The Bride Says Maybe

by Maxwell, Cathy

  The dog grinned.

  That was astounding to Tara. Daphne had approved of her, and the only reason could be because Tara had not tattled on Breccan.

  “I’m flattered to earn her approval,” Tara said as she nodded to Dougal’s silent offer of porridge for her breakfast. Agnes brought her fresh cream to go with it. “I just hope she isn’t fickle.”

  The others in the kitchen laughed at her wee joke, and something tight and fearful inside of Tara began to unwind. She was finding a place for herself here.

  Taurus was more lame than ever.

  Ricks had no explanation except to advise placing more slices of potato on the bottom of the horse’s hoof. “We haven’t drawn out whatever it is.”

  “Is there not an ointment we can use?” Breccan asked. He wore his usual attire of breeches, shirt, and waistcoat. He did not have on a neckcloth. He’d thought about putting on one, but he’d woken late and had needed to hurry to see the morning rides.

  “Aye, we can try, but we don’t know what it is,” the horse master said.

  Breccan had to turn away from the horse, swearing under his breath, words that died quickly when he saw his wife standing in the stall doorway.

  She was a vision. Of course, he could never tire of looking at her. She wore her hair down. He had not realized it was as long as it was or had the curls. Her dress was a sensible loden green cambric and with her coloring, she reminded him of a wood sprite. His mother would have been amused.

  Nor was he the only one impressed.

  Ricks had removed his hat. The stable lads gazed at her in wonder, as if an angel had appeared amongst them. Jonas was there, and he was grinning from ear to ear like a monkey. He was probably spinning his own story.

  “Breccan, do you have a moment?” she asked.

  He gave Taurus’s neck a pat, then asked Ricks, “Are we done?”

  “For today, Laird,” Ricks said. “The lads can wrap the hoof. I’m needed over at Annefield unless you have something else?”

  Ricks had informed him only that morning that he would now be overseeing the training of the earl of Tay’s horses. Breccan wasn’t pleased. After all, he was the one who had found the man in Glasgow and invited him to come—and a pretty penny Ricks’s services were costing him, a goodly amount more than what Ruary Jamerson had charged.

  Then again, Breccan didn’t feel he could complain. Ruary Jamerson had offered his services to many in the valley. It seemed only fair to let Ricks earn a living.

  “Aye, we are done,” Breccan said, anxious to see why Tara had come to the stables this day. When last he’d seen her, she’d been snuggled in his bed. She snored. It was a soft, gentle sound, like a kitten sleeping hard, but it was a snore nonetheless, and something personal and unique to her. He cherished the information.

  Ricks nodded to him and to his wife, put on his hat and left. Tara barely acknowledged the horseman. Instead, her attention seemed to center on Breccan.

  Furthermore, the strain around her eyes appeared to have eased. There was an awareness of him, but it was without her earlier tension. She stepped into the stall and, to his surprise, Daphne was with her.

  He’d wondered where the terrier had been. Sometimes, Daphne didn’t come to the stables with him. She didn’t like the walk; however, here she was.

  “You made a friend,” he observed.

  Tara smiled and, for a second, Breccan went light-headed. Out of all her lovely attributes, her smile was her best.

  The stable lads acted as if this meeting between man and wife was also for their enjoyment. They openly watched.

  Breccan reminded them of their duties by growling, “Don’t you all have something to do?”

  They moved quickly, well, save for Jonas. His uncle took his time loitering around the tack room across from Taurus’s stall, picking out a bridle and carrying it down the aisle.

  Tara didn’t seem anxious to discuss her purpose with others around. She reached up and scratched Taurus’s ear. The stallion groaned his pleasure. Breccan could understand why. He wanted his wife to do the equivalent to him, only he’d prefer if she would use her tongue.

  He tried not to let any of that show when she faced him. They were alone now.

  “You slept well?” Breccan asked.

  “I did. And you?”

  “I slept fine.” Damn it all. He was anxious for the day when he could claim he hadn’t received a wink of sleep.

