by Caroline Lee
She seemed to realize they weren’t alone in the moment before Lara sent her a clear cease-and-desist look. Her blue-gray eyes flashed toward her great-aunt, then to the two lads playing soldiers, and Nessa snapped her mouth shut.
Agatha cleared her throat. “Let me understand here… Ye love Alistair, and ye admit he’s a good man, but when he asked ye to marry him, ye said nay?”
Mutely, Lara nodded, feeling miserable.
The old woman clucked her tongue and picked her knitting back up. “I’m too auld for this shite. My sausages arenae working properly.”
Lara blinked, then exchanged a look with her best friend. “Um…what?”
“My sausages!” Agatha waved her knitting, as if that explained everything. “My finger sausages! I cannae seem to make them small enough!” She scoffed down at her work. “What in damnation was I saying?”
“Damnation! Shite!”
Nessa placed her finger to her lips and shot Liam a scolding look. But ‘twas too late. Wee Tomas levered himself into a sitting position, clapped his hands, and said something very much like, “Shite.”
“Oh, fook,” whispered Nessa, her eyes wide. “We’re never again going to be allowed to watch the wee angels, are we?”
Her great-aunt cackled gleefully. “ ’Tis a fine strategy! Why did I no’ think of that? Shite! Damnation! Shite! Bollocks!”
Liam perked up. “Och, I ken that one already! Bollocks! Da says I’m no’ supposed to say it in front of ladies, but if the lady says it first, ‘tis fine!”
Having trouble hiding her smile, Lara waggled her finger at the lad. “Ye let us ladies have our conversation, aright? Ye show yer brother how to wage battle.”
With a great sigh, the little boy rolled his eyes. “Fine. Come along, Tomas, we’ll send these English bastards—I’m allowed to say bastard, because that’s what Da is—to damnation! Damnation!”
Agatha huffed. “Now, where were we?”
Shaking her head, Nessa smiled ruefully. “We were talking about Lara and Alistair, Aunt Agatha.”
“Och, aye. Look, lassie.” The woman pierced Lara with a knowing look. “I dinnae need to ken why ye’ve turned down marriage to the man ye love. Do ye ken why?”
Lara didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. She wasn’t quite sure herself. All she knew was that it had something to do with Alistair assuming she was something she wasn’t, and the damn lairdship.
Agatha nodded, as if satisfied. “ ’Tis what I thought. So here’s my advice: Dinnae sit here and try to explain yer damn-fool reasoning to us. Go to him and make sure he understands.”
“She’s right, Lara,” Nessa said in a serious tone. “If even ye dinnae understand, then ‘tis likely he doesnae either.”
Lara squeezed her eyes shut, remembering how confused Alistair had looked a few times in the last sennight, when she’d met with him. It had broken her heart, mainly because she hadn’t been certain what to say.
“Ye’re right,” she whispered.
“Well, of course we’re right,” snapped Agatha. “We’re aulder and wiser.”
Nessa cleared her throat. “I’m less than a year aulder.”
“But wiser?” her great-aunt pointed out.
“Och, mayhap no’. ‘Tisnae like I’m married to the man of my dreams yet.” When Lara met her friend’s eyes, Nessa was smiling softly. “Go to him, Lara. Tell Alistair ye love him. Tell him what ye’re feeling now, and what ye’ve always felt for him.”
“Do ye think ‘twill help?”
Her friend nodded. “Aye.”
“Aye,” snapped Agatha. “Now all of ye shut up so I can work on my finger sausages, would ye? Go away, Lara. Go to Alistair.”
So she did.
Chapter 9
Kiergan hadn’t been at the evening meal, and Alistair wondered where he’d been. It wasn’t exactly as though he’d gone looking for his twin, because his mind was so involved pondering his dilemma over Lara, but he wasn’t entirely surprised to find the door to the solar cracked open.
Sighing, Alistair tilted his head upward, expecting another balanced bucket or some kind of messy practical joke.
