The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

“But I want to take her to your keep,” Cambel said.

  Cristy arched a brow. “Now, Cambel, I told ye before—”

  “Is that what ye intended?” Brochan said between clenched teeth. “Were ye goin’ to reive my coo and my sons?”

  Her jaw dropped. She stopped in her tracks, halting the two lads and the cow. Then she craned her head toward him. “How could ye think that?”

  The dark fire in his eyes told her exactly how he could think that. He saw her only as a cattle reiver, a lass who’d attacked him with a sword and might be a threat to his sons, a lass who someone had given a black eye, and who probably deserved it.

  The hurt she felt was unexpected. Normally, her skin was as thick as chain mail. It had to be. If she showed a hint of weakness, her cousins would swoop down on her like a hawk on a mouse. But to her horror, the accusation and condemnation in Brochan’s gaze made her eyes well with moisture.

  She tried to transform the hurt to anger, but her voice broke when she spoke. “I gave ye my word.”

  “Your word? The word of a…” He left the sentence unfinished, apparently not wishing to berate her in front of his sons. Then he looked away. His mouth was working as if he battled with his emotions.

  Cristy steeled her chin, trying to still its trembling. She’d been so happy a moment ago, carefree and content, holding hands with two endearing children, playing in the sunshine, teaching them a useful skill.

  Now she was good-for-naught Cristy the reiver again.

  Colin and Cambel peered up at her. Colin spoke. “Are ye all right, m’lady?”

  Cristy choked back the pain. Somehow she managed to nod. At least someone believed her. At least someone thought she was worthy of trust.

  “We’re all goin’ back to the byre,” Brochan proclaimed, his voice gruff. “There’s to be no more reivin’ o’ cattle today.”

  “Och, Da,” Cambel complained. “M’lady said we’re good at it.”

  Brochan made a strangling sound deep in his throat.

  “And Eufemie doesn’t mind,” Colin said.

  “No more reivin’,” Brochan insisted. “Ye lads know better.”

  Colin sighed. “I’m sorry, Da.”

  “I’m sorry, Da,” echoed Cambel.

  No one spoke on the way. The lads were still holding her hands when they reached the byre. And by then, Cristy’s armor was back in place.

  “Ye lads take the milk in to the house,” Brochan said. “I need to speak with Miss Moffat alone.”

  Cristy’s breath caught. She didn’t want to let go of the lads. She knew once they were gone, Brochan would feel free to unleash his anger on her.

  But if they disobeyed him, that anger might be unleashed on his sons.

  Cristy could deal with a man’s rage. She’d had plenty of practice. But she feared the lads didn’t have such strong armor. So she gave them a forced smile of reassurance and reluctantly released them.

  As soon as the twins were well on their way to the tower and out of hearing, Brochan turned on her. “What the devil were ye thinkin’, endangerin’ my sons like that?”

  “They weren’t in any danger.”

  “The hell they weren’t.” He started pacing. “There’s a bull out there and coos with young. Do ye know what they’d do if they felt threatened?”

  “Aye, o’ course.”

  “Aye? Then why would ye take my lads out there?”

  “God’s bones! Do ye think I don’t know cattle? I’ve been around them my whole life. I know how to stay out o’ harm’s way.” Miffed, she added pointedly, “At least from coos.”

  Brochan stopped in front of her, and for an instant, she cursed her own waspish tongue, wondering if he would clout her after all. He might have told his sons that it wasn’t right to hit a lady. But they weren’t here to see him now.

  Besides, it was obvious he didn’t think she was a lady, not really.

  He didn’t hit her, but he did curse. “Shite. Teachin’ my sons to be outlaws.”

  She creased her brow. Was that what he thought? No wonder he was angry. “What? I wasn’t teachin’ them to be outlaws.”

  “They were reivin’ a bloody coo.”

  “’Twas their own bloody coo. They weren’t reivin’ her.”

  He let out an exasperated sigh. “’Twas Colin who put ye up to it, wasn’t it? He wanted to know how to reive cattle.”