  “Dougal told me there was some furniture in the attic. Is it all right if I go though it?” she asked. “There might be some things we could use in the rooms downstairs.

  “Most of it is old. My mother brought better furniture into the marriage and moved the other to the attic.”

  “Where is your mother’s furniture?”

  Breccan hesitated a moment before admitting, “I sold it for my stake to start the mill.”

  “Oh.”

  “You are welcome to use whatever you wish. I’ll send one of the lads to help you move it. I haven’t really worried about furnishings.”

  She nodded, thoughtful a moment, and asked, “What’s wrong with the horse?” She had her hand upon Taurus’s mane, and the horse nuzzled her hand as if wanting more pats. Breccan knew how he felt.

  “He’s come up lame. Ricks doesn’t know what it is. He has me padding the horse’s hooves with potatoes, but it could be in Taurus’s neck. It could be anywhere.” He shifted his weight, then confessed, “This is the horse I need to run against Owen Campbell.”

  “Can he run?”

  “It’s doubtful.”

  She frowned. “What of your money?”

  “The stake I’ve already put up?” Breccan took his time answering, stretching the tightness in his back. “If he doesn’t run, I lose it.”

  “And no one in the stable has an idea of what the problem is?”

  Breccan crossed his arms. These were all questions he’d chased in his head. “He was fine for the ride yesterday morning, then he pulled up lame. The lad doesn’t think he did anything. He noted Taurus had seemed a bit slow but still sound. I’m glad you came out to see me,” he said, wanting to change the subject. He was about to almost ruin himself. Money was hard-won at Wolfstone. He should not have been so foolish. If he could have hidden it all from her, he would have. “Daphne has warmed up to you.”

  Tara sent a distracted glance toward the terrier. “Apparently,” she murmured. “She seems to have forgiven me.”

  “For what?”

  With a shake of her head, Tara changed the subject. “Which leg is bothering the horse?”

  Breccan wanted to tell her that this was not her problem. He sighed. “The left.”

  Tara bent over and lifted the hoof. “What’s his name?”

  “Taurus.” He didn’t want her involved in this, but Tara was headstrong.

  She let go of the hoof and straightened. “The problem isn’t in the leg,” she informed. “It is the hoof. I think you have a hot nail.”

  “A what?” Breccan knew a little about shoeing, but he left that up to Ricks and the stable lads. It wasn’t that he didn’t pay attention to how his horses were trimmed, but this was a new endeavor for him, and there was much to learn.

  “A hot nail,” Tara explained, “is when the shoe is nailed wrong. The nail goes into the soft part of the hoof instead of the hoof wall.”

  “What do you do for it?”

  “You take the shoe off.”

  That was an easy solution, and one Breccan was surprised they hadn’t tried yet. What the devil was Ricks thinking?

  Breccan moved to the box of tools for the shoe puller as she asked, “Who did his shoes?”

  “Ricks. He says he likes to do his own.” Breccan picked up Taurus’s hoof, put it between his legs to hold it in place and pulled the shoe off. “Look at this. It is obvious where the nail h
ad gone in wrong.”

  “It happens,” Tara said. “Sometimes they shoe wrong. You will have to let the horse rest,” she advised, as Breccan pulled the other shoes off. “And keep your eye out for infection. It could get worse.”

  “How long will it take to heal?”

  “It could be a week. It could be months.”

  “I can’t afford this,” Breccan said more to himself than to her. If it was months, even more than a week, he was in trouble. He threw the shoe puller into the box of tools, disgusted with himself for having made such a wager. “Are you certain it could take so long to heal?” he asked. “How do you know this information?”

  “Mr. Jamerson.”

  She said it curtly, as if it wasn’t a name she wanted to think about.

  For his part, Jamerson’s name from her lips inspired a jagged jolt of jealousy. He focused on the horse.

  “Do you have any idea how I can hurry the healing?”

