The Bride Says Maybe

by Maxwell, Cathy

  “They are tasty,” Breccan said, wishing he had some ale to wash it down—or to soften them.

  Tara looked up at him with the trusting eyes of a child who was delighted to have accomplished something. “I wanted to please you,” she said.

  No words could be sweeter, even if the heavens had opened and angels appeared to sing a chorus of hosannas. I wanted to please you.

  His strategy had paid off. His wooing had worked.

  And now for the kiss.

  Breccan leaned down to meet his wife—

  A crack was the only warning before the crashing sound of stone walls caving in.

  He pushed Tara behind him, even knowing she wasn’t in danger, and, a beat later, he was racing for the cottages. The front wall of the corner cottage had caved in. A woman started screaming even as more of the walls crumbled.

  Breccan shouted, “Stay back.” He ran forward. To his relief, he saw Lachlan and Jonas. They were coughing and looked around, then Lachlan shouted. He pointed, and Breccan could see that the ceiling beam had fallen. It rested at an angle, half of it on the floor, the other half still being held by the wall, but not for long.

  “Breccan,” Lachlan said. “The beam fell on Ian.”

  In horror, Breccan saw Ian beneath the heavy beam. Ian was trapped. He gasped as if breathing was difficult through his panic. “I’m pinned,” he warned them. “I can’t move.”

  His wife had been the one screaming. She now tried to climb across the rubble to her husband.

  Breccan said, “Move her out of the way.”

  His uncles and the others were attempting to lift the end of the beam on Ian. Other men were on their knees trying to dig beneath him.

  Breccan saw that way would not work. They needed leverage and they must hurry because the wall holding the other end of the beam threatened to cave as well. If that happened, Ian would be crushed. As it was, who knew what injuries he had already suffered.

  There was little time to waste, so Breccan used himself for that leverage. He went directly beneath the beam even as Lachlan warned him to stop.

  “If that wall caves, you are both gone,” his uncle warned.

  Breccan’s answer was to brace his shoulder against the beam, raising his arms to grasp it with his hands. In this way, he hoped to direct the fall once the beam was lifted. It would not serve to throw it off and have the heavy wood land on Ian’s head.

  “When I give a shout, pick up your end,” he said to his uncles. “Ian, be ready to move.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Help him,” Breccan ordered those who had been trying to dig.

  They nodded understanding.

  Breccan drew in air and released it. There had been a time when Jonas had him picking up heavy objects for sport. He’d once lifted two anvils, one stacked on the other. This would be different, but the weight would be about right. It was a matter of believing he could do it.

  He released his breath, and said, “Now.” He put everything he had into his back and his shoulders.

  It helped to groan, to rage against this accident that could take a man’s life. Breccan gave all he had. Everything. He would not cry quarter.

  After a few agonizing seconds of doubt, the beam moved. “More,” he roared. He could no longer tell what the others were doing. His whole being was invested in his battle with the beam.

  And then, miracle of miracles, he raised the beam.

  There were shouts. Someone said, “We have him, Breccan. He’s safe.”

  Only then did Breccan release his hold and move out of the way. He practically fell forward and not a moment too soon because the weak wall holding the other end collapsed, and the beam fell like deadweight to the ground.

  Breccan looked around. “Is everyone safe?” he asked, panting, as he tried to catch his breath. His every muscle had been strained to its limit. He started to fall to his knees, then caught himself—and that is when he saw her.

  Tara stood by the side of the cottage. Tears streamed down her face, and her eyes were dark with concern.

  He tried to smile, to reassure her, but he knew it looked like a grimace.

  Her response was to come forward. She took his great face in her hands and gave him the kiss of which he’d dreamed.

  Tara had been shocked to see the building caving in. She’d heard the screams. The wife had begged for anyone to save her husband, and there were those who believed that Ian would die. There were those who ran from the collapsing house.

  Breccan had moved forward.

  And then she’d witnessed the most amazing sight. This man who could entertain her with the gentlest of stories, who struggled to control himself, who showed patience to her, now placed his own life in danger.

  Anyone could see that the beam was in peril of falling to the ground. It was huge, massive, and strong enough to hold up the floor of a house. It would have killed the man on the ground.

  But Breccan had saved him.

  If she had not seen him lift the beam with her own eyes, she would not have believed the story.

  And now she came forward, struck by how fortunate she was to have this man in her life. The realization was just that clear.

  He was no ordinary being, and she knew that even before he had displayed the strength of a Hercules.

  She went to him. She went in gratitude, in amazement . . . and, most, surprisingly, in love.

  Yes, love. She was falling in love.

  And love surprised her. She’d returned to Annefield and the valley because she believed she loved Ruary.

  But now, she wondered if she’d ever loved before.

  Breccan was the one. One life; one love.

  With the clarity she’d never experienced before, Tara saw that while she might have once cared deeply for Ruary, their connection had been actually a safe haven at a time when her world had been turned upside down.

  And she’d never felt any deep emotion for any of her suitors, including the man she had almost married . . . because they had never engaged her in the manner Breccan had. They’d not captured her imagination or proven they could think of anyone’s needs over their own.

