by Aubrey Wynne
“He rubs elbows with reformers and pushes for better wages and working conditions,” said Lissie quietly. “I’m afraid for him. The English parliament has little patience for radicals.”
“It’s about having a voice in Parliament. The Sassenach sit in London and decide our fate while we have no say.” Glynnis kept her eyes on her needlework. “Until the working class have a vote, the struggle will continue.”
“It’s a wee more complicated than that. When the lords do compromise with the merchant class, the factory owners neglect to share the profit. They refuse to increase wages or shorten the workday.” Lachlan shook his head. “Our mill is one of the few that pay our employees a fair wage. And we still get agitators on our dock, trying to stir unrest.”
“In the end, it will be the poor that take the brunt of any political agitation,” added Brodie. “But I worry for Ian too. He’s the gentle soul of our family but the champion of the undefended. He’ll no’ back down from a skirmish, especially if he’s passionate about the cause.”
“Send Colin with him to England,” suggested Brigid, curled up on the floor next to Brownie.
Glynnis nodded. “If anyone can keep him safe, it’s my colossal cousin.”
Colin also worked at MacNaughton Textile. The man was like a stone wall in a storm—heavily muscled, well over six feet tall, and immovable. Even Calum appeared average size when standing next to him. Colin was the kind of man Brodie would want at his back in a fight or on his team for tug-of-war.
“That’s no’ a bad idea. I heard the orator Henry Hunt will be in Manchester next month. He draws a big crowd.” Brodie agreed with the ideology of the rallies but knew how quickly a mob could turn ugly. “The city will be filled with reformers, some with their own agenda.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Brodie and Lachlan studied the chess board, Glynnis worked on her mending, and Brigid enjoyed a last night with Brownie.
“Do ye have to take yer dog?” she asked. “She’ll miss me.”
Lachlan laughed. “I’m no’ leaving her behind again. Ma said the entire glen could hear her howls when I left her last spring. It’s time ye stopped sharing my hound and had yer own.”
“It wasna a problem until ye decided to stay in Glasgow half yer days,” she pouted.
“I’m firm on this, little sister. My hound goes with me.”
Brownie’s tail thumped in agreement. She rose and stretched, her scraggly butt in the air, and padded over to Lachlan. He scratched the devoted head on his lap. “I’d say the lass is willing.”
“I concede,” Brigid said with a snort. “Grandda said I could have one from the next litter, but I’ll wait for one of Brownie’s pups.” She stood and joined her brothers, studying the chess pieces. “When ye’re chief, Lachlan, ye’ll have to take on a male.”
Lachlan grunted in response.
It was a MacNaughton tradition. Every chief had a male deerhound named Black Angus. It had begun during the ’45 revolt. Calum’s great-great-grandfather had owned a black and gray deerhound. It resembled the faery dog, Cù-Sìth, a huge dark beast with golden eyes. According to legend, it roamed the moors as a harbinger of death. The unlucky traveler who crossed its path was said to have two weeks to live.
The previous clan chief took advantage of the Highland lore. When the English came too close to the MacNaughton castle, he let loose his canine bodyguard, Black Angus. While no one knew for certain if any Sassenach died, no soldiers made it to the castle.
These days, the dog was more protection against unruly or drunken clan members.
“By the time Ian returns, Brodie should have a date set for his wedding.” Brigid smiled sweetly at her brother. “I can prod and push as much as I like, for a bargain is a bargain.”
“Aye, but ye still canna make a proper dish,” he groused.
“Yet,” she quipped. “There was no deadline set, so beware, oh brother mine, I’ve no’ yielded.”
“I dinna ken why ye procrastinate,” Glynnis said. “Ye love the lass, and she feels the same. Why wait?”
“Because he’s a mon with some pride and wants to decide himself when the time is right,” Lachlan said in defense of his brother.
“Finally! Someone understands me.”
The three women snorted in unison.