  Cristy stiffened. She wasn’t about to let sweet wee Colin take the blame for it, even if that had been the lad’s idea.

  “’Twasn’t his fault. ‘Twas my idea. And I wasn’t actually teachin’ him how to reive cattle, only how to herd them.” That much was true. Learning how to separate a single cow from the rest was a useful skill. “Don’t hurt the lad.”

  “Hurt him?” He pulled away, aghast. “Ye think I would hurt Colin? My own flesh and blood?”

  Cristy bit her lip and looked at him uncertainly. She was Douglas Moffatt’s own flesh and blood, and it didn’t stop him from hurting her.

  Brochan searched her face, shaking his head as if he were trying to figure out the strange workings of her mind. Then he reached out toward her hair.

  Out of instinct, she flinched away.

  Too late, she realized he didn’t mean to clout her.

  “Och, lass,” he said in disbelief, his hand still raised, “are ye afraid o’ me?”

  She lifted her chin, putting on a brave face. “Nay.”

  But he didn’t believe the lie. And the fact that he’d scared her made him look utterly crestfallen, so much like his wee sons that it squeezed her heart.

  “Well,” she amended, “ye are very angry.”

  He lowered his hand and stared down at his feet for a moment. “I am angry.” Then he scoffed at himself. “I was angry.” He lifted his head and locked gazes with her. His eyes were earnest and impassioned. “But I’ve never raised a hand in anger to my sons. And I would never, ever hurt a lady.”

  She gulped. Somehow in her heart she knew that. It was only habit that had made her duck away. Brochan was not at all like her kin. He was kind and noble and just.

  He approached her again, this time with caution, as if she were a wild cat. “May I?” He lifted his hand, slowly.

  His fingers in her hair were almost soothing as he plucked out a stray piece of straw. Then he locked gazes with her.

  She held her breath. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her with such compassion or touched her with such tenderness. She felt herself drawn into the deep verdant pools of his eyes.

  It was a wee bit frightening.

  She’d worn invisible armor for years now. It served to protect her against her cousins’ subtle cruelty. It might not be strong enough to ward off her uncle’s fists, but it kept her safe from his demeaning words.

  Now, the way Brochan was touching her with measured care, looking at her with affection and concern, it felt like he was gently stripping away that armor, link by link.

  A new fear fluttered in her breast.

  But it wasn’t dread.

  It was anticipation.

  Her gaze fell to his mouth, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to press her lips to his, to melt into his welcoming arms, to feel perfectly safe and protected.

  She let out the breath she’d been holding. It came out on a tremble.

  She was going to do it. She couldn’t help herself. She was going to kiss him.

  Brochan couldn’t believe he was going to kiss her. Every instinct told him not to. No good would come of it. He could think of at least a dozen good reasons not to do such a reckless thing. And he would list them all…right after he finished the kiss.

  Their attraction was as inevitable and unavoidable as the pull of steel to a magnet. The distance closed between them with natural grace. When their mouths met, it felt like coming home.

  Her lips were soft, warm, and vulnerable as she pressed them tentatively against his mouth.

  She was shaking. Perhaps she’d never kisse
d a man before. But since he hadn’t kissed a woman in five years, he too was out of practice.

  Yet instinct swiftly took over. He moved his hand to cup her silky cheek, drawing her closer. He closed his eyes, angling his head to capture her lips between his.

  She responded with a soft gasp. She placed her hands on his chest—not to push him away, but to clench her fists in his leine.

  The long-banked coal of his desire flickered to life.

  He threaded his fingers through her silken hair. He circled her ear with the pad of his thumb, deepening the kiss.

  She answered instantly, seeking out his mouth, striving to get even closer.

  Encouraged by her response, he circled her waist with his other arm and drew her up against him. He groaned at the familiar and divine sensation of a woman’s body pressed firmly to his—the supple yielding of her breasts upon his chest and the sweet curve of her hips below his palm.

  Then she slipped her tongue out to taste him.

  Like lightning striking dry grass, his passion flared to life. Hot blood raced through his veins as he opened his mouth, granting her access.

