Twenty-seven

O liver stood just inside the door of the salon and had never been more grateful for the presence of a sturdy indoor potted plant than he was at the moment. The tree wasn't as tall as he was, unfortunately, but it did provide at least a bit of substance to hide behind.

He peered over the top of it and scanned the scene in front of him for more possible danger.

There were the owners and workers of the establishment there, of course, with their sharp tools and vats of hot wax. They were attending to several people who were important to him, though, so he assessed them brutally for their potential to execute anything but a good manicure—which they'd already perpetrated on his own poor self—and pedicure—which they'd also already inflicted on him. He would freely admit they were masters at their craft and he was half tempted to book another appointment before he went back to London, but he exercised his hard-won self-control and forbore. There were people still enjoying their spa day and he needed to keep an eye on them.

Mairead was head of the class there, obviously, dressed in her favorite black cargo trousers and polo neck jumper. He knew she mourned the loss of her hair, but he had to admit her chic little chin-length bob was absolutely the most adorable thing he'd ever clapped eyes on. Just looking at her left him simultaneously smiling at the fact that she'd been willing to give him a second look and determinedly looking for a way to have her all to himself so he could show her yet again how thrilled he was she'd given him that second look.

The women joining her there—Elizabeth, Madelyn, Sunshine, Samantha, and Emily—were also lovely and gracious and had been so kind and welcoming to her that Oliver had already started another list in the back of his book entitled Very Expensive Christmas Gifts for Women Who Deserve Far Better .

Ewan was in the middle of them, of course, but he'd been the one to see the morning proceeded perfectly for all involved. Oliver supposed the only lass in danger of Ewan's charms was Emily, but she'd grown up with him and was very probably immune. He exchanged a brief look with his partner, then escaped out the front door whilst that door was unlocked.

He wasn't surprised to find Cameron right there just outside the door, leaning against a section of brick wall. He had been, after all, one of the drivers in their happy little convoy south.

"Finished with your pampering?" Cameron asked politely.

Oliver shuddered. "I want to say it was awful, but I'm horrified to find it wasn't." He paused. "You should try it."

"When hell freezes over," Cameron muttered, then he shot Oliver a look. "Who do you think put it in your book?"

"Ewan?"

Cameron laughed. "Well, that might be true, but I have subjected myself to the torture at least once to humor my lady. What's on your schedule for the rest of the morning?"

Oliver took a deep breath. "Jeweler's, then a florist."

"She deserves all of it," Cameron said with a faint smile. "I'll keep an eye on things here if you want to make a run for it. Derrick and Peter are roaming the streets keeping watch, though, so don't start weeping into your blossoms."

Oliver attempted a cool look, but he wasn't sure Cameron didn't have a point there. He made his laird a bow, then looked at Ewan who strode out of the salon like a conquering hero.

"Let's go," he said briskly. "I'll help you keep from faltering at this critical juncture."

Cameron snorted. "They're handfasted, lad. I think he's safe."

"So says the man who continues to woo his lady every day," Ewan said, nodding knowingly. "Study him, Ollie my lad, and see how it's perfectly done."

"Nay, you can't have the title," Cameron said with a snort, "but you're also not wrong. Go to, Oliver, and make me proud."

Oliver nodded, then walked away with Ewan who he assumed knew where they were going. Ewan patted him on the shoulder.

"Trust me."

Oliver was thoroughly unnerved to find that he did, but it had been that sort of holiday so far. He put his shoulders back, took a deep breath of suitably manly proportions, and marched on into the fray.

He emerged from battle an hour later with a ring in his pocket, a shopping bag containing clothing and topped with chocolate in one hand, and flowers in the other. If that didn't win him the day, he supposed there was always the fallback plan of taking his love to the local chippy, but he was hoping for better things. He spotted their crew up the street and blew out his breath in preparation for things to come.

"Steady," Ewan murmured.

Oliver shot him a glare on principle alone. "I've got this."

"And the proposal?"

