The Bride Says Maybe

by Maxwell, Cathy

  “Do you think this is about me?”

  “Yes,” Tara answered, as if it was obvious.

  “Well, perhaps it is,” he said, facing her. “This is my home, my lady. I understand I am not your choice of a husband, but we have a bargain, one I regret making.”

  He would have walked away again, his haughty terrier leading the way, but Tara was not done. She tightened her hold on his arm.

  “You are being unfair,” she accused. “This is all new to me. You—” she started, ready to hurl a few choice comments about him and his dogs, but then thought better of it. What purpose would it serve?

  And she realized, her sister would have been proud to hear her bite her tongue. Aileen had set the example of a woman gracefully accepting responsibility for her own actions. Tara must act in that manner as well.

  “You must be patient,” she finished, covering up what she could have said. “Please.”

  She didn’t meet his eye as she added that last. He’d see what a struggle being contrite was for her.

  He reached down for her hand on his arm and gently held it in his own. He ran the pad of his thumb along the line of her nails. “This is all new to you. I imagine it is a bit of a comeuppance. It’s not London.”

  “Not yet.” She found the courage to meet his eye and was surprised that instead of being cold and gray as she’d originally thought, they were blue. A light blue.

  Their children would have blue eyes.

  The unbidden thought astonished her. Her mind had never traveled in that direction before, but it did now . . . with him.

  “So all is not lost?” she asked. A hint of her old self, the woman who could prettily command any man’s attention, was in her tone.

  And he responded to that woman. The iciness left his manner. “No, it is not lost at all. We shall do better with each other.” He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed the tips.

  A warmth spread through her, a response to being this close to him. He would not have been her first choice of a husband or her second or third—but he was the man she had married. They could do well together, at least until she left for her life in London.

  At their feet, Daphne sniffed her disdain, but Tara didn’t worry about her anymore. The laird was choosing her over his dogs. He might not realize it at this moment, but he had.

  “Come, you need something to eat.” He directed her toward the open door of the kitchen, which was attached to the main building. Perhaps at one time it had been separate, but one of the laird’s ancestors had seen fit to build a walkway, and from that walkway had come a hall, then a room.

  The kitchen was one long space with a good-sized table in the center for kneading dough and arranging dishes. There was a good deal of bustle. The cook here was a male. He had two scullery girls to help him turn the meat he must have been preparing for dinner. Meat pies were cooling on the table. The laird’s uncle Lachlan sat at the table eating one of the pies. He rose as Tara entered the room and greeted her by asking if she’d slept well.

  “I did,” Tara lied, but that was fine because by the twinkle in his eye as he shot a glance at his nephew, he had apparently not expected an honest answer.

  The laird cleared his voice as if he, too, was a bit embarrassed.

  That was a change. She’d not thought of a man of his stature as being anything but confident. But then, the laird wasn’t like most men she knew. There was a humility about him. He was probably strong enough that he could break any man’s neck, and yet, there was a touch of gentleness about him as well, and some of the tension she always held deep inside her eased . . . to be replaced by the spark of interest.

  With the right clothes and a good barber, why, he might even be handsome beneath his scruffiness.

  “We take most of our meals in here,” the laird explained, nodding to the table. “There is only the three of us, so we don’t stand on ceremony. Of course, now there are four of us.”

  She liked the way his deep voice had warmed over “four of us.” He included her.

  Of course, that didn’t stop her from thinking it might be nicer to eat in the dining room inside the house, but she had to remember she was not planning on staying.

  The laird was introducing her to the cook, a man with a barrel-shaped chest by the name of Dougal. The girl Tara had met the night before, Flora, was also one of the scullery maids, as was another young woman close to Tara’s age named Agnes.

  Dougal was most anxious to see to Tara’s breakfast. She noticed that Daphne and the other dogs were not in the kitchen. Daphne lingered outside the door, eyeing Tara as if she was evaluating all the attention the human mistress was receiving and was not pleased.

