by Lauren Royal
Or would she? He admittedly knew nothing of his parents’ financial arrangements. Upon his father’s death, he’d clearly failed in his duty as a son. And now it was too late.
He cursed himself roundly, if silently.
The mournful whine of the bagpipes rose again, and people began drifting out of the little cemetery. As he turned to leave, Kendra came around to face him and took both his hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He shrugged. “It’s not that I’ll miss her, precisely.”
“But you’ll miss what could have been.”
She was wise, his young wife. Her fingers tightened on his before she dropped his hands and turned to Niall. Without hesitation, Trick’s brother walked into her arms and stayed there, his shoulders hitching while she murmured words of comfort.
She was not only wise, but compassionate. She would make a good mother someday, Trick realized, then shook the stray thought from his head.
She would never get to be a mother at the rate they were going.
At long last Niall pulled away and gave Kendra a shaky smile. “Thank you.”
“I’m your sister now,” she said kindly. “And I’ll not leave you to bear it all on your own, Niall. Family should support each other through such grief, but with your father ill, and your sister and brother—” She broke off, flushing pink. “Anyway, I’m here for you.”
“I’m here for you, too,” Trick put in, surprised by how good it felt to say that. To be needed by someone. He hadn’t had that in eighteen years, and he’d never thought he’d have it again.
Despite all his father’s tales of his mother’s treason and treachery, he looked at the stoic backs of the people walking toward Duncraven and knew that once upon a time he’d felt happy in this place. Even living in that forbidding gray keep at the top of the hill.
And now here was a brother, needing him. And a wife, if only he could overcome the barriers between them.
Clouds were gathering again, and the air held that elusive scent that meant wet weather was on the way. He pulled the wool tartan around his shoulders as they began following the others.
“What happens now back at the castle?” Kendra asked.
“A draidgie,” Niall said. “Entertainment, dancing, drinking, eating. Some tears and some merriment.”
“More merriment?” She looked incredulous.
“To celebrate the life of the one who passed on. A time to wish the departed spirit a safe landing on the other side.”
She nodded, apparently accepting what Trick was coming to realize: Things were different here. Not bad or wrong, just different.
Still, they were both surprised at Niall’s next words to Trick.
“Are you ready for a good fight?”
FORTY
NIALL STOMPED into the great hall, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let loose a loud, piercing whistle that had every head snapping in his direction.
The jabbering tapered to an expectant silence.
He drew a deep breath and raised his voice. “It’s a sad day when my mother is put into the ground and not even one blow is struck at her funeral!” And without another word, he turned and slapped the nearest man.
Instantly, the chamber erupted in a free-for-all. Colorful tartans whirled in a blur. Food and drink went flying, trestle tables were overturned, and chairs were tossed aside.
Along with the other women, Kendra backed against a wall, not caring that it was rough and probably grungy. She clutched Mrs. Ross’s shawl to her chest, unable to believe her eyes. No fists were used, but the sounds of open-handed slaps rang in her ears as family and friends went at each other with enthusiasm.
She watched as Trick delivered a stinging slap to Duncan, who retaliated with a blow across the mouth that had her husband backhanding blood from his lips. But he flashed her a chipped-tooth grin, then pivoted on a heel and slapped a perfect stranger.
He looked to be enjoying himself immensely.
“Men,” she muttered under her breath.
The woman beside her shook her head, her gray-brown plaits swishing along with it. “I’ll never understand them.”
“You want mine?” another woman asked.
A good ten minutes passed before Niall decided enough violence had been done to pay the proper respect to his mother, and finally called for a truce.
Still grinning, Trick made his way over to Kendra. “Could you believe that?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“Me, neither. I’ve never seen anything like it. But it felt good, aye?” He paused for a satisfying breath. “I was angry. I’ve been angry since I got here. I didn’t want to come in the first place, then my mother was dead—”
“But you discovered a brother.”
He rolled right over that. “It felt good to whack some people. Cleansing.”
With a wry smile, she shook her head, and he smiled back, then winced and put a hand to his mouth.
“Are you hurting?” she asked.
“Not enough to care.” As if to prove it, he dragged her close and pressed his lips to hers. She tasted the faint coppery tang of blood, and then the distinctive, slightly sweet flavor she was learning to think of as Trick.
Though she felt conscious of people watching, she couldn’t stop her hands from going around him, sliding beneath his plaid to feel the planes of his back through his fine lawn shirt. Her fingers itched to touch his skin, but the shirt was tucked securely into his kilt. His kilt with nothing underneath.
The thought turned her legs to pudding, and she sagged in his arms.
“Is something amiss?” he asked with a grin, setting her away. Her plaited bun was beginning to unravel, and he tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
Kendra’s borrowed shawl had slipped from her shoulders to the floor. “Goodness.” She knelt to reclaim it, marveling that his knees looked as firm and golden and appealing as the rest of him. She surprised herself by sneaking a peek beneath the tartan on her way back up, but it was too dark under there to see anything. On this cloudy day, the dozens of candles in the chandeliers overhead were all but useless against Duncraven’s gloom.
