Successive generations of his kinfolk had added on to and improved the castle. The magnificent Caerlochnaven of today was a far cry from the original fortress but, as far as Broderick was concerned, the warm bath was still the best feature.
His tenants would probably take a dim view of the amount of time he spent there, but it was a good place to think and find answers when Aiglon wasn’t forthcoming.
On the day of his father’s execution, he’d only dragged himself out of the soothing water in order to console Lily. The bitter memory quickly put paid to any lingering traces of his arousal.
Some said it was his duty to go to Edinburgh to witness the beheading, but he preferred to remember his father as the jovial, indulgent man he’d been before clan hatreds got the better of his reasoning. Even the thought of his sire’s head stuck on a pike was enough…
He cocked his head, listening. It wasn’t unusual for sounds to echo in the grotto.
There it was again.
Singing.
Kyla and Lily were singing.
While he was immersed in feeling sorry for himself, his sister was singing and laughing—something he hadn’t heard her do since…
“Time for action,” he scolded as he heaved his body out of the water. “Kyla MacKeegan and I need to have a talk.”
*
After the evening meal, the MacKeegan family and the folk of Dun Scaith castle often enjoyed a night of singing and dancing, led by the clan piper. Everyone joined in, though Kyla didn’t have a good singing voice. The warm memory washed over her when Lily started to sing while she dressed. It seemed natural to hum along, though she didn’t recognize the tune. When Lily embarked on the unfamiliar words, Kyla improvised.
“Ye’ll have to teach me the words,” she said when the song was finished.
“Broderick’s the one to do that,” Lily replied. “He’s a wonderful singer.”
Kyla might have known the arrogant laird’s deep voice would produce melodious tones. It struck a chord within her every time she heard it. “He sings?” she asked lamely, dragging her thoughts back to the chamber.
“Aye, and plays all manner of instruments, though he hasna played since…”
The bairn’s expression changed. The pink drained from her face as she studied the carpeted floor.
Kyla wondered what had caused the garrulous lass to shut her mouth like a clam. And why had Broderick stopped playing?
It was on the tip of her flippant tongue to ask when she remembered what Corbin Lochwood had said about the previous Maxwell laird being an assassin. “I sense something bad happened to cause him to abandon his music, but ye dinna have to tell me…unless ye want to.”
She was pleased with the thoughtful way she’d handled the situation. There might be merit in thinking about what you said before the words came out of your mouth. She’d always had a tendency to simply blurt out her thoughts and feelings.
Lily looked up, her pretty face distorted by sorrow. “They chopped off my father’s head and stuck it on a pike,” she wailed.
*
Broderick’s hair was almost dry and neatly tied back; his shirt, trews and tunic were clean and feather-free, his boots polished. He adjusted the plaid pinned to his shoulder, cleared his throat and raised his hand to knock.
“A fine kettle o’ fish when a laird has to request leave to enter his own chamber,” he lamented under his breath.
A sound from within raised the hairs on his nape. Someone was crying.
Lily.
By the saints! A while ago she’d been singing, now she was sobbing.
He thrust open the door after tapping lightly, his spirits plummeting at the sight of his sister wailing on Kyla MacKeegan’s shoulder.
The speech he’d rehearsed concerning his prisoner’s return to Skye blew away like chaff on the wind. Confused emotions swirled in his heart. He was Lily’s protector—the one who comforted her, rushed to her bedside when nightmares plagued her sleep, calmed her fears.
Yet, he’d often wished she had a female to share the good times and bad—a woman she trusted. The two looked so right sitting together on his bed—like sisters. Kyla belonged there.
He shook his head to dispel the insane notion and swallowed hard as he went down on one knee beside them.
He nigh on fell over when Kyla pierced him with green eyes ablaze. “What were ye thinking, Broderick Maxwell, to tell a bairn they stuck her father’s head on a pike? Is it nay bad enough she kens he was beheaded?”
