by Aubrey Wynne
An Allusive Love
A MacNaughton Castle Romance
Book Two
By
Aubrey Wynne
© Copyright 2020 by Aubrey Wynne
Text by Aubrey Wynne
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
[email protected]
Produced in the United States of America
First Edition September 2020
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
License Notes:
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Aubrey Wynne
A MacNaughton Castle Romance
Deception and Desire (Book 1)
An Allusive Love (Book 2)
A Bonny Pretender (Book 3)
A Merry MacNaughton Mishap (Novella)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Aubrey Wynne
Prologue: A Lass in Love
Chapter One: A Twist in the Road
Chapter Two: Altering Aspirations
Chapter Three: Fire, Ire, and Passion
Chapter Four: Pleas and Promises
Chapter Five: Candor and Kisses
Chapter Six: Budding Bliss or Fickle Fervor
Chapter Seven: Revelations and Romance
Chapter Eight: The Courtship Commences
Chapter Nine: Feed a Fever, Stoke a Scot
Chapter Ten: Tit For Tat
Chapter Eleven: Teasing, Taunts, and Troths
Chapter Twelve: Startling Twists and Succulent Turns
Chapter Thirteen: The Parting Glass
Chapter Fourteen: A Bungled Betrothal
Chapter Fifteen: Sorry Is As Sorry Does
Chapter Sixteen: Untimely Impediments
Chapter Seventeen: Love Held Hostage
Epilogue: The Allusiveness of Love
About the Author
Prologue
A Lass in Love
Late Summer 1810
MacNaughton Castle
“What do ye mean she canna be my best friend?” shouted Brodie MacNaughton from the clifftop. “I thought ye were fond of Kirstine?”
His eyes focused on the kaleidoscope of color below as a waterfall tumbled into the clear blue loch. “MacNaughton blue,” others had nicknamed the shade, after the clan’s dominant eye color. The late afternoon sun peeked out from behind a cloud and created a rainbow from the cascade of sparkling drops.
“She’s a lass, ye eejit.” His older brother, Ian, climbed up the rock and slapped him lightly on the side of the head.
“Then why do ye claim that Lissie is yers?” He clenched his fists, tired of arguing with his smug brother. It wasn’t in his nature to be on the offensive, but this point rankled him for some unknown reason.
“Because we’re betrothed by our clans and bonded by our souls,” Ian explained in a slow, patient manner that made Brodie want to thump him. “She’s different, ye ken, she’ll be my wife someday. Do ye plan to marry Kirstine?”
Brodie’s jaw clamped tight. The rare tick of frustration surprised him. “For the love of saints, I’m no’ thinking of marriage at all.”
“Ye’ll be ten and four soon. And yer eyes are already rove over the lasses. I saw ye spy the bonny redhead when we were in Glasgow.” Ian chortled, a smug laugh that poked at Brodie’s anger again.
“What does that have to do with Kirsty being my best friend?”
“There’ll come a time when ye have to decide on a wife. Ye canna be betrothed to one and keep the other as yer confidante.” Ian began the climb down the side of the hill. “Are ye coming or no’?”
“Aye,” he said as he followed his brother sideways down the hill, grabbing at an occasional boulder or bush to keep his balance. “Ye say a wife willna appreciate my friendship with Kirstine?”
“Now ye’re catching on, ye dunderhead,” agreed Ian. He jumped the last few feet and pulled off his shirt, shoes, stockings and finally his kilt. Laying them all on a boulder, he climbed on top of it and pumped his fist in the air. “It’s a braw day for a swim.”
Brodie laughed as Ian yelled the MacNaughton war cry and jumped into the loch, his bare buttocks pale against the sun.
“Weel, a woman who canna accept Kirsty will never meet me at the church door.” He copied Ian, but just as he was about to jump, he paused and peered over his shoulder. With a smile, he winked at a copse of trees. “Fraoch Eilean!” Brodie shouted to the echoing pines as he joined his brother in the cool water.
*
Kirstine watched from their secret place in the woods. The pungent odor of pine, decayed wood, and leaves filled her nostrils as she brushed bits of dirt from her damp skirt. She’d been collecting herbs for her mother and heard the boys’ conversation. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, had intended to join them, in fact, until she heard her name. Instead, she crept to the place where they always met. Brodie’s meditating spot. There was a plaid tucked in the branch above her, wrapped in oilskin. They often sat on it, eating a cold pasty, while Kirstine listened to Brodie’s latest woes or comical stories.
Now she listened to him argue with his older brother. Ian was both right and wrong. They were the best of friends. Aye, and so much more, her heart whispered. Someday, the big oaf would see it. She swiped at the tear, then smiled. Brodie sensed her as he always did. He looked in her direction—his young stocky body already muscular from physical labor and hard play, his firm white cheeks bare and flexing—and winked at her. Her breath caught before a giggle bubbled up her throat.
