The Laird

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The Laird Page 10

by Grace Burrowes


  “I’m essentially a new husband,” he said as Brenna tugged her dress over her head. “We new husbands are curious fellows. My question is this: Have you given any more thought to how you’ll woo me?”

  ***

  “Auld Angus must be nervous to have the laird underfoot at last,” Dantry MacLogan said.

  The diffidence of his tone suggested Hugh was to oblige him with a reply. Neil, the quietest of the three, could be counted on to referee if the discussion became physical.

  “I think it’s Brenna who’s nervous,” Hugh observed. “More nervous, poor lass.” He stopped fussing with the fire—peat took its own time to catch—and peeked in on the children, both sleeping soundly.

  “What has Cousin got to be nervous about?” Dantry took down a cribbage board and a worn deck of cards from the mantel.

  The deck sported thistles and unicorns, which had always put Hugh in mind of the hardship and beauty that was Scotland. “Neil, will you join us?” Hugh asked.

  Neil, ensconced before the fire in the household’s only rocking chair, shook his head. The children said he told the best stories, but Hugh’s theory was the bairns were that impressed to hear their older uncle speak at all.

  Hugh took a seat at the table where they’d eaten their supper two hours earlier. “Cousin has a husband on her hands she likely never thought to see again. He’ll go poking his lordly nose into every nook and cranny, and be listening at the keyholes of a night. The wrong keyholes, if I know Angus Brodie.”

  “Which,” Dantry said, taking a seat at the table, “we do, to our sorrow and shame.”

  “Our damned inconvenience,” Hugh rejoined, shuffling the deck as quietly as it could be done. “Thank God we’ve most of us paid our rents. Angus was that close to burning out Alexander MacIntosh. Now the man will have a chance to bring in a crop and sell off some fall lambs.”

  “Unless the laird burns him out anyway.”

  The silence that rose as the cards were dealt was sorrowful. The worst of the landlords burned their people out in autumn, when the crop was harvested, the livestock was fat, and winter was bearing down.

  As Hugh’s preoccupation and fatigue resulted in a gradual loss to his youngest brother, Dantry got around to the real point of the conversation.

  “Lachlan is tired of cleaning boots and pots. The boy is ready to work in the stable, and he’s old enough.”

  He would also make more than the few coins Hugh allowed Brenna to pay him.

  “The stables are Angus’s province,” Hugh observed. “No son of mine will be working for Angus Brodie, and no daughter either. Play your hand, Dantry, and stop agitating.”

  “A little more coin couldn’t hurt,” Dantry said, tossing out an eight of clubs.

  “Fifteen two,” Hugh countered, with the seven of diamonds. “If Lachlan can work the stables, he can work the fields with us.”

  “A pair is twenty-two,” Dantry countered, playing the seven of clubs. “Working the fields brings in no coin, Lachlan will be more bother than help, and every groat makes a difference.”

  “Twenty-nine for six points,” Hugh said, laying down the seven of hearts. “And a go, for seven, and last card is eight.”

  Dantry sat back, staring at the pile of cards on the table. “You’re not being practical. Angus has refused in-kind payments when he wants to make a point. The lease specifies rent in coin, and—”

  “The stables are the laird’s province,” Neil said, getting up and heading down the hallway. “Not Angus’s. Angus could end up being the one turfed out, and it’s about damned time. The man needs a dirk between his ribs.”

  The rocking chair moved in his absence, coming to a standstill eventually, as Hugh gathered up the cards and passed them to Dantry.

  “Remind me never to cross our brother,” Hugh said. “And no more about Lachlan working where Angus Brodie has a say. I’m the boy’s father.”

  Either Dantry was holding decent cards, or he recognized unassailable logic when it threatened to turn emphatic. Neil’s door closed quietly, and the rest of the game was played in silence.

  ***

  Michael was learning to study Brenna’s expressions because, in the details of her physiognomy, she hinted at her emotions. A certain angle of her brows suggested curiosity, another skepticism, another suppressed ire.

