“Niall, Father wants to speak with you. He’s been waiting.”
“He can wait a bit longer. I’m hungry.”
“He’s got one of his men watching out the window for you. Trust me, it will go easier on us all if you go up now.”
“Perhaps he’s not feeling well,” Heather added, with what Niall thought was much too charitable a tone. “Go and speak to him. Maeve and I will have some food prepared for when you’re done.”
“Aye,” he agreed, giving in. He proceeded up the stairs to his father’s chambers.
Even before he reached the door, his father heard him. “Niall, get in here, boy!”
Niall entered, surveying the scene. His father sat at the large oak table he used for both work and meals, but he wasn’t alone. Wiggins, the solicitor that his father had used his whole life, sat nearby. A servant hovered by the window.
“Angus, pour some ale and then close the door on your way out. I must talk to my son.”
Niall sat in the chair pulled up to the opposite side of the table, accepting the ale offered to him. But he said nothing until the servant left, and the door shut firmly behind him.
“I assume this is about Heather,” Niall said. “And I’m not going to discuss why I should choose Brenna instead.”
“Forget Brenna,” his father said, waving his hand. “We have something more important to discuss.”
The older man’s eyes gleamed, and there was color in his cheeks. He looked five years younger, at least.
“Are you…happy?” Niall asked, flummoxed.
“Happy, he asks,” MacNair said, nudging the solicitor. “Well he might ask. Yes, I’m happy. You’ve snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. You have, in spite of all your inborn stupidity, managed to do one thing well.”
“What’s that?” he asked, growing nervous. Praise from his father had always been rare, and never ended well.
“Your little wife. That one whose uncle is trying to pry her back. Heather Hayes.”
“Oh,thatwife.” Niall indulged in sarcasm, because his father never cared for subtlety.
“Yes, that one. You need to keep her.”
He looked at his father, swallowed, and then asked, “Why the about-face? You hate Heather.”
“Of course I hate her. She’s English and a conniving little bitch. But she’s going to be useful.” He nodded to Wiggins. “Tell him.”
Wiggins straightened up, ruffled some papers in front of him, and said, “Upon the arrival of Heather MacNair, nee Heather Hayes, at Carregness, and the news that you had married her along the way, your father very sensibly dispatched agents to investigate the woman’s name and background.”
Niall sighed. He should have guessed. “And what did your meddling uncover?”
“The particulars of the story she told are true, as far as they go. Her parents did die at sea, and her uncle did take over her wardship and moved to live with her at the family estate in Lancashire.”
“Remarkable. You’ve discovered that the woman did not lie.” Niall looked out the window, and put his ale down on the table. He moved to get up. “If there’s nothing else, Father…”
“Stay right there, Niall,” MacNair ordered. “Wiggins is not finished with his report.”
“Then finish it, by all means.”
Wiggins said, “Your wife is an only child, with no other relatives in the family line with any standing to contest the terms of the will. Thus, she is to inherit all of her father’s possessions, including the property, the business interests of his firm, and the moveable wealth of the family.”
“So what does that mean in practical terms?” Niall asked, not liking the way his father and Wiggins seemed to anticipate this recitation.
“In practical terms, ten thousand a year. Approximately.”
Niall didn’t quite understand. “What?”
