The Bride Says Maybe

by Maxwell, Cathy

  “Just twice,” she whispered, reminding herself of their bargain. “I have to lie with him twice.”

  Two bairns and she would be free.

  Chapter Five

  He’d been afraid to kiss her, especially with an audience.

  Breccan stood in the night. The earlier gloom had dissipated, leaving a half-moon in a cloudless sky. The light would make traveling the way home easier.

  The cold October air felt good on his heated skin. He didn’t pace but rooted himself to the ground by his horse, waiting for her to come out.

  Drapes covered the windows in the house against the chill and the damp, so he couldn’t see the activity that was taking place. He could only guess.

  Wolfstone didn’t have drapes, or rugs on the floor, or any of the frills he’d seen in the rooms at Annefield. His home was spartan compared to how Lady Tara lived here. He would tell anyone that his was a male establishment, and there was no need for softness.

  But he did have a need for her.

  He wanted her softness.

  His parents had not been wealthy people. Breccan had been their only child, and he had seen how his father’s laziness had made for a hard life for his mother.

  She’d been a good and gentle woman, an educated one. She’d ensured that Breccan understood what his father did not. A chieftain cares for his people, she had told him. He puts their needs before his own.

  His mother had also had a shrewd mind for turning a penny. She’d taught Breccan how to save and how to plan. She had urged him to imagine what Wolfstone could be.

  “Don’t let other people’s expectations limit you, Breccan,” she had said. “Or their own conceits. Follow what interests you, and you’ll be fine. You will be a good man.” To his mother’s way of thinking, there was no higher goal.

  He’d always been fascinated by how levers, pulleys, and wheels worked. With his mother’s encouragement, he’d actually created the design for the millhouse when he was as young as ten. A decade and a half later, he’d built that mill, almost according to his original design. It now served his clan and the surrounding countryside as well. He owned it, but he kept the prices fair and used the profit to build a school and pay two tutors.

  He was also interested in new agricultural methods and using Wolfstone’s land to the best of his ability. Aye, he’d brought in sheep like so many others around him, but he’d taught his clansmen how to grow crops efficiently so more could be harvested from the acres. He didn’t need to toss people from their homes to graze animals. He believed he’d found a way for them to all live together, profitably.

  The horse stables were a labor of love. He’d seen how the earl of Tay had benefited. Breccan liked good horseflesh and was interested to see what would happen if he bred Scottish resilience into a Thoroughbred’s heart. Many laughed at him, but his two-year-old stallion, a bay named Taurus, was showing the signs of a champion. They were about to test Taurus’s mettle in a few weeks at a race Breccan dearly wanted to win.

  But he’d invested in his most challenging endeavors over the last year. First, he’d purchased two spinning mules and a power loom. Breccan didn’t believe there was any sense in shipping his wool off when his own people could weave it into a cloth he imagined would be finer than any other in the world. The equipment worked off of water, something Scotland had in abundance.

  He’d hired a weaver to teach his clansmen how to use wheel and loom. Then he had started building a row of cottages, again from his own drawings, so that those who worked together could live together. He had the idea from his studies of ancient guilds. Weavers were being trained, but so far the cloth produced had been of inferior quality. It was as if his people refused to master the equipment.

  However, his latest venture was his most expensive one, and that was his marriage to Lady Tara. Buying the earl’s notes had stretched his coffers thin. His mother would have warned him to not extend himself on the debts of another, and yet Breccan had wanted what he’d wanted.

  Perhaps he did have some of his father in him because right now, at this moment, one tip of bad luck could see him in debtor’s prison.

  Worse, she might prove to be his greatest test.

  He was a man who prided himself on being in control. She was a woman who just by breathing seemed to make his control disappear. He wasn’t rational around her. Perhaps once he’d bedded her, then he might be able to think coherently—?

  Aye, he had been angry with her for making him cool his heels while she’d readied herself for their vows. No Campbell took slights well. But he would have returned. He wanted her that much.