  So perhaps dogs had more human attitudes than Tara had supposed?

  She focused on her breakfast and not the unhappy terrier outside the door. “I would be pleased with just some tea and toasted bread,” she said.

  “Aye, we can do that,” Dougal answered, and started giving out instructions for Flora to make the toast and Agnes to see to the tea. “Use one of the good cups. And the saucer, too.”

  Dougal turned his attention back to entertaining his laird’s new wife. He was attempting to be very gallant. This was the reaction Tara expected from men.

  Lachlan watched the interaction in the kitchen with a bemused air.

  Benches served as seating for the table. Tara asked Lachlan, “May I sit across from you?”

  “I would hope that you would,” he answered.

  She was about to slide onto the bench when the laird’s other uncle Jonas came charging into the kitchen. He addressed himself to Lachlan, who could be seen easily by anyone passing the doorway.

  “God’s balls, Lachlan, you should see Breccan’s bed. He and the Davidson lass destroyed it. He must have pounded heerrrr—” He drew out the last word as he caught sight of Tara at the table with the laird off to one side. Apparently, they could not be seen from the walkway.

  His eyebrows hitting his hairline, Jonas closed his mouth. There was a moment of awkward silence.

  Tara’s face flamed with embarrassment. She could feel the interest of the cook and the maids. A legend had been born. She knew the story of the broken bed would now take on a life of its own. And there was nothing she could do to stop it other than to tell the truth, and that meant admitting the marriage had not been consummated. She knew to keep her mouth shut.

  Jonas tried to overcome his lapse of manners. It was never good to be caught gossiping. “Why, good morning, my lady,” he said with false heartiness. “And you, Breccan. I thought you were down at the barn.”

  “I have a bed to fix,” the laird said dryly.

  Such a statement would have dampened the spirits of a lesser man, but Jonas recovered. He smiled. “Well, that is not a bad thing, is it?”

  “Perhaps you should go to the barn, Jonas,” the laird suggested.

  “I should,” Jonas readily agreed, obviously eager to escape. He picked up a meat pie off the table, toasted Tara with it, his grin having returned, and popped out the door.

  “Why couldn’t he have been born mute?” the laird grumbled.

  “Because God is wiser than we are,” Lachlan answered.

  The laird looked to Dougal. “Isn’t my lady’s tea ready?” he asked pointedly, a reminder that the cook should mind his business.

  “Aye, Breccan. It is almost.” Dougal snapped his fingers for his girls to stop gaping and finish their tasks.

  Tara had been studying the wood grain in the table, but now that her initial shock over Jonas’s boast about the bed had passed, she realized the incident was humorous. Jonas’s expression at seeing her in the kitchen was one to be remembered, and she couldn’t help but smile.

  The laird sat on the bench beside her. He was disgruntled. It swirled in the air around him. He leaned close to her to confide, “Jonas should mind his
own business.”

  “That is not the way of families,” she answered. Flora set a cup of tea in front of her. She picked up the spoon resting on the saucer.

  “They know too much about my life,” he answered.

  “That is the way of families,” she said.

  He looked at her with new eyes. “You are taking this well.”

  “So are you . . . considering.”

  He studied her as if uncertain how to accept her comment, then must have decided she was teasing, as she had been. He smiled.

  His smile transformed him. She hadn’t realized how tense he was, how serious, until that moment. He had a dimple, just one. She had not noticed it before, but she now found it charming.

  “You surprise me,” he confided.

  “I confound myself,” she admitted. And then she dared to lean close to him and say, “But we do have a bargain. I will honor it.”

  Men were easy to read. His glance said he hoped she was being serious. Yes, he wanted her, and she was beginning to sense the attraction between them might be mutual. She just needed to take hold of her nerves.

  She could feel the approval of the others in the kitchen. They liked their laird. The Scots were egalitarian amongst their clansman. There was often a proprietorial air toward their leaders. They wanted him happy.

