The Bride Says Maybe

by Maxwell, Cathy

  His chest swelled with pride.

  “You are a miracle worker, my lady,” Owen was saying.

  Tara did not meet his eye. Breccan sensed she was uncomfortable. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell—”

  “Owen, please. Call me Owen. We are cousins now.”

  She smiled, but did not use his name, and Breccan could have danced a jig.

  This was what he had wanted. Respect, and it was sweet. Wait until Owen saw the children Breccan and Tara would have. They would be tall and brawny like himself but favor their mother’s good looks. Every door would be open to them, and they would not have to tolerate an ass like Owen in their lives.

  “Would you care for refreshment?” Tara asked with the good manners of the lady of the house.

  “I would,” Owen said. “Dougal makes a fine ale.”

  “Let me have him pour one for you,” Tara said. She looked to Breccan. “Would you wish one?”

  He shook his head no. He didn’t want to drink with Owen or show good manners. He wanted the man gone from his house, and he wanted to take his wife to bed.

  Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face because a shy, secret smile appeared on hers. She excused herself and left.

  Breccan wanted to follow her. He turned to see that his guest seemed to experience the same desire.

  Owen met his eye and didn’t even bother to disguise his admiration. “Extraordinary. I’d heard of her, of course . . . but I had not believed the gossip about her until just now.”

  Gossip? Breccan wondered what was said about his wife. He would not be human, or male, if he didn’t. However, he wasn’t about to ask Owen to explain.

  Then again, he didn’t need to do so. Owen said, “She is a heartbreaker. Do you know how many men begged her for her hand? Important men. Wealthy ones.”

  “What do you want to discuss about the race?” Breccan asked him.

  Owen made a gesture with a wave of his hand. “Not anything in particular. Well, perhaps the rides. I was thinking that you and I should each ride our horses.”

  “I would think the same thing if you were as big as I,” Breccan said. “We’ve already decided, the riders are of our choosing.” And he’d chosen his lightest-weight exercise boy.

  But Owen wasn’t attending to anything he said. Instead, he craned his neck to look down the hall for Tara to return. “Beautiful,” he whispered under his breath.

  “I’m beginning to believe you didn’t have any reason to pay this call other than to ogle my wife,” Breccan said, letting a silky thread of threat linger in his words.

  “I didn’t even know you had married,” Owen said, grinning. He had a sly cat of a smile. It was an expression no one would trust. “Does Breadalbane know?”

  He referred to the earl of Breadalbane, Owen’s first cousin and Breccan’s second.

  “Should he?”

  “Oh, I would tell him. I would tell everyone. She is remarkable.”

  “She is,” Breccan agreed. “And all is settled between us for the race. There are no loose details.”

  “The race?” Owen repeated as if needing to be reminded. “Of course, of course, all is settled.” He had not let his eyes drift from watching down the hall for Tara.

  “You know, Owen, I don’t want you here—” Breccan started, disgusted by this farce of a call. All the man wanted to do was fish for information, and Breccan was not going to give it to him, and he’d tired of this fawning over his wife.

  However, Owen interrupted him by saying, “Do you think your wife and the horse master were paramours?”

  The question caught Breccan off guard. “My wife?”

  “Aye, and Ruary Jamerson. You remember him, don’t you? He worked for you.”

  “Of course I remember him,” Breccan said.

  “Your wife was his lover. I admit I am shocked to see that you have married her, but how else could you have captured such a lovely wife. Indeed, Breccan, I might have wanted to marry her myself. I don’t know that I would have. What with the gossip, Tay was going to have a terrible time marrying her off, and everyone had heard he’d wanted the deed done quickly. Makes one wonder why. But she is good here, isn’t she? After all, you aren’t discerning. No one cares what happens in the wilds of Scotland, and you don’t have a social position. Furthermore, Jamerson is a handsome man. If he has spawned a get off her, then you will be thought to be the father. Furthermore, you sleep with beauty every night.”

  Breccan barely registered most of what Owen was saying. His mind had caught on the word, “lover.”

  Jamerson and Tara had been lovers?

  And who all knew this?

  Suddenly, he realized why Owen was here. The bastard didn’t want to talk about the race. He’d known Breccan had married the Davidson chit.

  What he’d wanted to do was churn the waters. Owen had probably wondered if Breccan had known the truth of his wife and was taking gleeful delight in his speculations.

  Now Breccan understood why Tara had not wanted to let him make love to her. He’d know once he’d bedded her that she’d been had. He would have realized it, and then what? He’d be trapped.

  Jamerson had run away with the blacksmith’s daughter. Everyone had said they’d been courting.

  But what had Tara said just the day before, after someone had been around Mr. Jamerson as much as she had, they would have learned a thing or two about horses?

  But he couldn’t let Owen see that his words had found their mark.

  Or let the man mock his marriage.

  Breccan reached out and grabbed Owen by the gold-braided front of his jacket. He lifted his cousin into the air. In all their dealings together, Breccan had never used his superior strength against the rat.

  He did so now.

  Looking into Owen’s piggish eyes, Breccan said, “You will not say a word against my wife.”

