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“I’m sure Grant’s outfit is fine,” Graeme hastily said. He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Best get a move on, or you’ll miss the procession.”
His twin flashed him a grateful smile. “See you later.”
“Keep your eyes and ears open,” Graeme murmured.
“Aye, that.”
“The carriages are ready, madam,” Henderson said, approaching from the back hall.
“And now where in Hades’s name is Angus?” Graeme said.
“Right here,” said his grandfather as he clattered down the stairs.
For a moment, they were all struck dumb at the sight of him.
“Och, that’s not good,” Royal finally murmured.
Vicky jabbed the pamphlet at him. “Angus, you’re supposed to be dressed like Royal, not like a deranged Highlander.” Deranged Highlander was an apt description. Grandda wore the old-fashioned belted plaid, although God only knew where he’d dug it up. Because it was too big, he’d wrapped it twice around his waist, cinching the extra material with a belt. The end still sagged like a bedraggled train and would collect dust as effectively as a mop. He’d finished the bizarre look with a white linen shirt topped with his old leather vest, an ancient pair of boots, and an equally ancient bonnet sporting moth-eaten feathers.
“I’m wearin’ the belted plaid, the true outfit of a Highlander,” he huffed.
“It’s certainly colorful,” Sabrina faintly managed.
Ainsley was choking on laughter. “Insanely colorful.”
Angus waggled a finger. “I’ll have nae sauce, MissSassenach.”
“Mrs.Sassenach, if you please. And you’re going to give Vicky a fit, which is hardly helpful in her condition.”
“Och, she’ll nae be faintin’ over seein’ a proper Highlander.”
“You do not look proper. You look . . .” Vicky trailed off, as if words failed her.
“Deranged,” Graeme dryly finished.
“I’ll nae be wearin’ those shabby philibegs that yon Grant is flashing aboot in,” Angus retorted.
“You wear a philibeg all the time,” Graeme said. “Wealldo. And your ridiculous outfit doesn’t even fit.”
“Now, see here, yer not too big for me to—”
“What’s a philibeg?” Sabrina asked, cutting off the impending Angus eruption.
“It’s the short kilt,” Graeme answered, scowling at his grandfather. “You know, the one weallwearallthe time.”
“Just aboot the house, ye ken.”
Ainsley shook her head. “I do believe that may be the biggest whopper you’ve ever told.”
The old fellow scoffed. “Nae, I always tell the truth.”
Graeme impatiently checked his pocket watch. “We don’t have time for him to change. We’re miles late as it is.”
And he needed to be out in the crowds, doing his bloody job.
Ainsley patted Vicky’s shoulder. “Since Angus will be inside the barouche, no one will be able to tell if it’s a belted plaid or a phili-whatever.”
“And I’ll nae be changin’ just to please King Fathead,” Angus added.