  Breccan. She said his name in her mind. They all called him by his given name. Even the cook called him Breccan.

  Could not his wife? Especially since she liked the sound of his name. His was a strong name.

  And she would have used it. A sentence was forming in her head so that she could hear herself speak his name aloud—but at that moment, a young lad charged into the kitchen. He was breathing hard as if he’d come a good distance. He looked around wildly, his gaze settling on Breccan.

  “Laird, Mr. Ricks needs you at the stables. It’s Taurus. He’s standing on three feet. Mr. Ricks says it is bad.”

  The lad did not have to repeat himself. Breccan shot up from the table and moved for the door. “What has happened?” he demanded.

  “He has pulled up lame,” the lad answered.

  “Damn.” With that one word, Breccan was gone without a backward glance toward Tara.

  Lachlan started to rise as well. “Excuse me, my lady, I need go to the stables.”

  “What is it?” Tara asked. “What is happening?”

  “Taurus is an important stallion,” Lachlan said. “I’d best go and see if I can offer assistance.” He left, and Tara felt like a great wind had come through and sucked everyone out of the kitchen—save for Dougal and the maids.

  The cook made his feelings known by throwing the pronged fork he’d been using to lift a pot from the fire into the corner of the kitchen. Flora and Agnes froze as if expecting another outburst.

  Tara slid off the bench to rise. “What is it?” she demanded of the cook.

  “A catastrophe, my lady. Without that horse, we’re ruined.” He didn’t explain more but joined the other men by running out of the kitchen as well.

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Tara said. She looked to the maids. Agnes appeared ready to burst into tears. “What is happening?” Tara demanded.

  “We need Taurus, my lady,” Flora said. “There is to be a race in three weeks’ time. If the laird doesn’t win that race, why, he could lose everything.”

  “What do you mean ‘everything’?” Tara asked.

  “It is Owen Campbell’s fault,” Agnes said, jumping into the conversation. “If he hadn’t said the things he did about the laird, there wouldn’t be a wager.”

  “A wager,” Tara repeated, focusing on this key bit of information. “The laird gambles?”

  “Not often,” Flora hurried to say in his defense. “But this was forced upon him.”

  “In what way?” Many a time, Tara’s father had claimed he’d been forced to gamble—and nothing could be further from the truth.

  “Owen Campbell said terrible things about our horses in front of everyone in Aberfeldy one day,” Agnes said somberly. “Then he challenged the laird to a race, one our pride says we must win.”

  “Well, if this Taurus is lame, he can’t run,” Tara answered. She took a sip of tea. Breccan was a gambler. She’d lived all her life with one in the person of her father. She knew and abhorred the hand-to-mouth existence. A gambler was one sort of person she had not wanted to marry.

  “It is not that simple, my lady,” Flora said. “The laird had to put up the money to enter the race. If Taurus doesn’t run, he loses his stake. We may all lose. Dougal and all the others have made wagers with the other side of the family. We want Taurus to win.”

  “If he doesn’t, the laird will be poor again,” Agnes added.

  “Poor?” Tara frowned. She had no desire to be poor. She didn’t even like the sound of the word. The laird could not afford to let her live her life in London if he was poor. “The Campbells are not poor. They are many things they are, but lacking in money is not one of them.”

  “You might be wrong there, my lady,” Flora answered, a wisdom in her eye that belied her youth. “There is many a poor Campbell. We were once, but then the laird had made things good for us. But lately, Dougal says he has been spending his money . . .” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes widened as if she realized she was saying too much, and Tara had a suspicion of what Dougal had actually been saying.

  Flora turned around suddenly and furiously started to pretend as if she were busy with knives and pots. “I forgot to cut your bread and make your toast, my lady.”