  And then there was the moment when they’d argued over the reins, and their bodies had met—he’d never experienced such complete, unreserved desire. Just that swift touch had been enough for his manhood to almost embarrass him.

  So, yes, he had hesitated kissing her . . . but he also couldn’t wait to take her to his bed. God, he ached with need.

  A groom brought a horse, a gelding, around from Tay’s stable. “Lady Tara’s mount,” he said, taking a place by Breccan. The torchlight highlighted the craggy features of his face. He had the height and solid body of an exercise rider, but he was too old. Breaking and exercising was a young man’s game.

  “She’s a good rider, is she?” Breccan had to ask.

  “Aye, Laird. We couldn’t pull her off her pony when she was a wee thing. Yourself? You are a rider?”

  “Of course . . . when I find a horse big enough for my carcass.”

  The groom laughed, then introduced himself. “I’m Angus Freeman, Laird, the earl’s head groom. I’ve heard you have built quite a stable.”

  “Thank you.” And then Breccan couldn’t help himself from boasting just a wee bit, “I laid it all out myself.”

  “That is what I’ve heard. I’ve been told it is something I should see.”

  “You are always welcome.”

  There was a beat of silence and then Freeman asked, “Do you have a good stable master?”

  Breccan knew the question was not asked in innocence. Freeman was obviously an ambitious man, one who may have learned a great deal in Tay’s employ. The groom must know Breccan was searching for a new man. Perhaps these questions were his reason for personally bringing Lady Tara’s horse from the stables.

  “Actually, I could use one,” Breccan said. “Now that Jamerson is gone, I am using William Ricks, but I need another good man.”

  “Aye, Jamerson was the best.” There was a pause, then Freeman said, “I’d heard you were using Ricks. He’s not half-bad.”

  “But he is not the best, either. Come see me if you are interested in my employ,” Breccan said, just as the front door opened.

  Lady Tara came out on the step. She held her own bag, and that was a relief to him. Here was a sign that she was not as much of a pampered miss as rumored, which was good. His clansmen, especially the women, didn’t blindly offer allegiance. They made a soul work hard for their respect, but if she was willing to carry her own weight, she would do fine.

  He stepped forward. “Are you ready to go, my lady?”

  She nodded mutely. Her face was pale. For the first time, Breccan realized how much of a change to her life this marriage would be. She must have the same thought in her head.

  “Your mount is over here.” Breccan turned, and Freeman led the horse forward.

  Lady Tara didn’t move. She looked back to the door.

  The butler came out. He had apparently been seeing to other matters and had not realized she was ready to leave the house. “My lady, may I help you?”

  A frown formed between her eyes. She straightened her shoulders, and said, “No, Ingold, all is fine. Tell father I said good-bye.”

  “We shall see you again, will we not?” Ingold asked.

  Her smile was forced. “Yes, of course.” She walked down the step, but
then stopped. She faced the door. “Thank you, Ingold. You and Mrs. Watson have been good friends to me.”

  “It was an easy task, my lady,” he answered.

  “And tell my sister,” she continued, her voice taking on urgency, “that I care deeply for her, and I’m sorry that I had to marry before she could return.”

  “I will, my lady. But she will come see you when she and Mr. Stephens return.”

  “Yes, she might,” Lady Tara agreed, but there was no hope in her voice. She walked toward Breccan, her face in shadows, her arms wrapped around her bag.

  He stepped forward to help her mount. “Let me take your luggage,” he offered.

  She looked up at him, and he saw tears rimming dazed eyes. He reached for the bag, and, for second, she resisted. Then she sniffed as if struggling to compose herself and allowed him her bag although her hands followed him as if she wished to grasp it back.

  Breccan didn’t appreciate her behaving as if she was heading to the gallows. He was suddenly very anxious to be on his way before anyone noticed.

