The Laird

by Grace Burrowes

  “And you’re fretting over me still?” Michael hazarded. What else could explain this impromptu journey of hundreds of miles, without an invitation, and the lady in an interesting condition?

  The clip-clop of heavy, iron-shod hooves ricocheted off the walls of the bailey like so many pistol shots.

  “That is an enormous horse,” St. Clair remarked as Bannockburn was led out of the stables.

  “Named for an enormous battle—or for breakfast,” Michael replied. “You need not fret over me, St. Clair. My Brenna has taken over the post and does a better job than you ever could. Come along, and you can buy me a frippery to restore my good graces.”

  St. Clair belted him on the arm—a goodly smack but not too hard. “You never once said you were married.”

  And thus they reached the foundation of St. Clair’s worries. Michael resumed walking rather than air more linen where any boot boy or lady’s maid might come by.

  “I never said I wasn’t married. What color hair ribbon shall I buy for my Brenna?”

  St. Clair laughed, which was the object of such a ridiculous question between former soldiers. A hint of that humor lingered in the baron’s eyes when Michael announced to the ladies that a sortie would be made to the village after lunch.

  “To the village?” Rather than offer him an approving smile, Brenna’s question was careful. The way she patted her lips with her serviette was careful too.

  “We’ll stop at the tavern and enjoy some of the finest summer ale in the Highlands,” Michael said with a wink—while the ladies exchanged a glance that was also careful.

  Reinforcements arrived a heartbeat too late from St. Clair. “I’ve a notion to stretch my legs, and a ramble to the village would suit—if my lady is up to the exertion?”

  Brenna rose so quickly Michael barely stopped her chair from toppling. “We’ll take the carriage.”

  For a ramble down the hill?

  St. Clair’s lady was on her feet as well. “I’ll need to change my shoes. Sebastian, Michael, if you’ll excuse us?”

  The ladies departed, though neither had finished her meal.

  “What was that about?” St. Clair asked, helping himself to a chicken leg from his wife’s uneaten portion.

  Michael scraped the last bite of mashed potatoes from Brenna’s plate. She had Cook flavor them with butter, cheese, and chives, an improvement over the army’s version of the same offering.

  “Probably consulting each other on the preferred color of hair ribbon.” Though all Brenna’s ribbons were green, and Michael had never noticed what color Baroness St. Clair preferred.

  When the ladies assembled on the front steps, Brenna pulled Michael over to the climbing trellis of pink roses. “This will be a short outing, Husband.”

  “You are not pleased with the prospect of spending some coin on yourself?”

  She gave him the sort of look that in an instant conveyed both incredulity and expletives.

  “The baroness is in a delicate condition, ye daft mon. She canna be haring all over the shire at her fellow’s whim.”

  Milly St. Clair had been dragged the length of the realm at her husband’s whim, suggesting Brenna’s anxiety was ill-placed.

  “I want to spoil you a bit,” Michael said, plucking her a rose and getting stuck in the thumb with a thorn for his troubles. “I want to show you off and assure the world we’re in charity with each other.” Because they were—in charity with each other.

  He was almost sure of it.

  And he wanted to buy her a hair ribbon that wasn’t green, but he passed her the rose and kept that silliness to himself.

  “What am I to do with you?” Brenna said, sniffing at the rose.

  “Does that mean you love me too?”

  She smacked him across the cheek with the little rose, but smiled as she did, and then climbed into the waiting coach without allowing him to assist her.

  ***

  The ladies bought hair ribbons, they bought muffins, and they each dropped a coin in the poor box when Michael suggested they sit for a moment in the churchyard to take advantage of the shade.

  The day was the sort of summer day Michael enjoyed most—warm in the sun but almost cold in the shade—and yet, the outing was not going according to plan.

  The baker had not added that free, thirteenth muffin intended to curry a customer’s favor. The apothecary’s thumb had hovered a quarter-inch above the scale when he’d weighed out the ladies’ peppermint tea. Michael’s raised eyebrow had kept that thumb from adding a larcenous bit of weight to the scale.