"Still working out the details of that," Oliver admitted. "Nice restaurant? Romantic walk at sunset on the beach? Drop to my knees right here on the pavement?"

"Those aren't terrible choices," Ewan conceded. "I'll help you think of something better, but whatever you do, don't just blurt out the question the moment you're within whimpering distance."

Oliver would have delivered the elbow Ewan deserved, but he was holding treasures for his beloved. There were just some things a man had to prioritize when his world had been completely rocked by a Renaissance—

"Oh, I say," a voice said sharply, "do look where you're going, what?"

Oliver felt as though he'd just fallen into a terribly proper BBC production of some high-brow Victorian house party—and he was halfway to saying as much when he looked at the couple who had emerged from the shop to his left and recognized them.

He supposed he would be thanking Ewan later for removing his burdens from his hands before he dropped everything. Further thanks would likely be necessarily tendered first to Cameron who simply stepped in front of him and then to none other than Mairead MacLeod who had smoothly stepped in front of Cameron and moved to his left, effectively blocking Oliver behind them both. He wasn't quite sure how they managed it, but he soon found himself surrounded by the family he'd acquired as an adult.

Handy, that, given that on the opposing side of some imaginary line was standing in a little cluster his family of birth.

He felt a hand resting lightly on his back. He looked to his right to find Sunshine standing there, watching him with worry plain in her eyes. Madelyn was standing on his left, also with her hand on his back. He managed some species of smile for them both, had reassuring smiles in return, then turned his attention back to the unexpected encounter unfolding in front of him.

It wasn't that he hadn't kept up with the doings of Aldous Phillips, the Viscount Felkirk. His father craved a discreet amount of the spotlight, mostly as he was seen either entering or exiting his club in London. Oliver also recognized his mother who did just the right amount of charity work to maintain the same aura of genteel compassion. His brothers were no doubt either off at Uni or doing whatever it was they did to remain in their father's good graces and within reach of his chequebook.

His youngest sister, however, was standing behind his mother, looking at him as if she'd seen a ghost.

He understood that, actually, and didn't envy her for it.

His father made very posh noises of disbelief and delight whilst his mother looked at him as if she expected him to blurt out terrible family secrets right there on the bloody pavement.

"Lord Robert of Assynt," his father said breathlessly. "How fortunate to meet you here in the middle of nowhere!"

Oliver had to concede that tact was not his father's strong suit. He only knew that from second-hand reports, but it was something to see it for himself.

"I'm sorry," Cameron said coolly, "I don't think we've been properly introduced."

Oliver would have smiled if he'd had it in him. Cameron's tone was so chilly it made him shiver. His father might have been a git of the first water, but he was no fool. Either that or he had a great deal of experience in being cut in public by those with much loftier titles than his own.

"My most abject apologies, of course," the good viscount said. "Aldous Phillips, Viscount Felkirk, at your service. My wife, Ondine."

Oliver was slightly surprised to find his sister hadn't been introduced, but then again, he likely shouldn't have expected anything else. He glanced at her to find she was looking at him less in horror than desperation. He understood that, but there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it at the moment. He could, however, get on with the speech he'd been rehearsing silently for two decades, the one where he would tell his parents exactly what he thought of them. He put his hands on Mairead's shoulders, gently set her aside, then stepped up to stand next to Cameron so he might do just that.

He looked at his über-boss briefly and found only acceptance in Cameron's expression, then a quick lifting of one eyebrow that generally augured verbal fireworks to come. Oliver had seen that look turned on annoying nobility more than once and been quite happy not to be in the man's sights.

But this was his family and he'd waited a very long time to exact at least some sort of revenge. He shot Cameron a look that he hoped said very clearly that he had dibs on taking his father down a peg, but Cameron only smiled.

"I'll draw first blood," he said in Gaelic.

Well, there was that, at least. He didn't protest when he found Cameron's arm placed around his shoulders. He imagined his father was very fortunate Cameron had left his sword at home.