  Tara frowned, then said, “I wouldn’t use potatoes. Are those the ones you took off him?” She nodded to the corner, where the bandages taken off Taurus still were. “They smell.” As if agreeing with her, Daphne sneezed.

  “Mr. Jamerson often used a salve made out of comfrey leaves,” Tara continued. “He put it on sores and cuts, almost anything.”

  “Comfrey leaves,” Breccan repeated.

  “Angus, the head groom at Annefield, may have some of the salve.”

  “I hope so. And if not, there is the apothecary in Glasgow.”

  “You would go that far? Perhaps you can find someone who knows herbs closer?” she asked.

  “If there is, I will search him out,” Breccan vowed.

  “Angus will advise you to soak the hoof in salted water. He recommends that as a remedy for everything.”

  Salt water. It was a common cure. Breccan should have thought of that himself. “Thank you,” he said to her. “You may have saved my race.”

  She smiled modestly and demurred, “It is in my own best interest.”

  Aye, it was, and yet he liked the idea that she was willing to help him.

  She took a step toward the stall door but then stopped. “Thank you for last night,” she whispered. She hurried away. Daphne went gamely after her.

  Breccan wanted to chase after her as well. He wanted to walk her to the castle and spend the afternoon with her, but he had to see to finding comfrey leaves and to soaking Taurus’s foot. He prayed her advice bore fruit.

  He started to call one of the stable lads to help when Jonas popped his head around the corner of the door. “ ‘Thank you for last night?’ ” he teased.

  “Don’t you have anything else to do?” Breccan countered.

  “Aye, but I’ve done it.” Jonas grinned. “Och, Breccan, you are a lusty lad. You ripped the gown form her body. I’m proud of you—”

  “What?” Breccan almost backed into Taurus in horror.

  Jonas laughed happily. “I knew you had it in you. I knew it. And I noticed today that the lass is more at peace. A happy wife is a well-plowed one.”

  Breccan wanted to pick his uncle up and give him a shake. Instead, he used his formidable height to lord it over his diminutive uncle. “Say one word more about my wife and her pleasures, and I will pull the teeth from your head.” He enunciated each word so there would be no doubt in the irrepressible Jonas’s mind of his intent.

  His uncle eyed him as if waiting for the laughter or a hint of a smile.

  There was none. Breccan could not imagine what would happen if Tara overheard such a conversation. “Do we understand each other?”

  Jonas’s brows rose to his eyebrows. “Aye, Breccan.”

  “Good.” There was a wealth of threat in that one word.

  Feeling as if he had settled the matter, Breccan closed the stall door and started for the yard. He wanted to send some lads to help Tara in the house and one to soak Taurus’s hoof. He’d ride over to Annefield himself and confer with Angus. Angus Freeman. Indeed, he remembered the conversation he’d had with the groom the other night and Angus’s suggestion that he was not tied to Annefield. Perhaps the time had come for a new stable master at Wolfstone.

  However, as Breccan was about to step outside, Jonas must have decided he had to have the last word. “Of course,” he threw out, “if gown ripping can bring one of those rowdy Davidsons to heel, we should have done it a long time ago—Whoa, wait, Breccan. Breccan.”

  Jonas had not had a chance to finish whatever cleverness he had in mind. Breccan had spun on his heel and been upon his uncle in a thrice. He picked Jonas up by the scruff of his shirt and the seat of his pants and carried him out of the stables to the small pond. Ducks scattered as Largo, Tidbit, and Terrance returned from their rounds and excitedly followed him.

  “Breccan? What are you doing?” Jonas protested. The stable lads now saw what was going on. Work came to a halt.

  Breccan answered Jonas by stopping at the pond’s soft bank and tossing him into the murky water. Jonas’s shout was cut off by a loud splash.

  The stable lads cheered. Jonas’s teasing could annoy everyone. Breccan had once heard his uncle described as the black fly of Wolfstone, and, today, he had bitten the wrong man.

  Jonas shot up out of the water. “You’ve made your point, lad,” he said.

  “About what?” Breccan challenged.