His hackles rose. Who was this woman to tell him how to bring up his sister? He regretted revealing the gory details to Lily, but this stranger had no right to an opinion about his father’s execution. He stiffened his spine, came to his feet and lifted Lily. “That’s none of yer affair, Mistress MacKeegan. I am laird here.”
It dawned on him immediately he’d spoken too harshly.
The Highland lass clenched her jaw, clearly angry, but her eyes conveyed a different message. He’d hurt her feelings.
“She was only trying to make me feel better,” Lily hiccupped, squirming out of his embrace.
Blast! Now he’d also upset his sister.
A laird ought to think before he opened his mouth. But thinking was a skill he didn’t seem to possess when Kyla was present, especially when the confounded woman looked so appealing clad in his shirt.
At a loss, he fell once more into the same trap. “We need to have a discussion about yer prompt return to Skye.”
“Nay,” Lily shrieked, clinging to Kyla, “ye canna leave yet. Why can she nay stay longer, Broderick?”
Blackmail
Corbin volunteered to work in the monastery’s mill, thinking it would be easier than digging in the fields. Instead, he was certain his back was broken and his chaff-filled lungs would never function properly again.
However, the monotonous grinding of the milling stones helped clarify part of his plan. He had to procure a boat to get to the other side of the Nith. It was too wide to swim and he had no intention of ever immersing his body in deep water again.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have the skill to maneuver a boat across the wide tidal estuary.
There was no point asking the monks to aid him, and the abbey was isolated. The only person he could think of was Sexton Cladh. The old man was probably familiar with local waters.
The ancient monk in charge of the mill accepted his complaint of something stuck in his eye, and even recommended he go to the well to sluice it out. He made a show of doing just that, then hurried to the graveyard.
It wasn’t easy to find the sexton among the hundreds of age-blackened stones, but Corbin eventually located him up a ladder, pruning a yew tree. “I need your services,” he said, irritated when prickly needles showered down.
Apparently, the old fool hadn’t heard. “I need your services,” he repeated loudly.
“Heard ye the first time,” Cladh replied without turning his attention away from his task.
Corbin clenched his fists. “You’ll take me across the Nith in your boat.”
The clipping continued. “Ye think I have a boat?”
“You don’t survive on the slop they dish up here. You go fishing.”
He waited, reminding himself he had to be patient.
“How much will ye pay me?”
“Nothing.”
Predictably, the sexton finally stopped his pruning and eyed Corbin. “Out o’ the goodness o’ my heart, I suppose.”
“No. Because I’ll inform Abbot Septimus that you salvaged the bale of woven cloth that brought me ashore and kept it for your own profit instead of turning it over to the abbey. I’m confident the abbot will know exactly where it’s hidden.”
Cladh spat, narrowly missing Corbin’s feet. “Ye dinna ken for sure.”
“If you’re willing to take the chance…”
Scowling, the old man started down the ladder. “Yon tide is favorable now.”
Corbin hesitated. “It’s growing late.”
&n
bsp; The sexton shrugged. “Please yerself.”
There was no choice. The wily old codger wasn’t as easy to intimidate as he’d anticipated. “Lead on, then.”
Luncheon
Kyla paced the chamber. It was nigh on midday and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten. A meal would be served for the household, but she was unsure if she’d be welcome in the Laird’s Hall.
Maxwell had stormed out in a very bad mood, taking his sister with him. She didn’t blame him. She had no right to put the notion into Lily’s head that her brother had said or done anything untoward. Nor should she have criticized the way he brought up his sister. It must be difficult for a man alone, especially considering he, too, was grieving his father’s death.
Kyla’s father had persevered with raising a motherless—not to mention stubborn—illegitimate daughter, even in the face of his own father’s opposition. Yet she’d never heard him utter a word of complaint, and had always basked in the glow of his unconditional love.