"You might recognize this man," Cameron said, with a crispness to his consonants that would have put any BBC Four presenter to shame. "A member of my family and an irreplaceable part of my company's exclusive inner circle. I would find it... unfortunate if he were to be made unhappy by a chance encounter on the street."

And with that, Cameron looked at him and inclined his head slightly, the invitation unmistakable.

Oliver looked at his parents, his mother very pale and his father patting himself, no doubt for his smelling salts.

"Well, of course," Felkirk said faintly. "It's been a bit, hasn't it, son?"

Oliver started to speak, then found that, as usual, silence was a better option for him. And as he stood there, he felt a little as if his life were flashing before his eyes.

A month ago, he probably would have punched his father full in the face and sworn at his mother. Hell, two minutes ago he was fully prepared to do the same. He wasn't proud of that, but he had to be honest with himself.

But somehow when it came right down to it, things had changed.

He looked next to him and found Mairead there, watching him with nothing but love and acceptance in her eyes. She felt for his hand and he surrendered it to her just as readily as he had his heart. And when he touched her, he found himself with that same gentle sweetness washing over him that he realized had been her influence over the whole of his life, beyond any reason and surely beyond anything he'd deserved. It almost took his breath away.

It occurred to him at that moment that perhaps it wasn't so much a matter of absolving his parents from their part in the misery of his young life as it was letting go of his own bitterness over the same.

He looked at the people he loved, his family that he'd been loved into, then at the family that had at least brought him into the world but never loved him. And the bridge between the two was the woman standing next to him who still thought she had no beauty, a woman with which he would start his own loving family, a woman who had given him a gift he had finally just understood.

Perhaps he had been the means of rescuing her but she had, in turn, shown him how much better his life could be to let go of the past and move on.

He squeezed her hand, then turned back to his father and gave him his most polite client smile.

"My lord," he said, inclining his head. He looked at his mother. "My lady."

His father gestured inelegantly at Mairead. "Is that your girlfriend?"

Oliver stared at his parents for a moment or two in silence, then glanced at Cameron. "We should be on our way, my lord."

"As you will, Oliver," Cameron said with a nod. "Let's gather up our ladies and see what delights Inverness has to offer. Such a fantastic city we have here, wouldn't you agree?"

Oliver glanced at Mairead, had the briefest of smiles from her, then turned and walked away with her at his side.

"Brutal," Ewan said, taking a place on his right. "And so well deserved."

Oliver nodded, though he didn't imagine he would manage to say anything for a few minutes.

"Was that your sister?" Mairead asked quietly.

Oliver could only nod. He could feel his lady looking at him, but the last thing he wanted to do—for a change—was look at her because he knew exactly what she was thinking. He finally stopped, then looked at her reluctantly. She only leaned up and kissed him on the cheek.

"You're a good man."

"I'm not going back now," he muttered. He glanced at her. "I'll find her mobile number and text her later."

"My hero," Mairead said, putting her hand over her heart and sighing rapturously.

He smiled in spite of himself. "You, my love, have been watching far too much telly."

"They had a programme on in the salon," she said, her eyes bright. "The lad was very gallant, but not nearly as perfect as you are."

He could only imagine. He shook his head, smiled in spite of himself, and found himself surrounded by people who he was very fond of and who were apparently rather fond of him. And as he continued on down the high street, he realized that somehow, at some point where he likely hadn't been paying attention, things had changed for him. The thorn he realized he'd been carrying in his heart for all those years was gone.

He would have blamed that on his holiday, but thinking on that led him to thinking on where that holiday had led, which pointed directly at the woman who had made all the difference for him.

He smiled and squeezed her hand. "Let's go find somewhere romantic to walk for a moment or two."

"Why?"

"You'll see."

Three days later, he stood in the modern incarnation of the MacLeod keep with a ring on his finger and his formally wedded bride next to him and decided that life could simply not improve.

