the Frenchman proclaimed, kissing his bunched fingers. Morgan trembled and snorted like a prize stallion about to bolt as the tiny tailor minced around him, pausing only to prod the muscled planes of his abdomen. Pugsley roused himself from his contented stupor to growl low in his throat at the tailor’s daring. The little man leered at Morgan. “Quelle bête jolie!” “What did he say,” Morgan demanded, glowering at Dougal. “Should I kill him?” “He said you were a pretty beast, and I’d rather you didn’t,” Dougal replied dryly from his seat by the window. “At least not until after he bills us for his services. I’ve heard they’re dreadfully overpriced.” Ranald kissed his bunched fingers and blew Morgan a mocking kiss. “Don’t be so hard on the wee feller, Morgan. I do believe he’s taken a fancy to ye.” Within the space of a week, the Cameron solar had been transformed into a tailor’s shop. Bolts of broadcloth and silk covered every available surface. A tailor’s dummy watched the proceedings with faceless amusement.
