An Allusive Love (A MacNaughton Castle Romance Book 2)

by Aubrey Wynne

  “I’ll keep my mouth shut if ye do the same,” warned Lachlan.

  Colin laughed. “I have no secrets. I’m a wee infatuated with Miss Rose. She’s a companion to the woman Lachlan lusts after.”

  “I—”

  Brodie interrupted his brother. “Wait, let’s go back to the angel story.”

  Mischief twinkled in Colin’s blue eyes as he smoothed back his raven hair, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. A sign he was warming up for a good tale. “Weel, Lachlan had given one of the chancers on the dock a Glasgow kiss. Had a real goose egg on the back of his head. Sorcha bandaged him up and ordered to him lie down.”

  Brodie settled into his chair, arms crossed and a huge grin on his face. “Of course, my brother insisted he was fine.” Sorcha’s brothers had a reputation for pummeling one and another. As the eldest sister of the family, she’d become proficient at mending bones and stitching up gashes. Now a plump middle-aged widow, she’d moved to Glasgow to work in the mill and was the first to be called for any injuries.

  “Of course. Sorcha warned him he could get woozy at any time, so he promised to go directly to the office and rest.” Colin winked. “The office is where Fenella, er, Miss Franklin works.”

  “I didna want to leave the mill. Kindly leave out yer opinions and recite the facts.” Lachlan scowled at his cousin.

  “On his way up the stairs, his head began to spin. One of the lads and Miss Franklin got him to a chair and called for Sorcha. By the saints…” Colin began to laugh, shaking his head as he remembered.

  “Go on,” urged Brodie, wondering at Lachlan’s red neck. “My brother is blushing.”

  “Miss Franklin began to sponge his face with cool water. Lachlan began mumbling, incoherent at first, but the smile on his face was easy to read. A mon only smiles like that when—”

  “Just finish the bloody story before Grandda comes in,” grumbled Lachlan.

  “So Sorcha is standing in front of Lachlan, and he mumbles ‘Come here’ and something else we couldna understand. Sorcha leans forward, and…” Colin laughs again, wiping at his eyes. “Lachlan says, ‘Come here my gooolden angel,’ and reaches his hands out to grab Sorcha’s chest.”

  Brodie let out a bellow. “What did she do?”

  “She grinned and told him to remember he’s a long time dead and—”

  “I didna touch them,” spluttered Lachlan. “I collected my wits.”

  Brodie hugged his stomach as he joined Colin, their guffaws echoing against the walls. Just as they caught their breath, Calum wandered in with a small barrel of ale.

  “Sounds like a good story.” He sat down next to Brodie.

  “For another time, Grandda,” pleaded Lachlan. He reached over and took the keg, filling his cup. “This is half empty.”

  “Aye, right,” Calum agreed and turned to Colin. “I’m ready to hear what happened to my grandson that day. Ye’re my brother’s son and my favorite nephew, so it’s best coming from ye than anyone else.”

  The smiles faded and the big man nodded. “It’s no’ pretty.”

  “Death never is,” agreed Calum.

  Brodie listened to Colin’s retelling of the events in Manchester, England. A peaceful congregation of citizens, an almost carnival-like atmosphere with thousands of men, women, and children waving banners. A band played as they waited to hear The Orator speak on the working man’s right to vote and fair representation.

  The cavalry of mostly local volunteers arrived. Townspeople waved and smiled, assuming they had been ordered to attend in case there was any mischief. But when Henry Hunt began to speak, the cavalry moved their horses into the swarm and drew their sabers. Terror had rippled through the packed mass of bodies. The soldiers had pushed the crowd from several sides, yelling to disperse, as they slashed their way to the platform. With nowhere for the people to escape, it had been a massacre.

  Ian and Colin had been in the middle of the throng, next to a woman and her baby. When a horse reared, its hoof kicking the child from its mother’s arms, Ian had thrown himself over the bairn. The steed had trampled him before Colin could push his way through the chaos. He had lifted Ian’s crumpled body over his head and plowed through the pandemonium. Brodie knew his cousin blamed himself. But his brother had been a grown man with his mind. No one was at fault except the cowardly mayor who had ordered the assault.