  “Let’s have that ale,” St. Clair said, rising from his bench and offering his hand to the baroness.

  The doting looked good on a man who was a caretaker at heart. When Michael offered Brenna his escort, she put her hand on his arm gingerly, like a debutante at her first ball.

  Perhaps they needed more practice with the business of procuring fripperies, because the visit to the village felt off.

  “Why do you buy only green ribbons for your hair?” Michael asked as they ambled toward the tavern. “The truth, Brenna, or I will kiss you right here in the churchyard.”

  His threat provoked a snort. “That churchyard has seen more souls made than saved, according to Goodie MacCray. I’m your wife, perhaps I’ll kiss you.”

  He kissed her cheek without breaking stride, and the outing became cheerier.

  “I thought you liked green ribbons in my hair,” Brenna said quietly, as if St. Clair, who was nigh plastered to the baroness’s side, might have been eavesdropping on this great confidence.

  For it was a great confidence.

  “I like your hair in a green ribbon. I also like it unbound. I especially like it in complete disarray and spilling down your back while I love you.”

  “Hush.” She bussed his cheek before he could kiss her again, and that would have put Michael in charity with the entire world, except the tavern went quiet as he ushered his lady and their guests to the snug.

  “Let’s try this summer ale you’ve boasted about,” St. Clair said, assisting his wife to the bench along the wall. St. Clair scooted in beside the baroness, and for all the bonhomie in his words, his eyes were hard.

  Whatever was amiss, St. Clair had picked up on it too.

  “I’ll place our order at the bar,” Michael said. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me?”

  As Michael wended his way between tables, he assured himself that an English peer was not likely to meet with a warm welcome in the wilds of Aberdeenshire. The ’45 was as close in memory as Davey MacCray’s most recent ballad, and in Michael’s childhood, he’d known old men who’d claimed to recall the battle in all its tragic, gory detail.

  While every family in Scotland could recall the hardships and butchery following Culloden.

  “Two pints of summer ale, and two ladies’ pints,” Michael told the barkeeper.

  No polite banter followed, no small talk about the weather. When Michael left coins on the polished oak surface of the bar, the barkeeper hesitated a moment before scooping them into a pocket.

  “My thanks,” Michael said, and because he took a moment to thread his fingers through the handles of four mugs, Michael overheard Dora Hennessey’s muttered aside to one of the Landon sisters.

  “Had to bring her fancy coach down the hill, didn’t she? Had to throw her coin around on frivolities and go strutting about with her English friends.”

  He tarried, as if his hands were too clumsy to manage four mugs, but it was his mind that felt clumsy.

  The parsimony of the baker and the apothecary, the odd looks at the lending library, the absence of greetings from anybody passing by the churchyard—this rudeness was not a function of prejudice against the English in general, but rather, was animosity directed solely against Brenna.

  His dear and beloved Brenna, whom he’d left behind when he went off to war.

  Michael marched over to the biddies hunched over their tea along the far wall, like a pair of broody hens unwi
lling to leave their nesting boxes.

  “Ladies, Brenna thought you might enjoy a summer ale. She’s ever so considerate, is our Brenna. For example, she insisted the coach be brought out for Lady St. Clair’s use, knowing how limited a woman’s energy can be when she’s traveled far in a certain condition.”

  He thunked the two smaller mugs down on the table, when he’d rather have upended them and smashed the crockery.

  “Th-thank you, Laird,” the Landon besom managed.

  “Thank my wife.”

  Michael stomped off, growled an order for two more lady’s pints to the barkeeper, and rejoined his party in the snug.

  When he saw the ladies across the room were sending him wary looks, he kissed his wife’s cheek and saluted with his mug.

  Twelve

  “They went to the village without me.” Maeve’s lips quivered as she made this announcement. She stomped over to the bread basket, mostly because that would keep her back to Cook.

  “Aye, and you’re supposed to be working on your penmanship with Miss Elspeth,” Cook said. She was beheading carrots, which as far as Maeve was concerned, was a fine fate for carrots—except then they’d likely show up in a stew pot or on Maeve’s plate.

  “Elspeth went to the village too, and told me to read myself a story, as if it’s bedtime.”

