Tara found her temper. “I have never liked that man. I saw him not too long ago, and I thought him a brute. He was so rude.”
“Rude?”
“Aye, of the boldest nature. I tell you I welcome this fight. So he thinks he can best us. Well, he is wrong.”
“You are right, daughter,” the earl said. “Although he did offer me a solution and one that I have accepted.”
“What solution is that, Father?”
The earl sank onto the chair beside hers. He set his glass on the table. “Perhaps you made a better impression on him than he did on you?” His tone had grown hopeful.
“I don’t care what he thinks of me. I don’t like him. In fact, I detest him. Yes, that is how I feel. I have no desire to set eyes on him ever again.” It felt good to be her old self.
The earl lifted his glass to his lips and started to drink before he realized it was empty. He lowered the glass, sighed heavily, and said, “That is unfortunate, my girl. Because the terms of receiving all my paper back is that you marry him.”
“Marry him? Me and the Beast of Aberfeldy? Oh, no, that will not happen—”
“As a matter of fact it will happen, and it will be done in one hour’s time. I’ve sent for the Reverend Kinnion. Campbell has secured a special license. You’d best go don your prettiest dress, daughter, you are about to become a bride. The groom will be arriving at any moment.”
Tara sat dumbstruck. Pride now warred with hurt.
Did her father believe he could dismiss her so easily. That she would willingly allow him to sell her to a Campbell, and the Black one no less?
That was not going to happen.
She would show him. She would show all of them, including the duke of Penevey. She would return to London and make her own way. There was more to her than just a pretty face. It had taken intelligence to rule London the way she had, and she could do it again.
But she kept her thoughts hidden. She smiled at her father, and said, “Then please, excuse me, I need to change.”
“That’s my girl,” her father said approvingly. “This will be a good marriage. You’ll see. Aye, yes, you will be a Campbell, and it won’t be bad. Well, maybe you won’t be marrying into the ‘respectable’ branch of the clan, but you are a survivor, Tara. You will make them dance to your tune.”
She smiled her answer, her thoughts filled with the image of picking up the whisky decanter and smashing it over his head.
Instead, she rushed up to her room. From the back of her wardrobe, she pulled out the boy’s clothing that had enabled her to run away from London.
Now it would be disguise to return.
She would not marry a Campbell. Not now, not ever.
“Let my father marry him,” she muttered to herself as she dressed. She wound her braid around her head and hid her vivid coloring under a wide-brimmed hat.
With more confidence and spirit than she’d shown for weeks, she opened her bedroom door and stole down the back stairs, heading for the stables and freedom.
Chapter Two
They rode through the mist with a purpose, three grim-faced men set on a mission, their hats pulled low over their brows against the weather.
In three hours, it would be darkest night.
In three hours, the tallest of them, Breccan Campbell, laird of the Black Campbells, would have a wife.
They reached the crossroad that would take them to Annefield, ancestral home of the Davidsons. Breccan started to turn his horse Jupiter up the road, but his uncle Jonas reined short. He was a spry man for his age and half Breccan’s height.
“There is time to turn back, nephew,” Jonas said.
“Turn back?” Breccan asked. “And do what?”
“Have a nice dinner and keg of ale,” Jonas answered stoutly, “in front of a roaring hot fire.” He smacked his lips in appreciation. Ahead of them, Breccan’s other uncle, Lachlan, turned his horse around to join them.
“And what of my word to the Davidson?” Breccan wondered. The Davidson was known as the earl of Tay. Breccan held to the old ways. Breccan himself would be considered an earl, but he was proud to be laird. Laird Breccan they called him to single him out from the other Campbells. He knew the title was not always a sign of respect. There were those who feared him and his kin, and with good cause.
