The Bride Says Maybe

by Maxwell, Cathy

  No response.

  “Well then here—” She raised the hem of her nightdress so that she could lift her leg and place her toes against the back of his neck. She wiggled them. “Do you feel that? Those are my toes.” She lifted her foot so she could set it on his ear. She tried to trace the outline of his ear with her big toe. “Guess where my toes are now?” she dared him.

  He had to respond to her now. If he hadn’t, she probably would have climbed up onto the settee and stood on him.

  As he started to rise, her foot was on his jaw. He batted it out of the way and fell back against the settee, appearing tired and irritable.

  Tara put her foot on the ground, pleased she had commandeered his attention although he appeared as if he held himself back from mauling her, and not in a good way. His fists were clenched and his jaw hard.

  “What have I done, Breccan? Why are you upset with me?”

  For a long moment, he studied her. He was tired. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his shoulders stooped as if he carried a heavy weight. She wished to help relieve his burden.

  She saw his dedication to his people. He was a true “noble” man, one who placed others before self.

  “Please, Breccan, return to bed with me. How are we going to have children if we don’t start doing what we must?”

  For some reason, those words were the wrong ones to use. “Take yourself off, Tara. I’m tired. Leave me be.” He settled back on the furniture, this time in the way most comfortable to him.

  Disappointment churned in her stomach.

  She toyed with asking him one more time why he was angry, then decided she would not. He was in a tiff. She had them herself from time to time.

  Perhaps it would be best for both her and Breccan to be apart. Certainly, she didn’t feel like cuddling with him, no matter how many stories he told.

  She left the room. The dogs stayed with him. Of course.

  It was a long time before she fell asleep, and her last thought was a promise to herself that if he ever wanted to see her toes again, she’d make him beg on his knees.

  Breccan’s odd mood did not change the next day, or the next. Tara was glad he spent his time with his different projects around Wolfstone, because when he was around the castle, she found his presence disturbing.

  He barely looked at her. He rarely talked to her.

  After two nights of this, she tried to sleep in the main room with him. She’d made a bed on the floor and offered to tell him a story. She have one in mind about brownies and a bridge that couldn’t be crossed without paying respect to the brownie who owned it . . . but Breccan fell asleep. He did not want to hear her story. He no longer wished to share.

  She attempted to act as if nothing were wrong. She doubted if anyone beyond the dogs—who had also taken to following Breccan around the estate, they, too, giving her the cold shoulder, the ungrateful creatures—knew of the rift between husband and wife.

  She was wrong.

  Lachlan noticed.

  They had finished dinner on the second night. Jonas had gone on to whatever diversions took his fancy. Usually, he rode into Kenmore and shared a drink with friends at the inn.

  Tara had wrapped herself in a shawl and thought to pretend to read a book to while away the hours. Breccan was not home. She wasn’t certain he had come home the night before because she had refused to check.

  She sat at the table, sipping a glass of wine, wondering what to do, when Lachlan took the chair beside her.

  “Are you all right, lass?”

  She forced a smile. “I am.” Since she didn’t sound certain, she repeated, “I am.”

  He seemed to think on this a moment. A weight formed in her chest. When she thought about the estrangement, she could become so angry she would shake. Earlier, she had wondered why and realized it was because she’d grown to trust Breccan. She’d opened to him in a way she hadn’t with anyone else—

  “I believe you are miserable,” Lachlan said, interrupting the whirlwind of her thoughts. “I know my nephew is.”

  “Is he?” she challenged. “Has he said anything to you? He won’t say a word to me.”

  Lachlan hummed his thoughts. “I hate silence.”

  “I do as well.” The words rushed out of her, propelled by anger and fear.

  “I admit it was an effective trick to pull on my wife. We men don’t have as many words as you women do, so it comes natural to us.”

  “You did this to your wife?”

  Lachlan actually laughed, the sound bitter. “Aye, a time or two. Apparently this is a method common to the Campbells.”

  “And then you stopped?”

  “We Campbells have a stubborn pride. Time with my family, with her, was precious.”

  Tears stung Tara’s eyes, both for her anger at the way Breccan was treating her, but also because of the pain she sensed in Lachlan’s gently spoken words. “I’m sorry you lost everyone.”

  He nodded, growing silent himself. A moment later, he said, “I wasn’t certain about you, lass. I’m male. I could see why Breccan wanted you . . . or I thought I did. But I feared you were spoiled and would make his life difficult. However, now, I believe there is more to you than meets the eye. My nephew is the man to bring it out in you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He studied her a moment, assessing her. “You’ll know. When the time is right, you’ll know.”

  “How am I to know anything if he banishes me from his life?”

  “Don’t let him,” Lachlan said.

  “He refuses to come close to me,” Tara protested. “Even his dogs ignore me.”

  “Then put yourself in his path.”

  “Chase him? I don’t chase men,” she said. She could have told him about the other night, how she had gone to Breccan. It wounded her pride that she had done so.

