“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 foolsstanding 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.”