  “Your wi—” Jonas started but then caught himself. “About my mouth.”

  “Good,” Breccan answered, and climbed the bank. A short while later, he had donned neckcloth and jacket and was on his way to Annefield.

  Angus had agreed to come to Wolfstone, but it had not been a simple discussion. He’d assured Breccan that he would need to consider the matter over a pint or two or five. The brew at the Kenmore Inn was potent. For all his advantage of size, Angus could have put him under the table.

  In the end, Breccan had a small pot of the comfrey salve and a stable manager . . . a good one.

  He noted that just as Tara had checked the shoe after hearing the vaguest description of Taurus’s lameness, Angus, too, had assumed the issue could have been a hot nail. So why hadn’t Ricks? The man who had shoed the horse?

  After the third tankard, Breccan had said as much to Angus. “Here now, it happens,” the horseman had said. “Even the best of us have put a nail in wrong.”

  Breccan wasn’t certain.

  What he did know is, that once again, he was returning home later than he had planned. Not even his dogs were waiting up.

  Once again, he ate alone in the kitchen from a plate Flora prepared. “Has all been good here?” he asked the maid.

  “It has been busy. My lady found some furniture in the attic. She’s worked us hard today.”

  “Did she?”

  “Well, no harder than she has worked herself.”

  That was good news. Breccan didn’t know what he would do if he’d had a lazy wife . . . and the thought reminded him of Tara’s warning that looks faded.

  But what was left had to be valued.

  Flora said, almost shyly, “She’s a worthy woman, sir. A fine mistress.”

  “Thank you.” Thoughtfully, Breccan said his good night to Flora and made his way into the castle. Fortunately, he’d carried a candle because otherwise he would not have found his way in the dark. Tara had been busy.

  The first room he entered no longer had the simple table and chairs. In their place was a table big enough for a banquet and seating for ten and more. There was even a carpet on the floor. He wondered what else she had changed.

  Upstairs, he found his dogs sleeping outside his closed bedroom door. They all rose to greet him, tails wagging sheepishly as if they were guilty of defecting from him. Well, save for Daphne. Daphne expected her pat, unrepentant that she had spent her day following Tara and left him to fend for himself.

  Women.


  Breccan opened the door carefully. He didn’t want to disturb her if she was asleep—and yet, he hoped she was awake. He had a picture of her in his bed that was rarely far from his mind.

  Of course, in his imaginings, she was naked, and he’d had yet to see that about her yet.

  He was not going to see it tonight either. She was already asleep. She slept on the counterpane with the spread flipped up over her as it had been the night before. She was on her side, facing the door.

  A candle had been left burning for him in the room. He blew his out and set the candlestick on the new table beside the bed.

  There were other changes in the room as well. There was another table, with a washbasin and pitcher on it. His shaving kit was laid out beside it.

  Tara was a persistent woman.

  He ran a hand over his rough whiskers but he was tired and still had the ale in his veins. Shaving could wait until the morrow. He did use the water in the pitcher to wash. A bar of scented soap was by the basin. The scent reminded him of his wife.

  Breccan began undressing. A new chair in the corner afforded him a place to remove his boots. He liked the furniture. It was heavy oak and appealed to his masculine tastes. He set his boots aside, unbuttoned his waistcoat and hung it on a peg before tugging his shirt hem from his breeches—and that is when he noticed movement from the bed.

  He studied her a moment. Her eyes appeared shut, but he had a sense she was not asleep.

  And then he noticed the barest movement of her lashes.

  Could she be watching him?

  He decided on a test. He untied his neckcloth and pulled his shirt over his head.

  There was no response from the bed. She seemed to be sleeping soundly—and yet he could not shake the suspicion that she was awake.

  Breccan moved to the side of the bed. By now, his manhood was alive with a mind of its own. He could not have hidden if he tried, so he didn’t.

  Instead, he freed the little beastie by unfastening the first button, and the second . . . knowing his instincts had not been wrong when a rush of the most becoming pink stained her cheeks—and the game was on.