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The rangy man standing at the entrance is no stranger to me. I know him on sight—from his brown hair salted with grey to the crow's feet around his eyes, and the sagging skin under them, not to mention the sallow coloring of his skin. Being a chain smoker for years will do that to a person. As usual, he wears rumpled khakis and a polo shirt with his hair unkempt.
"What do you want?" I ask in a flat voice. "You weren't invited, and you are not welcome here."
"I'm a journalist, MacTaggart," he says. "Your new bride is big news in the village. Everyone wants to know if your taste in women has improved, or if you'll be a victim of another failed marriage."
The bod ceann's smug look implies he relishes the idea that I might lose another wife.
"You are a journalist as much as I'm a sheep farmer," I say. "At least sheep shit washes off your clothes. The stench of being a bod ceann can't be cleansed."
When I risk a backward glance, I discover the rest of the MacTaggart clan has gathered behind me. Aidan and Lachlan stand at either side of me, though they keep back a few paces.
"Graham Oliver," Lachlan says, his tone making it clear he disdains the man as much as I do. "Rory told ye to leave, so go on. Before I skelp your sorry hide raw."
My brother cracks his knuckles.
Unfazed, Graham juts his chin and stuffs his thumbs into his waistband. "Is it my fault ye donnae have security? I've got journalistic privilege, at any rate." He switches his attention to someone behind me, his eyes bright with interest. "Mrs. MacTaggart, what a pleasure to meet ye."
I glance back at Emery, who seems confused. If this bastard drags her into his muckraking, I will beat him bloody.
Emery gives me a small, encouraging smile.
"Need your wife's permission to speak?" Graham says. "Ye married her so fast, she must've put a hex on ye. Led around by the short hairs, MacTaggart?"
I shake my fist at him. "Falbh dàirich fhein, ye bawbag."
Lachlan steps up beside me, laying a hand on my shoulder. "He's not worth the sore knuckles, Rory. Donnae let this wee shit ruin a family celebration."
Graham sniggers. "Ahmno staying, Lachlan. Stopped in to give my congratulations to your brother. Let's hope the fourth time is the charm, and this one can stand ye for more than eight months. Isobel must've had an iron constitution to stay all those years, but the others—"
"Shut up," I snarl.
The self-described "journalist" saunters out of the garden, swinging his hands at his sides and whistling a jaunty tune. Graham climbs into a black sedan scarred by scratches and dents. Once his vehicle rolls down the drive, Lachlan thumps me on the shoulder and heads back toward the crowd, waving for them to disperse. The family fans out around the garden again, and I return to my wife.
"Who was that?" Emery asks.
"Graham Oliver."
"Am I supposed to know the name?"
"Only locals know him. Graham fancies himself a publishing magnate, but his newspaper is nothing more than a muckraking scandal sheet on the verge of collapse." My lips twist into a nasty smirk. "Graham is as rotten as the smut he peddles."
"Don't hold back, honey." She winks. "Tell me what you really think of him."
"He's a right scunner." When I note her confusion, I explain, "It means he's a bloody nuisance. His newspaper is the Loch Fairbairn World News, but everyone calls it The Bletherer."
"Kinda seemed like he has a grudge against you."
I grasp the back of my neck. "He does. I represented his wife in their divorce last year. Negotiated a generous, and well-deserved, settlement for her. Graham's financial fortunes have taken a tumble since then, mostly because he's a boozing gambler."
She nudges me with her elbow. "You've been speaking a lot of Gaelic today, haven't you? Care to enlighten your American wife? Your mother said you cursed at her."
"Bod an Donais means the devil's penis, and it's a curse I picked up from Aidan." I might be smirking again, but not because I'm disgusted. "Aidan's a bad influence, but I've developed my own favorite insults. Falbh dàirich fhein means go fuck yourself, and a bod ceann is a dickhead."
"What about bawbag?"
"It's a reference to a man's… ah…" I gesture vaguely downward. "You know."
Emery tries to stifle a laugh, though it makes her mouth twitch. "Are you pointing to your balls?"
"Aye." Why on earth couldn't I say that? I'm a man, not a wee laddie.
"You can say dickhead, but not balls. You're the cutest." She bounces up on her toes to kiss me. "Let's go mingle with your family and forget that bawbag was ever here."
