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Griffin vowed, no matter what the future brought, he’d be a good steward of this land and these people.

His family.

“What are ye frowning about?”

Thorne’s question jerked Griffin’s attention back to the here-and-now, and he glanced at the nattily dressed man lounging nearby. “What?”

“I mean, I ken ye’re grumpy, but why now? Ye’re about to be married, man!”

Felicity had turned down the offer to be married in the chapel, instead suggesting—uncharacteristically shy—that her family might prefer something less formal. So Griffin was waiting by the hearth in the Blue Room, the parlor where they’d first met Duncan and accelerated their journey of lies.

And Bull was standing at his side.

It had meant a lot to Griffin when his new son had agreed to be his witness. Of course, the conversation had been gruff and awkward, until Bull had realized what he’d been asking and made it easier on him.

And then Thorne had conveniently shown up yesterday evening and Bull suggested he stand on Griffin’s other side, and there’d been much winking and carrying on. No one admitting to inviting Thorne, but the man had insisted he deserved the right to attend the wedding, considering it was his orders which “brought the happy couple together”.

Bull and Thorne, with their perfectly fitted suits and wildly embroidered waistcoats and shiny shoes and easy smiles…they deserved one another.

Was it any reason Griffin was frowning?

Bull nudged him. “Yer pleats are popping.”

“What?” Griffin glanced over to see his almost-step-son smirking.

“Yer pleats.” The lad dropped his gaze significantly to what would be the front of Griffin’s trouser region, were he wearing trousers, then away. “I told ye how important it was to keep the lines straight, aye? When ye wear a kilt, the folds have to lay just so. Ye’re…messing them up.”

Griffin had no idea what he meant, until Thorne leaned in and said cheerfully, “He’s saying yer cockstand is popping yer pleats.”

Jesus Christ. “I dinnae have a cockstand.” He’d been thinking about Bull, for fook’s sake, not Felicity.

Thorne winked. “Aye, I ken it. Just teasing ye.”

“Well, shut up. Flick would be irritated if I broke yer nose on our wedding day.”

“Just trying to pass the time.” Thorne straightened, not at all repentant. “Ye should’ve allowed me to hire that bagpiper. At least we could be entertained.”

“Or I could play the piano,” Bull offered cheekily.

“Or ye could both shut yer gobs and focus on this holy occasion,” snapped Griffin loudly.

The priest cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Look, Father, since it seems we’ve got a bit of time, why no’ go visit with Mr. Armstrong and his nephew?” Thorne said pointedly, nodding across the room. “I heard His Grace is in need of new charities to donate to.”

As the priest scurried off, Griffin growled, “Is that true?”

Thorne shrugged. “Who cares? I ken Effinghell has more money than Midas, but he’s picky about how he invests.”

“Who’s Midas?” asked Bull under his breath.

“Ask yer brother,” Griffin replied, at the same time Thorne quipped, “Some guy who was verra rich.”

Ian was sitting in his bath chair and beside him stood a veritable giant of a man, dressed in somber black, his expression blank as he listened to the priest natter on. Occasionally he nodded or shook his head, but he said nothing.

Ian drew the priest’s attention as he began to speak, presumably answering for his nephew, and the silent man just watched.

The Duke of Effinghell, Ian Armstrong’s nephew, was—Griffin could admit—more than a little menacing. Creepy, almost, in his refusal to speak. They’d met shortly after Ian was wounded, when Effinghell arrived at Peasgoode with his mother in tow, so she could fuss over her brother. Ian had put up with it good-naturedly, but Effinghell had been stoic throughout.