by Mary Wine
Diocail left a trail of discarded costume pieces as he went. “Lad or lass, all that matters is Jane coming through it strong and healthy.” Diocail shot him a hard look. “That’s the only thing I pray to God for.”
One of the maids served them as Diocail kept a watch on the stairwell. Women came and went with baskets of linens and kettles of water, but they didn’t stop to look at him. Young Bari was perched on a stool, looking up the stairs as he worried his lower lip.
“What has ye riding south?”
Bothan slowly grinned. “Brenda Grant.”
That distracted Diocail from his worry. “From what I hear, the woman enjoys being unbridled, and Symon swore to his dying father he would no’ make her wed against her wishes.”
Bothan lowered his mug. “So I hear as well.”
Diocail’s lips curved into a wide grin. “I wish ye luck, man, for I believe ye’ll need it.”
Bothan raised his mug toward Diocail. “Ye’re the first man who has no’ tried to talk me into a more biddable female.”
“Where is the fun in that?”
“Exactly me thoughts,” Bothan replied. “Exactly so.”
“Dolina is waving, Laird!” Bari chirped as he took off up the stairs.
Diocail sent his chair back so fast it hit the wall. Bothan watched him go, trying to decide if it wouldn’t be wiser to turn around and ride north before he was as smitten as Diocail clearly was.
Bothan stayed where he was because he’d had a long, cold winter and all of the planting season to try to shake Brenda Grant from his thoughts.
She was still there, so he was going to face her and the strange way she affected him.
* * *
The chamber was quiet at last.
So many people had been in and out. Jane drew in a deep breath now that only Diocail was there with their son. The scent of amber and rosemary lingered from the herbs the midwives insisted on using to purify the chamber. Everything had been cleared away, including the birthing chair. She was sore but content as she felt Diocail crawl onto the bed next to her.
“I didn’t think to see Bothan Gunn here again, much less intent on courting Brenda Grant.”
Diocail’s tone was hushed as he lay in the bed next to Jane. Their son was falling asleep on her breast, his lips locked around her nipple.
“Or that he’d catch ye wearing a dress?” Jane mocked softly.
Diocail pointed at her. “That was yer doing, madam.”
“You think because I’m English I can’t jest?”
Her husband grunted and sent her an annoyed look.
Jane snickered, sealing her lips so the only sounds that made it out were half-smothered ones. They both looked down at the baby, but he was well asleep. Diocail gathered him up as gently as he might an egg and settled him in his cradle next to Jane’s side of the bed.
The weather was fine and warm now, and when Diocail lay down behind her, pulling her close while they both listened to the sound of their son’s breathing, everything was perfect.
Fate could be reasonable after all, it would seem. Love, although very difficult to understand, seemed worth the effort.
Diocail smoothed Jane’s hair back, settling his head on top of hers. The strong beat of his heart was against her back, and the warm breath of their son touched her fingers where she had them resting next to his head.
Yes, perfect.
So very, very perfect.
* * *
She should have burned it.
Brenda glanced at the letter, wondering once again why it was still in her chamber. Did she want him to come? Was that it?
Would it be so terrible?
She avoided answering that question. She thrust the letter aside in favor of contemplating other tasks. Running the castle was a huge responsibility, and she’d risen to the occasion since Symon had no wife. Of course, now that spring was past and the crops were in the ground, Symon would be attending to the duties of securing himself a wife.
It was expected.
And yet she found herself contemplating how her life would change once he brought a bride home. That did not mean she was contemplating Bothan’s offer.
She turned around and looked at the letter once more. It wasn’t even an offer. It was a declaration of his intention to court her in the summer.
Well, she had plenty of intentions of her own, and none of them included being claimed by the Gunn chief. She would not wear the shackles of marriage ever again.
Not even for love.
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About the Author
Mary Wine is a multi-published author in romantic suspense, fantasy, and Western romance. Her interest in historical reenactment and costuming inspired her to turn her pen to historical romance with her popular Highlander series. She lives with her husband and sons in Southern California, where the whole family enjoys participating in historical reenactment.
Also by Mary Wine
HIGHLAND WEDDINGS
Highland Spitfire
Highland Vixen
Highland Hellion
THE SUTHERLANDS
The Highlander’s Prize
The Trouble with Highlanders
How to Handle a Highlander
The Highlander’s Bride Trouble
HOT HIGHLANDERS
To Conquer a Highlander
Highland Hellcat
Highland Heat
COURTLY LOVE
A Sword for His Lady
STEAM GUARDIAN
A Lady Can Never Be Too Curious
A Captain and a Corset
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