  But a man could study only those expressions he could see, so Michael rounded the corner of the privacy screen and beheld his wife in her shift, stays, and stockings. He slipped past her to the basin in the washstand in the corner.

  “I did not enjoy the climate in Spain,” he said. “The days were blisteringly hot much of the year, while the nights were bone-chillingly cold. The French mountains were uniformly cold, but that’s at least predictable. Do you make this soap?”

  In the mirror above the washstand, Brenna’s eyebrows suggested utter bafflement.

  “I do. We do, the women and I.”

  She watched him brush his teeth and wash the parts that counted. When Michael reached under his kilt to tend to the parts that also counted if one shared a bed with his wife, she turned away and started taking down her hair.

  Her hands shook, and Michael felt like a bully—like a hopeless bully.

  “You never did answer my question. How shall you woo me, darling Brenna?”

  “Don’t ever call me that.” A hairpin went skittering to the floor.

  “Darling is a bit of a stretch, I admit,” Michael said, picking up the pin. “We are not the darling type, I’m thinking.” He set the pin down near her hairbrush. “Perhaps we could exchange hints about this wooing business.”

  “You are ridiculous. Can you not allow me some privacy?”

  He lounged back against the wall, which was cold against his bare shoulders, but he did not leave the small space behind the privacy screen.

  “I woke up with you today, Wife, but within twenty minutes, you’d flown away to confer with Cook—again—or Elspeth or Goodie MacCray or the birds on the parapets. I hardly had a chance to speak with you, because Maeve has been dropped in our midst and my dear uncle has chosen today to take the gloves off, so to speak, and give my conscience the drubbing it deserves, and then dinner was—”

  “Angus Brodie has no right to pummel your conscience,” Brenna said, whirling and marching up to him. “That man has done nothing but prosper in your absence, and if Castle Brodie still stands, it’s despite him and his overbearing ways, not because of them.”

  Better, much, much better to see the fire in Brenna’s eyes and the determination in the angle of her chin. Michael eased forward and did his best to loom over her.

  “He said I’d neglected my wife. Angus said you could not be blamed for growing headstrong in my absence. He said the kindest thing I could do was take you in hand sooner rather than later.”

  Brenna’s hand snaked out, as if to slap Michael for conveying that sentiment. He made no move to stop her. He was too glad to see uncomplicated rage pouring from her in every line of her posture.

  Her hand slowly returned to her side, but she remained before her husband, a pillar of feminine outrage in shift and stays.

  “Your uncle has no business commenting on any aspect of our marriage. Not now, not ever.”

  “Exactly what I told him.” Michael pulled a stray pin from bright red curls near Brenna’s right ear and presented it to her, like a flower. “He didn’t take it well.”

  She blinked at the hairpin, then snatched it from his hand. “Thank you.”

  Michael had the sense she was not thanking him for the hairpin, and left her a bit of privacy, the better for him to ponder her reaction. Angus was an interfering old besom who’d been allowed to run tame on the property for too long. Of course, he’d have marital advice for his only nephew. Angus was at best an indifferent rider, but he’d barked orders to the stable lads left and right, half of which, Michael had quietly countermanded in Angus’s absence.

  Angus also had decided opinions about raising cattle, t
hough he’d no cows of his own, when all over the shire, the larger holdings typically kept a fold of Highlands, at least.

  Angus would need some reminding of his place, was all.

  Just as Brenna needed reminding of hers.

  “Are you hoping I’ll fall asleep before you join me, Brenna Maureen?” Not Brenna darling, not ever that, apparently. Michael spotted the tray of shortbread and popped a bite into his mouth.

  “Yes,” came the response from behind the privacy screen. “Go to bed and warm up the covers like a good husband, why don’t you? You’ve had a long day, so don’t wait up for me. I insist.”

  He held the plate over the top of the privacy screen but resisted the urge to peek. “All that wifely concern can leave a lady peckish. Have some shortbread.” He felt her take a piece, as delicately as a mouse purloins the cheese without springing the trap, which might be a first step in the direction of somebody wooing somebody else.

