“Not so far as to cleave her head from her shoulders,” Nelson taunted. “You couldn’t protect your bride with your sword. What makes you think your words will do any better?”
Brodie reared back and drove his forehead into Nelson’s face, blood spraying from Nelson’s nose. “That does,” Brodie grunted. He released Nelson with a shove. The man stumbled backward into another table, nearly upending it. Angry shouts followed as Nelson was knocked, unconscious, to the floor.
Liam Oliphant didn’t look in his friend’s direction, keeping his attention on Brodie instead. “Would that it was so easy to tame Lady Laurel as you did Nelson MacDougall.”
“Are you suggesting I should beat a woman?” Brodie asked. His voice was deceptively quiet. Monty and Donnan, along with the Rosses and Campbells, cringed.
“I’m saying, I wager one hundred pounds that you couldn’t even get Lady Laurel to marry you, let alone live under the same roof long enough to beat her,” Liam said.
“And why on earth would I take such a bet?”
“Because you don’t have a wife, but you need one. It saves you having to look, since the last time didn’t turn out so well,” Liam chuckled. “And you would be doing every lady-in-waiting a good deed to by taking Lady Laurel away.”
“No,” Monty shook his head. “My sister is not to be wagered over.”
Brodie felt the effects of the whisky suddenly slam into him once more. He sank back onto his stool and turned bleary eyes to Donnan. “Why don’t you marry the lass?”
“I offered. She wouldn’t take me,” Donnan responded.
“So she does have good taste,” Brodie laughed. He turned his sleepy eyes toward Monty. “Just how bad is she if Oliphant here is certain he won’t be parting with a hundred pounds?”
“One moment you defend her, and the next you insult her.” Monty stood, Donnan and the Ross guardsmen following suit. “You’re no better than these two. I thought more of you, Brodie.”
“And are you stuck not marrying either?” Brodie asked.
“What? Laurel marrying has naught to do with when I marry,” Monty said with a furrowed brow.
“Your clan needs an heir after you. You have a duty to beget one,” Brodie pointed out. Monty sensed Donnan tense, and he fought not to shift his weight.
“I do not need to marry any time soon. It won’t be before my sister.”
“And at the rate she’s going,” Liam chimed in. “It’ll be winter in hell before anyone marries.”
“I’m not forcing my sister to marry anyone,” Monty shook his head as he stepped around the table, prepared to make his way back to the castle. He and his men had overstayed at the Crosspool Tavern.
“What if I could convince her?” Brodie suggested. “What if I could tame the Shrew of Stirling and bring her to heel? I like a challenge. Besides, I need a chatelaine for my keep, and my clan needs a lady.”
“No,” Monty and Donnan responded together while Liam crowed, “Yes.”
“One hundred pounds says you can’t make Lady Laurel agree to marry you in the next fortnight,” Liam slapped his hand on the table.
“I will not make my sister marry you. She must decide for herself,” Monty warned. His conscience nagged that he shouldn’t consider trading his sister in a wager, nor agreeing with a drunk man to marry her. But outside of this night, he knew Brodie to be an upstanding man. He knew Laurel would be safe and well cared for–perhaps even loved–if she married Brodie. It would satisfy the king and Laird Ross. “Only if she falls in love with you and agrees on her own.”
“Fair enough,” Brodie stuck out his arm, and Monty paused for a heartbeat before clasping Brodie’s forearm.
“I shall be two hundred pounds richer,” Liam remarked. “Neither of you will convince Lady Laurel to accept Campbell’s suit. I expect timely payment.”
“Nay,” Brodie corrected. “I never accepted your wager, and neither did Ross. My agreement is with the lady’s brother, not you. You shall be neither richer nor poorer. You have naught to do with this agreement.”
“But—” Liam objected.
“I am not doing this for a wager, Oliphant,” Brodie interrupted. “I am curious whether I can woo such a woman. But I will not force her to marry me. And I will not bet on her like our courtship is a cockerel fight.” Bluidy bleeding hell.
Five
Brodie woke to a roiling stomach. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, vaguely recalling his arrival at Stirling in the middle of the night. Flashes of memories floated through his mind. He recalled meeting and sitting with Montgomery Ross and his second, Donnan, until two other men joined them. Brodie squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to remember who they were.