  His tongue danced with hers, lightly at first and then with more devotion, and they sang the music of desire. Like a starving man, he feasted upon her, and she drank his greed as if it were wine.

  Suddenly her hands were everywhere, skimming his chest, roving over his shoulders, weaving through his hair. He explored her beautiful contours as well, delving his fingers into her inky tresses, tracing her delicate throat with his fingertips, and venturing lower, daring to brush his palms atop the sensitive tops of her breasts.

  The breath she raked in was so raw with need that he felt the surge in his trews like the powerful wave of a stormy sea.

  All the lust that had been bottled up for the last five years streamed through his veins at once in a brilliant flare, blinding him to reason. He tore away from the kiss and nudged her up against the wall, wanting her so badly he could scarcely breathe.

  Somewhere in the depths of his soul, he knew he was behaving like an animal. But what he glimpsed in her eyes wasn’t pain or fear. It was a desire as strong and pure as his. She wanted him. She wanted this.

  In another moment…

  “Hallo!” he heard from outside the byre.

  Cristy’s eyes went wide.

  Brochan stepped away, silently using every foul oath he could think of.

  Curse Brother William. Naught could douse the flames of passion faster than the voice of a monk.

  Yet Brochan’s fire was far from extinguished. The evidence of his lingering desire displayed itself as proudly as a pennant pole in his trews. With a look at Cristy that was half apology, half exasperation, he turned his back to her, made the necessary adjustments, and prepared to face the monk.

  “I’m in here, William.”

  As William entered the byre, Brochan suddenly remembered that the monk might have news that could upset Cristy.

  He turned to her. “Will ye go see to the lads?”

  She seemed glad of an excuse to leave, especially when she saw their visitor was a man of the church. She gave him a curt nod in greeting, picked up her skirts, and scurried off.

  “Was that…” William began.

  “Aye, Miss Moffat.” He didn’t feel like excusing his lack of an introduction…or detailing why they were alone in the byre…or explaining why the woman he was holding hostage apparently had free range of the property. “What news?”

  “I’ve brought a missive from her laird,” William said, handing over a small rolled parchment.

  Brochan hesitated, stricken by an urge to destroy the thing without reading it. Part of him would rather leave things just as they were, with the lovely, sweet-lipped lass under his care.

  But he was a man of honor. He’d offered a fair exchange. He had to be true to his word.

  So he popped the seal and opened the document.

  On it were scrawled three words.

  Keep her. Moffat.

  Brochan kept staring at the letters. He couldn’t be reading that right. There had to be some mistake.

  But no matter how many times he read it, the message was as clear, raw, and brutal as it could be. He tightened his fist around the missive as rage slowly burned inside him.

  “Is somethin’ wrong, m’laird?”

  Beyond speech, Brochan clenched his jaw and handed the parchment to the monk.

  William frowned as he read the note. “I don’t understand. ‘Tis only five coos. Surely he wants the lass back.”

  Brochan’s heart twisted with fury and sorrow. How could a man be so cruel? Did he truly value his cattle above his own niece? Was he so apathetic about the lass that he would casually cast her aside? What a monstrous man he must be.

  “How will I tell her?” he wondered aloud. “How will I tell her her own uncle doesn’t think she’s worth five coos?”

  William shook his head. “’Tis a travesty. She looks to be a lovely lass too. Most men would trade a whole herd o’ cattle for a beauty like her.”

  Brochan had to agree. With her night-black hair and deep brown eyes, she was as bonnie and enticing as a dark faerie queen.

  He rubbed his hand across his mouth, wondering how he was going to break the news to her. “Wait. What did ye just say?”

  “I said she was a lovely lass.”

  “Nay, after that.”

  “Most men would trade a whole herd o’ cattle for a lass like that.”

  “That’s right. They would.” Suddenly inspired, he snatched the missive from William’s hand. Then he clapped his palm on the perplexed monk’s shoulder. “Thank ye for takin’ care o’ this, William. I’m grateful for all ye’ve done.”