Maxwell loved his sister, that much was obvious. The best course of action was to offer an apology for the outburst, but if she didn’t get something to eat soon…
Her spirits lifted when a smiling Lily burst into the chamber, apparently recovered from her bout of grief. She had noticed before that bairns were often resilient and took things in stride better than some adults. She wished she could be as easily reconciled to the sinking of the Lanmara.
“Ye’re to come to the hall for luncheon,” Lily declared.
Kyla spread her arms wide. “Is this outfit acceptable?”
“Weel,” Lily mused, tapping a fingertip against her chin, “I doot Doreen will be pleased, but ’tis fine with me.”
“What about yer brother?”
“He willna care what ye’re wearing. He likes ye. I can tell.”
Feeling more optimistic, Kyla took the bairn’s hand and they left the chamber together.
*
Broderick came to his feet when Kyla and Lily entered the hall, painfully aware he’d failed in his duty as master of Caerlochnaven. His assumption that Doreen would provide victuals for his guest had proven to be wrong. The Highland lass must be hungry, but he’d worried she might be stubborn enough to refuse to come.
He was glad to see her—more than glad, if he was honest with himself. No woman had ever sparked the intense reactions that knocked him off balance when he was with Kyla MacKeegan. He was always careful to control his temper—all his emotions for that matter. He had no intention of following in his father’s footsteps.
Now the mere sight of Kyla wearing his shirt and those intriguing trews…and if he thought overlong on the bounty of red tresses…
He might have known she would hurry immediately to greet her crew. He should have realized she’d be concerned about them. As he watched her tearfully embrace every last man, it came to him she was more than concerned. Kyla MacKeegan wasn’t just a captain demonstrating relief her crew was safe. She truly cared about her clansmen.
It was a pitiful reality that he didn’t know the names of most of his gunboat’s crew, and hadn’t shown any interest in the men from Skye, other than to order they be provided food and allowed to sleep in the hall. He had no idea how many had drowned.
Even Lily was chatting with the sailors as if they were old friends, and seemed particularly taken with a young lad who couldn’t be more than a year or two older than she was.
“High time ye started acting like a laird,” he muttered as he strode from the dais, irritated by the cautious uncertainty in Kyla’s green eyes when he greeted her. For some reason, he craved her trust and hoped coherent words would issue forth from his mouth. “I should have reassured ye about yer men before this,” he admitted.
She nodded. “Aye, only two nay accounted for, which is akin to a miracle when ye consider…”
In an effort to avoid another argument, he offered his hand to the tallest sailor, who seemed to have some standing among the others. “I apologize for yer ordeal. When ye refused to heave to, we thought yer galley was smuggling contraband.”
The man eyed him with suspicion, but finally accepted the handshake. “Nicolson. Navigator. First time in thirty years I’ve lost a ship.”
Broderick had no answer, but Kyla came to the rescue of his confused thoughts.
“That’s the most I’ve ever heard ye say,” she teased, patting her navigator on the back.
Broderick’s gaze wandered to the lad standing nearby; he wasn’t dressed like a sailor, more like…
Lily jumped into the conversation before he had a chance to speak. “This is Adrian,” she informed him with a big smile. “He’s nay a sailor. He’s a valet.”
Broderick narrowed his eyes, not understanding until it dawned on him. “Ye were Laird Lochwood’s valet?”
“Aye,” the youth replied.
He put a hand on Adrian’s shoulder. “Ye were lucky to survive when yer master didna.”
He assumed the memory of a near-drowning caused the shiver that shook the lad, until he murmured, “Aye. We were both clinging to a bale of cloth.”
A twinge of guilt poked at Broderick.
“Then he pushed me off. I would have drowned but for Master Nicolson.”
Kyla gasped. “Lochwood didna try to save ye?”
Adrian studied his feet. “He was too busy saving himself.”
Broderick bit back the sarcastic retort that was on the tip of his tongue. After all, the wretch had drowned.