Shite. Liam Oliphant and his lapdog. Brodie pressed his fingertips to his forehead and yelped. That’s why ma bluidy heid aches. I bashed Nelson MacDougall in his ugly mug. Why did I do that? Och, he insulted Ross’s sister. Laurel. Strawberry blonde hair. I remember her from the last time I was at court, and the time before that, and the time before that. But I also recall her reputation. What did I agree to last eve? Something to do with Laurel. I hope whatever it was, wasna an insult to Monty or Laurel.
Brodie rolled out of bed and swallowed the bile that threatened to come up. He hadn’t drunk more than he usually did, but he admitted that he’d been running on far less sleep and food than was his norm. He’d ridden back to Castle Sween with Eliza’s body. He’d endured her wailing mother and sister and suffered her father’s threats and grief. All the while trying to muster tender feelings, which he believed a husband should feel toward his dead wife. But there were none. It felt as though he’d heard in passing of a stranger’s death. He even wondered if drinking enough might make him feel something more than ambivalence. But the guilt that rushed forward when he drank wasn’t for Eliza’s death or his role in it. It was guilt because he didn’t feel guilty about her.
Brodie glanced back at the bed and considered going back to sleep, but he knew he would do better if he got out to the lists and trained with his men. He would sweat the alcohol from his system and clear his mind of his troubles, focusing on keeping his own head on his shoulders. Once he dressed, he made his way to the armory, where he claimed his claymore before going into the lists. Several heads turned in his direction as he spied his men across the field and made his way to them. He eyed them suspiciously as they looked at him uneasily.
“What?”
“Laird, people are talking aboot it already,” Graham, his second, spoke up.
“Talking aboot what?” Brodie looked around.
“Aboot how you’re going to marry Lady Laurel,” Graham answered. Brodie froze. The rest of the events in the tavern flooded his mind. He’d asked Monty how horrible his sister really was and suggested that he could tame her, as though she were a wild animal. He recalled Monty telling him it had to be Laurel’s choice, that he wouldn’t force her if she didn’t love Brodie. He hadn’t a clue how to go about making a woman fall in love with him.
“I will offer my suit and see if Lady Laurel will allow me to court her,” Brodie corrected. He leaned toward his men. “Does anyone else ken that Oliphant tried to make it a wager?”
“I don’t think so, Laird.” Graham cast a surreptitious gaze at men from several clans watching them. “I think they’re stunned that you are willing to woo her. I don’t think anyone has heard that one hundred pounds were offered up against you.”
“Ye’d do well to hope Lady Laurel doesnae ken,” Michael, a junior guardsman, pointed out. “It’ll be more than just her tongue that lashes out at ye.” The younger man’s grin fell when Brodie cast a dark look at him.
“Let me be clear right now, and you can set straight anyone who wonders. If Lady Laurel becomes Lady Campbell, it’s because she wants to of her own free will. I’ve already had one bride forced to marry me. I won’t have another. I won’t trick Lady Laurel or deceive her.”
“But ye have to make her fall in love with ye,” Michael persisted. �
�I thought ye only wanted a wife to run the keep.”
Brodie ground his teeth. Michael wasn’t wrong. The only reason he’d agreed to marry Eliza when he did was because his mother had passed three years earlier, and he desperately needed a woman who could be his chatelaine. He would need Laurel to fall in love with him, or at least like him enough to marry him. He thanked the heavens he hadn’t been so foolish as to agree that he would love her in return. He’d been honest a moment ago when he said he wouldn’t trick or deceive Laurel.
“Enough clishmaclaver,” Brodie barked. “I didn’t come out here to discuss marriage and wives. I came to train with my men.”
Brodie spent the rest of the morning sparring alongside his men, but his mind wandered to what little memory he retained of Laurel. He knew she was beautiful and was intelligent, since her sharp tongue surely reflected her sharp mind, but he knew little else than that. He wondered when he would have a chance to approach her. He needed to meet with the king above all else, and he couldn’t dawdle in Stirling. He didn’t trust the Lamonts not to attack his clan again. He would have to be efficient in his courtship, and that was only if he decided he wished to pursue Laurel. Brodie retired to his chamber for the afternoon as he considered his potential marriage and waited for the king to summon him.