  After bidding the monk a hasty farewell, he headed toward the tower house. Halfway to the keep, he ripped the missive in half and tossed it away. By the time he reached the door, he’d weighed all the consequences and made up his mind.

  It was completely reckless and irresponsible of him to keep Cristy in his home. His sons were growing too fond of her. Mabel was growing too fond of her. And he was growing too fond of her.

  Cristy was a dangerous temptation. There was every reason to return her as soon as possible, whether or not he got his cows and whether or not her uncle wanted her back.

  Keeping the peace between clans was the right thing to do. Holding on to her and risking a clan war with his own neighbor was rash and reckless.

  Fortunately, Brochan didn’t mind being rash and reckless.

  Chapter 7

  It took all Cristy’s willpower to keep up a calm appearance for the lads when her emotions were writhing around her brain in a tangled mess.

  Kissing Brochan, she’d never felt so alive. One moment in his arms, and all her cares had vanished. He’d opened a locked chest inside her and revealed a treasure of new feelings.

  It felt like a sultry wind had blown through her soul and awakened every fiber of her being. Yet within that sharp and wakeful clarity was a mist that softened the edges of reality, making it seem like the inside of a dream. Her sense of reason might be muted, but the rest of her senses had been heightened to dreamlike intensity.

  Then that cursed monk had ruined everything.

  In one moment, she’d felt like a warhorse primed to charge across the field.

  In the next, she’d felt an abrupt backward pull on the reins, preventing her from moving.

  And now she had to pretend that naught had happened, to speak to the wee lads as if she hadn’t just been dallying with their father in the byre.

  Colin shook his head. “I should never have asked ye to show us how to reive cattle,” he said, his voice full of regret.

  “And I should have protected ye,” Cambel said ruefully. “Da says gentlemen are supposed to protect ladies.”

  Cristy gave them each a fond squeeze. But she was only half listening, trying to settle her rattled nerves with a cup of ale as she stared into the fire.

  “What do ye think he’ll
do to us?” Colin asked his brother.

  “He might make us scrub the chamber pots,” Cambel gravely decided.

  “Or pick up the coo pats,” said Colin.

  “Or wear stick tails,” Cambel said with a shudder.

  “What?” Cristy asked. What were the lads going on about?

  “Once,” Cambel said, “we tied a stick to a hound’s tail for fun. Da tied stick tails onto our belts and made us wear them for two days.”

  “To shame us,” Colin explained.

  “Aye, to shame us.”

  Cristy blinked. If her uncle ever picked up a stick, it was to beat her.

  “What about ye, m’lady? What do ye think he’ll do to ye?” Colin wondered.

  A dozen wildly inappropriate ideas popped into Cristy’s head, and she almost spat out her ale.

  Cambel suggested, “Maybe she’ll be rescued by her uncle before Da has a chance to punish her.”

  Cristy hoped not. After that blissful embrace, she’d be willing to clean chamber pots, pick up coo pats, and tie a stick around her waist just to see where that kiss would lead.

  Still, the reminder that she didn’t belong here was sobering. She wondered if the monk had brought news from her uncle. Was he going to return the cattle today?

  “I don’t want ye to go,” Colin admitted.

  “I don’t want ye to go either,” Cambel said, leaning against her thigh.

  A lump lodged in her throat. She knew how they felt.

  At that moment, Brochan came in, stomping the dirt from his boots at the door.

  Cristy was afraid to look at him. She was afraid of what she might see in his eyes. What if the monk had brought bad news? What if Brochan was still upset about the cows? Worse, what if he regretted kissing her?

  Brochan wondered if Cristy was sorry she’d kissed him. She stood near the fire with her eyes downcast. But it was hard to believe she hadn’t felt the same world-shattering desire he had, the longing that didn’t seem to be going away any time soon.

  He wouldn’t do anything about it, of course. As pleasurable as the kiss was, it had been impulsive and improper. It was dishonorable to seduce innocents. Besides, he owed his loyalty to the mother of his sons. Didn’t he?