Chapter Twelve
Of course Tara had heard Breccan come in. She’d been waiting for him. He’d not been far from her thoughts all day.
She’d organized the carrying of chairs and tables from the attic with an eye of concern for what he would think. Would he be pleased? Was she overstepping boundaries?
Tara found she liked the task. Many of the rooms were bare, so she’d felt free to imagine what they could be.
Of course, such an endeavor had involved a good number of servants, but many had offered to help. The stable lads Breccan had sent to the castle had attracted the maids and other lasses working on different parts of the estate.
They had been a merry group. Once they’d felt comfortable with Tara, they had worked hard, but they had also teased each other. In short order, she has discerned which couples were sweethearts and which would like to be. There were even the disgruntled. The game was the same whether it was played on London’s ballroom floors or in Scotland’s Highlands, and she found herself, curiously, relieved to not be involved in it. She was someone’s wife. The struggle, the need to prove herself acceptable was over.
Freedom was a sweet dish.
Lachlan had approved her changes. Jonas had been uncharacteristically quiet over dinner, which they ate in the actual dining room and not in the kitchen. Tara had asked Jonas if he felt well, and he’d answered, “I’m guilty, feeling guilty.”
It was a cryptic response, but Lachlan had advised her not to ask too many questions, and so, for once in her life, she hadn’t.
Indeed, she found herself relaxed and looking forward to the morrow.
She no longer feared Breccan. Yes, he was a brawny man, but she was beginning to respect him . . . something she discovered she’d never felt for a man before.
Today, when she’d given her opinion on Taurus’s injuries, he’d surprised her when he’d acted upon her advice. Another first in her life. It was gratifying to have her opinion valued.
So, even though she was tired when she went to bed, she listened for the sounds of his return.
Had she meant to pretend to be asleep?
Not at first. However, when she heard his voice in the hall, she’d become nervous, and she wasn’t certain why, so she’d shut her eyes—until she had heard him starting to undress.
Curiosity had always been one of her besetting sins.
There had been times today when she had recalled the sight of him naked. Her husband was a well-formed man. There was a part of her that wanted to purr her interest like a cat.
However, although her fears of him had abated, she was still cautious. She needed to hold on to her wits. She did have reservations. She was more than a bit shy.
But was it wrong, since he seemed so nonchalant about undressing, if she didn’t watch?
He actually seemed to be performing for her.
The candlelight highlighted the hard lines of his chest. She did like the way his waist tapered. She could recall his weight upon her last night. His actions had alarmed her, but the physicalness between them had stirred her senses.
Breccan unbuttoned his breeches.
She stopped breathing as the rounded tip of his manhood protruded. She wanted to open her eyes and stare. She’d couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
Last night, she’d had a glimpse. In her mind, everything the maids had said was true . . . expect this part of him wasn’t always prominent. He’d be unable to wear his breeches if it was. She wondered if he was like a horse and pulled it in and out?
That was a strange thought, and it almost made her giggle.
And then he lay down upon the bed beside her.
Tara had assumed he would climb under the covers as he had the night before. But no, he was right next to her on the counterpane. Naked.
Now her whole body blushed. She didn’t know what to do. They were so close together that if she rolled over, she’d bump into him, especially that part of him.
So she continued to do what she was beginning to do best—she feigned sleep—hoping it would come even though her senses were full of him, of his scent, his warmth, his presence. The man didn’t just lie on a bed, he overtook it—
“I know you are awake, Tara.”
No, he couldn’t have caught her. He didn’t have a clue last night.
“I know you watched me undress.” He turned on his side toward her. “Now, look,” he cooed, “your whole body has turned as red as an apple.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. She tried not to tense, but she failed. She opened her eyes and gave him a frown.
Breccan laughed. “My purpose is not to embarrass you. But you don’t have to hide that you’d like a look at me. I’m yours, lass.” He rolled on his back, presenting himself. “We are married, and what is mine is yours.”
And as if agreeing, his male bits seemed to nod.
Tara fought panic. This was so open. It was almost too much. She concentrated on his face. He hadn’t shaved, but the attractive dimple had shown itself again, giving him a roguish air.
She had never been attracted to the rakes. She had too much common sense. However, that dimple made something inside of her all fluttery. She had to guard herself against it . . . and she didn’t understand why.
And if his goal was to make her feel more comfortable with him, then it was working. Yes, she had some apprehension about the marriage act, but that was fading. Her inquisitiveness was too lively to keep her in fear.
So why did she resist?
It was a lack of trust. This man was not her choice. She’d saddled herself with him, lured by the promise of his returning her to where she had once been successful. Her return to the valley had not been as she wished.