“Burn his chits and let him be damned,” Jonas said, referring to Davidson’s debt vouchers Breccan now held in his possession. It had not taken him long to collect them. None of Davidson’s creditors had thought he would honor his debts and they’d been happy to sell them to Breccan for mere shillings on the pound. “There are other things you could have done with that money than to buy yourself a bride,” Jonas assured him. “Besides, you can have almost any other lass for free, and she would be more robust and bonnie. The Davidson lass is a whey-faced thing.”
Yes, Breccan was buying a wife, but he did not agree with Jonas’s description of Tara Davidson. She was no ordinary woman. ’Twas said that men in London lined the walk in front of her house for just one glimpse of her shining red hair and blue eyes. Breccan understood why. From the moment she had ridden onto his property, demanding to speak to his horse master with all the high-handedness of a queen, he’d been smitten.
He’d always thought tales of sirens claiming a man’s soul or bawdy women leading men to destruction to be nonsense. Men were created of sturdier stuff than that—and then he’d met Lady Tara.
She’d barely spared him a glance that day, but her presence had moved something deep in his soul, something he would have denied existed if he’d been asked.
Breccan wanted many things in life. He wasn’t afraid of hard work or making sacrifices, but in that moment of meeting, he’d never wanted anything more than he had her. He was obsessed with her. He’d even gone to the kirk so he could have another look at her. Him! A man who had always claimed the kirk walls would come tumbling down around him if he’d ever stepped foot in a sanctuary. But he had done so . . . for her.
And he knew himself well enough to realize he’d have no peace until he had her. Then, perhaps, he would be more himself again. Then he could pay attention to his accounts and his work and not lose hours in the day and night trying to recall the exact shade of blue in her eyes.
But Jonas and Lachlan did not know any of this. Indeed, he’d not mentioned her name until an hour ago when he’d announced he would marry.
Davidson had readily agreed to the marriage when Breccan had proposed the arrangement to him. Indeed, he’d happily sold his daughter if it meant Breccan wouldn’t throw him into a debtor’s prison. This far from London, the drunkard didn’t have any of his English friends to protect him. And here, in Scotland, a man paid his debts, or it was taken out of his hide.
Breccan looked to his younger uncle. “What do you think, Lachlan? Do you agree with Jonas?”
Lachlan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Does it make a difference what I think, Breccan? You’ve already made up your mind.”
Because of Lachlan’s years with the navy, his accent was not as thick as Breccan’s and Jonas’s . . . something that never seemed to bother Jonas but of which Breccan was painfully aware. Lady Tara had English manners, and her voice had just the melody of Scotland to it without the harshness.
“I would hear what you have to say,” Breccan said. “Let us clear the air.”
“Then before we ride up that hill to take your wife, I would ask what your reasons are, lad?” Lachlan said. “You’ve not shown a particular preference for any one woman before—”
“Because he behaves like a monk,” Jonas interjected. “Which is a waste of a God-given gift. If I had what you had, Breccan, I’d be forking them all. The ladies would love me. Aye, that they would.”
Breccan could feel the heat rise to his skin, and he was grateful for the wool muffler around his neck. Jonas might think a man’
s balls something to brag about, but Breccan felt anything but pride. He was painfully aware of his great size, and not just of his privates. He always stood a head taller than other men in the room. There was no way he could hide his presence or appear to be “amongst” the company instead of head and shoulders over it. His hands were the size of bear paws, and the cobbler always complained that his shoes required twice the amount of leather as a normal man.
A normal man.
A graceful one. A genteel one like his cousin Owen Campbell or any of the other of that side of the family. They all compared Breccan to a great ox and considered him as dumb as one. It was a grand joke amongst them. He would never be thought of as a gentleman or expected to cut a fine figure on the dance floor the way they did.
In truth, he was bloody tired of being mocked for his size. Aye, his great strength was good for chopping wood or for working his lands. There were few chores he could not do. Even the blacksmith would ask him to lift his anvil for him. But Breccan also had to watch his every move. If he was not mindful of his actions, he would swing his arm and put a dent in a plaster wall or knock over his chair if he moved too quickly.