Chapter Twelve
Startling Twists and Succulent Turns
Mid-August 1819
Kirstine stretched out on the plaid and watched the falcon’s nest across the small loch. Charlie’s ears perked up at the bird’s shrill caw, and she scratched his neck. Her dark skirt swished as her feet jiggled. It was August and still no betrothal. Should she be worried? Her mother made that annoying tsk noise each time Kirstine returned from a tryst and shook her head.
“Ye’re lost in thought,” boomed a voice from above.
She grinned as Brodie settled beside her and motioned for Charlie to move away. The dog moved to a sunny cliff but stayed within sight of the couple. “I’m thinking of my true love and how slow he moves.”
“Dinna start haranguing me too.”
She flinched at his grumpy tone. “I meant ye’re late. And who stepped on yer toe?”
“Brigid.” He blew out a loud sigh. “I’m sorry, love. The females in my family badgered me all morning about marriage. I explain—for the hundredth time—it was our business and none of theirs. For the love of saints, we’ve the rest of the summer.”
She chewed on her lip and studied the falcon, sneaking a sideways glance at his handsome profile. “So, another month of courtship?”
“Are ye pressing me too?” His jaw clenched.
He was irritated. Over making a commitment to her. Heat rose up her neck, and she blinked back angry tears. “Never. I’ll no’ have a mon who doesna want me.”
Truth be told, she didn’t mind waiting. As long as she knew they would be together. Yet, her heart hurt every time he brushed off the subject. If he loved her, why did he wait? “I’ve allowed ye to touch in me ways only a husband would,” she whispered.
“Och, I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”
“Is that what ye call it?” she huffed. “And I’m harassed just as badly by my mother. She says ye’re leading me to the edge of a cliff, and I canna turn back and I canna jump.”
The back of his hand stroked her cheek, and she resisted the urge to lean into it.
“Kirsty, I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
Regret shone in his eyes as he bent to kiss her, his lips soft and persuasive. She opened to him and caught her breath when his tongue tangled with hers. His thumb rubbed a light circle just under her ear lobe, sending sweet, torturous tremors through her limbs. Without thinking, one hand curled around his neck. Kirstine could not refuse him. Her love was pure and her heart obstinate. Still, it galled her that she’d give in so easily.
“I’ve hurt yer feelings.” His breath was hot against her skin. “I’d rather cut off my own hand than hurt ye.”
She nodded against his chest. In her soul, she knew this. But her mother’s words of caution echoed in her head. A tear escaped. She clamped her lids shut, refusing to let any more leak out. Brodie brushed the lone drop away with a knuckle.
“Marry me, Kirsty. They’re right, I just hate being pushed. I love ye with all my soul, and there’s no one who would put up with me better.”
Breathe! It’s the moment ye’ve been waiting for ye all yer life.
She heard the soft chink of his sporran chain as he changed position. He picked up her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. “Be my wife, Kirsty MacDunn, and keep me honest with yer frankness and a horde of bairns.”
When Kirsty opened her eyes, he was on his knees. Sincerity glistened in his sapphire orbs. Her throat grew thick, emotion bubbling up, a tremulous smile curving her lips. Ye canna cry now, ye ninny, her brain scolded. Kiss him and say yes.
“Aye, Brodie MacNaughton, I’ll be yer wife and keep ye honest and give ye a castle full of bairns.” She th
rew her arms around his neck, laughing and crying.
He sat back and pulled her onto his lap. “My heart is lighter already. But dinna tell my mother or sister they ken better than me.”
He kissed her on the forehead, then as if he couldn’t bear to pull away, he peppered her face with his lips. He pressed her lids close, the tip of her nose, her chin, then claimed her mouth again.
Kirstine’s hands explored his hard chest, tracking the ridges of his stomach through his shirt. He sucked in his breath and she smiled against his mouth with her growing power over him. Over the past months, she’d learned what made the vein in his neck pound with desire, how to trace his spine or collarbone lightly with her fingertips.
She was betrothed. She was truly his. The notion made her bold, and she tugged his shirt free from the kilt and touched her palm to his warm, bare skin. She could feel his heartbeat. Her fingers slipped under the band of his kilt, stroked the wiry curls beneath. His manhood stiffened and pushed against her thigh.