  Fortunately, Jonas and Lachlan were leaving the house. “An excellent repast, Mrs. Watson,” Jonas was saying. “Tell the cook everything they claim about her cooking is the Lord’s truth. There could be no finer food in all the British Isles. Isn’t that correct, Lachlan?”

  Lachlan said something, but Breccan wasn’t attending. Instead, after handing her bag to Freeman, he was trying to contrive a way to help Lady Tara mount. She offered no assistance but stood with her head bowed and her shoulders slumped.

  This was not good. It embarrassed him, and so he did what he always did when uncomfortable, he took action. He picked her up and sat her on her horse as if she were a doll.

  She looked up, startled.

  He tensed, ready for a haranguing. Instead, she lifted the reins and settled her leg over the pommel.

  His uncles were mounting their horses. Jonas, full of whisky, kept saying his farewells to everyone. Breccan couldn’t wait to leave this place. “Come,” he said to his wife, and started off at a trot. She obeyed, riding beside him although she continued to be withdrawn.

  Five minutes on the road home, she began weeping, the sound quiet, soft, and annoying.

  Breccan didn’t know what to do. Where was the woman who had shown such spirit? What had happened to her?

  And he was afraid to acknowledge her crying because then he’d have to do something about it.

  Jonas rode up beside him. “She’s crying,” he said in a whisper that if she had ears in her head she could hear.

  Breccan tried to ignore him. This was his wife, his problem. His uncle needn’t worry himself.

  “You need to ask her why she is crying,” Jonas prodded.

  “I don’t want to know,” Breccan practically growled.

  “Oh,” said Jonas, and dropped back to ride beside Lachlan, who had enough sense to keep his nose out of Breccan’s business.

  But his uncle’s prompting made Breccan feel guilty. And, since he didn’t have any other ideas, he did as Jonas had suggested. “Why are you crying?” he asked his wife.

  “I’m not crying,” she said with a sniff, her head bowed. Her horse was just following his. She was doing little to guide the animal.

  “Then, why is there water running out of your eyes?”

  No answer.

  “You can visit Annefield anytime you wish,” he offered, believing homesickness could be her problem.

  “I know that,” she said, her voice trembling.

  “Then why are you crying?” Breccan had to ask again, knowing he had just gone in a circle.

  “I’m not crying,” she returned.

  “Ah, then your face will not be blotchy from weeping,” he responded.

  She raised her head and shot him a look that would have skewered him if it had been a sword.

  “I’ll have to remember,” Breccan said, “that when I want a response from you, I must appeal to your vanity.”

  He was mostly speaking his thoughts out loud, cataloging them for the future. He had that habit, but, for the first time, he realized there were some people, like his new wife, who might not appreciate the trait.

  “I am not vain,” she answered through clenched teeth.

  Breccan decided he’d said enough, and so they reached Wolfstone in silence.

  He’d called her vain.

  No one had ever said such to her, at least not outright. No one would have dared.

  But she found she appreciated the laird’s callous, unfair accusation. It did make her stop crying because she did not want her skin to be blotchy, and it helped harden her resolve against him.

  He might be her husband, but he was the enemy. He was a Campbell, and she was a Davidson. She’d grown up on stories of the atrocities committed by the Campbells against their fellow clans—although at one time the Campbells and the Davidsons had been allies. And, yes, it had been centuries ago, but people still whispered that the Black Campbells were the worst, and here she’d been “sold” by her father to them.

  Focusing on the drama of her circumstances helped her wrestle with her very real fear. Tara had never been one for pain. She did not wish to be “split in half.” The horror of it unnerved her, and it didn’t help that she was tired, hungry, and feeling very much alone.

  Twice. She only had to let him have his way with her twice, the promise becoming her own little chant.

  All too soon, they turned up a drive that led to Wolfstone Castle. It was located at the shadow of Schiehallion, the mountain that was also known as The Constant Storm.