  After Colin had finished, they had sat in silence, each man wrapped in his own thoughts. Then Calum had opened a bottle of Ian’s favorite scotch. One memory led to another, and soon they were laughing and remembering how Ian had lived rather than how he died.

  “If there’s another world, he lives in bliss. If there is none, he made the best of this,” crooned Lachlan, his cup held high.

  Brodie stood, wobbling, but his feet planted firmly on the ground. He was certain of it, but he squinted at his shoes to make sure. Satisfied, he added, “To Ian!”

  “To Ian!” echoed Colin, towering above them.

  “Bring it down here, Cousin. If I try to reach ye, I could land on my arse,” slurred Lachlan.

  They raised their mugs, Colin lowered his, and they clanked, ale splashing over the sides. Calum looked at the spots that now speckled the Axminster carpet. “If Peigi sees that, we’re all dead men. And I’ll no’ take the blame.”

  “If Peigi sees ye with a drink in yer hand, ye’re a dead mon,” Colin said with a smirk. “She doesna believe ye choked on a wee piece of meat.”

  “It’s time for a tune.” Calum changed the subject. “Shall we keep with tradition?”

  “Strings or pipes?” asked Brodie. He and Lachlan both played the fiddle, but his brother had the better voice.

  Colin ran a hand through his black hair, smoothed his wrinkled shirt, and wiped droplets of ale from his dark kilt. “I’d be honored to play.” He proceeded to the corner of the room where he’d left his pipes the previous evening. “Brodie?” He held up the violin.

  “Aye.” Brodie smiled at his mother and grandmother as they entered the room.

  “Ye’re just in time,” declared Calum, swinging his arm and the mug of ale behind his back.

  “I think I’m a wee late.” Peigi inspected the state of her husband.

  “Ye’ve a suspicious mind, mo chridhe.”

  “Ye’re a sloppy sneak,” she said, her eyes fixed behind Calum.

  Brodie followed her gaze and saw the splashes of ale mysteriously falling from his grandfather’s back. He also recognized the gleam in his grandmother’s eye. She wouldn’t scold her husband this day.

  “We were about to sing ‘The Parting Glass’. Ye’ll no’ ask me to toast to Ian without a wee swallow.” He gave her his most charming smile. “Will ye?”

  “The Parting Glass” was a time-honored song at many funerals and always ended in a mandatory toast of whatever the dearly departed would have preferred. The first time Brodie heard it was at a great-uncle’s funeral when he’d been only six. It had been his first taste of whisky.

  “Shall we join them?” Glynnis asked Peigi.

  “They may need us to remember the words in their condition.”

  Lachlan poured six tumblers of Ian’s favorite scotch and arched an eyebrow at his mother.

  “Lissie is sleeping, and Brigid is in the stable.”

  “No, I’m no’, and yes, I’ll partake,” Brigid announced as she came to stand by her mother.

  Colin readied himself in front of the hearth. He adjusted the drone and tested the chanter with several practice blows. Taking in a deep breath, he filled the bags, and the first keening notes pierced the room. Brodie positioned the fiddle under his chin and laid the bow to the strings.

  Lachlan began the song, his voice deep and resonant. The familiar lyrics combined with his brother’s deep, resonant voice brought a smile to his face and tears to his eyes. He joined the next chorus.

  So fill to me the parting glass

  And drink a health whate’er befalls

  Then gently rise and soft
ly call

  Good night and joy to you all

  Of all the comrades that e’er I had

  They’re sorry for my going away

  And all the sweethearts that e’er I had

  They’d wish me one more day to stay

  Calum added his rich tenor and everyone but Colin sang along to the bittersweet melody.

  But since it fell into my lot

  That I should rise and you should not

  I’ll gently rise and softly call

  Good night and joy to you all

  Fill to me the parting glass

  And drink a health whate’er befalls

  Then gently rise and softly call

  Good night and joy to you all

  Brodie’s arm fell to his side, the bow sharp against his bare knee. The haunting notes of the pipes faded, and Colin set the instrument down. The misty-eyed group gave one another watery smiles and held up their glasses. “To Ian.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Bungled Betrothal

  Early September

  “It’s time to tell my family.” Brodie and Kirstine were in the pines, listening to the rush of the waterfall below. He wondered if they would still come here once they were married. “My aunt and cousin are coming from England. I want to make the announcement before they arrive.”

