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“Jeannie Campbell.” Angus’s eyes bugged out. “I thought that lass was married and safely stowed away in Edinburgh.”
Victoria pressed two fingers between her eyebrows, as if trying to stave off a headache. “She’s now a widow and not safely stowed, as tonight illustrated.”
Angus let out a string of oaths both shocking and inventive. The fact that Victoria didn’t bother to reprimand him told Donella how bad things were.
“How did Nick take it?” Angus said, finally winding down.
“About as well as you might expect,” Grant dolefully replied.
“Where’s Logan now?”
“Graeme went to fetch him,” Victoria said. “He’s to bring him straight home.”
“Well, I’d best go see to Nick,” Angus said. “The last thing we need is the lads tryin’ to kill each other again.”
Victoria scowled. “It willnotcome to that.”
Angus snorted, then regarded Donella with an all-too-familiar sympathy. “Sorry ye had to see this, lass.”
She spread her hands. “I’m truly not sure what I saw.”
“I’ll come up and explain everything later,” Victoria said, “once I prevent the impending mayhem.”
“I assure you, my lady, that an explanation is not necessary.”
“You’ll hear it all, anyway,” Grant said in a gloomy tone. “There’s bound to be alotof yelling once Logan gets home.”
Chapter Twenty
The yelling was muffled, since much of it occurred in Lord Arnprior’s study, but Donella had heard it almost as soon as Logan walked through the front door. Angus was the first to raise his voice, then Lord Arnprior, then the guilty party himself, and finally the twins.
She had to give the countess a great deal of credit, because she could yell almost as forcefully as the Kendrick men. According to the talkative maid who’d helped Donella unlace her dress, her ladyship had threatened to bash a fireplace tool over the heads of various male relatives, including her husband.
It was a right, royal mess. Thankfully, Eden and Alasdair were now in Glasgow. Eden had sent round a note earlier this evening to announce their arrival, and that meant Donella could escape to Breadie Manor first thing in the morning.
The deep bong of the longcase clock sounded the late hour. Although exhaustion and a vague sort of sadness pulled at her bones, Donella knew she’d be unable to sleep. Better to spend time packing.
As she sank down onto the dressing table stool to organize her toiletries, she glanced at her reflection in the pier glass. She looked dreadful, with a pallid complexion, shadowed eyes, and hollowed-out cheeks. Her short curls added to the impression that she was a half-starved street urchin instead of a mature woman. It was no wonder Logan had taken one look at Jeannie MacArthur and promptly forgotten her existence. As far as womanly attributes were concerned, she’d lost the race before it started.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
It wasn’t as if she’d ever expected to marry Logan Kendrick. She didn’t intend to marry anyone. Her original plan—wait six months and enter a convent—still stood.
Ignoring the ache in her chest, she rummaged through the table.
She glanced up when a quiet knock sounded on the door. “Come in.”
Still garbed in her evening gown, Victoria slipped inside. “I decided to take a chance that you were still awake.”
“It was a wee bit difficult to sleep through the battle of the clans going on downstairs, ye ken.”
“Ugh. Highlanders can besoannoying.” Victoria flopped into an overstuffed, floral armchair in front of the fireplace. “Present company excepted, of course.”
Donella swiveled to study the countess, who was staring gloomily into the crackling fire. “Rumor has it that Englishwomen are more than capable of handling boisterous Highlanders.”
“Did one of the maids tell you that? No doubt the servants heard just about every word of that revolting discussion.”
“I suspect they couldn’t avoid it, even if they tried.”