There was naught there.
Had he guessed incorrectly?
Nay, he’d left the door open when he’d gone down to the meal.
Funny. He still slept there and spent his time behind the desk…but in the last sennight, he’d spent more time out of the solar than usual. Thanks to Lara’s influence, he no longer thought of this space as solely his own.
And so, when he pushed the door open, he wasn’t entirely surprised to find his twin brother leaning against the desk, his arms folding in front of him, grinning.
If Kiergan’s blue gaze hadn’t darted sideways just briefly, Alistair might’ve gotten a face full of fur. But since it did, Alistair whirled around and darted forward, just in time to see Rocque lifting a goat over his head.
When he realized he’d been caught, the huge brother froze. In his hands, the goat bleated pitifully.
Cocking a brow, Alistair dragged his gaze upward. Rocque’s hands were placed under the animal’s neck and hind legs, and the mama goat—judging from the animal’s swollen udder—didn’t look thrilled to be there.
She bleated again.
“Rocque,” Alistair began slowly, “ye’re holding a goat over yer head.”
His brother blinked. “Aye?”
“Why are ye holding a goat over yer head?”
When Rocque glanced at the door, then at Alistair, it became clear. There hadn’t been a bucket balanced atop the door, but that hadn’t meant something hadn’t been planned to land on his head.
But his brother rallied, recovering well. With a grunt, he lowered the goat to around the level of his chin. Then, arm muscles straining, lifted the poor animal upward again. At the apex, the goat let out a pitiful, “Baaaaaaaah” and Rocque slowly lowered it.
Alistair folded his arms and watched his brother lift and lower the animal a few more times. At the top of each exercise, the goat bleated.
“Rocque?” he prompted.
“Aye?”
“The goat? An explanation?”
His brother offered a grin he probably thought was charming as he lifted the poor animal again. “Arm day?” he grunted.
Rolling his eyes, Alistair tried to hide his grin. “Ye were going to drop the damned thing on my head, were ye no’?”
Arms extended, the goat balanced over his head, Rocque froze. His eyes darted to Kiergan. “Was I?”
Kiergan shrugged innocently. “I dinnae ken how yer mind works, Rocque.”
“But ye said—”
Whatever Rocque had been about to confess, Kiergan ruined it by interrupting. “Do ye ken goats tend to piss when they’re afraid?”
Quick as lightening, Rocque dropped his arms, lowering the animal until its feet were on the ground. “What? I might’ve been pissed on?”
Kiergan clucked his tongue. “Someone was going to get a face full of goat piss, one way or the other.”
Glaring at this glib brother of theirs, Rocque shook a fist. “If I’d been pissed on, Kiergan, ye’d have been on triple guard duty for the next fortnight!”
Kiergan just smiled as he shrugged. “Then ‘tis glad I am she didnae piss on anyone.”
“Ye’re an arsehole.”
“Nay,” Kiergan corrected, “I’m a genius.”
Muttering something about goats and fools, Rocque stomped out of the room.
He’d left the goat, who had now wandered over to Alistair’s cot and began to snuffle around the coverlet, looking for something edible.
“Ye might be a genius,” Alistair said blandly, “if ye applied yer intellect to something more useful than practical jokes.”
His twin rubbed his chin. “Ye might say I’m udderly brilliant?”
With a groan, Alistair uncrossed his arms and scrubbed a hand over his face. “How long have ye been waiting to use that? Nay, dinnae answer,” he was quick to caution. “I dinnae care.
” With a sigh, he lowered his hands to his hips. “How long are ye going to continue these ridiculous attempts to make me look the fool?”
Kiergan seemed genuinely surprised. “As long as it takes ye to laugh. I’m no’ trying to make ye look like a fool.”
“Good, because so far, ye have been the one to come out looking like a fool.”
“Then why have ye no’ laughed at me?” His twin shook his head. “I’m just waiting for ye to show some kind of humor, Alistair.”
