find out, however, just why they had selected his study to haunt. Especially given that one of them was an ancestor. Of sorts.
Fulbert de Piaget smoothed his hand down over his tabard, then fluffed the lace ruff at his neck before he cleared his throat. “Now, you being me brother’s son—”
“Son?” Stephen interrupted.
“Very well, his son’s son’s son’s—” Fulbert frowned for a moment or two, then began to count on his fingers. “His son’s son’s son’s—” He glared at Stephen. “Suffice it to say, yer me nevvy a time or two removed. I am the second son of my father, as it happens, and yer uncle. And as such, I feel a certain sense of responsibility for yer happiness.”
Stephen blinked, then gaped.
Hugh McKinnon shot Ambrose MacLeod a knowing look, but said nothing. Stephen cleared his throat after a dodgy moment or two when he thought he might have to go look for a drink.
“I’m happy just as I am,” he protested.
“But unwed,” Laird MacLeod said pointedly. “We’re here to remedy that.”
“
I’m
here to remedy that,” Fulbert said pointedly.
The McKinnon snorted. “What do either of ye know about this family? If ye’ll remember,
I
was the one who arranged things the other two times.”
Stephen watched the discussion grow rather warm and realized at some point that he was either losing his mind or that blowto his nose delivered by Patrick MacLeod had knocked something loose inside his head because he was currently watching two ghosts of a rather earlier-than-modern vintage go at each other, and he found all he could do was sit there and gape at them.
“I say,” he protested at one point when swords were drawn.
He was ignored.
Apparently Fulbert and the McKinnon had known each other for quite some time. Their insults were as finely honed as their swords though thankfully just as unable to draw blood. Stephen watched them fight in his den, using furniture and tables to launch themselves off and duck behind, and was very thankful they were ghosts.
Until what Fulbert de Piaget said had sunk in.
“Marriage?” he said incredulously.
Fulbert and Hugh stopped long enough to look at him. Fulbert pursed his lips in disgust.
“Of course, marriage. Why else would we be here?”
“Why, indeed,” Stephen managed. He watched them turn back to their sport—and he used that term loosely—then realized the MacLeod wasn’t joining in the fray. He rose unsteadily and went to put his backside to the fire where he could speak to the clan’s chief privately. “Marriage?”
Ambrose MacLeod looked up at him from bright green eyes. “Well, aye, lad. It’s about time, don’t you think?”
Stephen didn’t want to think. He had been having subtle and not-so-subtle hints about his lack of wife and heirs tossed at him for ten years now.
And to be completely honest, he was getting tired of dating, tired of trying to please his enormously discriminating granny who was demanding not only a titled bride but one who came with the cold, hard stuff as well. He had actually spent the previous summer looking at his life and thinking that perhaps it wasn’t as satisfying as it should have been. It had occurred to him, much to his surprise, that he envied his younger brother his lovely wife and beautiful daughter.
And then he’d walked into Sedgwick Castle a pair of months earlier and laid his poor eyes on a woman who had, as they said across the Pond, knocked his socks off.
But he wasn’t going to admit who that had been, not if hislife depended on it. Because she was absolutely unsuitable. His grandmother would have had an attack. Even his father might have raised an eyebrow. He needed a girl with a title and money to match, not a mouthy, linen-wearing, feng-shui spouting, tofu-eating—
“She doesn’t eat tofu,” Ambrose said mildly. “Too processed.”
Stephen kept his mouth from falling open only because he had spent a lifetime being polite. “Whom are you talking about,
Fulbert de Piaget smoothed his hand down over his tabard, then fluffed the lace ruff at his neck before he cleared his throat. “Now, you being me brother’s son—”
“Son?” Stephen interrupted.
“Very well, his son’s son’s son’s—” Fulbert frowned for a moment or two, then began to count on his fingers. “His son’s son’s son’s—” He glared at Stephen. “Suffice it to say, yer me nevvy a time or two removed. I am the second son of my father, as it happens, and yer uncle. And as such, I feel a certain sense of responsibility for yer happiness.”
Stephen blinked, then gaped.
Hugh McKinnon shot Ambrose MacLeod a knowing look, but said nothing. Stephen cleared his throat after a dodgy moment or two when he thought he might have to go look for a drink.
“I’m happy just as I am,” he protested.
“But unwed,” Laird MacLeod said pointedly. “We’re here to remedy that.”
“
I’m
here to remedy that,” Fulbert said pointedly.
The McKinnon snorted. “What do either of ye know about this family? If ye’ll remember,
I
was the one who arranged things the other two times.”
Stephen watched the discussion grow rather warm and realized at some point that he was either losing his mind or that blowto his nose delivered by Patrick MacLeod had knocked something loose inside his head because he was currently watching two ghosts of a rather earlier-than-modern vintage go at each other, and he found all he could do was sit there and gape at them.
“I say,” he protested at one point when swords were drawn.
He was ignored.
Apparently Fulbert and the McKinnon had known each other for quite some time. Their insults were as finely honed as their swords though thankfully just as unable to draw blood. Stephen watched them fight in his den, using furniture and tables to launch themselves off and duck behind, and was very thankful they were ghosts.
Until what Fulbert de Piaget said had sunk in.
“Marriage?” he said incredulously.
Fulbert and Hugh stopped long enough to look at him. Fulbert pursed his lips in disgust.
“Of course, marriage. Why else would we be here?”
“Why, indeed,” Stephen managed. He watched them turn back to their sport—and he used that term loosely—then realized the MacLeod wasn’t joining in the fray. He rose unsteadily and went to put his backside to the fire where he could speak to the clan’s chief privately. “Marriage?”
Ambrose MacLeod looked up at him from bright green eyes. “Well, aye, lad. It’s about time, don’t you think?”
Stephen didn’t want to think. He had been having subtle and not-so-subtle hints about his lack of wife and heirs tossed at him for ten years now.
And to be completely honest, he was getting tired of dating, tired of trying to please his enormously discriminating granny who was demanding not only a titled bride but one who came with the cold, hard stuff as well. He had actually spent the previous summer looking at his life and thinking that perhaps it wasn’t as satisfying as it should have been. It had occurred to him, much to his surprise, that he envied his younger brother his lovely wife and beautiful daughter.
And then he’d walked into Sedgwick Castle a pair of months earlier and laid his poor eyes on a woman who had, as they said across the Pond, knocked his socks off.
But he wasn’t going to admit who that had been, not if hislife depended on it. Because she was absolutely unsuitable. His grandmother would have had an attack. Even his father might have raised an eyebrow. He needed a girl with a title and money to match, not a mouthy, linen-wearing, feng-shui spouting, tofu-eating—
“She doesn’t eat tofu,” Ambrose said mildly. “Too processed.”
Stephen kept his mouth from falling open only because he had spent a lifetime being polite. “Whom are you talking about,
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