  Cook’s cleaver paused. “You’ve no one to read you a story of a night?”

  Bridget used to, sometimes, but then Kevin would come by, his hair neatly combed back, his fingernails spotless, and declare it was time to blow out the candles. Bridget never argued with him, not for one more page, not for one more paragraph.

  “I can read to myself.”

  Sure enough, Cook scooped up all but two of the carrots and tossed them into a huge stew pot. Next she’d deal with the turnips and potatoes, because neeps and tatties went with everything here in Scotland.

  “Would you care for a piece of shortbread, wee Maeve?”

  “No thank you.” Shortbread would not make Maeve’s brother like her, much less love her, much less pay attention to her. “I’m off to find Preacher.”

  “You can look in the stables, I’m thinking.” Cook held out the two carrots, and damn—damn was a very bad word, but Elspeth said using it in your mind wasn’t wicked—damn if that didn’t make Maeve feel like crying too.

  “I’m not supposed to go to the stables without telling somebody.”

  “I’m somebody,” Cook said, slapping the carrots gently into Maeve’s palm. “The laird and his lady are off for a ramble through the village. You might as well pass a little time with Bannock, aye? He strikes me as a lonely sort of horse, working all the time or alone in his stall with nobody to play with.”

  Cook winked. Maeve did not know how to wink back, but Cook had a point: Bannock probably was lonely. Maybe Preacher had known that and had gone to visit him.

  “I won’t be gone long,” Maeve said. “I’ll go right to the stables and come right back.”

  “Sure you will, and maybe by then you’ll have an appetite for some shortbread.”

  Probably not. Maeve headed for the stables at a fast trot, lest she run into Lachlan, who’d remind her she wasn’t to be in the stables at all. Preacher was nowhere to be found, but Bannock was in his stall, munching hay, which seemed to be what Bannock liked to do best.

  “Wee Bannock!” Maeve called, which provoked one hairy, horsey ear to flick. “I’ve brought you a treat, Wee Bannock!”

  The beast did not even look up, and why should he? Maeve wasn’t tall enough to reach through the bars of his stall and show him his treat.

  “Bannockburn is a lucky lad,” said a male voice from behind her. Maeve was abruptly hoisted up to Uncle Angus’s hip. “He gets treats and a visit from a pretty lass.”

  Angus smelled good—of horses and hay—and he hadn’t been asked to go to the village either.

  “I brought carrots for Bannock, but I’m really only looking for Preacher.”

  “And you found me instead.” Angus bussed her cheek, a tickly, scratchy sort of kiss that made some of Maeve’s anger slip from her grasp—some of her hurt. “Perhaps we need to get Bannock’s attention?”

  “He’s eating. He won’t pay attention to anything until he’s done eating.” Michael was the same way, and Kevin had been fond of a good meal too.

  “He’s a gelding,” Angus said, which Maeve knew meant the horse was tamer than a stallion. “We can’t blame him for his priorities, but neither will he mind if you want to perch for a moment on his back.”

  To sit on Bannock? The tallest horse in the stables, maybe the tallest in the shire—in all of Scotland? This was ever so much better than a visit to the village.

  “He won’t mind?”

  “He won’t even notice,” Angus said, opening the stall’s half door one-handed. “You must not pinch the poor lad with your legs or bounce about on him too hard. All that comes later.”

  Angus’s smile was the sly smile of somebody who knows he might be getting in trouble but wasn’t too worried about it.

  “I’ll sit quietly. Kevin used to take me up with him when he hacked out sometimes.” Maeve had forgotten that, probably because it was one more thing to miss about Ireland.

  Bannock was even bigger up close than he appeared from several feet away. His withers were higher than the top of Uncle Angus’s head, his feet were…no wonder people wore boots in the stables.

  “Up you go,” Angus said, hoisting Maeve upon the horse’s broad back. “Catch a bit of his mane to let him know you’re up there.”

  The ceiling was much closer to the top of Maeve’s head, and the sense of being atop the world both scary and fine. She petted Bannock to let him know she appreciated the view, and because petting any animal was a cure for much that ailed a girl.