Gaping, Alistair asked, “Why?”
His twin threw his hands in the air. “Because I miss my twin brother, damn ye! I miss the man ye used to be! Ye used to be able to laugh and take a joke and go for rides and talk about—about all sorts of shite! I thought ye were improving, but ye’ve been grumpy since I tried to drop those berry tarts on yer head and ye started asking about Lara’s virginity.”
The two of them stared at one another, Kiergan’s chest rising and falling heavily. Finally, Alistair blinked and looked away.
“I’ve been riding every day this week,” he offered, in an attempt to show he was still trying to relax.
“Ye have?”
“Aye. Lara talked me into sharing some responsibility with ye. Da approves, by the way. And with ye handling the correspondence…”
When he trailed off, Kiergan tentatively finished, “Ye have more time for yerself now?”
Alistair’s lips twitched. “Aye, a bit. And I still laugh, ye ken.” He’d laughed with Lara plenty of times this week. When he was with her, he just felt freer. “Just no’ at yer stupid tricks.”
His brother hummed. “So what yer saying is, I need to work on some better tricks?”
“Nay, what I’m saying is, ye should apply yer ‘genius’ and guile to the clan’s correspondence.”
Nodding, Kiergan turned to the desk and swept up a scroll. “ ’Tis why I’m here. I’ve negotiated the parameters of Nessa’s betrothal to Henry Campbell. The second one, I mean. Well”—he shrugged—“mayhap the fourth or twelfth Henry Campbell. I dinnae keep track of how often they reuse names.”
Surprised, Alistair stepped forward to unroll the letter. It was just an outline, not the actual contract, but it looked very well done.
“This is… Aye, everything is here. Da will approve of this.”
“Ye think?”
‘Twas the hopeful tone in his brother’s voice which dragged Alistair’s gaze back to his brother. He studied Kiergan for a moment, thinking of how wasted his twin’s talents had been for so long. Had this really been all he’d needed? To be trusted with an important responsibility?
“Aye, Kier,” he said softly. “Ye did a verra good job.”
His brother’s gaze dropped back to the scroll. “I didnae mind the work. Truthfully, ‘tis just another way to be charming, except with ink instead of my tongue.” ‘Twas a hint at how distracted he was over his new responsibilities that he didn’t make a quip about said tongue. “I do hate the idea of trapping Nessa in a betrothal she doesnae want, but—”
“But that is Da’s prerogative, and he’s still laird.”
“Och well, if we’re going to start using fancy terms like prerogative”—Kiergan snatched the scroll from his hand—“I’ll just take my leave before things get too stuffy.”
“Take yer goat with ye,” Alistair called.
His brother shot him a rude gesture over his shoulder, but tucked the scroll under his arm and, with a grunt, stopped to pick the goat up.
Not bothering to hide his grin, Alistair reminded his brother, “Dinnae let it piss indoors or Moira will have yer head!”
“I’ll tell her ‘twas yer poor aim!”
Cursing, Alistair looked for something to throw, but his twin had already left the solar, carrying the poor goat down the hall.
Kiergan’s laughter and the goat’s bleating drifted back to where he stood, a slight grin forming on his face.
Tell Alistair ye love him.
Och, ‘twas easier said than done, for certes!
Lara had ducked into one of the empty chambers when Kiergan had stomped by, holding a goat for some odd reason. She was curious of course, but she didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing hovering around Alistair’s solar. So she just avoided him altogether.
Besides, she wasn’t even sure what she was doing here.
Tell Alistair ye love him.
Snorting softly to herself, Lara stopped in front of his door. She would’ve liked to take a moment to compose herself, to figure out what she was going to say. Surely, blurting, “I love ye!” was bad form. Unfortunately, luck wasn’t on her side, and the door was wide open.
Alistair was just sliding into his chair when he looked up, saw her, and froze, arse halfway down. “Lara?”
Nay. She couldn’t just blurt it out.