“We shall all be dead before anyone wants her,” Margaret Hay whined as the women strolled through the queen’s gardens during their morning constitutional. Margaret spun around, pointing an accusing finger at Laurel. The lady-in-waiting began her complaints when she was certain Laurel could hear. Any sympathy Laurel experienced for Margaret as the downtrodden sister to Sarah Anne ended with Margaret’s tirade. “It’s so unfair.”
“And it’s unfair that God wasted a pretty face on an empty head,” Laurel retorted, wishing her excuses had worked with the Mistress of the Bedchamber. She’d listened to several of the ladies complain as they left the keep and made their way to the rosebushes. Queen Elizabeth led her entourage, disinterested in the younger women’s conversations. Laurel walked alone, not in the mood for company. But she regretted shooing the Dunbar sisters away, since now she had no way to ignore Margaret.
“At least I am pretty,” Margaret sneered.
“And just as empty-headed as I said,” Laurel snorted. “A sharp tongue is the tool of a sharp mind, Maggie. Having just a pretty face means the Lord got bored when he made you. He lost interest just like—how many has it been—four men now.”
“At least I have suitors,” Margaret snapped.
“Suitors wish to marry a woman. Not a one thought aboot marrying you, Maggie.” Laurel stressed the diminutive that Margaret loathed. She’d claimed only maids were named Maggie.
“What are you saying?” Margaret demanded.
Laurel grinned. “While neither of us has suitors clamoring at our doors, the difference between us is I haven’t lifted my skirts.” Laurel snorted again. “Or dropped them.”
“You—you— Tu es une puterelle,” Margaret snarled, switching to French to accuse Laurel of being a woman of ill repute.
“Your French is horrid. ‘Tu es’ is you are. You meant ‘je suis.’ After all, I’m not the one who keeps buying chicken’s blood from the butcher.”
“Why you—” Margaret’s words died as Queen Elizabeth turned toward them.
“Ladies,” Queen Elizabeth’s tone stopped the women from continuing their argument. Laurel dipped into a deep curtsy while Margaret wobbled on unsteady legs.
“Your Majesty,” Catherine MacFarlane spoke up. “When will Lady Laurel wed? My father wishes me to marry before the first snow. Will my wedding be delayed?”
Laurel sucked in a breath. The ladies had been loudly whispering their accusations since they left the keep, but Catherine voiced the question they all wished to ask, even Laurel.
Queen Elizabeth looked at Laurel as she addressed the women who gathered around her. “Have you ever seen a fox caught in a trap? It hisses and snaps at anyone who comes near, even those who try to help. Why? Because he’s ensnared and no longer free, no longer trusts what is around him. The fox will chew his own leg off rather than be a captive. But the fox eventually succumbs whether he remains in the trap or alone in the woods. When a kindly soul comes along, the fox would do well to wait and watch. He might just gain his freedom with far less pain.”
Laurel swallowed and gave a single jerky nod. While several other women chatted amongst themselves, trying to sort out the queen’s metaphor, Laurel understood its meaning. But she feared she’d been in the snare so long that there were no kindly souls left who would risk her hissing and snapping. But Sarah Anne’s voice pierced any solace Laurel might have found in the queen’s words.
“But that still doesn’t tell us when Laurel will be gone.” Sarah Anne narrowed her eyes and curled her lip in disgust as she looked at Laurel. “After more than half a score of years here, isn’t it obvious she’ll be a spinster? Why punish us?”
“Lady Sarah Anne, is there someone proposing to you soon?” Laurel asked in a saccharine tone. She held her hands over her chest in mocking delight and excitement.
“Well, no,” Sarah Anne confessed. “But it’s still not fair.”
“On that we agree,” Laurel muttered. Queen Elizabeth turned away, and the women continued their promenade through the late summer blooms. As they made their way across the bailey to retire to the queen’s solar, Laurel noticed a mountainous man with dark hair watching the ladies. It was clear he was a Highlander from the plaid wrapped around his waist and his billowing leine, but Laurel wasn’t close enough to make out the blue-and-green pattern. He could have been from any number of clans, but she thought she recognized him. He walked away before she drew near enough to tell.
