“There is no such thing as a simple woman,” she was bold enough to say. “You may pull on your breeches and go out into the world, but it is more complicated for us.”
A question came to his eye as if she was telling him information that he’d never considered before.
“I shall always want to be my best,” she tried to explain. “And you will want me to be so. You would not like to hear people whisper that you had married an unfashionable woman.”
The line of his mouth grew grim. “If she does my will, I shall not mind.”
If he were any other man, by now, he would be praising her beauty and assuring her she could do anything she desired. He would not be challenging her with the obstinacy of a bull.
Or perhaps she was losing her looks and her ability to control men with them? If she was not attractive to men, then, what was left of her?
“Very well,” she said, capitulating. “I shall be punctual before all else.”
He sensed she mocked him, and she did . . . although she tried to sound sincere.
For a second, he hesitated. Then, he said to the stable lad, “Continue walking my horse. My lady, let us go inside.”
“Aye, Laird,” the boy said.
Tara released her hold on the reins to the lad.
Laird Breccan turned on his heel and walked with purpose toward the front door. All Tara had to do was follow. However, she discovered such docility was a bit alien to her nature. She was tempted to stand her ground and wait until he noticed she was not behind him, but then this man was her only hope for a life lived on her terms, whatever they might be. She would consider the details later. She started for the door.
His uncles had dismounted. Lachlan spoke up, “Breccan, are you daft? Escort the lady inside properly.”
The laird turned as if just realizing he’d left her. Even in the torchlight, she could see a dull red creep up his neck.
To his credit, he retraced his steps to her. “Shall we go in?” He offered his arm.
Tara placed her hand upon it. The muscles under his coat were hard and solid. She didn’t think she’d ever felt the like.
“I didn’t mean to walk off,” he muttered as an apology. “I can be a bit of an oaf.”
Was that a warning?
If this was his poor behavior, Tara could assure him that she’d suffered through worse. She knew many men who were arrogant beyond boundaries, prided themselves on being difficult, were utterly selfish, and who would never have offered an apology even if their bare feet had been held to a fire.
Perhaps this would work between them.
Nor was she afraid. Not any longer.
She could manage him. He liked her breasts. She had just a wee concern about the marriage bed. She wished she understood better what was expected of her, but after she managed once, then the second time would not be distressful. The mystery would be gone.
And considering their bargain was for two children, Tara wouldn’t have to worry about a third time. The deed would be done, and she’d be free to live her life as she chose.
Confident, she sailed to the house as he stepped back to let her enter before him, proving he did have manners. She might be able to make something with him yet.
That thought of how she would change him occupied her mind as the Reverend Kinnion spoke the words over them that would make them man and wife.
But Laird Breccan seemed keen on listening to the reverend, as did his uncles.
For her side of the family, her father snored with little regret in the chair by the fire. However, Ingold was there in the doorway, as were Mrs. Watson and the other servants, and it seemed fitting. Even if Aileen had been here, the servants were more her family than anyone else.
The worst moment was when Reverend Kinnion asked, “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” He looked right at Tara’s father. The earl’s answer was a snort in his sleep.
“He is too gone in his cups,” Tara informed the Reverend Kinnion coolly, but inside, she was humiliated. Her father couldn’t think of anyone other than himself. “Must I have someone give me away? Can I not give myself away?”
“I don’t know,” the reverend said. “That would be unorthodox.”
“She is an unorthodox woman,” Laird Breccan said.
Tara looked up at him, uncertain if he was being complimentary. His expression was serious.
“Yes, well,” the reverend started to say, as if wishing he did not have to make a decision.
“Excuse me, my lady,” Ingold said, entering the room. He went over to her father, rapped him smartly on the cheek. “My lord, my lord?”
“Yes, yes,” the earl said, coming to his senses with bleary eyes. “Yes?” he repeated addressing the butler.
“Say, ‘I do,’ ” Ingold ordered.
“I do-o-o-o,” the earl mocked the butler, before laying his head back on the arm of the chair and falling asleep.
Ingold looked to the reverend. “Will that do, sir?”
“It is the hoped-for answer,” the Reverend Kinnion said. “But perhaps—”
“It is the right answer,” Laird Breccan interjected in a voice that brooked no argument.
“Still,” the reverend hedged, but then the earl raised his head to speak.
“Is it done? Is she married?” he asked in slurry speech. “Will you give me the money to return to London?” He addressed this last to Laird Breccan. “Penevey won’t like that, but damn it all, I’m allowed to go where I wish.”
“I shall send you the money to go as far away from here as is humanly possible,” Laird Breccan promised.
“Good,” the earl replied, lowering his head again.
“Let us see this done,” Laird Breccan ordered the minister, and he did. Within minutes, vows were repeated. She’d even learned that her new husband’s full name was Breccan Alexander Campbell. It was a good name. A strong one.
The Reverend Kinnion had them kneel in front of him. The hardwood floor hurt Tara’s knees.
“Do you have a ring, Laird?” the reverend asked.
