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stockings?”
    No, Niall did not. Neither did he stand holding those guests in the rain, assailed by the pure pleasure of an embrace both unexpected and astonishingly trusting. Julie had surrendered for a moment, to fatigue, bewilderment, despair, and maybe even a little bit to
him.
    Bad business all around, when a woman was depending on strangers—her menfolk had much to answer for, but the moment had been sweet, too.
    “I have nieces and nephews,” Niall said. “I’m shoes and socks certified, according to Jeannie, and now you can scoot under the blankets and close your eyes.”
    And Niall could get the hell down to the kitchen, unless poor, lame, ailing Donald had scampered back into the undergrowth.
    “Wake me in an hour,” Julie said, rising. “And close the door behind you. I don’t need to hear this argument, and tomorrow, rain or not, we’re finding a driving range, at least.”
    Donald was on intimate terms with half the driving ranges in Scotland.
    “Sleep well,” Niall said, “and we’ll hope the weather cooperates.”
    Scottish weather never cooperated with anybody for long, a point of national pride. Niall found Donald petting an enormous black cat who sat upon the kitchen counter, lord of all he shed upon.
    “You’re not to feed him cream,” Niall said. “Louise is concerned he’s getting too stout.”
    “Louise is off on a wedding trip with Liam, and it’s just us old fellows here at home, isn’t it?” Donald asked.
    The cat, Black Douglas, purred hugely, happy to be included among the old fellows, while Niall…
    He wasn’t an old fellow
yet
.
    “Has anybody heard from the newlyweds?” Niall asked, opening the fridge. The makings of a ham and cheddar on rye were on hand—Jeannie made sure each guest’s preferences were stocked. That Julie’s tastes were prosaic—no figs and goat cheese, designer grains, or exotic fruit for her—was as unexpected as her crazy, silky socks.
    “The happy couple has arrived safely on Mull,” Donald said. “They send regards to Helen and Douglas from the Tobermory cat. I’m sorry my back is acting up, lad. I could do with one of those sandwiches.”
    The cat jumped to the floor with a substantial thud. When Black Douglas ought to have gone through the cat door and been about his cat business, he instead stropped himself against Niall’s legs.
    “Your back isn’t acting up. You can hike all over the riverbank, take Helen for a walk when she’s at least two hundred pounds of yanking on the leash, and you’re a far better escort for Miss Leonard than I’ll ever be.”
    Far more convenient.
    “Mustard on mine too, please,” Donald said, taking a placid sip of his tea. “I can take the lady out to hit some balls, but I’ll not be playing myself for some time, more’s the pity. Butter and mustard are a fine combination on any sandwich, young man.”
    “Then you’d best melt the butter in the microwave,” Niall said, “because nobody recalled to get it out of the fridge.”
    “Niall, I’ll deal with the American as best I can, because I know you have the council meeting coming up, and you don’t face that lot of ninnyhammers without proper preparation.”
    The council, the bank, the neighbors, and various nosy historical associations, all of whom swore the best patch of Scottish ground for playing golf was also very possibly the site of major prehistoric, Viking, medieval, and modern battles, as well as Camelot, an alien landing, and a Roman encampment.
    Niall passed his uncle a sandwich—Donald could manage the damned butter himself—and started on a second.
    “I’ve submitted one report after another,” Niall said, paring thick slices of cheese off the brick of cheddar. “I’ve consulted experts and answered the council’s every objection. Their meddling and arrogance demanded a year’s delay from me, but the bank expected that. The next meeting shouldn’t be that much more work.”
    Though any gathering of a body of Scottish