Once Upon a Tartan Read Online Free PDF

wooden counter. “Miss Hester.” A great, toothy smile creased Deal’s ruddy face. “Are we to be serving up another round of tea? Damned English do love their tea.”
    And Deal loved her work. She was more cook than housekeeper, since Mary Fran’s notions of how to run a household left little room for delegation. Deal personified the old-fashioned Scottish notion of “family retainer.” She served MacGregors, and the specific capacity mattered less than the resulting loyalty and mutual obligation.
    “We don’t need another tea tray,” Hester clarified, “but Aunt Ree is inviting Lord Spathfoy to stay with us for a bit. We’ll need to serve more than bannocks or scones for breakfast, because he’s one of Fiona’s paternal uncles.” By Highland standards he was family, as incongruous as that notion felt.
    “Ach, aye. If the English couldn’t get a proper breakfast, they’d starve but for their tea. That lot knows nothing of sauces and subtleties. Which bedroom shall we put his lordship in?”
    She smacked the dough down with particularly fierce enthusiasm, as if showing his lordship the error of English culinary failures was going to be the satisfaction of a life’s work.
    “Let’s use the corner bedroom in the east wing. It boasts nice views of the garden, and the chimney doesn’t smoke.”
    Deal nodded as she started separating the dough into long, thick sections. “Putting him in the guest wing will keep him out of everybody’s hair. I suppose you’ll be sending a note over to Balfour House?”
    “Of course.” Belatedly, Hester realized this was the mission Aunt had tried to communicate between all those smiles. “At once.”
    “You, Dinlach.” Deal barked at the potboy, who was doing a desultory job at the main sink. “Tell Festus we’ll want a rider over to Balfour soonest. Miss Hester needs to warn the earl that Lady Mary Fran’s worthless former in-laws have come skulking about at last.”
    “Mrs. Deal, you shouldn’t say such things.”
    Deal deftly braided the dough into a fat loaf. “Flynns is border English, which is the worst kind. They recall enough of their Scottish heritage to hold their whisky and reave what they want, but they’ve got English titles, and English wealth to protect them from the consequences. Ask auld Ree. She’ll explain it to you.”
    Deal used a pastry brush to dab melted butter over each loaf in curiously delicate movements, while foreboding settled cold and queasy in Hester’s innards.
    “He’s a titled English lord, Deal. He won’t be stealing cattle, trust me on this.”
    Deal set the butter and brush aside. “I’m just the help, Miss Hester. Far be it from me to speak ill of a guest. Hadn’t you best be writing that note?”
    Hester headed back up the stairs, but Deal, plain-faced, phlegmatic, and loyal to her bones, had suggested a potential threat to the household coming from the most likely quarter.
    A perishing son of a titled family, as if Hester hadn’t suffered enough already at the hands of the very same.
    ***
    Being the Earl of Balfour was a damned pain in Ian MacGregor’s muscular backside—his muscular and, according to his wife, adorable backside. The title involved responsibility for family members both cantankerous and unruly, stewardship of difficult and rugged land, and a bloody lot of ceremony and pomp for which no self-respecting Highlander had much patience.
    In other regards, though, Ian was a very, very patient man.
    His countess pinched the part of him she found so adorable.
    “You’re teasing me, Husband. I am not in a mood to lollygag.”
    “Hmm?” He kissed her ear, then bit down on the lobe. “My hearing is a wee bit off today, most likely as a result of all that exercise our son gave his lungs before going down for his nap.”
    He plied her gently with his cock, listening for the telltale sighs, both audible and corporeal, that would signal that she was growing desperate. Augusta grew greedy and wonderfully