  Owen’s face had gone pale, then red, as the collar Breccan held began to choke him. His feet moved in the air. Breccan didn’t care. The man had been a thorn in his side for most of Breccan’s life. Perhaps the time had come to remove it—

  “Breccan, what are you doing?” Tara’s alarmed voice penetrated his anger.

  He turned his head toward her. She had carried the tankards of ale in herself and had set them on the table as she’d rushed up to him. “You are killing him,” she warned. “Put him down. Stop this.”

  Breccan released his hold, and Owen fell to the ground like one of her hard bannocks.

  Tara leaned to help Owen up. His cousin was gasping for breath. Breccan surmised that his throat might hurt. A pity.

  Fetching one of the tankards, Tara offered, “Here, have some ale.”

  Owen waved it away. He no longer eyed Tara but directed venomous rage at Breccan. He pushed himself to his feet, the silly tassels on his boots and jacket swaying from his effort. His eyes still bulged, but they did so now out of anger.

  Breccan walked to the door and opened it.

  His cousin reached for his hat, a silly, satin-covered thing, off the dining table and moved toward the door.

  But before Owen left, he stopped in front of Breccan. In a voice intended for Breccan’s ears alone, he said, “You attack me for your own failings? You think because she has a pretty face she’s not a whore? You were cuckolded before you were married.”

  Breccan doubled his fists but Owen swiftly glided out the door. Outside, he made a mock bow. “Good day to you, cousin. Oh, and there is one bit of news that you may not have heard yet. Jamerson is back in Aberfeldy. Had you heard?” He raised his voice as if he were speaking to Tara. “His marriage is unhappy. Imagine that? The man was only married a month at the most. So unhappy. You should see him, Breccan. He’s lonely.” He drew out the syllables of the last word, then laughed.

  Going out on the step, Breccan reached down and p
icked up a small rock.

  Owen was climbing into his phaeton. The smug look had returned to his face. As Owen reached to pick up the reins, Breccan tossed the rock at the gray’s rear. With a cry, the horse shot off down the road, ripping the reins out of Owen’s hands. The tiger shouted and ran after the vehicle. Owen could do nothing but hold on and pray he wasn’t killed.

  Breccan hoped the horse ran him all the way into Loch Tay—

  “What did you do?” Tara demanded. She had come out of the house and witnessed him throw the rock. “He could be killed.”

  “I wouldn’t be that lucky.” Breccan walked into the house, going straight for the tankard on the table. He did not look at his “wife.” He couldn’t.

  Since he married her, he’d thought maidenly modesty had kept her from consummating their marriage. He’d not wanted to press her. He’d believed she was afraid.

  And now?

  Well, now, he realized he’d been the brunt of a cruel joke. He should have been more clever. He should have seen what was happening. Tay hadn’t haggled much over his daughter. In fact, he’d appeared relieved with Breccan’s offer.

  If Breccan had asked a few questions, if he’d taken his time to consider marriage, well, he would not be in this place.

  But her beauty had blinded him—no, it wasn’t just the fact that she was lovely.

  He downed the ale, trying to take ahold of himself.

  There was more to his attraction to Tara than just her physical looks. The moment he’d set eyes on her, he’d felt a connection, a pull, something magnetic between them.

  Of course, she hadn’t felt it. He knew that then. He knew it now.

  He remembered the day that they’d met; she had come looking for Ruary Jamerson. He’d believed she had been sent by her father. Jamerson worked for the earl of Tay, just as he had for a number of other stables in the area. He was the best trainer available and well trusted.

  Jamerson was also a very handsome man. Many a lass had chased him. If he and Tara had married, there would be no doubt that their bairn would be as physically perfect as their parents.

  Jealousy turned Breccan inside out. The world that had moments ago been perfect now seemed a sham. He started to wonder why she would play such a trick on him.

  Worse, what if she was carrying Jamerson’s child? What if her being sweet to him today was a ruse. Many a woman had passed another’s off in this manner.

  Of course, he’d played the monk while lying beside her in his bed.

  The insanity of jealousy is the tricks it played on the mind. Breccan could see her with Jamerson. He wondered if the reason Jamerson had returned was to claim her.

  He took a step away. He wanted more ale, but he knew drinking wouldn’t bring him peace.

  Tara was watching him closely. “Breccan, have you taken sick? Here, let me help you up to bed.”

  He groaned aloud. Bed was the last place he should be with her. Because even knowing she’d been playing him for a fool, he wanted her. God save him, he wanted her, and if they did consummate this damnable marriage, then he would be lost. He’d be like any poor bastard led around by a woman.

  “I’m fine.” He moved to the door. “I need to see to the cottages.”

  “But the work is going well,” she said, following him in confusion.

  “I must see for myself.” Work would give him time to think on this matter. Work helped him concentrate. It gave him pride, a purpose.

  He walked out the door and didn’t look back.

  Of course, he took teasing when he appeared to help with the dismantling of the cottage walls. Jonas was the worst offender. He amused all with his jests about Breccan finally using what God gifted him with.

  Breccan let him go on. To toss Jonas in the stable pond a second time would cause comment.