  “He isn’t just any other man. He is your husband. And I think you know as I do that he is a very special person. Not many are like Breccan.” He stood, a sign that his offering of advice was over. “His mother did a good job with him. I can’t say my bother was worth dung heap. However, together, they created an exceptional man.”

  Tara nodded agreement. Breccan was special. She’d recognized that fact. “How can I force him to pay attention to me?”

  Lachlan grinned. “You don’t have to force him, Tara. Just be a woman.” He patted her shoulder and left the room.

  She sat for a long time, thinking. Be a woman. All she’d had to do in the past was dress in pretty clothes and smile. When she wanted a kiss, she presented herself and received kisses. But Lachlan was suggesting something more.

  More. The word beat like a drum through her being.

  Yes, she wanted more from Breccan. She had finally been ready to offer herself freely, and now Breccan had created the wall between them.

  Of course, Lachlan was implying that she had power over Breccan. She didn’t know if he was correct. Her husband was a disciplined man, and yet, Tara could not continue this way much longer.

  She thought of their earlier bargain, her desire to return to London. The city seemed far away now, and she felt as if she had become a different person.

  Instead, she could see herself building a life here. She enjoyed making the rooms of Wolfstone more hospitable. She wanted to see the weavers’ cottages finished and was interested in how the new machines would work. She admired Breccan’s vision of a future and yearned to be part of it.

  Thoughtfully, Tara rose from the table. Placing herself in Breccan’s path as Lachlan suggested might be outside where Tara felt comfortable, but wasn’t that what a true marriage was?

  In her mind, she examined the question. She’d never witnessed a marriage up close. Her father spent his time womanizing. There were couples in the ton whom people referred to as being very devoted to their spouses. They wer
e treated as an oddity.

  And yet, Tara found herself wishing for that sort of devotion—someone who accepted her, flaws and all.

  She had thought Breccan was that caliber of man, that he was someone beyond those who only saw her face and figure.

  The time had come to test him.

  Breccan was in a private hell of his own making.

  He missed Tara.

  It was that simple. He’d liked having her company. And now he had her, but he didn’t. Owen’s words were a poison inside him. He did not trust his cousin . . . and yet, what if he was right?

  Yes, Breccan had come to Tay with the marriage offer. He’d basically forced Tara to marry him to save her father from debtor’s prison, but that knowledge made this whole situation worse. The idea that Tay may have wanted to be rid of his daughter, that Breccan’s own lust had made him a laughingstock of those who knew of Jamerson and Tara’s illicit romance sickened him.

  And yet Tara did not strike him as someone capable of such duplicity. She had impressed him with her forthrightness. Still, she was a woman. Men throughout history, starting with Adam, had been played false by them. Why should Breccan think himself different?

  The suspicion also crossed his mind that Tara could possibly be carrying the horse master’s child, and once there, he could not shake it. What had she said the other night? How are we going to have children if we don’t start doing what we must?

  In his misery, he could imagine a scenario where his ogre of a self repulsed her. However, for the sake of her illegitimate child, she must consummate the marriage.

  His saner mind would point out that, if such was the case, she would have let him have her on the wedding night or a dozen times after.

  But doubt, once sown in a man’s mind, always took root.

  The only way that he could prove her innocent was to wait. She’d be showing soon if she were pregnant.

  Of course, the rest of the world would assume that the child was his. This wouldn’t be the first time one man’s child had been foisted on another. He decided he would not take out his anger and sense of betrayal on a child.

  But what of the mother?

  He’d not touch her.

  This would be the price he would pay for marrying a woman without first knowing her true character. And this way was safer for him.

  He’d always been accused of having a soft heart. He’d always been the one to forgive easily, only to be played for a fool by others’ dirty tricks.

  However, Tara could hurt him in a way no one else could.

  He’d fallen in love with her. He had only to look at her and his heart yearned for a world he feared did not exist.

  But his dogs were poor company when compared to his wife.

  He was thinking that one morning when he woke. He did not like his makeshift bed of chairs or sleeping in his breeches for modesty’s sake. After all, he didn’t want to be caught naked by one of the maids. Yet his pride would not let him move to another bedroom. He knew his uncles and his clansmen. They would be in his business in no time at all.

  Of course, pretending to be in the bedroom with his wife was not easy. It put him in close proximity to her every morning.

  So far, he’d been able to steal into their room before she woke. He felt he was adept at it, so he had no reason to suspect that she realized what he was doing—until the next time he went in, reached for his clothes on a peg, and turned to find his wife awake and blocking his way out of the room.

  “Good morning, Breccan,” she said, her voice quiet. She wore her hair down. He ached to bury his hands in it.

  “Morning,” he answered. He started to move past her, but she stepped in his way.

  “It is Sunday, Breccan. We need to go to church.”

  He frowned. “I don’t go to church.”

  “You have before.”

  To see her. “I don’t go to church.”

  She didn’t budge from where she stood, and he couldn’t ease his way around her without touching her, a dangerous proposition. “We must set an example,” she said. “Your clansmen, your tenants, they all need church. Besides, people will wonder what we are doing with our mornings if we don’t appear in church.”