  “Shortbread counts as wooing,” he informed her, setting the plate on the night table. “At least it does if you put lavender in it. Now you must give me a hint, Brenna my dear, and tell me something I’ve done that counts as wooing in your eyes.”

  She stirred around behind the screen then emerged, wrapped in a nightgown, night robe, and her hunting tartan. Her hair was in a single thick plait down her back, and her feet were bare. She looked wary, tired, and uncertain.

  And he craved her. Craved her in her layers of nightclothes and her layers of pride. He craved her body, and even more, he craved her trust. She was home to him in a way he could not explain, not with words.

  “That kilt is dusty. You are in want of your drawers,” she said in the same tone she might have reminded him to get his elbows off the table. “I know they’re clean, because we did laundry today.” She crossed to the wardrobe as if to search out his prodigal drawers, but Michael moved up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

  “I am in want of my wife. Come to bed, Brenna.” He led her to the bed, unwrapped the plaid from her shoulders, then waited while she handed him the night robe. “In you go.”

  She climbed onto the bed and hitched up against the pillows, pulling the covers to her chin as Michael moved around the room, blowing out candles.

  He came to the last lit candle, the one on his side of the bed, and made a decision.

  “Will you sleep in your kilt tonight?” Brenna asked, smoothing a hand down the quilt.

  Michael turned his back to his wife, unpinned the wool, and let the kilt fall to the floor. “No, I will not.”

  He faced her, held still long enough to let her have a good look, then blew out the candle.

  ***

  “Is a display of manly attributes your daft notion of enticing me into your arms?” How casual her voice sounded, when Brenna’s heart was thumping like a trapped hare’s. She shifted to organize her pillows, and her foot brushed up against a hairy male shin.

  “In Spain, we slept in our clothes, night after night, for two reasons. We had to be ready to fight, of course, because sneak attacks by the French or the peasants were a possibility at any point.” His recitation took no apparent notice of Brenna’s accidental contact with his shin. “Then too, an officer caught out of uniform was subject to torture, as if war wasn’t torture enough.”

  She’d gone still like a trapped hare, too, because not only was Michael naked—gloriously, fascinatingly naked—but he’d also strayed closer to Brenna’s side of the bed.

  “I see.” She saw nothing, for the moon wasn’t up yet, and clouds had made for an early sunset, though she caught the scent of heather, vetiver, and lavender from her husband’s person.

  “What did you do with your busy self today, Brenna Maureen? I catch the occasional glimpse of you, but you’re always barreling around some corner, like the King’s post making its last mile of the day.”

  “Summer is a busy season.” A toe nudged up the length of Brenna’s calf. Just that, a glancing nudge. If he could ignore these little mishaps, so could she. “Getting Maeve unpacked took some time, because the child has her own ideas about how her things should be put away.”

  Based on the amount of luggage the girl had brought, Bridget had indeed sent Maeve away permanently.

  “You left Elspeth to humor the girl, and then what?”

  “I oversee the laundry, as much to catch up on the gossip as to make sure the clothes are clean.”

  The mattress bounced as Michael swatted at his pillows. When he’d subdued them, he was closer still.

  “Fraternizing with your troops. Every good officer learns the knack of fraternizing without being familiar. I love the scent of these sheets.”

  The compliment pleased her for its very casualness, despite Michael’s proximity.

  “We hang them in the sun when we can, or spread them over the lavender bushes. Michael, is there a reason why you must neglect your own side of the bed?”

  “Yes, there is. What was the gossip?” He abandoned any pretense of stealth, slipped an arm under Brenna’s neck, and drew her against his side.

  “Goodie MacCray’s youngest thinks Neil MacLogan is handsome, which, the ladies agree, he is, though his conversation is lacking.”

  “Perhaps he expresses himself more clearly through deeds.”

  Such subtlety. “Michael, what are you about?”

  “I’m giving you a hint.” He gave her temple a kiss too. “In case you were puzzled about exactly how I want to be wooed.”