  Instead, he wanted it to all fade away. Even himself. He wanted to disappear.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Something was wrong with Breccan, and Tara didn’t know what to do.

  It was as if he had been transformed into a different person.

  She was puzzled when, after his cousin left, he had returned to the cottages. She had been eager to consummate their marriage. Yes, there was fear, but there was excitement as well. She trusted him. She now understood that Breccan would not do anything to hurt her. She was ready.

  When he had abruptly announced that he was returning to work, she’d been disappointed but not worried. He was the sort of man who put his responsibilities ahead of his own desires. She was willing to practice those qualities as well. Breccan’s example was helping her to become a better person and to think of others’ needs before her own.

  However, he did not return to join her for dinner.

  And then, that night, he did not come to their bed.

  She waited for him. After watching the candle burn down, she decided to go in search of him, thinking he might be at the stables. Perhaps something else was wrong with Taurus. He had staked too much on the race against his cousin. She sensed he thought himself a fool to have made the bet.

  And yes, her sense of Breccan was just that strong. In a short time, she’d come to know him in a way she’d never known anyone else in her life. What concerned him, concerned her. What pleased him, pleased her.

  Tara rose from the bed and took her cape off a peg in the wall. She picked up the candle, determined to find her husband.

  However, when she opened the bedroom door, she discovered the dogs were not on the landing.

  That was curious. They had taken up station there every night, waiting for Breccan to return. That must mean the dogs were with him, wherever he was—and then she noticed that the door to the sitting room was open a crack.

  Timidly, she pushed the door open and looked inside. Moonlight streamed in the bank of windows. She’d added furniture to this room. The desk now had a side table, and she’d found a very uncomfortable horsehair settee to go with the leather chair before the hearth.

  No fire burned in the hearth, but there in the silver light Tara could see Breccan’s big frame. He lay at an angle on the settee, his booted feet propped up on the seat of another chair. He didn’t have a blanket or pillow. He appeared as if a moment’s lapse of balance would tumble him to the floor.

  The dogs wagged their tails in greeting, well, save for Daphne. She appeared miffed with Tara. Her eyes were shiny in the darkness.

  Tara walked past Daphne, ignoring her low, “ruff.” She stopped by the settee. “Breccan,” she said, gently shaking his shoulder.

  He came awake with the abruptness of a warrior who was always aware of duty. He glanced up at her and winced at the candle flame.

  “Breccan, why did you not come to bed?” she asked, worried. Perhaps he had been afraid to wake her.

  He stretched, frowned at her, and said, “I’m fine here.” He lay back down, turning his head as if studying the floor.

  “Fine here?” she repeated. “You appear so uncomfortable.” She stepped closer, dropping her voice, coaxing him. She wore her hair loose from its braid, the way he liked it. “Come to bed, Breccan.”

  His frown deepened. “I can see your toes.”

  “That is because my feet are bare,” she said, then, feeling bold, promised, “There is more of me that is bare as well.”

  If she thought that would entice him, she was wrong.

  There was a beat of heavy silence, and then he said, “I don’t want to look at your toes.” He flipped onto his back and made a point of staring at the ceiling.

  “Why not?”

  “It is intimate,” he grumbled.

  Tara straightened. For the first time, she considered he was in this room because he was angry at her. But she didn’t know why. She’d done nothing to deserve his scorn. She wanted him in her bed. Could he not understand that?

  “Is this coming from
the man who wanted to rip off my clothes?” she said.

  He grunted like a sullen bear and gave her his back. He had trouble fitting his body on the settee that way. He had to be uncomfortable, but he would not admit it.

  “Breccan, what is wrong? Why are you angry with me?”

  “I don’t want to see your toes.”

  That was it?

  Tara took a step, feeling her temper start to rise. She had an easy disposition, but she’d never liked being given the Turkish treatment. If someone wished to discuss a perceived slight that she’d paid him, that was good. But she’d never appreciated being treated with silence or having her caring concern ignored.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said to his back. “What have I done to you? Tell me, and I will make it right. Breccan, I—” She caught herself. She’d been about to confess her love for him. She had almost blurted out the words that would lay bare her heart.

  But such an action would call for a level of trust Tara had never experienced before. What if she didn’t know him as well as she believed?

  And what if this moodiness was a defect in his character? Here she was, ready to offer that which she’d never given to another man, leaving herself wholly vulnerable, and he acted as if he could not abide her.

  This sort of vacillating behavior made her uncomfortable because that was the way her father behaved. Tara never knew what to expect from the earl.

  At the same time, she was surprised how edgy she felt. It was as if she had an itch that needed to be scratched and could not satisfy it. She wanted her husband in bed with her. She was ready for him. And she wanted him to be the man she’d come to think he was.

  “Breccan, please join me in bed. Please.” She used her sweetest, most cajoling voice.

  He didn’t budge.

  The temptress role had never sat well with Tara. She threw it aside for direct conversation. “Come to bed, Breccan.”

  Nothing.

  She stood a moment. The dogs watched her, tails wagging.

  “You don’t like my toes,” she repeated, the words themselves like tiny hammers on what control she could boast over herself. “You don’t want to see them?”