“If we open the door, it might actually be loud enough to kill us,” I say, and my sister grimaces, her hand flexing on the seat next to us.
“Picture it, El,” I tell her. “‘FUTURE QUEEN OF SCOTLAND AND FAR SUPERIOR YOUNGER SISTER KILLED IN TRAGIC MUTUAL HEAD EXPLOSION—PIPERS HELD IN CUSTODY.’”
She doesn’t laugh, but she does relax a little. “You are so weird,” she mutters, but then she opens the door and steps out.
I do the same, and I was right—the sound nearly rocks me back on my heels. There are twenty pipers exactly, ten flanking each side of the low, shallow steps leading up into the farmhouse. They’re all beautifully dressed in bright red kilts, sashes over their chests, and thick wool socks covering muscular calves.
I don’t want to be impressed, especially since these guys just nearly deafened me, but I kind of can’t help it. It’s just . . . we’re standing in front of this gorgeous stone house, behind which is this perfect valley full of soft, buttery light, and now we’ve been greeted by twenty—twenty!—literal pied pipers, and I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head.
“I get the princess thing now,” I tell Ellie. “For real. I might try to marry a prince, too, just so these guys can announce me showing up to, like, the mall.”
Ellie cuts her eyes at me before flicking her hair over her shoulders. “I’m still not sure why we’re here and not at Sherbourne,” she says in a low voice.
“Have we been kidnapped?” I ask in a near whisper, but before Ellie can tell me to get bent or whatever the new, Fancy Ellie version of that is, there’s another screech of bagpipes.
This time it definitely doesn’t come from the gentlemen in front of us, and unlike the song earlier, it doesn’t suddenly resolve itself into a recognizable melody. This is an actual assault on eardrums, and I look around, trying to figure out where it’s coming from.
The pipes get louder, and suddenly there are two guys basically skipping out the front door and down the steps.
They’re in kilts like the professional pipers, but their socks are pooling around their ankles and one of them is wearing an insane hat that sort of looks like a beret but has a sharp purple feather jutting out of it. He’s about my height, with shaggy dark hair, and then I glance over at the other guy and realize he looks nearly identical.
There are two cute boys in kilts murdering bagpipes and dancing toward us.
“Did we take drugs in the car?” I ask Ellie, but then the boys are there, and one of them spins in front of me before dipping into a low bow.
“Ladies!” he says as his twin gives Ellie the same treatment, his twirl so intense that for a second, I’m afraid I’m going to learn exactly what boys wear underneath their kilts.
Ellie gives a startled laugh. “Stephen?” she asks the boy in front of her before glancing at the one still bowing to me. “Donald? What—”
“Ellie!”
Oh, thank god. It’s Alex coming out the door now, and he’s wearing pants.
I never thought I’d be so relieved to see pants.
Alex is the closest thing to chagrined I’ve ever seen him as he rushes down the steps toward my sister, and when he gets to her and literally takes her in his arms, I wait for the bagpipes to start up again.
He gives her a hug, then, one arm still wrapped around her, opens his other arm to me.
Aren’t royals supposed to be all closed off and dead inside? Isn’t emotion embarrassingly common? Why do I now have to join a three-way hug with my sister and her fiancé?
But I do, letting Alex briefly press me against his Ralph Lauren and my sister’s Chanel, and then he pulls back, looking at us both before smiling hesitantly.
“It was a surprise,” he says, and Ellie, her hand still on his arm, looks past him to the pipers and the twin boys who are now no longer bowing but using their bagpipes in some kind of vaguely phallic swordfight.
“You planned this?” El asks, eyebrows raised, and Alex swallows so hard I can see his Adam’s apple move.
“Actually—” he starts, but then a voice interrupts him.
“I’m afraid it was all me.”
WHO ARE THE ROYAL WRECKERS?
Prince Sebastian of Scotland may only be seventeen, but he’s already on every girl’s Dream Date List. And while not many of us can hope to land a prince, there are other options in Seb’s circle! Ever since his primary school days, he’s had a cadre of similarly well-heeled boys following him around. But who are these fellows, and are they interesting past their involvement with Prince Sebastian? Let’s find out!