  “Are ye sure?” Kirstine asked.

  Brodie brushed a silky red lock from her cheek and replaced it with his lips. His self-control was waning. They lay beneath the pines in their usual spot. His finger made a lazy trail from her chin to the hollow of her throat. With a flick of his thumb, he pulled the tie of her shirt loose, then again and again.

  “Ye’ve been more than patient.” He breathed in the sweet scent of heather that lingered in her hair. The bodice fell away, and he easily pulled on the shift to free her breasts. A groan scratched at his throat. “For the love of saints, I need to get ye to the kirk.” The ache in his crotch was painful, and it wasn’t happening just when he was with her. Every morning, he woke with a raw throbbing, his dreams of her soft curves still lingering in the early dawn light.

  “How is yer—”

  Kirstine gasped as his mouth covered her nipple. He blew on it lightly and watched the pink bud pebble. His hand slid down her belly and under her skirt, his palm tickling the thick curls of her mound, his fingers parting her soft womanly petals. Bloody hell, she was hot and wet and inviting. He wanted to take her and the devil with a bed.

  “Brodie, let me love ye.”

  The huskiness of her tone spurred him on. He nipped and teased her other nipple to a point and slid his fingers inside her. Her hips rose to meet his thrusts, and she whimpered in anticipation. His thumb lightly rubbed her nub, then he bent his head and flicked it with his tongue.

  “What… oh God, oh Brodie!” She cried out as he sucked and licked at the delicate pearl, swollen and hard with his ministrations. Her body shuddered; her nails dug into his shoulders.

  Brodie eased himself next to her, withdrawing from her passage and kissing her mouth. He continued sliding his fingers between the sensitive flesh, wet from her spent desire, until her panting eased. “Ye’re so lovely when ye’re satisfied.”

  She smiled, eyes closed. “Will a bed change my body’s reaction to ye?”

  He laughed. “No, but it will ease my conscience.”

  Kirstine rolled over to her side and leaned her head on her fist, the other hand pulling his shirt from his kilt. “It’s my turn.”

  “Och, no, love. I—” Her slender fingers crept under his belt, shyly touching his member. He covered her hand with his and moved it in a slow circle. Just for a moment, he’d indulge her. Allow himself a brief instant of pleasure after weeks of restraint. And then he was lost.

  His thoughts scattered as her palm brushed over his sensitive tip. He stiffened; the pulsing forced his eyes closed, and his head fell back as he moaned her name. She chuckled softly and continued to lightly rub the head while his hips moved with her.

  “There’ll be consequences if ye dinna stop,” he said through gritted teeth but blew out a frustrated sigh when she obeyed.

  Kirstine chuckled softly and loosened his belt. Her hand gripped his shaft, sliding up and down in a slow rhythmic motion, mimicking the way he’d caressed her. His body betrayed him, refused to listen to his brain and stop her. As Brodie gave in to the passion, her timid movements became bolder, firmer; the swirl of pleasure in his belly churned into a squall of desire. When his manhood swelled, he thrust up into her grasp, hungry for fulfillment. Her strokes quickened with the first drops of his seed, sliding up and down his shaft until he let out a long, satisfying roar that echoed against the cliffs across the loch. His body shuddered as he struggled for breath, the climax leaving him weak and dazed.

  “I hope no one is nearby. Ye could wake the dead with that shout.” Kirstine giggled. Her warm breath tickled his ear.

  Without opening his eyes, he pulled her close. She snuggled against his chest, her head tucked under his chin.

  “That shout has been building for months. I couldna have been quiet if my life depended on it.” He ran a hand down her hips and cupped her bottom. “I think I need a wee nap.”

  Kirstine laughed and held up her hand, wiggling her fingers. “So much power in such a small appendage.”

  “Aye,” he said, grabbing her wrist, “and it’s brought down mightier men than me.”

  *

  Two weeks later

  Kirstine studied the pastry then gave her friend a dubious look. “Ye’re sure it’s safe?” Brigid had stopped by on her way to the MacDougals. Glynnis was now cooking for the two Liams and had sent her daughter with a basket.