He'd re-termed his eejit manual to something more permanent and taken to heart Derrick's advice about making lists for his wife. They'd done a lovely bit of nesting at Moraig's, deciding to put off a return to daily life for another few days at least, and he found himself quite happily wed again to the woman who left him smiling every time he looked at her.

Their formal ceremony in Jamie's hall earlier that morning had been as lovely as he'd been able to make it, which was to say that he'd turned everything over to members of his family with far better taste than his own. He'd trusted Emily to find him an appropriate suit as well and dress the rest of the lads in something that had turned out to be an impressive array of kilts in the appropriate patterns.

Mairead had been nothing sort of gorgeous in a sleek 1950s style gown with her hair tucked behind her ears and diamonds around her neck that he would have bet several quid had been unearthed from some vintage hoard.

The subsequent toasting had been lengthy and very generous and loving toward Mairead and much stingier and more ribald when directed toward him. He had, however, finally been claimed by Patrick MacLeod as a younger brother, so there was that.

He pulled himself back to the present moment to find himself with his wife in front of the fireplace and three grinning fools standing in a cluster in front of him. Derrick was carrying a manila envelope, which Oliver suspected meant trouble.

"I'm married," he warned, "and my wife is fierce."

Mairead nodded, fiercely, then she smiled at the lads. Oliver imagined he would at some point need to suggest that she be a bit sterner with them, but the present moment was perhaps not the proper one for that sort of conversation.

"We have a prezzie for you," Ewan said, grinning madly.

Derrick rolled his eyes and Peter shoved his hands into his pockets only to realize he was in a kilt. He looked at Oliver and shrugged.

Oliver considered, then took what he wasn't entirely certain wouldn't slay him if he opened it, then set himself to the task with courage and resolve. He pulled out a certificate, read it, then looked at his mates.

"You bought me a title?"

"All hail Lord Oliver!" Ewan bellowed, then he looked at Oliver. "Like it?"

"I'm overwhelmed," Oliver said, shooting him a look of promise. He looked at the whole nasty collection of ruddy bastards. "Where, if I might ask, is my massive estate?"

"Down south by Edinburgh," Peter said, looking particularly pleased with himself. "A single but mighty square meter of the finest property we could find."

Ewan nodded knowingly. "Best go have a look right quick and make sure the peasants aren't revolting."

Derrick clapped a hand on his shoulder. "At least you can call yourself a proper lord now, eh? We thought it was the least we could do in the circs."

"Generous," Oliver managed, vowing to kill them all. He realized he'd lost the thread of that plot at some point over the past fortnight, but he was nothing if not tenacious and he was happy to be back on track.

"It cost us a bleeding ￡38, lad," Derrick pointed out. "Split three ways, true, but still, you'd best be taking it seriously."

Oliver sighed, but he couldn't help but feel slightly chuffed. At least if he saw his father at some gathering in London, he would have his own title to pull out and display.

"That's not all," Derrick said, nodding toward the front door. "Let's go."

Oliver laced his fingers with Mairead's. "I'm bringing my wife for protection."

Derrick rolled his eyes and walked away. Oliver looked at his bride to see what thoughts she might be having on the madness at hand, but she only smiled.

"They love you."

He shuddered, had a laugh for his trouble, then walked with her over to the door. They were invited out onto the front stoop beyond which sat two cars. One was shrouded in black silk. Oliver would have only been surprised to find that what it wasn't covering up was a very dinged-up Ford with mismatched hubcaps.

But the other …

Derrick gestured expansively toward the modest little Fiat on the left. It was a pretty powder blue color, not quite the color of his eyes, and there was a Ferrari medallion glued to the front of it. He suspected there was a second one glued to the arse-end of it. He looked at his bride.

"I expected this."

"The car is new," Derrick said huffily. "And those medallions are damned pricey."

Oliver held out his hand for the keys. Derrick looked at him, snorted, then reached around him and held them out to Mairead.

"Your conveyance, my lady," he said, with a small bow. "I'm sure your husband will splash out for something a bit larger later, but this is a good start."

