Page 73 of The Highlander Is All That

He swallowed heavily and suppressed the urge to run. But Ranald’s grateful, and slightly panicked, glance forestalled his flight.

Ranald had saved his life once. He probably owed him at least as much.

“Och, Bower. I see you’re back,” he said, deliberately thickening his brogue.

“Aye.” Ranald stood, much to the chagrin of the beak-nosed lady who was attempting to maul him. He made haste to Hamish’s side. “We should probably go do that thing.”

Hamish blinked. “That thing?”

Ranald nudged him with an elbow. “That thing we were going to do.”

Was it wicked to grin so widely? “Ach. That thing can wait.”

His friend shot him a disbelieving frown.

Hamish pulled him closer and whispered, “These ladies are here for a show. Shall we give it to them?” They wanted performing monkeys? They would have them.

“I . . . ah . . . What kind of show did you have in mind?”

“Fisticuffs?”

“In the parlor?” Ranald shot a look at Esmeralda and winced. “She would no’ want us breaking her china.”

“Ach. True. Tippling whisky then?”

“Much better.”

“And perhaps we could speak Gaelic and expect them to understand?”

“You are an evil man, Hamish Robb.”

He grinned at his friend. “Watch. I’m going to sit on the divan and spread my legs a bit. Do you want to place wagers on how many of them swoon?”

Ranald snorted a laugh. “I’d much rather place bets on how many try to crawl up your kilt.”

Hamish clapped him on the back and laughed. “Come then. Let’s have some fun.”

And fun it was. And though Esmeralda glared constant daggers at them as they played out this farce—belching and slurping and acting as uncivilized as they could manage without dissolving into peals of laughter—Hamish saw the smirk hovering beneath her ferocity.

As for Elizabeth, she merely sat, prim and proper in her seat, clutching her hands together and nibbling her lower lip. Even Anne seemed amused. Hamish hoped he was winning her over. When he married Elizabeth, they would be family, after all.

“I do say, Sir Hamish,” Lady Callinda said after a bit.

“No’ Sir Hamish,” he said, leaning to the side to issue a fart. He grinned at her. “Just Hamish. Bower is the one with a title.”

“I see. Well . . . Hamish. Is it true what they say about Scotsmen?”

His grin widened. “Probably.”

“What is it they say?” Victoria asked.

Lady Callinda leaned closer and whispered, though she was across the table so everyone heard. “Is it true what Scotsmen wear beneath their kilts?” The question was lurid and inappropriate and utterly out of place at a morning call—even Hamish knew as much—so he responded by crossing his legs.

The lady in question blanched and then flushed, but her gaze went right where he expected it to go. Though with the shadows, she likely saw nothing. He hoped she saw nothing.

Miss Althea, her companion—the one with the long hooked nose, who’d probably never seen beneath anyone’s anything—gasped. And then she swooned. Fortunately she had the good sense to swoon back onto the pillows, rather than face first into her cake.

“Should ha’ gone with swooning,” Ranald muttered.