  Brigid laughed. “I’ve no intention of eliminating my newfound sister. It’s the second time I’ve made them properly. So ye’re no’ an experiment.”

  She bit into the flaky crust, and the sweet berry filling coated her tongue. “It’s good,” she admitted. “But ye won yer wager with Brodie, why are ye back in the kitchen? Did yer mother sprinkle ye with faery dust while ye slept?”

  “Verra funny. My Aunt Maeve and cousin Gideon are arriving tomorrow, so I thought I’d try again.”

  Kirstine raised a doubtful eyebrow.

  Brigid let out a long dramatic breath. “I heard Ma talking last night. She wants to send me to Aunt Maeve’s in England for the next Season, as if we dinna have seasons here.”

  “Och, she means the marriage Season.” She took another nibble. “Merciful heavens, I canna imagine ye in London. From what I’ve read, it’s all proper conversation and remembering when to curtsy and who is a mister or lord or lady and such-and-such.”

  “Aye, so I ventured into the kitchen again and plan on flirting with MacDougal at the cèilidh. I hope it will be enough to change her mind. Ye’ll be there?”

  “Of course. Yer aunt hasna been home since she wed. I look forward to meeting her and yer cousin. Does Liam ken of yer plans of seduction? Ye may want to warn him. Or pick someone younger if ye’re to appear sincere.” Kirstine worried for her friend. She might have appeared tough and boyish on the outside, but inside, Brigid wanted love as much as the next woman.

  “When I find the right mon, I’ll ken it here.” Brigid patted her chest. “So far, he has no’ been in my line of vision.”

  “So ye believe in love at first?” asked Kirstine. This was a new side to her old friend.

  “I accept that it’s possible. Ye’ve loved Brodie since ye could remember. My mother and aunt both fell in love at the first meeting.” Brigid stood and brushed the crumbs from her skirt. “The problem is, I’ve already met everyone in the glen and Dunderave. And not even a flutter in my belly when I met MacDougal.”

  “Perhaps a trip over the border would be good for ye. Consider it an adventure.”

  Brigid snorted. “I’ve had enough adventure battling with Enid in the kitchen. But it was worth it. It got me the sister I’ve longed for.”

  Kirstine hugged Brigid at the door. “I
thought ye won a pony?”

  “Aye, for lasting a week in the dungeon. But for mastering a dish, I—” Brigid’s eyes grew wide, and she collected her basket from the table. “My, where did the day go? I must be off.”

  Suspicion clenched at Kirstine’s stomach. She grabbed her friend’s sleeve and held firm. “Brigid MacNaughton, ye’ll no’ leave until ye explain yerself.”

  “Weel,” she hedged, suddenly interested in a loose thread on her skirt. “I was truthful about the wager. At least the part I told ye about. It’s the portion I omitted.”

  “And?”

  “Weel, if I lost, I promised no’ to pester him about proposing, and I heeded yer request and kept my goading to a minimum.”

  “I appreciate that,” Kirstine agreed drily. “What about the pastry?”

  “Brodie added to the original bet and offered me a new saddle and bridle to go with the pony if I managed a tasty dish. When I wanted to substitute for something else, he agreed, assuming it was a different purchase.” Brigid scuffed the toe of her boat against the wood planks. “If I succeeded, he had to propose—sooner than later. And he did.”

  The two women glared at each other.

  “And I dinna care if ye’re upset because ye both love each other, and I have a sister now.” Brigid stuck her chin out and collected the basket.

  “Dinna count yer sisters before their wed,” Kirstine yelled after the retreating form. “He hasna got me to the kirk steps yet.”

  She clenched her fists and growled, which sent Charlie into a bout of howls. Scratching his ears, she wondered what to do with this new information. How could Brodie have kept this from her? Had he really proposed only because he’d lost a wager?

  Don’t be silly, her mind argued. No, she didn’t doubt his love. She did doubt his humility, though. The arrogant oaf. He had some explaining to do, and she would enjoy watching him squirm while he did so. Brigid wasn’t sure which was worse: Brodie’s wager or Brigid’s smugness that she was responsible for their betrothal.

  *

  Brodie was waiting for her at their usual place and time. She smiled sweetly and accepted his kiss. When he tried to pull her close, she ducked under his arm.