  Agnes’s eyes had gone round as if she was alarmed by Flora’s furious activity—but Tara was not fooled. She walked over to the maid and placed a restraining hand on Flora’s as she was about to cut the bread.

  “Yes, my lady?” Flora asked, the picture of innocence.

  “What Dougal told you is that the laird paid my father’s debts?”

  Flora’s mouth rounded as if she didn’t know what to say, but then she finally conceded. “Yes, my lady. Most of us know that.”

  “But you are all worried now because you know the laird has overextended his purse?”

  “Overextended, my lady?”

  “He doesn’t have the blunt to meet his debts if that horse doesn’t win,” Tara said, speaking plainly.

  Tara could see the thought go through the girl’s head that she should just deny all knowledge. With a lift of her eyebrow, Tara dissuaded her.

  “I have heard that could be the case,” Flora admitted.

  Tara began moving toward the door.

  “Don’t you wish your toast, my lady?” an anxious Flora asked.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Please, my lady, have I upset you?” Flora pleaded.

  Tara stopped in the doorway. “No, Flora, you haven’t. But I’m about to upset Laird Breccan.” She left then, following to the stables, where she would discover for herself the exact state of the laird’s finances . . . and woe to him if he’d promised her London and could not deliver.

  Chapter Eight

  Breccan was a fair enough horseman, but there was much he didn’t know. Lameness was one of those issues. When he’d left the barn an hour ago, Taurus had been fine. Now, the horse moved under the lad riding him in the paddock as if he was a three-legged stool.

  “What is causing this?” Breccan asked.

  “There could be a number of reasons,” William Ricks answered. He was of middling years with a horseman’s flair. His wide-brimmed hat and red waistcoat had become a common sight around Wolfstone.

  “Pick one,” Breccan answered, ready to grind the man to a nub. He wanted answers.

  “He could have a stone bruise. Or have pulled a muscle. Since the lameness is in his left front, he could have rolled wrong and injured his neck.”

  Injured his neck? Breccan did not like the sou
nd of that.

  “Can he run in the race?” Breccan had to know.

  “I can’t say, Laird,” Ricks answered. “There is no knowing.”

  Breccan wanted to roar his rage, and it didn’t help that he was the one who had put his pride on the line with a senseless wager.

  “Then what are you going to do for the horse?” Breccan asked in a voice that could strike fear in any man.

  Ricks was no exception. “We’ll rub him down and keep him on stall rest. We might be lucky and it is only an abscess although I can feel no heat. However, I have a trick of drawing the poison out. I’ll have the lads press a wedge of potato to the bottom of his hoof and tie it in place. That could do the trick.”

  “A potato?” Breccan repeated with a hint of disgust. The man was guessing, and considering how much Breccan was paying him, that guess was costing him dearly.

  Not for the first time did he wish Ruary Jamerson was still in the area. The horse master had a gift. It was as if the horses communicated with him. He would have understood what Taurus’s injury was.

  He would have also told Breccan he’d been a fool to take Owen Campbell’s challenge. Jamerson had wanted Breccan to race Taurus in the Derby in the coming spring. That was where Breccan’s plans for the horse should have been. Instead, he’d allowed his pride to make an unwise choice.

  His pride had been doing a bit too much of that lately.

  Well, it was too late to change the game.

  “Do as you say,” Breccan said to Ricks. He turned to where Lachlan and Jonas stood by the fence. They were not alone. A dozen or so of his clansman had gathered around the paddock to watch Taurus move. Their grave expressions showed their concern.

  Aye, the Derby at Epsom would be a fine race to win, but for the Black Campbells, the only race that mattered was the one against Owen Campbell and his ilk. Breccan did not want to think on how many wagers his clansman had made on Taurus. He wouldn’t be the only one with empty pockets.

  “So?” Jonas demanded, wanting a report.

  “He doesn’t know,” Breccan answered.

  “Doesn’t know?” Jonas snorted his opinion. “The lads are telling me the horse was fine this morning.”