  Breccan had worked to earn her trust at a cost a more selfish man would have refused to pay.

  Certainly, she had never been in wonder of a man. Or admired one because of his kind, generous nature. She’d never even considered kindness a sought-after quality. Suddenly, she realized, nothing was more important.

  So she kissed him. She kissed in thanksgiving that the beam had not crushed him, in gratitude that he could continue to be her life, and in humility that this person cared for her.

  The kiss was like no other she had ever experienced. Their mouths fit perfectly together. Their lips melded, and she adored the taste and texture of him.

  He smelled of the oilcloth he wore, of the sweat of his struggle to save the man’s life and of that which was uniquely him. He reminded her of leather and fresh air.

  His whiskers were no deterrent. Their scratchiness told her that it was Breccan she kissed, good, strong-hearted Breccan.

  He’d risen from the ground to stand on his two feet. His arms came around her. Their kiss deepened.

  The world disappeared. In this moment, all that mattered to her was him—and she had no desire to let him go. Ever.

  Had she been afraid of him?

  What nonsense. One could never be afraid of a man as noble as this one.

  His tongue stroked hers.

  She’d never experienced that before. Her first inclination was to pull back, but then she couldn’t . . . because she liked it. She liked it very much.

  So, she returned the favor, her tongue brushing his.

  His hips immediately met hers. His body embraced hers, and she was in danger of losing all reasoned thought.

  Breccan b
roke the kiss, but he did not let go of her. Instead, he rested his head against hers. The pins had fallen out of her hair. She did not have a care.

  His breathing was ragged. Or was that hers?

  “You both go on,” Lachlan said, his voice helping to return her to the moment. “We’ll clean everything up here.”

  “Aye,” Jonas echoed.

  Tara didn’t know if they had smirks on their faces or disapproval. Her attention was on her husband.

  Breccan took her hand. “Come,” he said, sounding a bit shy. It made her smile.

  They had only gone a step when a woman placed herself in front of Breccan. She took his free hand.

  “Bless you,” she whispered. “Bless you, bless you.”

  Her words seemed to release Breccan from a spell. “How is Ian, Mary?”

  The man he had freed came over to stand by his wife. He limped, but he appeared fine. “My leg is sore but, miraculously, I don’t seem hurt. Lucky I am that you were there, Laird. Very lucky.”

  “Rest,” Breccan advised. “Take care of yourself and your family.”

  “Aye, Laird.”

  Breccan still held her hand. Together, they walked down the road, the dogs happily chasing after them.

  When they were away from prying ears, Tara said, “We are going to our bedroom, yes?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The desperate need in his voice summed up nicely what she was feeling.

  “Are you worried?” he asked.

  She thought of her fears, then pictured him lifting the beam off the man, and said, “No longer.”

  Tara thought about telling him what she was feeling, but it was all too new. Later, when her head wasn’t dizzy with this insane desire to throw herself upon him and kiss him senseless in just the manner they had demonstrated, then maybe she would have the right words. Love was about trust.

  Her pulse and her pace quickened as Wolfstone came into view. They were within twenty feet of the castle, when Breccan suddenly stopped. His whole manner changed.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “We have a visitor.”

  Only then did she notice the high-perch phaeton on the front drive. A tiger, the name for the grooms who rode on the platform behind the vehicle’s seat and attended the driver, was dressed in maroon-and-silver livery. He walked the horse with an air of self-importance.

  “Who is it?” Tara asked.

  “My cousin, Owen Campbell, the dirty bastard.” He said the last under his breath as if, in spite of her presence, he could not stop himself. Nor did he apologize.

  “What does he want?”

  “We shall ask him.” Still holding her hand, Breccan moved with the intent of a wolf guarding his lair toward the house.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Breccan could admire his cousin’s rig. Before going into the house, he had to stop and look at it, and the jealousy he felt was palatable.

  What man wouldn’t want a phaeton with high yellow wheels and red spokes. The vehicle was so lightweight, it probably traveled on air. Of course, it would be a slow slog for a man as big as Breccan.

  Owen’s horseflesh was good, too. The animal was a flashy gray in fittings trimmed out in silver.

  Ah, yes, any man would covet such a rig, but Breccan did not admire his cousin. They had a history. Some of Breccan’s dislike stemmed from Owen’s almost casual little cruelties. The man liked finding a weak spot and using it for his own gain.

  Of course, what he really wanted was land. Every Campbell did. It was in their blood. They equated land to power.

  Even Breccan understood this. Why else would he be sinking so much of himself into Wolfstone. He was building a legacy for his children, little beings he planned on creating the moment after he tossed Owen off his property.

  He turned away from the rig and walked toward his front door. Owen stepped outside.

  Owen was two years Breccan’s senior and fancied himself part of the Corinthian set.

  Some would think him handsome. He was lean and wore his graying hair in the windswept style, a silly affectation where the hair was combed forward over the brow and ears as if a great wind blew it from behind. The style also hid Owen’s growing baldness.