She watched his wet, black hair catch the sunlight, streaks of blue rippling through the thick locks as he came to the surface and pushed it back from his
face with both hands. She sighed. Her body was changing, and with it, her feelings for Brodie grew stronger. Emotions wreaked havoc on her mind, especially during her menses. When he touched her, leaned over her, or gave her a wink, her stomach tumbled. Her heart raced when he looked over her shoulder, his breath warm on her ear. Ma called it a sure sign she was smitten.
Kirstine knew better. This was no infatuation. At the age of thirteen, she was undeniably in love with Brodie. But he was in love with life and everyone in it. A favorite within his family and the neighboring clans. She realized she’d always have to share when it came to Brodie, his affections, his time. That was one of the things she loved about him. His exuberance, his excitement, his ability to pull her along on his grand adventures.
He had a new pet in the stable every spring, could never decide on a pup from his grandfather’s deerhound litters, and always changed his mind about his favorite food.
“He’s as fickle as the Highland weather,” her mother had warned. “He’ll break a score of hearts before he learns the pain himself.”
Kirstine didn’t see him as inconstant, but rather so full of energy and affection that his mind never quit whirling. He hated to sit and be idle. He was loyal—to the clan, to her, and to his own principles. If Brodie made a promise, he kept it. How could that be fickle?
Besides, his whims always passed, and then he came back to her. It was Kirstine he sought when he needed to work something through, or rant about his brothers or sister, or wonder about the ways of the world. It was Kirstine who comforted him when the rare disappointment dulled his enthusiasm. She was his constant, the shoulder he leaned on. Patience would be the key to his love. He would come to her eventually, as a man comes to a woman, and she would be waiting.
For life without Brodie MacNaughton was unthinkable.
Chapter One
A Twist in the Road
Late April 1819
Scottish Highlands
Scratching at his chest, Brodie poked his face under his plaid and inhaled. His nose wrinkled. He needed a bath. Desperately. He’d report to his grandfather, the MacNaughton, then find Kirstine. He’d had a conversation with his oldest brother, Lachlan, about the future clan chief. They had a plan, and he needed to think it through aloud with Kirsty.
As he emerged from a copse of trees, a movement to his right caught his eye. A long slope of spring grass gave way to another path that led to the village of Dunderave. He pulled up his horse and leaned over its neck to get a better look below.
A flash of red and blue jumped into his vision, disappeared, followed by a screech and the clip clop of horse hooves. Brodie nudged the gelding’s sides with his heels and guided it down the hill. He came across a basket, partially filled with plants, then a wool shawl in the MacDunn tartan. At the bottom, in a shallow gully, lay a tangle of skirts and plaid, and a cursing girl. A dapple-gray pony stood on the other side of the path, sedately munching on grass.
“Weel, what do we have here?” Brodie grinned. “Are ye in need of some help, my bonny lass, or just need a wee rest?”
Kirstine pushed up on her elbows, kicked at her skirts, and righted her plaid. Somewhat. She blew the deep red locks from her eyes and squinted up at him. “Look who has come home. My brawny Brodie to the rescue.” She smiled, dark eyes lit with pleasure as she held out a hand.
He slid from the saddle, then grasped her fingers, and pulled her to her feet. “The pony doesna like ye?”
“He’s young and still a wee green. A hare dashed out in front of him, and he spooked.” She brushed off her backside, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I was daydreaming instead of paying attention. On yer way home, then?”
He nodded and bent to help her collect the herbs that had spilled from her basket. Kirstine’s mother was the clan’s healer and sent her daughter out regularly to replenish medicinal supplies.
“What were ye dreaming about?” He retrieved the shawl that had been draped over her hair.
“None of yer business,” she replied with a smirk, then picked up her skirt and ran when he raised a bushy black brow.
Brodie caught her easily by the waist and tickled her belly as she doubled over and squealed in mock protest. She wriggled against him, and the movement startled him when a familiar pounding began low in his belly. Often a result of close contact with other women. Never Kirsty. His muscles grew taut as his brain comprehended his body’s reaction to his best friend.
When her elbow drove into his gut, his breath came out in an oomph, and he let go.
They faced one another, hands on their knees, and he blinked at the warmth that rushed through him. A smile curved her pink lips. His eyes travelled from her mouth to her neckline, her breasts rising and falling as she took in deep gulps of air.
He swallowed.