She must keep in mind that her future did not lie with this man. She must protect herself and keep a respectable distance between them.
“Would you please put yourself between the sheets?” she asked primly.
His smiled widened until it appeared positively wolfish. “No.”
“Then I shall sleep between the sheets,” she announced. She climbed off the bed, lifted the covers and put herself between the sheets.
“Then I shall use the counterpane,” he said, and wrapped it around himself, pulling a portion off Tara. “There is a chill in the air tonight, but I feel snug and warm here,” he said, wiggling his body as if he would burrow into the mattress. “Of course, we could be warmer . . .”
She knew what he suggested. She tried to ignore the way her pulse picked up at the hint of proposition in his voice.
Only a matter of weeks ago, she’d vowed her undying love for Ruary Jamerson. Now, her traitorous body reacted to Breccan with a yearning so strong, it took all her willpower to not lean forward into his body heat.
His appeal was the fact he was naked, she decided. Humans were animals after all. That last statement had been the claim of one of her London suitors, an obnoxious, pretentious man with aspirations for science. He adored repeating the “animal” declaration as if he believed it made him sound clever. But now, she considered there might be something to the statement.
If Breccan were wearing clothes, well, perhaps she would not give him a second glance—but she knew that was no longer the case. The men she had favored in the past might have been elegant of form, but she was finding Breccan’s solid muscle enticing as well.
She was also becoming at ease with the part of him that was so distinctly male.
So obviously animal.
“Does it hurt?” she asked abruptly.
He came onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. “Does what hurt?”
“You. Being the way you were.”
The light of a thousand devils danced in his eyes. “Aroused?”
“Stop it,” she ordered.
“Stop what?”
“Words like that.”
“Like ‘aroused’?” he repeated.
“It is unsettling.” Aroused. It described how she felt. “I need to sleep,” she answered him.
“Then sleep,” he replied.
“I will.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “I can feel you watching me.”
“It keeps me aroused,” he answered.
Tara reached for her temper. It was a safe way to keep distance between them. “I’m happy you find all of this so humorous.” She flipped over to her other side, giving him her back. Unfortunately, she lay wrong on her braid and had to lift herself up to free it from being pulled by her own body weight. The gesture defused the drama she had planned.
For a moment, silence reigned between them.
She wondered if he’d fallen asleep. She couldn’t, and she believed it was his fault. She’d been perfectly at rest before he’d brought his naked self and plopped it into the bed.
But her thoughts could not quiet.
Tara found herself wondering if he’d had lovers. Most men had, or so she’d been told. It was all part of being male. But a married woman could have lovers. Perhaps she would have lovers when she returned to London. Slim, manageable lovers. Not big and brawny ones with a swollen sense of themselves . . . and their arousal.
Of course, she and Breccan were not lovers, not yet—
Her braid came over her shoulder. It just fell across her face.
She rose up, mystified, until he explained, “It was across my pillow. I didn’t like it there. You need to keep your hair to yourself.”
Tara sat up. “Are you mad?”
He seemed to consider the matter. “Sometimes, yes.”
His candor caught her off guard. She didn’t know how to respond other than to lie back down, muttering about “Obnoxious, ill-behaved boors—”
“That I must share my bed with,” he finished, mocking her with his agreement.
Tara pulled the covers up as high over her head as she could. She huddled down, arms crossed, legs tucked, and willed herself to go to sleep . . . except what she was really doing was waiting.
And he did not disappoint.
“Would you like a story?”
“I’m sleeping,” she said.
He leaned close to her, his body almost cradling hers. She could feel his knees in the indent of her own. His chest was against her back.
She could not feel his arousal, but she knew he was aroused.
“Do you have another story?” she suggested. It might take her mind off him. It had worked last night.
“I have a good one.” He moved onto his back, once again claiming more of the bed than he should. But she was learning not to quibble. For all his great size, Breccan had a quick wit. He easily used her complaints against her.
“Do you like bannocks?” he asked, referring to the small round oatcakes. “They are my favorite when they are hot from the griddle with some good butter.”
Tara frowned. She liked them as well. It was dangerous to have something in common with him. It bought them closer.
Breccan launched into his story. It was one she’d heard before, but she didn’t mind listening to it again.
“The crofter’s wife had made a big bowl of dough,” he said, “and she shaped it into two round loaves. But then, she noticed she’d left some dough in the bowl and so she made a wee bonnie bannock. Now, when the bannocks finished baking, she saw that wee one, and she thought to herself, I’m going to have a taste of that. But her husband had come in from working hard. He saw the wee bannock as well, and he wanted it. They both reached for the bannock at the same time—much like you and I seem to be pushing and pulling over who will sleep where in the bed.”