  Of course, to a man like Breccan, his cousin was a pretentious fool—especially when he was dressed as he was now in some sort of military-styled jacket. There was meaningless braid and brass buttons from the top of his head to the gold tassels on his boots. The outfit was an affectation like everything else about him.

  Owen didn’t have a title or position of his own. He’d built his fortune with the East India Company, and Breccan had heard of the methods the nabobs had used. They abused the natives for what they wanted. Breccan had no doubt Owen wasn’t at the head of the pack with his hand out.

  His tenure in India had made Owen a wealthy man, but he was still a scoundrel. The worst of the lot.

  “Hello, cos,” Owen drawled out in a voice that carried the flatness of London instead of the lilt of Scotland.

  Breccan was about to growl that Owen could leave, but before he could speak, his cousin’s eyes widened. His mouth dropped open, and for one rare moment in Breccan’s acquaintance, Owen was speechless—and the reason was Tara.

  When Owen had come out of the house, Breccan had instinctively put himself between his wife and his cousin. But Tara had stepped forward to stand beside Breccan.

  Owen lifted a quizzing glass attached with gold ribbon to his jacket up to his eye. “Heavens,” he said, breathing the word like a pray. “I have never laid eyes on such an exquisite creature.”

  “An exquisite creature who is my wife,” Breccan said. He placed a possessive hand on Tara’s arm.

  “Well,” Owen said, “some things can’t be helped.” He then moved forward as if Breccan weren’t standing right there and made a pretty bow. “Let me present myself since my boor of a cousin is his usual clumsy self. I am Owen Campbell.”

  Tara didn’t appear impressed, and Breccan was glad. He performed the introduction. “This is my lady Tara Campbell.” He liked the way her name sounded. It was a good name.

  “Tara?” Owen questioned. “Lady Tara Davidson, by chance?”

  To her credit, Tara looked to Breccan. She had obviously divined the tension between the two men. He answered for her, “Yes, she is.”

  Owen actually rocked back on his highly polished boots with their silly little gold tassels. His brows stretched to his hairline before he said, “You are more lovely than any ever claimed.”

  He was sincere in his compliment. Breccan couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride.

  “Thank you,” Tara said, a becoming blush to her cheek. However, there was a reserve about her. She must have heard this effusive praise all the time in London.

  Breccan was conscious that while he would tell his wife she was lovely, he didn’t gush over her as if she were an object.

  Owen shook his head in amazement. “I’d always heard of you. They told me your beauty was extraordinary, but isn’t that a matter of taste?”

  “I suppose so,” Tara murmured.

  “You are my taste,” Owen answered, and moved forward as if he would jump into Tara’s arms.

  Breccan surged forward, ready to wrap his hand around Owen’s neck. His cousin always pushed the boundaries.

  Owen held up his gloved hands to ward him off. “I mean no offense, Breccan. She’s exquisite. Perfect. It is rare to meet a woman who is all they say about her.”

  His words saved his neck.

  Breccan tried not to be vain, but he wouldn’t have been a man if he wasn’t proud. He did have a lovely wife. Owen could have his fancy phaeton. Breccan was going to be taking Tara to bed. He would possess every square inch of her.

  Who was the more fortunate cousin now?

  “So what brings you here, O
wen?” Breccan asked. He suspected Owen had driven over to flash himself around and see what he could learn about Taurus before the race. Owen was sneaky that way.

  “We have a few details to discuss about the race,” Owen said easily.

  “I thought Ricks would be talking to your man?” Breccan answered. “Let them work out the details.”

  “It is a sizeable wager. Don’t you think we should be the ones discussing it?” Owen countered with that air of superiority Breccan could not stand. He could hear what Owen wasn’t saying, that Breccan was too provincial to know the ways of the world.

  And then, because Breccan was busy fuming, Owen trumped him again by saying, “Should we not go inside? It could pour down rain at any moment, and I’m certain your lady would prefer to be under shelter if that happened.”

  Breccan should have thought of Tara’s needs. He placed a hand on the small of her back. “Please, my dear,” he said, opening the door for her.

  She gave him a peculiar look, probably because of the endearment. It had sounded odd on his tongue to him as well. But this wasn’t about talking to Tara. It was about ensuring that Owen knew she was his wife.

  He would explain later about how his cousin always made him feel awkward and clumsy. Over the years, the two of them had been particularly hard on each other. Usually, Owen had started it. He had the ability to crawl under Breccan’s skin.

  But now, Breccan had the upper hand. He had Tara, and his horse Taurus would recover and be triumphant over any nag Owen could muster.

  And then, well, then the other half of the Campbells would have some respect for Breccan and his ilk. It would be a victory . . . and never again could they look down on him.

  Inside the castle, Owen said, “You’ve made changes since I was last here, cousin.” He looked around the rooms with approval, and Breccan could see what he saw.

  The arrangements of tables and chairs now filled rooms that had once been bare of comfort. The floors had been cleaned until they shone. Cobwebs and dust in the rafters had been swept away. There were other touches, too, women’s touches—the candlesticks and rugs that gave the home warmth. All the hearths had been cleaned as well, and Breccan had overheard Agnes grumbling that the new mistress wanted them cleaned daily.