*
Kyla shouldn’t have been surprised by Adrian’s revelation about Corbin Lochwood, but was thankful nevertheless for the strength of Broderick’s warm hand as he led her to the high table on the dais. She ought to sit with her men but, perhaps, there was more to be gained from sitting beside Maxwell. A place at the high table befitted her rank as a chief’s daughter and they could discuss the return journey to Skye.
Broderick gestured to a space between him and his sister on the bench. He remained strangely silent as the cold ham and fresh bread was served.
Lily chattered about this and that, then launched her first salvo. “Kyla is going to teach me how to use a sling.”
Broderick’s leg twitched slightly, but Kyla was preoccupied with the warmth of his thigh barely touching hers. Her instinct was to move closer, to put her hand on…
His voice threw cold water on her reverie. “Why would ye want to learn how to use such a primitive weapon?”
She resisted the urge to blurt out her first thought about his knowledge of the age-old weapon. “’Tis true the sling has been used by shepherds for more than a thousand years,” she explained calmly. “That’s because ’tis effective, easy to carry, and anyone can learn to harness its power.”
Broderick swallowed the food he’d been chewing and opened his mouth to reply, but Lily cut him off. “Kyla once saved her father’s life with a missile from a sling.”
His leg twitched again as he furrowed his brow.
Kyla wished she’d not been so open with the lass. Now there was no option but to tell the tale. “Dadaidh had been abducted, and drugged with opium. I knocked Tremaine out with a rock flung from my sling, and helped him escape.”
“Tremaine?”
That was a convoluted bit of clan history she had no intention of revealing. “’Tis a long story.”
“And how old were ye then?” Broderick asked, seemingly satisfied with the lack of an explanation.
She feared he was mocking her, but he’d edged closer and his dark eyes held genuine interest.
“Seven.”
“See,” Lily exclaimed.
The heat from Broderick’s thigh was so comforting, Kyla barely heard his next words.
“I’ll send a message out to the tenants. They keep sheep.”
Crossing the Nith
“I dinna blame ye,” Cladh said gruffly when Corbin hesitated to get into the rowboat. “Ye escaped a watery grave once.”
Annoyed he’d allowed his fear to show, Corbin cl
enched his jaw, hiked up the irritating robe and climbed aboard the flimsy craft.
“Dinna fash, I’ve rowed across this river many a time, and the Nith isna the force o’ nature the Firth is. Tide’s high, so no chance o’ being swept out to sea.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Corbin retorted, lifting the hood of the robe over his head as protection against the chilly wind blowing off the water. “Just get us to the other side.”
The sexton shoved the boat away from shore, clambered in with some difficulty and took up the oars. “Ye’re in a mighty hurry to leave the abbey,” he said. “Or is it Caerlochnaven ye’re anxious to visit?”
Evidently, Cladh hadn’t forgotten his interest in the Maxwell castle. He resolved to be more careful in the future about what he divulged to strangers. “Monastery life isn’t for me,” he replied, hoping to allay the old man’s suspicions. “I want to get home.”
“And where might that be?” the sexton asked.
The lights of Caerlochnaven twinkled in the gathering gloom beyond the distant shore. That’s where my home will be, Corbin was tempted to crow, but Cladh was far too inquisitive for his own good. “The borderlands,” he replied casually.
“Ye’re nay an Englishmon, are ye?” the sexton asked.
Corbin could no longer see the wrinkled face clearly, but could well imagine the scowl. “No, I’m a Scot,” he replied, hoping that would be the end of it.
“’Cos ye talk like an Englishmon,” Cladh insisted.
It was tempting to explain that he’d painstakingly cultivated his speech so as not to sound like an ignorant Lowlander. He’d never have won the trust of English merchants otherwise. However, the old man was breathing hard with the exertion of rowing and they were probably less than halfway to their destination.
“Save your breath,” he admonished.
“Aye.”
After a few minutes of nothing but Cladh’s heavy breathing and the sound of the choppy black waves lapping greedily against the boat, Corbin felt distinctly seasick.
Kilty Pleasures (Clash of the Tartans Book 3) Page 7