And the worst was people’s believing he lacked intelligence. They talked to him as if he were slow.
But their opinions would change when they saw him with Lady Tara on his arm. A man was not only respected if he had a beautiful wife, people were jealous of him.
There was also another reason he wanted to marry her—the Black Campbells were not a handsome lot.
Breccan’s own mother had been a good woman but a homely one. And, for all his blather, Jonas didn’t have a lady. Lachlan had been married once, but he was alone now. The Black Campbells were harsh-looking men. They had strong noses and jaws that were too square. While the other side of the Campbells were fair of hair and skin, Breccan and his kin were swarthy, with the look of the Romany, an unfavorable comparison if ever there was one.
Lady Tara would change that. She would give Breccan’s children the fairness he lacked. His sons and daughters would be accepted. All doors would be open to them.
But these reasons were not ones Breccan wished to share with his uncles.
“I want her because I want her,” he replied to Lachlan.
His uncle gazed up the mist-covered road a moment before saying, “A wife is not like owning a dog, Breccan. They have a will of their own.”
“Aye, women can be pesky,” Jonas agreed. “Your mother was a saint, bless her soul, but she was the exception. Lasses like her are rare. Women, as a rule, are demanding. They can make a man’s life hell.”
“If that was the case, why do so many men marry?” Breccan returned.
“That’s a question every man has asked himself after the wedding,” Lachlan assured him in jest. Jonas laughed his agreement.
Breccan straightened his shoulders and lifted his reins. “I must marry to keep the line alive, or would you rather have Wolfstone fall into the hands of Breadalbane to be turned over to one such as Owen Campbell?”
“Of course you must marry,” Jonas said. “But not this woman.” He kicked his horse forward as if to block Breccan’s way. “I’ve seen her. She’s a lovely morsel, but a pasty thing. There are kelpies bigger than her. You would split her in half, lad. You need a woman with some meat on her bones. One with breasts the size of melons.” His eyes brightened with appreciation for the image he was conjuring.
Breccan didn’t share his joy. Once again, his size was mentioned; however, for a second, his certitude wavered. Could he hurt Lady Tara? He wanted bairns off of her, but he didn’t want to physically harm her to beget them.
Lachlan seemed to sense his indecision although he might not know its cause. “It’s your choice whether we go up that road or not, Laird,” he said quietly. “We’ll follow, Jonas complaining as we go. You know how he is.”
“I’m not complaining,” Jonas shot back. “I’m being sensible. You want a wife, we’ll find you one, Breccan. But this Davidson lass is not the one. Besides, nothing good comes of any Davidson. Do you not remember the tale of how Darius Davidson cheated our grandfather out of ten head of cattle—
He broke off at the sound of pounding hooves coming in their direction. All three men looked up the road to Annefield.
A bay snorting fire charged out of the mist. Whoever the rider was, he was riding as if the devil were on his heels. The horse started to slow at the sight of the three Campbells, but then the man on his back kicked him hard and sent the horse flying past them, mud splattering up from his heels.
Breccan recognized the horse immediately. “That’s one of Davidson’s prime studs.” The Davidson racehorses were to be envied. Breccan didn’t just covet Lady Tara, he was well on his way to creating a stable to rival the earl of Tay’s. He knew those horses. He’d studied them with the goal of beating them.
“Who was on his back?” Lachlan asked.
“I don’t know,” Jonas said. “But that animal can run. I barely had a glimpse of the rider.”
“And there is no reason for the horse to be out on this road in the evening,” Breccan said. “Someone is stealing that stud.”
He didn’t wait for his uncles’ responses but set his own heels to Jupiter. The stallion bounded forward, anxious to prove his own mettle. He was young, strong and ambitious, much like Breccan himself. Given his head, he charged forward, gaining on the other horse in spite of Breccan’s weight on his back. All Breccan had to do was hold on.