  Brenna was not puzzled. She was tired, she was worried about the addition of Maeve to the household, she fretted over Michael’s remarks earlier about rents being unpaid, and she…liked the scent of her husband’s shoulder.

  He and his wooing would drive her to Bedlam. “I don’t suppose my husband would care for another piece of shortbread?”

  His chest bounced, as if he chuckled. “I know better than to risk getting crumbs on our newly washed sheets.”

  Michael’s fingers traced the hair back from Brenna’s brow, the caress beguilingly tender.

  Though not the least bit threatening. “You want affection from me, Husband?”

  Michael didn’t immediately answer, and as the silence drew out, Brenna felt uncertainty shading toward despair. She was twenty-five years old and had no instincts, no internal compass, when it came to the most basic marital matters.

  Worse, she likely never would. This lack was a particularly miserable way to be broken, invisible and yet intimately obvious. She braced herself to roll away, but Michael’s arm gently dissuaded her.

  “I do want affection from you.” Michael’s tone said this conclusion surprised him. “I want it desperately.”

  And yet, he lay there, his arm around her, his desperation apparently checked.

  Or perhaps he was uncertain too?

  His fingers swept slowly across her brow; his chest rose and fell.

  “When you were in the army, there was no affection, was there? You fought, you marched, you besieged, you tortured, and there was no one to take your hand or lie down with you on a chilly summer night. No one to know you favor lavender in your shortbread.”

  The nights had been cold, he’d said. Brenna would learn to listen to her husband more carefully. She tucked a knee across his thighs, wondering what was so delightful about war that men endured it for a day, much less for a decade.

  “I had the memory of your smiles,” he said. “I had the old songs. I had hope.”

  Hope was not a cuddly bedfellow. Hope was a nightingale, perched on the windowsill in the dead of winter, tempted to seek death rather than endure another moment of uncertain captivity.

  Brenna reached up in the darkness and cupped her husband’s jaw, bristly with a day’s growth of beard. “I’ll give you a hint too, Michael.”

  He caught her hand and ran his nose over her wrist, then held her fingers in his. No kissing, no clutching, nothing but a joining of hands. “I’m listening.”

  “When you tell your uncle”—Brenna wasn
’t going to say his name in this bed, not ever—“when you tell him that our marriage is none of his business, and never will be, you’re doing a fine job of wooing your wife.”

  They fell asleep entwined, the cool breezes wafting in through the open window, while under the covers, husband and wife were snug and warm.

  ***

  Scotland was cold and bumpy. Ireland was wet and bumpy. One had shortbread, the other soda bread, but other than that, Maeve could not find significant differences.

  For in neither country had she anybody to play with.

  “I’m like a princess in a tower,” she informed the fat orange pantry mouser, which was batting at daisies blooming in the shelter of the garden wall.

  Bridget had had a walled garden in Ireland, all neat and trim, the walls low. Here, the walls were high and thick, serious about keeping out both bitter wind and prying eyes. The flowers were the stubborn varieties, nothing delicate about them.

  “Does your brother know you’re hiding in here?”

  The man stood in the only door to the garden, the breeze catching his kilt.

  “You’re Uncle Angus. Bridget said I’m to stay away from you because you have a wicked temper.”

  White brows shot up. “I’ve a temper? As I recall, our dear Bridget was easily vexed herself, and over mud, dogs in the house, and other infractions which the sovereign has disgracefully neglected to make hanging felonies.” He wasn’t smiling, but his blue eyes said he was teasing.

  “You know Bridget?”

  “I’m her uncle too, child. Were you aware there’s a tiger in your garden?”

  More teasing, and Maeve liked it. “That’s Preacher. Michael says he brings the mice their eternal reward.”

  “Aye, and he brings the lady cats something else entirely.” Uncle crossed his arms and got comfortable against the worn jamb of the garden door. “How is Scotland suiting you so far?”

  He was the first person to ask her this question, and the way he watched her suggested he would listen to her answer, not be off about some grown-up errand even as Maeve considered her reply.

 

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