“I do.” He surprised her by pulling from his pocket a tiny velvet bag. He shook the ring out of it. It was a gold band that had been worn hard.
He noticed her studying it, and said, “ ’Twas my mother’s.”
Tara nodded, still not completely connected to what was taking place. Her world was changing too rapidly. She heard herself murmur, “Then it cannot be replaced.”
“No, it is the only one,” he said, “and I treasure it.”
She now learned something else about this man, about what he held dear. She could understand. She kept a locket that had belonged to her mother even though it was broken and in two pieces.
“Hold the ring over her first finger and repeat after me,” the Reverend Kinnion instructed Laird Breccan. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
“With this ring, I thee wed,” he repeated.
“With my body, I worship thee.”
“With my—” Laird Breccan hesitated ever so slightly as if realizing the import of the words. Then, in a firm voice, he repeated, “With my body, I thee worship.”
“Trust him. The bits go together nicely if it is done right.”
“With all my worldly goods I thee endow,” the Reverend Kinnion read.
Laird Breccan had no problem repeating that vow. It was actually their promise to each other, Tara realized. Their bargain.
There are moments in life one never forgets. As Laird Breccan slid the ring on her finger, Tara knew she would always remember every detail. Her senses were filled with him. Beyond the scent of food being cooked someplace in the house, of the coal in the fire and the smell of her father’s whisky, underlying it all was her awareness of him. He smelled of fresh air and good soap.
The thin gold band fit. His mother must not have been a
bigger woman than her. Funny to imagine such a giant could come from a petite woman.
The Reverend Kinnion began finalizing the vows by making the sign of the cross over their joined hands, but the laird signaled for him to stop. He turned to Tara, his hand still holding hers.
“I want you to know I shall be a good and faithful husband to you.”
Tara nodded. In many ways, there was almost a dreamlike quality to this turn of events. She kept expecting to wake up and find her life back where it had once been, back in the days when she’d believed she’d been in control of her destiny.
Apparently he hadn’t expected an answer from her. He’d made his declaration, a promise born out of his sense of honor. He looked to the Reverend Kinnion. “You can finish now.”
The Reverend Kinnion waved a blessing over their joined hands. “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.” He raised his hands over them. “And now, what God has joined, let no man put asunder.”
And Tara was married.
In the space of a few hours, her life had been changed forever.
There followed an awkward moment of silence. Tara didn’t know what to do now and apparently neither did Laird Breccan.
“Are you going to seal your pledge with a kiss, Breccan?” his uncle Jonas asked.
For a second, Tara panicked. She wasn’t against a kiss, but not in front of this audience.
The laird seemed to understand, or perhaps he felt the same way because he said, “We are not here for your entertainment, Jonas.”
“Aye, but you should kiss the bride.” Jonas argued. “If you don’t wish to do so, Breccan, I’ll do it for you.”
Jonas’s offer brought heat to Tara’s cheeks.
But it spurred the laird to lean over, and he barely brushed his lips across Tara’s as if not wanting to touch her.
They were strangers. She told herself his kiss was respectful, a formality . . . but it was also a far cry from the kisses she had once shared with Ruary Jamerson, the man who was, she reminded herself, the love of her life.
One life; one love.
Who she married no longer mattered . . .
Mrs. Watson took on the role of host since the earl was passed out. She announced, “Come now, Cook has prepared refreshments to celebrate. You will come this way, will you now, Laird Breccan and Reverend Kinnion?”
Laird Breccan frowned with distaste at Tara’s sleeping father. His mouth was open, and he was beginning to drool. “I need to be returning home.”
“But we can eat,” Jonas protested.
“It’s dark,” the laird said. “I want to be on the road.”
“Aye, Breccan is right,” Lachlan agreed.
The laird looked to Tara. “Are you ready?”
Tara felt a discontent. He wanted to whisk her away too quickly. It was as if he was anxious to dismiss her family.
“I am not,” she said stoutly. “I haven’t even packed a valise.” She hadn’t really stopped to consider that Annefield was no longer her home.
“Then pack,” he said. “Jonas, go fill your belly. You may go with him also, Lachlan.”
“Are you not hungry, Breccan?” Lachlan asked.
The laird shot another glance of disgust toward the earl, and announced, “I’m hungry for my home. I shall be waiting for both of you outside.” He walked out of the room.
It was a rude response. Mrs. Watson was surprised, as was Tara. “He means to leave now?”
Jonas nodded. “Breccan likes his bed. He never lingers. What does the cook have for us?” he asked, rubbing his hands. “Breccan may not want to enjoy good food, but I do. The cook at Annefield is famous.”
“Then come this way, sir,” Mrs. Watson invited. She didn’t have to ask twice. Jonas was right at her heels as she left the room.
Lachlan followed although he paused in the doorway and looked back at Tara. “If I were you, my lady, I’d be packing. As you could tell earlier, Breccan doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Does he always do exactly as he pleases?” Tara asked.
Laughter lit Lachlan’s eye. “Usually. But then I have a feeling, you are as headstrong. This marriage will be interesting.” He followed the others.