Meanwhile, the other rider was having difficulty. Davidson’s horse knew something was wrong and didn’t want to leave his home. The horse tried to pull up, tossing his head and throwing off his stride. This gave Breccan the opportunity to catch them.
However, just as Jupiter approached, the stud decided to go flying again, giving a buck or two for his balance. His rider appeared to be no more than a lad in a filthy coat and a wide-brimmed hat. Those bucks proved to be too much for him. With a shout, he went tumbling off into the ditch on the side of the road. In a blink of an eye, the horse raced back to the safety of its stable, cutting across the road and disappearing into the forest.
The lad climbed out of the ditch on shaky feet. He looked up, saw Breccan, and decided to run, but Breccan was not going to let a thief escape.
He was a horse owner. He was outraged that the lad would help himself to horses, even if they were Davidson’s. He leaned in the saddle, scooped the lad up off the ground by the collar of his jacket and threw him across his pommel, knocking the wind out of him—
An unexpected softness brushed Breccan’s thigh.
Furthermore, the lad had a well-rounded and enticing bum.
For a second, Breccan was so startled by his reaction to the boy, he was tempted to dump him to the ground. He wasn’t one for lads.
But then the curve of the thief’s legs caught his notice. The boy wore boots that were too tall for him, but these were not the gangly legs of a young man.
Lachlan and Jonas rode up to join him. “You caught him,” Lachlan said. “Now, what shall you do with him?”
“Hang him,” Jonas said. “That’s what I say. Hang him now.”
Instead, Breccan lifted the lad by the scruff of the neck and held him out so that he could have a good look at him.
The boy was not happy. He flailed his arms, struggling to be free.
“Hold off,” Breccan barked . . . but all other words died in his throat as the lad’s hat fell off his head to release a braid of shining copper red hair. Large blue eyes, the color of the summer sky, turned their fury on him.
It was Jonas who summed up the situation with his usual aplomb. “You have caught yourself a wench, Breccan.”
“This is no wench,” Breccan said, speaking past a throat that had gone suddenly dry with desire. Now he understood the softness that had rested against his thigh. It had been the feel of firm and full breasts.
“This is Lady Tara Davidson.”
Oh, yes, it was the beautiful Tara herself . . . dressed in lad’s clothes. Who could have known her legs were so long? Or so shapely?
What hot-blooded man wouldn’t find himself speechless at the sight? Breccan certainly was. Indeed, he couldn’t breathe.
He wasn’t the only one.
“God’s balls,” Jonas said with a whispered admiration.
“Aye,” Lachlan solemnly agreed.
For a second, Lady Tara hung helpless by Breccan’s hold on the back of her coat. She looked wild, adventurous, bold.
And then she surprised them all by doubling her fist and punching Breccan right in the nose. “Let go of me,” she commanded.
Lady Tara had a bit of strength in her arm. Her blow hurt. It was as if she’d discovered the one weak spot on his body.
Oh yes, the attack made him angry, along with the understanding that Tara Davidson was running away . . . and there was only one person from whom she could be fleeing—him.
She was attempting to escape marrying him. He’d heard rumors that she’d run from the last man she had promised to marry. And now she thought she could treat him with such disregard?
Breccan did as she bid. He let go.
Chapter Three
It was one thing to be tossed by a galloping horse but a completely different matter to be dropped—even when Tara had ordered the brute to do so.
On the horse, she had realized she was falling. She’d had trouble controlling the animal from the moment she’d climbed on his back. Choosing to steal her father’s prize stud for her escape had not been a wise choice. The beast was obviously better for breeding than riding, but Tara had been angry and wished to strike out at her father any way she could. She’d had a vague plan to sell the horse at some point, so that she could arrive in London with a certain amount of style. And then after that—?
Well, she would improvise something. She was very good at thinking quickly.
However, once she’d realized the horse was the most obstinate animal she’d ever ridden, and she had a very good seat, she knew she would have to bail.
The Bride Says Maybe Page 2