  He debated arguing with her. However, her hint that people would believe he spent his mornings rogering his wife, as desirable as that sounded, made him consider attending church this one Sunday. In fact, he might need the Reverend Kinnion’s support if an annulment was required.

  “We may go to church,” he said.

  “Good. Now sit in the chair over there by the basin and let me shave your face.”

  “I don’t need a shave—” He’d raised a hand to his whiskers, feeling the roughness of his two days’ growth of beard.

  “You look like a goat,” she interrupted him. “Now sit and don’t argue with me.”

  There was a bite to her words. He could shave himself . . . and yet, a part of him wondered what she was about. A part of him appreciated and longed for her company.

  Could he not indulge himself, just for a few minutes?

  He sat in the chair next to the washbasin and close to the window, so she could use the early-morning light. He noticed that she had found draperies and hung them. Every day she brought something new to his home, small touches that made it more welcoming.

  She mixed his shaving soap in a cup with a brush.

  “Have you done this before?” he asked.

  “No.” She turned to him, brush in hand. “But it can’t be hard.”

  She started to lather his beard. He caught her wrist. Her bones were so fine, so elegant compared to his huge paws. “You wouldn’t want to cut my throat,” he cautioned.

  Tara smiled. That lovely, lovely smile. A man could bask forever in the memory of it. “Be brave, Breccan. Live dangerously.”

  “I am. I’m married, aren’t I?”

  His response had come to his lips before he’d even thought of it. It was the sort of thing the men working with him would say a hundred times a day.

  But it was not a wise thing to say now. Especially when a sadness came to Tara’s expressive eyes. “Aye you are,” she agreed, mimicking his brogue.

  She picked up the straight-edge razor. “Hold still.”

  And Breccan did as she said, for many reasons. Perhaps because it was early in the morning and what harm could be done? He sat in a chair; she stood.

  She placed the blade against his skin and pulled it. He could feel the whiskers being neatly sheared off. She must have sharpened the razor.

  Her body leaned over him. She was soft, warm. Her scent reminded him of midsummer roses. Again, and again she drew the razor blade across his skin.

  The tricky parts were the places around his nose and close to his ears. She tickled him, and he couldn’t help but smile. He opened his eyes and saw she was smiling as well, as if she took great pleasure in her work.

  “Tilt your head back,” she ordered.

  He did, closing his eyes. It felt good to be pampered.

  But he also waited for the first nick, first burn of being sliced. It didn’t come. She’d been careful—

  She climbed onto his lap, her legs straddling his hips. Her lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath his jaw.

  Breccan feared he dreamed.

  He’d wanted this. Dear God, how he’d wanted this.

  Her nightdress was hiked above her knees. He knew because he’d brought his hand down upon her thigh and felt bare skin. Her lips found his.

  Breccan had been born to kiss this woman. He liked the taste of her. He adored her response to desire and willingness to take the kiss deeper, to make it meaningful.

  Her body moved closer to him. Her sex was over his with only the material of his breeches separating them.

  And she was hot, wet.

  His errant manhoo
d, which had always had a mind of its own and had been trying to rise to attention from the moment Breccan had first had a thought to enter the bedroom, now roared to life full force. The erection pressed against his breeches, a beast begging to be fulfilled.

  Tara slid her arms around his neck, her kiss taking on urgency.

  Did she know what she was doing to him?

  Breccan couldn’t tell. There was an earnestness about her as well as a woman’s need. His hand rose to her breasts. Those sweet, sweet breasts that he’d only dreamed of touching. He’d yet to explore them. He wanted to taste them, to squeeze them, to celebrate them. Were her nipples pink or brown? Did she like his mouth upon them? All were questions he’d wondered.

  She made the softest moue as his thumb circled the tip of her breast. They felt full, as if begging him to pleasure them.

  Her hand came between them. He felt her trace the line of his breeches, searching for the button. She found it and twisted it free. First one, then a second.

  Her head pushed toward him. The back of her fingers caressed him as they continued their quest to set him free.

  Breccan wanted to help her. He wanted to pull the nightdress over her head and carry her naked to the bed. He wanted to lay her down upon the counterpane and plow into her over and over again—

  And he realized what was happening.

  He realized her hold over him. She bewitched him. She robbed of reason. Of respect. Of honor.

  It took more strength than he ever thought he had to grab her hands by the wrists and push her away.

  Aye, he lifted her up, but it wasn’t to take her to the bed, but to set her aside. He was in such a hurry, he wasn’t careful, and she fell to the floor.

  He didn’t offer to help her up, but ran from the room. God help him, he ran.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Breccan had rejected her.

  Worse, he had run from her.

  Tara pushed her hair back with a distracted hand. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. It had taken all her courage to be so bold. She’d been acting on instinct. She was surprised at how she’d seem to know what to do—and they had come very close to doing it. Even now, desire was heavy in the air.