Tara had been picturing the couple and the bannock. His poke about the bed annoyed her. “Is our arguing over the covers part of the story?” she demanded, coming over on her back.
He chuckled, the sound masculinely wicked. “I was trying to make the story more personal.”
She had to struggle not to smile. “Shall we keep the commentary out of it?”
“We can try.” He looked to the ceiling as if placing his thoughts before saying, “Well, when two people argue, they upset things.” He shot a side glance in her direction, questioning if she accepted this.
Tara did not respond. She knew when she was being baited.
“They upset the pan where the wee bannock was,” Breccan continued. “The bannock did not want to be eaten, especially by greedy folk. It started rolling away. He rolled out the door and was on his way down the road, feeling very clever as he traveled. Now he passed a young girl who was doing her knitting. She saw him, and she, too, said to herself, I would like to eat that wee bannock, so she tried to grab our friend. But the bannock was clever. He made circles around her and caught her in her own knitting and off he went again.”
Breccan’s voice was lively. He was enjoying the telling of the story.
Tara was enjoying the hearing. “Is the bannock ever going to stop?”
He held up a finger, begging her to be patient. “He traveled on until he passed a smithy. The blacksmith was a hungry man. He had just been thinking that he’d like a wee bannock, and here one was. He dove for the bannock. But the bannock was wise to him. The bannock went around in circles, passing between his legs until the smith was dizzy and forgot about his hunger. On the bannock rolled. On and on, until he spied two hungry children. They were thin as posts and very sad. They had not had a meal in three days.”
“Three days?” She turned on her side to face him.
“Aye,” he assured her. “They were very hungry children. The bannock said, I’m sure they would like a wee bannock, and so he hopped into their basket. And then do you know what happened?”
Tara shook her head.
“They ATE him,” Breccan said, leaping on her and giving her sides a tickle.
Tara shrieked her surprise, and Breccan fell back laughing. She laughed as well.
“I was not expecting that,” she said.
“I waited for it, but every time when my mother did it, I was always surprised as well. I liked the giggle.”
She could picture him as a young boy with curly black hair and laughing eyes. Their children would look like him. Well, they might have her smile, and she hoped that if they had a daughter, she would have her nose. His nose was fine for a man but would be unfortunate for a woman.
He noticed her staring. “What is it?” he asked, his gray eyes still alight with humor.
Tara could have told him . . . but then where would that lead? She wasn’t ready. Not yet.
“I’m tired,” she offered weakly. Was it her imagination, or did he appear to understand what she hadn’t said?
“Then good night,” he said. The counterpane had fallen to cover his hips. He now pulled it up and slid back down into the covers.
She did the same, except he appeared to fall asleep immediately. She didn’t.
The candle on the bedside table still burned. Tara started to rise from the bed to go
around and blow it out, when something irrepressible inside her took hold. She lifted the counterpane for just a peek at his male bits. She’d been afraid to look earlier, although they had been hard to avoid.
They were odd-looking, but not threatening. Not any longer. And when he was relaxed, they appeared soft as squishy fruit. The thought almost made her laugh, and she carefully lowered the counterpane before a draft of air stirred him.
She rose and walked around the bed to blow out the candle. There was no fire in the grate this night. The servants had been busy helping her. She had a list of tasks as long as her arm. She was also enjoying the changes she was making to the house. She felt productive.
The scent of melted wax in the air, Tara used her hand on the footboard to guide her way in the dark to her side of the bed. She tucked herself back in, but because of the darkness, she ended up closer to Breccan than she liked.
His arm came around her. Its weight rested on her hip.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her first thought was that he was awake. She expected him to move on her as he had done the other night. Her heart gave a double beat against her chest.
But he did not move. He appeared and sounded as if he was in deep slumber. He was far more relaxed around her than she was with him, but that was changing.
Tara found herself falling into a deep sleep.
However, her night was not without interruption.
At one point, she woke to discover that her body was cradled next to his, their legs intertwined. Her drowsy mind registered this, but all she did was smile, strangely content. She fell back into sleep and dreamed of bannocks rolling around blacksmiths chasing girls who knit and a powerful stallion who no longer frightened her. Instead, in her dream, she thought him a magnificent creature.
That morning, she woke to the sound of rain on the windowpanes and, once again, discovered herself alone in the bed.
“I want to make bannock cakes,” Tara argued.
Dougal frowned. “I am happy to make them for you, my lady, especially if you want little round ones.
The Bride Says Maybe Page 15