Trick’s lips quirked as he watched her straighten. “I asked Niall what leannan means,” he said.
“And?”
“Sweetheart.” He rubbed a gentle thumb beneath her chin, then bent to brush a soft kiss across her lips. “It means sweetheart.”
Something fluttered inside her. “Leannan,” she whispered.
His expression suddenly sobered, as though he’d just remembered what had happened here today. He dropped his hand and smoothed down the front of his kilt. “Heart’s wounds, I’m tired.”
“You didn’t get any sleep.”
Her gaze followed his as he looked around the gathering. A few thoughtful souls were helping tidy the worst of the brawl’s aftermath, but most folk were back to eating and downing spirits. Their chatter seemed to grow louder in proportion to the drink they consumed.
“I think maybe I’ll lie down a spell,” he said.
“Shall I come with you?”
“Nay.” He scrubbed his palms over his face, avoiding her gaze. “I’m really tired.”
She tried to ignore the rush of disappointment. “Perhaps I’ll go sit with Hamish a while.”
“That would be kind. It’s a difficult day for him.”
He began to leave, but she snagged him by the sleeve. “It’s a difficult day for you, too, Trick.”
When he shrugged and pulled away, she let him go.
FORTY-ONE
“HOW IS HE doing, dearie?”
Startling from a doze when Hamish’s old friend Rhona came into the room, Kendra bolted upright on her chair. “He slept the whole hour I was here.” For the hundredth time since she’d entered the chamber, her gaze darted to the bed and she was relieved to see Hamish still breathing.
Rhona touched a hand to her shoulder. “I thank you for sitting with him. It was a welcome respite.”
“I can stay longer.”
“Nay, you run along now,” she said, settling to her embroidery. “Down at the draidgie, all the young people are telling ghost stories.”
Kendra slowly rose. “If you’re sure, then.” At Rhona’s nod, she slipped out the door and closed it quietly behind her.
She didn’t want to hear ghost stories—this bleak castle gave her shivers as it was. Deciding to check on her husband, she made her way up the dozens of winding stone stairs.
He wasn’t in their chamber.
Someone had made their bed after they’d left, and it was clearly undisturbed. He hadn’t come up to rest at all. Disappointed that he’d apparently fibbed to get away from her, she wandered to the room’s only window, deep in an alcove set into the wall. Resting her palms on the cold stone sill, she leaned out and looked up at the sky.
Gray, to match her mood. The clouds were moving swiftly; rain was on the way. A blackbird fluttered from the heavens and down to the garden below, spreading its wings to make a graceful landing on a stone bench.
Right next to a figure clad in a bright red kilt.
He was hunched over something in his lap. Something white. Paper. The man who’d told her he never wrote anything was outside scribbling up a storm.
She hurried downstairs, huffing and puffing by the time she reached the bottom, and headed for the door.
Niall caught her on her way out. “Why such a rush, lass? Is something amiss?”
“N-no.” Of course nothing was amiss—in the midst of catching her breath, Kendra wondered for a moment just exactly what she’d been rushing out to do. Yell at Trick for not taking a nap? Or for pouring his heart out on paper? He was a grown man, entitled to do as he pleased, especially on a disturbing day like this one.
She forced a smile for her brother-in-law. “Nothing is wrong. I thought I’d just go out and take some air.”
The bagpiper was warming up discordantly, and a fiddler was busy tuning. “The dancing is about to begin,” Niall told her.
She looked around, noticing the tables and chairs had been pushed against the walls. “There’s really going to be dancing?”
“Aye, there is. Mam would have expected us to celebrate her life rather than the death that ended it.” The musicians launched into a jaunty tune, and Niall made an incongruously solemn bow. “Are you dancin’?”
She could see that he was trying very hard to keep what he considered to be the proper draidgie outlook, although she was sure he ached deep inside. Her heart went out to him. No matter that dancing today seemed wrong to her, she dropped a curtsy and gave him the answer he was expecting.
“Are you asking?”
With a laugh that reminded her of Trick’s, he twirled her into the center of the room.
The dance was performed by four couples in a circle, and it took all of Kendra’s concentration to follow it. Halfway through the complicated pattern, she was already breathless and realized she had little time to think on her troubles, and neither did Niall.
Perhaps dancing on a day like this wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.
When the tune ended, he took her by the elbow to draw her from the floor. “My father wants to talk to you and your husband,” he said conversationally.
Surprised she hadn’t lost it, she resettled the shawl on her shoulders. “He’s sleeping.”
“Patrick?”
“No, Hamish. Trick is out in the garden.”
“Ah, then it was him you were rushing out to see.” The music started again, and couples began forming a double line down the middle of the chamber. “Why do you call him Trick?” Niall asked.
“A childhood name. His father called him that.”
“But Mam didn’t.” He sighed. “So much I don’t know about my brother.”
“He doesn’t know you, either. But he’d like to, I’m sure.”
He gave her a sad, gentle smile. “He won’t be staying long enough to get to know me.”
