Amanda Scott by Highland Spirits Page A

ken full well that her ladyship never frets. Would this bonny lassie be the Lady Bridget, then?”
    “Aye, she would,” Michael said as he linked his arm with Bridget’s to escort her up the steps. “This is Andrew, my dear. When I was in school here, he took excellent care of me. Where will we find her ladyship, Andrew?”
    “Upstairs, sir, in her drawing room. I might just add that she generally dines at half past three now, sir, but she has put dinner back today, pending your arrival.”
    “Devil a bit, she must be starving.”
    “Aye, sir. Shall I show ye to yer rooms to rid yourselves o’ the road dust, or straight along to her?”
    “To her, I think,” Michael said. “We can change for dinner after we’ve made our salutations. You may show our servants where to put our things, however.”
    “Aye, sir, I’ve a lad on the way to attend to that. Come along now.”
    Bridget had been unusually silent, and Michael, knowing that the plain little entry hall with its pale green painted walls, bare flagstone floor, and three straight-backed chairs had done little to impress her, gestured for her to follow.
    Andrew into the equally ordinary stair hall and up the stairs.
    Andrew moved straight ahead to open a pair of white double doors with shiny brass fittings. Pushing them wide, he stepped into the shadowy room beyond and said, “His lordship and Lady Bridget have arrived, my lady.”
    Bridget glanced at Michael, but he only smiled at her and gestured for her to precede him. As she did, Andrew opened one set of curtains, allowing the late afternoon sun to spill into the room. Bridget gasped.
    The drawing room walls, hung with silk and cotton damask in two shades of gold, matched colors in the gold and rose-colored Savonnerie carpet. Deep rose pink curtains matched the upholstery on the gilded cane-backed chairs. Ornately carved walnut console tables and side tables held Sevres bowls of fresh spring flowers and other beautiful porcelain pieces. A pair of gilt-framed oval mirrors graced the walls between the three windows, and over a pedestal table at one side of the doorway hung a matching gilt-framed clock. Suspended from the center of the ceiling, a delicate cut-glass chandelier glittered where rays of sunshine touched it.
    A sleepy voice said, “So you are here at last, are you?”
    Michael, having become acquainted with the room some years before, while he was a student at the university, had spied the sole occupant of the room the moment he entered, but he saw his sister start at the sound of Lady Marsali’s voice. As she turned to face her ladyship, Bridget’s eyes widened.
    Michael hid a smile, saying, “I hope we did not waken you, Aunt.”
    “Oh, no,” she said, still reclining—as she had been when they entered—against cushions piled at one end of a giltwood-framed sofa that was upholstered in the same deep rose-colored damask as the chairs. Her little feet were propped on another cushion, and the only concession she had made thus far to their entrance was to lift the lacy white handkerchief that had covered her face to peer at them. Wearily she said, “Is it really necessary to open all the curtains, Andrew?”
    “Aye, ma’am, it is,” he said with a fond smile. “Ye’ll be wanting to ask after their journey, I’m thinking, before they must change their dress for dinner.”
    “I suppose you are right,” Lady Marsali said with a sigh.
    Michael said, “Do you need assistance to sit up, Aunt?”
    “I do not. You keep a civil tongue in your head, and, pray, do not feel obliged to recite every detail of your journey. I daresay that, when all is said and done, it was as tedious as any other journey.”
    “Don’t you like to travel, ma’am?” Bridget said. “I liked it enormously. First we sailed to Oban, which I have done twice before, but then we hired horses and rode to Dalmally, where we enjoyed Lord Glenmore’s hospitality overnight, and then to Lochearnhead, where we stayed with