“For the love of saints,” he rasped, “I’m only a mon. A mon who’s been denied for months.”
“I’m no’ denying ye,” she blurted.
In a blink, she was on her back, Brodie feathering kisses down her neck. Kirstine had dreamt of this moment; his tender gaze locked with hers, his mouth and hands strumming her like his favorite instrument. Her breasts were suddenly free, and she gasped as he took one pink tip, then the other, into his mouth. The flame in her belly grew with every swipe of his tongue, his teeth and mouth pulling, teasing the nipples into hard buds.
His palm cupped her mound, and even through the skirt, the pulse between her legs turned into a delicious ache. He pulled the light wool and shift to her thighs, one finger at a time, and slid his hand beneath the layers of material. His stroke was light against her soft inner thighs, and her breath hitched.
When his knuckle rubbed her slick heat, he found her nub and circled it with his thumb. The pounding of her heart reverberated through her core, heat enveloping her body. Her hips rose in answer to this new and intimate touch. A finger, then two, slid into her passage and began a seesaw of back and forth, creating a liquid heat with the sweet friction. Kirstine whimpered, and he kissed her, the sound locked between them. She clutched the plaid under her, fingertips digging into the wool and soft soil beneath while a merciless inferno raged through her. And she wanted more—something more. She locked her gaze with his, the turbulent blue orbs intent but smiling.
He nuzzled her neck. “Should I stop?” he murmured.
Kirstine shook her head.
Brodie’s weight shifted to her side, and his lips reclaimed her breasts. He sucked and nipped the swollen tips as his fingers continued their onslaught, slipping in… and out… in… and out of her quivering passage. She moved her hips in rhythm to his thrusts; his thumb caressed her nub in slow, deliberate circles until he coaxed it into a hard pearl.
Kirstine closed her eyes, another husky moan escaping her throat. Her hips jerked up, her breath quick and shallow as his hands and mouth brought her to the edge of heaven. Frustration and pleasure and satisfaction battled within her womanhood, finally coming together as she let out a keening sob. An intense pleasure stirred low in her mons and spread through her like a slow summer storm. It twisted and swelled until she thought she might die from the force of it.
“Brodie,” she gasped.
“Let go, love,” he whispered in her ear. “Give in to the blaze, let the passion take ye.”
Then his mouth was on hers, his tongue traced her lips, and Kirstine surrendered. Let the spiral of heat break into waves of ecstasy that rippled through every corner of her body. Her muscles spasmed around his fingers, and he plunged faster and faster until she arched and cried out his name.
Slowly, the fog lifted. She could hear the chirp of birds again, Brodie breathing, her own panting, and Charlie’s soft growl. Kirstine smiled.
“Ye’re so beautiful when ye’re in the throes of passion,” Brodie said, his tone husky as his eyes trailed up and down her body. His thumb moved lightly between her folds, and he smiled at the light tremors still shuddering through her at his touch.
She lay there panting, in a daze, wondering how her legs would ever hold her up again. Merciful heavens! Her limbs had grown heavy as tree trunks, and she could easily take a nap. The hound rumbled again. Shhhh, she soothed.
The idea came to her that they were not finished. Brodie had not entered her. Kirstine held up her arms. “Come inside me, Brodie.”
He shook his head. “I’ll no’ take yer virginity here under the pines. It will be a proper ravaging in a bed.” He eased down next to her, elbow to the ground, head resting on his palm.
“So this was not a ravaging?” She wondered what could possibly be better.
“This was just a taste, love. There’s so much more to come.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand and leaned down to kiss her. “I’m of the opinion we should jump the broom sooner than later.”
Kirstine sighed, her fingers still trembling as she pushed a thick lock of midnight hair from his forehead. “Whatever ye say, Brodie.”
“Weel, I always said a satiated female is a compliant female.”
“I think ye’re right.” Could she make his insides quake? Make him cry out her name? “How do I return the favor?”
“A lesson for another day, my voracious lass.” He stood and held out his hand to help her up, tugging her snugly against him. His need was evident and rigid against her belly. If he let go at that moment, she would drop to the ground in a heap.