“Laird Campbell of Glenorchy,” King Robert greeted Brodie. The men had fought alongside one another countless times over nearly two decades, and Brodie had saved the king’s life on at least three battlefields. But the king could say the same about Brodie. They’d been friends since their youth, even though the king was a handful of years older than Brodie. The king’s younger brothers were closer in age to Brodie. He’d had more than one adventurous night out in Stirling with the Bruce’s blood-brother and adopted brother, both named Edward. The latter was married to Elizabeth Fraser and had a passel of children, and the former died only recently, three years after being crowned the High King of Ireland.
“Your Majesty,” Brodie responded with a grin. “You’re looking younger by the year.”
“And you—” King Robert snorted “—don’t.”
“You wound me, my liege.” Brodie took the seat offered to him, and Robert the Bruce settled into the one beside him.
“The queen and I were sorry to hear aboot Eliza.” Robert watched Brodie, whose expression barely shifted once the grin slipped away. “I understand why you seek remedy to the harm done to your clan and the MacMillans.”
“But?” Brodie didn’t care for how noncommittal Robert’s tone sounded.
“You’ve admitted that you never consummated the marriage. You’ve already returned the dowry. The MacMillan has a stronger leg to stand on than you do, Brodie.”
“And the alliance that we were supposed to form? The access and lands I was to receive? I’m not to be aggrieved aboot that?” Brodie demanded.
“You don’t need the land,” Robert reminded him.
“That doesn’t mean it wouldn’t have benefitted my people,” Brodie countered.
“You sound like your father.”
“He was a fine mon,” Brodie murmured before looking away. His father died several years ago, but he’d been among the king’s closest confidants, and while Brodie hadn’t often agreed with his father’s policies toward their neighboring clans, there had been respect between them. He’d turned his head not to hide grief, but to hide his annoyance.
“He was. But didn’t always know when to accept that he had enough. You have all Glenorchy now. The MacGregors have little left to claim as their own. Must you
expand to the south as well?”
Brodie remained quiet, choosing to believe it was a rhetorical question, knowing the king wouldn’t appreciate his answer. Robert frowned but nodded.
“The Lamonts will make restitution to you, but you will have to accept the lost dowry and land.”
“I can live with that, Robert,” Brodie said, keeping his voice low. “What I can’t live with is the Lamonts believing they can cross onto my land and attack my people. We were nowhere near their border. They were nearly two days’ ride onto my territory. This wasn’t some reiving that went badly. They attacked to kill me and Eliza. They won’t be satisfied with trying to end my alliance with the MacMillans. If aught, it’s strengthened it. But what aboot the next time I try to bring a wife home?”
“Do you have someone in mind?” King Robert asked.
“I’m considering it, but I haven’t made any offers,” Brodie hedged.
Robert studied Brodie for a moment, and Brodie dreaded what would come of the king’s cagey expression. “Do you intend to find a woman here at court?”
“Possibly.”
“None may marry until Lady Laurel Ross is wed. Had you heard?” King Robert pressed.
“Someone or other made mention of it,” Brodie nodded.
“Someone or other made mention of you marrying the lass.” Robert’s face split into a grin, his ruddy cheeks pressing deep grooves around his eyes. “I don’t ken if you’re the lad up to the task. She’s a right hellion.”
Brodie shrugged. “I like challenges.” He forced himself not to look back at where he’d spotted Liam and Nelson pouring over documents when he walked in.
“Ohh-ho-ho. A challenge. That’s being kind. Are you aware of what they call her?” Robert laughed.
“Aye. The Shrew of Stirling. I dinna care for it,” Brodie snapped, his burr slipping through. He didn’t know why the moniker bothered him so much. He wasn’t ashamed or even embarrassed that he might marry the woman to whom it belonged. He did find the challenge appealing. He felt sorry for Laurel more than anything else. “You’ve kenned the Rosses since the very beginning. They’re connected to the Sinclairs and Sutherlands like a bluidy spiderweb. You must have met Lady Laurel before she came here.”
A Hellion at the Highland Court: A Rags to Riches Highlander Romance (The Highland Ladies Book 9) Page 5