  Kevin had said that too, and abruptly, the lump was back in Maeve’s throat.

  “When you’re a bit bigger, perhaps you’d like to ride Bannock right through the middle of the village.” Angus took a carrot from her and passed it to the horse.

  For a fellow like Bannock, a foot-long carrot was no more than a tea cake. He munched his treat and went right back to his hay without a pause in his chewing.

  The horse honestly did not seem to know or care that Maeve was on his back. “May I get down now?”

  A flash of orange streaked straight up one of the supports at a corner of Bannock’s stall. The great horse dodged right, toward Angus, and Maeve nearly slid off Bannock’s back. She clutched at his coarse mane for dear life until Angus’s arms came around her.

  “I’ve got you, child. The daft horse merely took a fright.” Maeve was wrapped around Uncle Angus, piggyback, but frontwise. She’d fallen off twice while hacking out with Kevin, but never from such a great height, and she clutched at her rescuer desperately.

  “Preacher made him jump.”

  “Preacher is a menace,” Angus said, holding Maeve very tightly, her legs about his waist. “But you’re safe. Bannock meant no harm, but he hasn’t claws or fangs like that cat. When he’s afeart or can’t puzzle things out, Bannock knows only to run and hide.”

  Still Angus held her, tightly enough that Maeve could feel the rising and falling of his chest. This close, he smelled not of horse and hay, but of pipe smoke and wool.

  “You can put me down now.”

  “Soon.” Angus walked with her from the stall, closing and latching the door before striding down to the saddle room with Maeve plastered to his front. When he lowered himself to a bench, Maeve ended up straddling his lap.

  She scrambled off, struggling a little to loosen his hold. When she stepped back, Angus was breathing a bit heavily and twitching at his kilt.

  Maybe Bannock had spooked Uncle too?

  “You’re wearing the hunting plaid,” Maeve said. The only other person she’d seen wearing it was Brenna. “The pattern makes it so nobody can see you in the woods.”

  “The better to get closer to your prey. Are you all right then,
wee Maeve?”

  Angus was the only one to ask that question, though he was also the one who’d put Maeve on Bannock’s back.

  “Maeve, the coach’s coming up the hill.” Lachlan stood in the door to the saddle room, his expression carefully blank. He should envy Maeve her freedom—though the boy was wearing a handsome pair of new boots.

  “I’m coming,” Maeve said. “’Bye, Uncle Angus!”

  Even though nobody was ever supposed to run in a stable no matter what, Maeve scrambled to Lachlan’s side and took his hand. “I went to find Preacher.”

  “Of course ye did, ye daftie. Does Preacher eat carrots now?”

  Maeve slowed and dropped Lachlan’s hand—they were clear of the stables, and the coach had to take a long way around the hill to get up to the keep. “The carrot is for me,” she said, breaking it in half. “And for you.”

  Lachlan did not believe her, of course, but he was a friend—as much as a boy could be a friend—and so he munched his half without comment.

  Bannock hadn’t cared that Maeve had brought him a carrot, hadn’t cared that she was sitting up on his back, and hadn’t made any effort to keep her safe when Preacher had gone streaking by.

  Maeve took a bite of carrot and tried not to cry.

  ***

  “I was trying to woo you,” Michael said, and from his tone, Brenna suspected he regarded the outing as a miserable failure, when the opposite was true.

  “And you have,” Brenna said, pulling off a half boot. “You’ve shared your day and your friends with me, and you’ve bought me a brown velvet hair ribbon I shall treasure until my hair turns gray.” He’d also taken her by the hand and the arm, held doors for her, whispered to her in public, and kissed her in the churchyard—and none of it had been anything less than his honest enjoyment in her company.

  Every woman deserved to be kissed in at least one churchyard, just as every woman deserved to be wooed, and thank heavens, her husband grasped this.

  Michael settled beside her on the bed and took her half boot from her, his unhappy sigh suggesting he was not placated by her answer. Several doors down, the Baroness St. Clair was napping, and her husband offering whatever assistance with that endeavor a devoted—and worried—spouse might lend.