left behind the odor of sewer, refuse, and crowded living conditions, Robert’s stomach rumbled as they entered the crowded business. The raucous crowd had just finished a song, tin mugs clanking and ale sloshing onto the planked floor as the fiddler took a bow.
“There he is.” Colin’s voice boomed over the other voices. He nodded toward a back table where Robert vaguely recognized the man holding up a bumper and waving them over. He was a tall man, with auburn hair, and—he saw as they neared—those same MacNaughton blue eyes.
“Lord Robert Harding, this is my cousin Lachlan MacNaughton.” Colin introduced them as he sat in a chair, watching the two men size one another up. The second man also wore the same plaid kilt with a blue waistcoat and linen shirt. But unlike his cousin, this Scot wore a cravat. “We heard ye’re sweet on Mrs. Douglas, so we thought to have a conversation.”
“Mrs. Douglas?” he sputtered, then caught the glint of amusement in Colin’s eyes. He’d play along. “She’s my second choice, to be truthful.”
“Och, the Sassenach thinks he’s clever,” said Lachlan. He tugged on the skirt of a barmaid, who turned around with a grin. The Scot made a circular motion between the three men, and she nodded. “I’m assuming ale is fine?”
Robert nodded, wondering how this evening would end.
Lachlan leaned forward. “We’ve spoken with Aileen. We ken what ye’re up to, making yerself helpful around the bookstore. Hoping to lure in my wife’s grandmother as an ally to win over Annis.” He sat back, crossing his arms. “Why should we let ye?”
“I beg your pardon? I don’t believe I require your permission.”
Colin grinned. “I canna imagine ye getting far without it.”
The shapely barmaid returned, setting down with bumpers of ale, bread, and slices of cold fowl. Lachlan pulled off a hunk of the crust, popped it in his mouth, and studied Robert. “We ken yer story of widowhood and long-lost loves. But how are we to be sure if ye’ll be staying this time?”
“You can’t. You’ll have to trust me.”
Colin snorted. “Aye, right. Trust the mon who broke her heart and left her with child.”
Robert winced. This would be an uphill battle. “Can either of you say you haven’t changed since you were young boys? We all grow, learn from our mistakes, and try to be better for them. That’s all I’m doing here.”
“Righting your wrongs?” Lachlan asked.
“In a sense.” Robert took a pull from his draught. “Look, I can’t take back the past and change what has passed between us. I only know that in the future I will treat her with the respect and tenderness she deserves.”
“And Fin?” asked Colin. “He’s like my son, and I willna have any harm come to him. Physical or otherwise.”
It rankled him how Colin considered Fin his son. My son, he wanted to shout. “I would treat him as my own,” he answered instead.