Something odd stirred inside Brodie as he tried to fathom what had changed. Her eyes still reminded him of a dark cup of coffee. Her thick, cherry waves fell across her shoulders; threads of deep red tipped with gold glistened and shimmered as her body dragged in another breath. He reached out and slid a silky strand between his fingers. Her plump lips were parted, and he bent forward to ki—
Kirstine froze, her eyes wide.
He dropped the lock of hair. Their gazes locked. “For the love of saints,” he whispered. “When did ye become so lovely?”
Then the pony let out a whinny. She ducked her head and ran under his arm to collect the horse. Brodie followed behind her with the basket. Out of habit, he cupped his hands and squatted slightly to give her a leg onto the pony. A glimpse of her slender ankle and firm, stockinged calf sent a rush of heat through him.
“I need to talk to ye later.” His hand rested behind her on the blanket; his fingers absently brushed the small of her back. “Lachlan and I met up at the Thistle Inn and had a conversation about the future.”
She laid the basket on the crook of her arm and clucked to the horse. “Ye ken where to find me. I’ll be waiting as always,” she called over her shoulder.
Brodie watched her ride away. What the devil just happened? He’d been gone less than two months, and suddenly his fiddle had decided Kirsty was an attractive female. Of course, she was, but… he scowled at her retreating figure. He hadn’t eaten much. Maybe he was just lightheaded.
“Aye, that’s it. I need sustenance,” he declared to his horse as he mounted. Without another thought to the incident, he sent the gelding into an easy canter.
*
He paused at the bottom of the lane and let out a satisfied sigh. Home. The aging castle, with its ancient round tower and square addition, had belonged to the MacNaughtons for centuries. The drafty medieval structure would continue to be the seat of their clan for generations to come—if his grandfather Calum had anything to say about it. And the man always had something to say.
A Scottish deerhound loped up from the stable. With a howl, it announced Brodie’s arrival. His grandparents emerged from the castle, Calum in his traditional belted plaid, squinting down at him, and Peigi wrapped in a shawl, waving enthusiastically. Black Angus’s long shaggy tail wagged a welcome as he took his place next to his master on the cobblestone. Calum dropped a hand to scratch the wiry, dark-gray coat.
“I didna expect to see ye until next week.” His grandfather’s broad chest expanded as he yelled, “I hope it’s no’ bad news.”
Brodie shook his head. A young stable lad with red curls came ran up to take his horse. “Ye’ll be pleased, Grandda.” Dismounting, he tossed the rein to the boy and ambled to his grandmother for a hug. “Miss me?”
Peigi nodded and poked at the faded red curls that had escaped her kertch. “Like I’d miss fresh butter on a warm biscuit.” Her green eyes slanted as she took him in. “Ye need a good meal. Ye’ve lost weight.”
Calum laughed. “The lad’s been home but a moment, and ye want to feed him already.”
“It’s better than whisky on an empty belly.” She wagged a finger at her giant of a husband. “No drinking unti
l he’s eaten something. It’s barely afternoon, and I’d wager he missed breakfast.”
Brodie gave her a loud kiss on each cheek and turned to his grandfather, arms held out, wiggling his brows. “Grandda?”
“Dinna even consider it, lad.” But he wrapped his arms around Brodie anyway and thumped him on the back.
He was considered a younger, shorter version of his grandfather. Now, Brodie noticed a bit more gray in the older man’s black hair, a few more creases on his face and neck, but those deep blue eyes never faded. In fact, they studied him keenly. “We’ll talk while ye fill yer belly, then we’ll have a wee swallow and welcome ye home properly.”
The threesome entered the castle, and the aroma of dried sage and fresh bread tickled his nose. His stomach rumbled again. To the right was a huge receiving room, still retaining the same ambiance it had before the Risings. The stone walls were covered in tapestries and banners of the MacNaughtons and those clans who pledged fealty to them. A huge fireplace took up half of one wall and large carpets scattered the floor. The stories above held a dining room and great hall for entertaining.
To the left was the tower. It held the family’s private quarters. They climbed the narrow, dim stairway and entered the smaller family dining area. Here, the décor changed to quiet elegance and comfort. The walls were polished panels of light oak, and a long walnut table with intricately carved chairs took up the center of the room. Over the stone and marble hearth, his great-grandfather and faithful deerhound glowered at them from a heavy gilded frame. Brodie had hated that portrait as a boy; those sapphire blue eyes seemed to follow him about the room.
Cheese and breads were already set out. Calum poured them both some ale and pushed the plate of cold meat toward his grandson. “The cheese is especially good,” he commented as Brodie scooped butter onto a scone.
“I’ll try that next,” he said around a mouthful. “I’ve only had a couple stale oatcakes since early this morning.” He took a pull of the ale and smacked his lips. “Where’s Ma?”