Page 97 of The Highlander's Irish Bride

“It’s Grant this time, Mr. Harrison,” he replied with an apologetic smile.

More than once since his arrival, someone had mistaken him for his twin. Hannah, Sabrina’s maid, had repeatedly done so, much to Graeme’s amusement. A few times, Graeme had even pretended to be Grant. Once Hannah had twigged to the deception, it had earned them both another scold. When Grant tried to defend himself, Hannah had replied that he was no better than hisnigmenogof a twin, and that it was a lucky thing Sir Graeme was the magistrate. Otherwise, she would have reported them to the law for their tomfoolery.

“Och, my pardon,” Harrison said. “But there’s not a farthin’ between ye. How milady tells ye apart is a wonder.”

“Easy. I’m the one with the brains.”

With a snort, the butcher waved him on.

Actually, Sabrina had always been able to tell the twins apart, even from a distance. Kathleen had the same knack for it, never once confusing him for his brother.

Grant found that ... interesting.

He trotted along the neatly maintained row of stone houses with their scrubbed stoops, flower-filled window boxes, and brightly painted doors in red or blue. Dunlaggan might be just a quaint wee spot of civilization in the midst of a craggy, rather inhospitable landscape, but it was a comfortable sort of place, nonetheless.

Not for him, though. Unlike his twin, Grant would probably go out of his mind with boredom.

There’s one thing here that wouldn’t bore you, though.

Firmly repressing any more thoughts of Kathleen, he reined in the gelding when he reached the pub.

As usual, the rustic bench out front was occupied. Graeme joked that the village elders took assigned shifts, since a worthy ancient invariably occupied the bench, observing whatever there was to observe. Today, it was Mr. Chattan, a canny fellow who served as unofficial mayor of Dunlaggan. He sat quietly, puffing out acrid plumes of smoke from a pipe that looked as old as he was.

Grant dismounted. “Good afternoon, Mr. Chattan. I hope the day finds you well.”

“Och, somethin’s always achin’ at my age, Mr. Grant,” he said with a dramatic sigh.

Grant knew that Chattan was in fact both spry and sharp as a tack. In many ways, the old boy reminded him of Angus.

“I am sorry to hear that,” he politely replied.

“The old bones are nae what they used to be, what with the rheumatics. Still, there’s nae use to complain, I suppose. All I ask for is a wee dram now and again, just to keep out the cold.”

“That’s easy enough to fix. I’ll have one sent out to you.”

“Och, yer a good man, just like yer twin. Ye’ll be wantin’ me to watch yer nag, I ken?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Nae trouble for ye, sir.”

With nary a hint of rheumatics, the old fellow stowed his pipe in a nearby flowerpot and bustled over to take charge of the bay.

“Much of a crowd this afternoon?” Grant asked.

“The usual lot. Yon parson is in there, along with that brother of his.”

Grant heard the note of derision. “Not too impressed with Captain Brown, are we?”

“Since the captain be mighty impressed with himself, he has nae need for my admiration. And Reverend Brown.” He shook his head. “He’s a wee bit starry-eyed when it comes to his big brother. A very trusting sort is our vicar.”

“That’s rather in the job description.” Grant studied the old man, curious. “And why shouldn’t Mr. Brown trust and admire his own brother?”

“We’ll see how far it gets him,” Chattan replied.

“And what do you think it will get him?”

“Trouble.” Chattan took the horse’s reins and disappeared around to the back of the building.

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