“Not this time. But he’ll be back. I’ll make certain of it.”
“Now, that I don’t doubt.” The laugh rang out again. “I saw you two kissing earlier, and I’d wager you could make him do anything.”
She felt her face heat. She’d never thought of herself as a girl who could persuade with kisses. With words, yes—having been raised a Chase, she could argue with the best of them. But she’d never been much of a flirt, let alone a seductress.
Pleased at the thought, she grinned. “Thank you for the dance, Niall.”
“My pleasure.” The second dance was ending, but another would start soon. “Will you do me the honor again?”
“Maybe later. I’ve a man to meet in the garden.” And hopefully persuade to open up to her…with kisses, if necessary.
FORTY-TWO
“TRICK.”
Her voice was gentle, but he startled anyway, quickly flipping the paper facedown on the bench beside him. He’d been so entrenched in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard her approach.
Her soft sigh belied her smile. “You shouldn’t chew on your quill.”
He swept it from his mouth. “I know,” he agreed shortly. Having never let anyone catch him writing, Trick felt sulky at being discovered. He told himself to stop acting childish and took a calming breath. “It’s how I chipped my tooth. What are you doing out here?”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Nothing.” Fiddling with the quill in his hands, he looked up at the sky. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Did you try to sleep?”
He was silent a few beats before dropping his gaze to meet hers. “Not really. I…I was writing.” Silly that it seemed hard to admit, but there was no point in lying, seeing as she’d found him in the act.
Her expression seemed wary, reserved; then her gaze went to his kilt. He bit back a smile as she met his eyes.
“May I read some of what you wrote?”
His hand moved protectively over the pages. “Why would you want to?”
“What you write is part of you, Trick.”
True, but not the best part. What spilled out onto paper was often the parts of himself he didn’t like.
“Is it poetry?” she asked.
“Aye. It’s just poetry. Pretty words that sound good together. Meaningless.”
“It wouldn’t be meaningless to me.”
Hurt dulled her eyes, and he looked away, wishing he had it in him to give her what she wanted. Rolling the sheets into a narrow tube, he tucked it into the pocketed front of his kilt. “Come, let’s walk. The garden is quite whimsical.”
He took her down a path where dozens of tiny model castles nestled in the shrubbery on either side. “The castle garden,” she said with a smile, brightening with a determination that didn’t fool him. “How very clever.”
“It was my mother’s doing. When I was a lad, she spent hours out here every summer. And when winter kept her inside, she designed and built the little castles. Sometimes she let me help.” Their footsteps crunched on the gravel path. “Of course, Father thought it was a waste of time.”
“What did he want her to be doing instead?”
“I don’t know.” He’d never wanted to know; not knowing had felt safer. “I never understood them or the way they were together.”
“Was he a difficult man to live with, your father?”
Difficult didn’t even begin to describe the late Duke of Amberley. “I cannot say what living with him was like for her, but for me, it was a nightmare.”
She slipped her hand into his. “He had high expectations for you, did he?”
“No. At least not in the way you’re thinking.” He felt as tired as he knew his voice sounded, drained and numb. “I was naught but a means to an end. A pawn in his game. It’s safer to send a child to do the dangerous work, you see. Nobody would expect a child to be smuggling goods in his clothing. Nor would they see a child alone on a hill with a lantern, night after long, cold night, and suspect he was there to signal in ships.”
“And worse.” His tone closed the subject. He hadn’t the energy—or the will—to go into more detail.
“What about when you were older?”
He stopped on the path. “Must we talk about this now?”
There was a long pause while she seemed to come to a decision. “No, of course not,” she said with a smile he suspected was forced. “Your mother’s castle garden is charming. It’s quite secluded back here, isn’t it?”
“Aye, it is that.” The trees made a leafy avenue, shielding them from prying eyes. “No one has ventured back here for an hour or more.”
“Hmm…” she said speculatively, the smile turning real.
“Hmm? What do you have in mind?”
“Only this.” And she backed him against a poplar, shooting up on her toes to crush her mouth to his.
After a stunned moment, he gathered her into his arms, letting her kiss comfort him the way words never could. She’d rejected him for so long that he found himself wallowing in her sudden acceptance. Her soft fragrance surrounded him, more potent than any whisky. Her fingers trailing over him were like a balm, soothing the jagged edges of his feelings and leaving a blissful warmth in their wake.
When her hand raked one of his draidgie bruises, he sucked in a breath. Blinking himself awake, he wound one hand into her hair and let his lips drift over her soft cheek, then her ear. “You’ve never kissed me first before, leannan. What’s got into you?”
Silent save for the uneven sound of her breathing, she pulled back and searched his eyes. The wind came up, sending the poplar’s white-bottomed leaves into a silvery dance, and she leaned back in his arms. “It’s this kilt, Trick. It drives me wild.”
He threw back his head and laughed, startling several blackbirds from their perches above. “I will have to ask Niall if I can keep it.”
She grinned. “The idea is not displeasing.”
The blissful warmth returned. And spread. No girl had ever told him he drove her wild.