Andrew McGillivray, “Gilly” to friends, second son of the Duke of Argyll. Of all the Wreckers, Gilly is the richest, his family’s net worth said to rival the royal family’s. Only eighteen, Gilly has an appetite for expensive horses, good wine, and an assortment of “Instagram models,” whatever that means. I guess all that money helps them overlook his weak chin.
Thomas Leighton, Marquess of Sherbourne, son of the Duke of Galloway. He’s the most highly titled of the Royal Wreckers, “Sherbet,” and also probably the best looking. We actually think he gives Prince Sebastian a run for his money in the Handsome Department. Those eyes! The cheekbones! Sadly, ladies, it’s well known that the marquess does not, shall we say, play for our team. He’s said to be dating Galen Konstantinov, son of shipping magnate Stavros Konstantinov.
The Fortescue brothers, Stephen and Donald. If they have nicknames, we haven’t heard them, but these two brothers are always paired together, seems like, so I suppose they’re just grateful if no one calls them Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Both are the sons of the Earl of Douglas, and while they’re not twins, they’re only thirteen months apart in age. Recent additions to the Royal Wreckers, the Fortescue brothers are the only ones who didn’t attend Gregorstoun with the prince. They’re Eton boys and proud of it.
Miles Montgomery. Interestingly enough, Miles is the lowest on our list in terms of title and wealth. He’s the son of a baronet, Sir Peregrine Montgomery, and rumor has it that the family has fallen on hard times. Not a manor home to be found in this family’s portfolio these days. But in spite of that (or maybe because of it), Miles is Prince Sebastian’s closest friend, and frequently found at the ne’er-do-well prince’s side. Most intriguingly, there were rumors he was briefly involved with Sebastian’s twin sister, Flora. Was that weird for the Gregorstoun chums? We’d have to think it’s just the slightest bit awkward.
(Prattle, “The Royal Wreckers,” September Issue)
Chapter 8
One thing I’ve learned from being around Ellie these past couple of years is that no one is actually as pretty or handsome as they look in magazines. Even El, who is awfully pretty in real life, is like ten times more glamorous in the pages of magazines.
The boy stepping out of the farmhouse now?
I’ve seen him in magazines and on websites and acknowledged that he was good-looking, sure. I like boys, I have eyes, there’s no doubt he’s an attractive example of his sex.
But that does not prepare me in any way at all for seeing Prince Sebastian in the flesh.
He’s tall, his entire upper body is so perfectly v-shaped that I think geese probably study him to get their flight formation just right, and he’s wearing a gray long-sleeved shirt and jeans that were clearly crafted just for him, possibly by nuns who’ve devoted themselves to the cause of making boys look as sinful as possible so the rest of us will know just how dangerous they are, and he’s . . .
Just a dude, oh my actual god, get ahold of yourself.
Ellie glances over at me, her eyebrows drawn together, and to my horror, I realize I just whispered that last sentence out loud to myself.
Luckily, Prince Sebastian didn’t overhear me because the pipers have started up again, the real ones this time. Just a handful, so it’s not as overwhelming as it was when we drove up, and this time they’re playing “Isn’t
She Lovely?”
Seb comes to a stop in front of us, clasping his hands together, and as the last note dies away, I swear to god, the clouds part and a sunbeam shines down on his head, making the red glints in his dark hair shimmer.
“Ellie,” he says, stepping forward to give my sister a quick hug.
And then he turns his blue eyes to me. “And you must be Daisy.”
I get a handshake instead of a hug, which is probably for the best as I think a hug with this boy might count as sexual contact. Still, his hand is warm and strong, and yeah, this is the same as third base with a regular boy.
“Surprise!” he says to all of us once he’s dropped my hand and stepped back. He spreads his arms wide, grinning at us, and Alex gives him a tight smile.
“Still not really sure what this is, mate,” he says, and Seb reaches out, punching his brother on the shoulder.