Oliver frowned. "Well—"

Derrick pulled a different set of keys from his pocket and tossed them at him. Oliver caught them out of habit, then watched as Peter pulled that silken sheet off the other car parked there.

He almost swooned.

Mairead squeezed his hand. "Does it go fast?"

"Extremely," he wheezed.

His wife abandoned him immediately to go run her hands over and peer into the headlamps of what Oliver could scarce bring himself to name, though he could spell the brand well enough and it began with a B and ended with an I.

He considered the beauty before him—and not just his wife—for quite some time before he trusted himself to speak. He cleared his throat roughly.

"Thank you."

"It's just a car, lad," Derrick said lightly. "No need to weep over it."

Oliver glared at him and had a brief smile as his reward.

"Anything for a brother," Derrick said simply. "And that's not about the car."

Oliver was half-tempted to turn and throw his arms around his best mate, the lad who had been there during that first interview with Cameron and listened to all of Oliver's secrets, never mind a few follow-ups after a night at the pub, and had never once offered him anything but acceptance and the hand of friendship.

Derrick rolled his eyes, pulled Oliver into a tight, quick and very manly embrace, then shoved him away and followed that up with a brisk slap to the back of his head. Oliver returned the favor with an equally quick and brisk flick between Derrick's eyes.

And balance was yet again restored.

"You didn't really spend your hard-earned sterling on this, did you?"

Derrick snorted. "Are ye daft, lad? Of course not. Cameron bought it for you, likely used. I did you the favor of your MOT fees for the year and Peter bought you some special wipes to clean your greasy, post-chippy-run finger leavings from off the steering wheel. The petrol is up to you. You can also buy your wife something bigger once she masters that wee beast over there, though I'm imagining you won't be letting her drive either in London."

"I think we'll stick to Scottish roads for a bit for her," Oliver agreed.

"And for you?" Derrick asked with a smile.

"I feel a long trip to London coming on," Oliver said, stopping himself before he purred. "Then a ferry ride to the Continent."

"Germany's going to change the laws there about tourists screaming down their motorways because of you, you know."

"I'm an excellent driver," Oliver said, cradling his keys to his chest and giving up on not purring. "I'm going to go ask my wife if she needs something from the village."

"You won't get it out of first gear."

"Probably not," he said, stopping just short of chortling with glee. He smiled at Derrick. "We'll return."

"I'll believe that when you do," Derrick said, but he was smiling as he turned and went back inside the hall.

Oliver promised himself a hearty round of thanks to all and sundry, no doubt accompanied by a gentlemanly hug or two and perhaps even a discreet tear for the appropriate ladies of his acquaintance, but he thought he might be first permitted a wee trip to the village with his wife.

"Text me if you need something from McCreedy's!" he called.

"Jaffa cakes," came the response from a youngling inside.

"And crisps!"

Mission accepted, of course. Oliver collected his bride, tucked her into his reward for being good in school, then slid under the wheel. He took a deep breath, started the beast up, then looked at his wife.

"Well?"

"How many horses?" she asked breathlessly.

"1200."

"I believe it."

He laughed and put his matched ponies in reverse, praying he would manage to get down the drive without an embarrassing popping of the clutch. At least he wasn't going to get the damned thing out of first gear, so there would be no equally embarrassing grinding of those. He glanced at his wife.

"You're still the best thing that's happened to me," he reminded her.

"This has to be a close second," she said, smiling at him sweetly.

He considered. "There might be a few other things ahead of it."

"Fashion me a list," she said cheerfully, "and I'll put it in your book."

He suspected that bloody book itself might have to go in the vicinity of the top of that particular list, though he would never admit it to the lads. He glanced at his bride.

"Where do you want to go?"

"Besides the village?"

He nodded.

"With you?"

He nodded again.

She smiled. "I've started a list."

He could hardly wait to see it. He shot her a quick smile, then concentrated on not running his new car into a tree.