  The moonlight turned the castle’s stone walls to silver. The building had to be hundreds of years old and a fitting lair for wolf.

  The pace of Laird Breccan and his uncle’s horses had picked up. The men seemed to lean forward, anxious to return home.

  She toyed with spinning Dirk around and racing back to Annefield. But that would be cowardly.

  A door opened, and a servant came out with a torch. Two more men followed him out. They moved forward to take the reins of the laird’s horses.

  Tara could feel that they watched her with great speculation. Ordinarily, this would not bother her. She was accustomed to people’s staring at her, but this occasion was different than any other. She was their new mistress.

  From hence forward, she would be known as the Lady of Wolfstone.

  She didn’t know if she liked the thought.

  “My lady?”

  The laird’s deep voice surprised her. He’d already dismounted and reached up to help her off Dirk. She had no choice but to let him.

  His hands seemed to encircle her waist. The contact was actually minimal. He lifted her out of the saddle and placed her on the ground, setting her on her feet as if she were a piece of porcelain he feared breaking.

  She stepped away.

  He did as well.

  And for the first time, she considered that perhaps he found circumstances between them awkward as well.

  He was not a bad sort. Indeed, he’d been gallant to her. It was just that he was so intimidating . . . and his reputation—

  A herd of dogs came running out of the house. There were four of them in all shapes and sizes. She remembered the dogs. When she had gone to his stables in search of Ruary Jamerson, his dogs had surrounded him.

  She took a step back, but the beasts weren’t interested in her. One was shaggy and gray and the size of a small pony. Two others were hounds; and then there was a black terrier who thought she was as big as the others. They playfully jumped on the laird, even the giant dog, anxious for his attention.

  He laughed his enjoyment at such a happy greeting, rubbing the heads of his hounds and, finally, he picked up the smallest, a black terrier, and rubbed her head. She seemed the most territorial where he was concerned. She growled at the other dogs.<
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  “Whoosh, Daphne, stop that,” the laird ordered, and the dog obeyed.

  Tara was not fond of dogs running loose. She was not accustomed to them and thought them quite wild.

  Her father raised hunting dogs, but they were kept contained until there was a hunt. And she was even more unimpressed when she walked into the house and almost stumbled over a forgotten bone right inside the front door.

  A serving girl in an apron with her blonde hair pulled back had been lighting a branch of candles. She heard Tara’s soft gasp over stepping on the bone.

  “Och, I’m so sorry, my lady. Those naughty dogs. They have no manners.” She carried the candles over to Tara and handed it to her while she bent to pick up the bone, and the three others that were there.

  It was cold in the house. The entry was all stone, without a rug or a small table to give it the feeling of a home. The room where the girl had been lighting her candles had a cold hearth and a table with several chairs around it. Again, Tara was struck by the hard bareness of the room, and there was definitely the smell of dog in the air.

  The laird came up behind her. She realized she blocked the doorway and forced herself to move inside. His dogs followed him in, their tails still threatening to wag their rear ends off their bodies.

  “This is Flora,” the laird said, introducing the serving girl to her. He paused, then added, “You must be tired, my lady.”

  “I am a little,” Tara admitted without thinking.

  Jonas brought her back to her circumstances by saying as he entered the house, “Well, don’t worry. Breccan will see you to bed.” He grinned and winked his true meaning, and Tara felt her stomach turn inside out.

  The irrepressible Jonas didn’t stop in the hall but walked straight into the other room and threw his hat upon the table. Lachlan had entered, and he now joined his brother. He glanced at Tara and the laird, and said, “You two have sweet dreams. I’ll keep this rowdy ape away from you in case he decides to try any wedding foolhardiness.”

  “Come now, Lachlan,” Jonas said, as he threw himself down in one of the chairs and leaned back, setting his booted heels on the table. “He is our only nephew. Are you saying we shouldn’t give him a blackening?” He referred to the country tradition of capturing the bridegroom and covering him with soot and whatever else could be found.