“An engagement present, you prat,” he says. “And since it was on the way to Sherbourne, I wanted to show it off to you first!”
Ellie and Alex look at each other, Alex’s arms going around my sister’s waist as Seb begins to walk back to the house. “An engagement present?” Alex calls after him, and Seb jogs up the stairs, turning to glance over his shoulder.
“Your very own farmhouse in the Scottish lowlands,” he says proudly. “Wait until you see the view.”
“You bought us a house?” Ellie asks, breaking away from Alex to trail after Seb, and I pick up the rear, the two boys in kilts—Stephen and Donald—suddenly coming around to flank me.
“That is the reddest hair I’ve ever seen,” says Stephen. Wait, maybe Donald? I didn’t get it straight earlier.
“Thank you?” I say, even though I’m not sure it’s a compliment.
“Oi, you two! Don’t monopolize her!” someone cries from the doorway, and I look up to see yet another ridiculously handsome boy. This one is dressed in jeans, a plaid button-down, and a sweater vest that should really take his hot points down by at least a hundred, but he’s also got particularly swoopy brown hair, lovely eyes, and a charming smile, so not even a sweater vest can compete against that.
“Sherbourne,” he says, coming down to shake my hand, and I blink for a second.
Isn’t that the name of the castle we’re going to? So why is he—
Oh, right. Sherbourne is not his first name—it’s his title. The Marquess of Sherbourne. The castle we’re supposed to be going to later is his.
Crap, how do you greet a marquess? Your Grace? No, that’s for dukes. God, I really should’ve read Glynnis’s stupid folder. I promise myself that I’ll study it religiously once we actually get to the castle.
But before I have to say anything in reply, another guy appears in the farmhouse doorway, a bottle in his hand, his golden hair tousled in a way that seems too perfect not to be on purpose. “We call him Sherbet,” this new blond boy says, winking at me in a way that immediately has my face feeling hot. Seriously, what sort of pheromones do these guys exude?
Sherbourne—Sherbet, I guess—elbows the blond guy, then inclines his head toward me. “Forgive Gilly here, he was raised in a barn and therefore has no manners.”
“Gilly?” I repeat, and the blond guy shakes my hand as well.
“Andrew McGillivray,” he says, and then he gestures for us to all go inside.
The farmhouse has stone floors and truly massive furniture, plus a fireplace so big that I can only assume people once roasted elephants in it. There’s a fire crackling happily there now, and the back of the room is basically one giant window looking out into the valley.
I go to the window now, staring down at all those green rolling hills, shadows moving, the light constantly shifting. There are sheep down there in the valley, little white puffballs milling around. As far as wedding presents go, this one is pretty nice, I have to admit, and I’m smiling when I turn away from the window.
Aaaand nearly smack right into another guy. Seriously, how many cute boys can one farmhouse hold?
This one puts out his hands to steady me. He’s got dark blond hair, almost brown, and the best set of cheekbones I’ve ever seen on anyone who wasn’t a statue. Like all these dudes, he looks kind of like a romantic poet who decided to join a boy band, his eyes very green as they look down at me.
With . . . dislike?
Seriously, his upper lip is nearly curling, which is such a weird reaction that I step back.
He’s taller than Sherbet and Gilly, but not that much taller than me. Not that that’s stopping him from looking down his nose at me as he drops his hands from my arms. “All right, then?” he asks, his voice lower than the other boys’, but every bit as posh. Those syllables are clipped and crisp as he looks past me toward the window.
And then, suddenly, I realize why he looks familiar.
“Monaco!” I blurt out, and he blinks in confusion.
“No, Monters,” Gilly says, coming up to us and smacking a hand on the other guy’s shoulder. “Miles Montgomery, professional prat,” he says, but he’s grinning, and Miles doesn’t seem all that offended.
“She means that incident with Sebastian,” he says, and I am so embarrassed I feel like I have to be the same color as my hair.
“I did some research,” I say, which really only makes the whole thing worse, and Gilly snorts with amusement.
“God, if you were reading up on Seb’s foibles, I’m surprised you came here at all.”
