Page 23 of The Lyon and the Unicorn
“Says the man who ate twelve rashers on Christmas morning,” Aunt Fiona said. “It’s true,” she added, giving Murdo a wink. “I counted every one.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t have anything better to do, my dear,” Murdo’s uncle said.
“Better?” she replied. “I find yer little habits very entertaining. And don’t deny it. I saw ye pick up that bacon with your fingers—in front of our nephew.”
“Murdo doesn’t mind that,” Simon said. “You should have seen him last night—he ate a chicken thigh like a savage, tearing at it with his teeth before tossing the bone to the floor.”
Murdo’s aunt peered at him over her glasses. “I hope Simon’s jesting. We wouldn’t want those Sassenachs thinking we’resavages.”
“Oh,Sassenachs, are we?” Murdo’s uncle laughed. “You do realize, Fiona my dear, that by virtue of your marriage to me, you’re considered as English as the king.”
She let out a snort. “So, not English at all, then, Adam?”
He rolled his eyes. “If I’m to be plagued all morning, I shall retire to the library to read my paper in peace before I go into town.”
“Do, if it means ye’re not getting under my feet.”
Murdo’s uncle folded his paper and tucked it under his arm. He placed a swift kiss on his wife’s lips, then rose, plate in hand, and helped himself to more bacon. “Coming, son?”
Simon stood, scraping his chair back. “I don’t see why I must work while Murdo’s visiting.”
“Because it’s how we earn a living,” his father said. “A business doesn’t run itself, and the mark of a man is that he works, even if he doesn’tfeellike working. If you want that Goldenchild lass to take a fancy to you, you’ll have to show that you can support her.”
“Goodchild,” Simon said. “Her name’s Goodchild. And I’m not courting her.”
“Then you’d best start, before some other fellow does. It’s how I won your mother—and what a prize I gained.”
“Be off, ye fool!” Aunt Fiona cried.
He blew her a kiss, then exited the breakfast room, followed by Simon.
Aunt Fiona let out a sigh. “I trust ye’ll not give yer wife as much trouble as yer uncle’s given me, Murdo, lad.”
“I’m sure ye give as good as ye get, Aunt.”
She grinned. “Aye. We Scots are made of stern stuff. Yer uncle may be the man, but…”
“But he knows who the real head of the family is?” Murdo chuckled.
“Aye, that he does. Are ye courting yet, nephew?”
“Perhaps.”
“Ah,” she said. “When my favorite nephew says ‘perhaps,’ that means ‘very much so.’ Is it that lass from the neighboring estate to Strathburn? The McCallum lass—what’s her name, Shona?”
Murdo shook his head. “Da wants her to marry my brother.”
“He’d have more success nailing soup to the wall. James isn’t the marrying kind.”
“We must both marry if the clan’s to survive,” Murdo said. “Da’s made it clear that he wants James to marry a Scotswoman of good breeding, to furnish the estate with heirs. It’s his duty.”
“It’ll be his misery,” she said. “I supposeyerduty is to find a rich wife to furnish the estate with cash. The McCallums are hardly wealthy. Old Hamish McCallum drinks too much, though not as much as yer da.”
The door opened and a footman entered, carrying a letter on a salver.
Aunt Fiona took the note and tore it open. Her eyes widened as she read it, then she lowered her hand and stared at Murdo.
He glanced at the note and spotted a crest at the top.