She slapped his shoulder and wriggled her hips against him. “Voracious?”
He growled at her frisky squirming. “Aye, and I hope it never changes.”
“She’s fine, Charlie, I dinna hurt her,” Brodie called to the deerhound, who responded with a bark. “Next time, perhaps ye should leave him back. It’s a wee strange to have a set of eyes on ye when ye’re…”
He kissed her soundly and collected the plaid. Kirstine imagined them folding a blanket in their own cottage, laying it across their own bed.
She giggled and sprang up on her tiptoes to kiss him, clutching the soft wool between them. “I love ye, Brodie MacNaughton, more than life itself. Ye’ve made me the happiest woman in Scotland.”
“Och, no’ the happiest woman in the world?”
Kirstine rolled her eyes. “Will ye never be satisfied?”
“Aye, lass.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I plan on being satisfied soon and verra often.”
*
Kirsty willed her legs not to run. He’d watch her leave, wait until she disappeared over the next hill. Her heart was close to bursting and she couldn’t wait to tell her mother. As soon as she and Charlie were out of sight, she picked up her skirts and flew the rest of the way home.
“He’s done it!” She flung open the heavy door. Her mother looked up from the bowl and pestle and paused her work. The scent of lavender filled the room. It helped to calm Kirstine’s racing pulse. “I’m betrothed.”
She fell into the chair, panting.
“I dinna believe it.” Her mother rose to hug her daughter. “The mon does have some sense. Is he off to tell his family?”
Kirstine nodded. “He says he prefers to be wed sooner than later.” She blushed at the memory that had caused the statement.
“Judging from the color of yer face, that would be the wisest course.” Ma sat again and picked up her pestle. “He’s no’ had his—”
“No, he’s been verra gallant and wants to wait for a proper bed.” The heat increased, spreading down her neck.
“That’s good to hear, I suppose. Have ye made any other plans?”
“Och, I was so happy, I just wanted to rush home and tell ye.”
Her mother seemed pleased by that admission. “I would say three or four weeks would give us enough time for a trip to Glasgow or Edinburgh. We’ll need to make ye a new dress for the ceremony and decide what ye will take with ye.”
“I’ll be living in the castle,” she murmured. “I’ve dreamt about that since I was ten.” They both laughed.
“Weel, ye willna dream about it anymore. I’m happy for ye, my sweet. Verra happy for ye.” She pushed the bowl and dried lavender toward Kirstine. “Now, while ye’re still a poor, unmarried lass, I’ll ask for yer help.”
With a distracted sigh, Kirstine began crushing the fragrant leaves. Her body still hummed and tingled from Brodie’s touch.
This was just a taste, love. There’s so much more to come.
Never had she been so eager for the future.
*
Brodie took the narrow, winding steps two at a time. His boots thudded softly on the worn stone as he emerged onto the first landing. Voices drifted from the dining hall and wiped the silly grin from his face before he entered.
His grandparents, mother, and Lissie sat at the long table. All four wore a look of misgiving.
“What’s with the long faces? I’ve no’ seen so many unhappy faces since Brigid was in the kitchen.” He paused, seeing his grandfather cringe. “No, tell me she’s not at it again.”
Peigi nodded. “She’s determined to make a good dish. It’s that competitive nature ye both inherited from yer grandfather.”
“Me? Ye’ve no’ played chess with me since ye barely won the last time. Afraid of losing and ye canna tell me any different,” huffed Calum, then waved at Brodie. “Sit down and take yer punishment. I hear her coming.”
Brigid emerged from the staircase with a tray of tarts. To Brodie’s surprise, they were golden brown, several with minced apples oozing from the edges.
“It smells mouth-watering,” ventured Glynnis.
“And flaky,” added Lissie.
She carefully set down the tray and watched each family member gingerly choose a pastry. Brigid stood between Brodie and Calum, her hands twisting, her teeth gnawing on her lower lip.
Calum sniffed the warm shell and tentatively licked the warm spicy center oozing out. His blue eyes lit up with wonder. “The apples are verra tasty,” he exclaimed before sinking his teeth into the crust. “Mmm.”