For a second, Tara wanted to rail against all that had happened. But then she realized protest was futile. Her decision had been made.
She looked to her maid, Ellen, who lingered in the hall, waiting for her command. “Come, Ellen,” she said to the maid. “Help me pack.”
“I’ve started doing a bit of it, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Tara said as she started up the stairs. It would not take long to prepare.
There was a footstep behind her and she turned to see Myra, another household maid, following. “Mrs. Watson instructed me to come help.”
Tara nodded. Myra was a buxom lass who was a great favorite of the footmen. She took pride in her worldliness. She was not the best of servants, but right now, Tara needed help.
Upstairs, Tara’s bedroom was a mess. Dresses, shoes, and scarves had been removed from the wardrobe. The valise was open on the bed. Tara realized she didn’t know how they would travel. Nothing had been said about a coach. For a second, she debated having Ingold order one prepared, then decided to be quiet.
Laird Breccan’s demands for her to pack with all haste, then his leaving the house to wait outside annoyed her. Especially after that pretend kiss, not that she had wanted to kiss him. Oh, no, kissing the air was fine with her.
Still, his imperial manner provoked her. All men were stubborn, but he behaved as if were a prince of the realm—which he was not. She knew the Prince Regent, and Breccan Campbell was no Prinny, especially with all that hair outlining the leanness of his cheeks and the hardness of his jaw. Didn’t the man own a razor? Facial hair was not the style, although, she had to admit, the shadow of his beard was not unattractive on the Campbell . . .
Tara caught the direction of her thoughts and forced herself to think on the task at hand. No good would come from softening toward him. She’d be wise to keep her guard in place.
“Pack just the necessities in the valise,” Tara decided. The bag was small enough it could be carried on a horse or stowed in a coach. “Tell Mrs. Watson to have Simon”—she referred to the footman who served many duties around the household—“deliver a trunk to Wolfstone on the morrow. In fact, who knows what the laird has in the way of luxuries at Wolfstone? For all I know, they sleep on animal skins.” And considering Laird Breccan’s boorish behavior, that could well be true.
Her comment elicited a giggle from the maids and gave Tara a bit of her spirit back. “Myra, fetch some linens for my new life. Bring them here so I can have a look at them. Ellen, help me dress.” The details she had to consider were overwhelming. “I’ll wear my riding habit; that way, I’m prepared for anything.”
Soon, Tara was in her marine blue habit trimmed with gold buttons. She had Ellen braid her hair so it could be pinned neatly at the nape of her neck.
As Tara set the hat, a feminine version of a gentleman’s curled-brim beaver, she said, “Remember to put my tooth powder in the valise. Where is Myra? She should have been back by now. Go see what she is doing. Also,” Tara thought to add, “see if we have a fresh cake of that lavender soap I like. You know where Mrs. Watson keeps it.”
“Yes, my lady.” Ellen left the room.
Tara took a deep breath to steady her nerves and relieve the apprehension in her stomach. Her room overlooked the back of the house, so she couldn’t see if Laird Breccan still waited for her or not. She assumed someone would come running for her if he decided to have another of his tantrums—and that is how she thought of his storming out on her earlier, a tantrum. She recognized it because she’d thrown a few of her own over the years. It was probably wise she was planning on living in London while he stayed in Scotland.
Still, one shouldn’t pull on the wolf’s tail, and it was past time for her to make her appearance downstairs.
Since Myra and Ellen hadn’t returned, she tucked her tooth powder into her valise herself, closed it, and picked it up from the bed. She left the room, but wanted to tell Ellen she was leaving. She walked down the hall to the small room at the end of the hall by the servants’ stairs that Mrs. Watson used as an office and where she kept the linen press.
The door was slightly ajar and she could hear Ellen’s and Myra’s hushed whispers.
“How do you know Laird Breccan is big down there?” Ellen was asking.
Tara had been about to let her presence be known. She now shut her mouth, listening and curious about what Ellen meant when she said, “down there.”
“Annie Carr has seen enough to know he is. She says the man is a monster. She has to cut extra material.” Annie Carr was the local seamstress.
“And,” Myra continued, “there has been a lass or two that has had a go at him. They sing his praises.” She dropped her voice a notch lower to confide, “They say he is a beast.”
“But what of my lady?” Ellen worried.
“I’m thinking she’ll have the time of her life.”
“Or he could hurt her. If he is that big, why this night will be painful for her.”
“Oh, yes,” Myra readily agreed. “If he is as big as they say he is and her being such a petite thing, he could split her in half. Although I wouldn’t mind having a go at him—”
Tara had stared backing away from the door, not wanting to be discovered eavesdropping, and shocked by what she’d heard.
Images of stallions mounting mares shot through her memory.
Mrs. Watson had been dissembling. Tara had asked her directly if the marriage act was such as that, and the housekeeper had assured her it was not.
No, that wasn’t true. She hadn’t answered the question at all. She had been deliberately vague.
As Tara went down the stairs, she knew she must behave as if all is well.
But it wasn’t.
And she had a sinking feeling it never would be again.
The Bride Says Maybe Page 5