But Monters is watching me with this unreadable expression. All the guys here are handsome, but this guy is particularly . . . interesting. All handsome face and good posture, his eyes a really pretty shade of green. Sherbet may be the marquess, but this guy seems more aristocratic than any of them.
Or maybe he’s just stuck up.
“Wasn’t aware tabloids counted as ‘research,’” Miles says, folding his arms over his chest, and okay, yeah, definitely stuck up.
I cross my own arms, mimicking his pose. “They’re actually all we’re given to read in America,” I say. “Tabloids for books, sad slices of cheese in plastic for lunch . . . It’s truly a godforsaken place.”
Gilly hoots at that, elbowing Miles in the ribs. “Blimey, she’s got your number, mate.”
Miles only gives me this look somewhere between a smirk and a grimace, and I’m tempted to ask what his problem is.
But before I can, Seb strides to the middle of the room, lifting a glass of champagne. “A toast!” he calls, and Sherbet approaches carrying several flutes of bubbly. I take a glass and thank him.
Ellie comes to stand right next to me, while Alex hangs back, still watching his brother with this wary expression, his head tilted down slightly.
“To Alex and Ellie,” Seb says, and the rest of us lift our glasses with him.
“To Alex and Ellie,” we repeat, and I take the tiniest sip of champagne. The bubbles tickle my nose, and I wrinkle it as I look for somewhere inconspicuous to stash the glass.
I’ve just turned toward a little table near the sofa when the front door opens with a crash.
“What in the hell is going on here?”
Or at least I think that’s what the man in the doorway says. His face is red, white hair jutting out from underneath a cap and a matching white beard reaching nearly to his sternum, and his accent is so thick that the words are mostly a series of rolls and grunts and a kind of spitting sound.
Still, there’s no mistaking the fact that he’s really pissed.
In the middle of the room, Seb just grins and wags a finger. “McDougal,” he says, his own Scottish accent musical but comprehensible. “You weren’t supposed to be here today.”
“What?” Ellie asks, looking between Seb and the man, and Alex steps forward, his shoulders tight. “Sebastian—” he starts.
The man—McDougal—is still talking, the words coming fast and furious, his cheeks scarlet above h
is white beard, and there’s a lot of pointing and possibly cursing, and while I have no idea what’s being said, it doesn’t seem all that friendly.
“Calm down, mate,” Stephen—Spiffy—says, throwing back his champagne. “It’s not like he’s not gonna pay for the place.”
Ellie’s head swings to the side to look at Seb. “Wait, what? I thought you said you bought this house.”
Sighing, Seb shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Well, I’m certainly going to,” he says. “If this gentleman will just be reasonable.”
“Um . . . are we . . . trespassing? Is that what’s happening right now?” I ask, glancing around the farmhouse.
Seb shoots a look at me and gives me an easy smile. “Of course not, love,” he says, and even though I might be an unwitting accomplice to a crime, I still feel my stomach flutter at that endearment.
“Ye damn sure are!” the man bellows, and okay, maybe I’m actually getting better at the accent because I understood him perfectly.
Sebastian is still all charm as he approaches McDougal, who is now incandescent with rage. I’m not sure how this went from “super-charming welcome party” to “property theft” in just a few minutes, but here we are, and I look up at that rude guy, Miles.
He’s still standing by the window, champagne undrunk, his expression somewhere between irritated and bored. Or maybe his face just always looks like that, hard to say.
“If you had accepted my offer last week, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Seb says to Mr. McDougal. Then he turns to look over his shoulder at Ellie and Alex.
“I found this place last time I went to Sherbourne, and the view was too good to pass up. But Mr. McDougal here wouldn’t sell, so . . .” He shrugs, and I glance over at Ellie, my eyebrows somewhere in my hairline, probably.
“Holy crap,” I say in a low voice, but she just hisses, “Not now, Daisy.”
“I’m not selling my house to ye, ye smug bastard,” McDougal says, poking Seb in the chest, “just because ye like the look a’tha land. Ye canna steal things just because ye take a fancy to ’em!”