So, taking a deep breath, she stepped into the room.
Wanting privacy for this conversation—and wanting to give her hands something to do—she took the time to close the door. Besides, ‘twas easier to say, “Alistair, I need to talk to ye,” with her attention on the latch.
“Aye?” he prompted cautiously.
Blessed Virgin, this was harder than she’d thought it’d be.
She dropped her forehead against the door. Half-hoping her voice would be muffled, she asked, “Do ye recall our meeting at Malcolm’s wedding celebration? When ye asked why Kiergan and I dinnae marry, and he said we were friends, and I said my heart belonged to another?”
Holding her breath, she waited for a response.
After a long moment, she realized she wasn’t going to get one. There was naught else to do but turn and face him.
He was fully seated now, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. He was watching her.
Finally, he slowly nodded. “Aye. I recall.”
“Ye do?”
He cocked his head to one side, studying her. “I’ve thought of it often over the last sennight, Lara. Even more so when ye told me ye wouldnae marry me. Are we finally going to be speaking of this? Because I’ve never found myself so jealous of an unnamed man before.”
Her breath caught. “Ye were jealous? Of the man I loved?”
When he inclined his head once, regally, he was so handsome, she thought her heart might seize.
“ ’Twas ye,” she blurted, then winced. She took a deep breath, then tried to explain. “It has always been ye.”
Slowly, his fingers interlaced until he was gripping his hands in a sort of fist in front of him. “Explain.”
Another deep breath, and she forced herself to meet his eyes. God help her, there were all sorts of emotions swirling in their depths—confusion, hope, wariness.
“I love ye, Alistair.” There. That wasnae so hard, was it? “I’ve loved ye for years.” Each word was easier to speak than the one before it, and she felt her heart lighten. “I couldnae tell ye—no’ when we were younger and no’ at the celebration. But now…”
He wasn’t responding to her announcement. He was just…looking at her. Finally, he raised a brow. “But now, what?”
She shrugged, beginning to feel foolish, standing there in front of the door while he sat all the way over there. She took a step, then two, then three, before pulling herself to a stop in the middle of the room, having some vague idea he should meet her halfway.
“Now…” She swallowed. How to explain? “Now, ye’ve asked me to marry ye. I ken why ye did it, but I thought ye needed—”
“Why did I do it?” In a startling burst of movement, Alistair dropped his hands and pushed himself out of his chair. He planted his hands on the desk and leaned his weight on them. “Why did I ask ye to marry me?”
She blinked. “Well…because of the sex.”
“I’ve had sex with other women before. Neither of us were virgins.”
There he went again with that assumption. She caught herself scowling and didn’t bother to hide it. “Ye didnae need to be married before either.
” He wanted to see if she understood the truth? Fine. “Ye want to be the next laird, despite everything, and I’m here and available. That’s why ye asked me.”
“Despite everything?” he growled. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She folded her arms in front of her chest. “Ye’ve admitted ye dinnae like power over others. And ye’ve seen how freeing it can be to give up control, Alistair. I thought…” She shook her head. “I thought ye’d see—”
Slowly, he came around the desk until he was within reach. But instead of touching her, he folded his arms in a mirrored stance and leaned his hip against the desk. He might’ve thought he appeared at ease, but she knew better. She could see the wariness in his expression.
“See what?” he asked quietly.
“Ye must see that being the laird isnae easy. The laird has to give up so much of himself, has to sacrifice his happiness. I…” She shook her head. “I dinnae want that for ye.”
“Ye dinnae want me to be laird?”
‘Twas the surprise in his tone which damn near broke her. Before she realized what she was doing, she was beside him, her hands on one of his forearms, squeezing. “Alistair, I believe the Oliphants would be blessed were ye to become laird. Ye’re intelligent and thoughtful and kind and devoted. So devoted. But ‘tis a hard life. I also want ye to be happy.”
He didn’t shake off her touch, but actually untucked one of his hands to brush the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “Ye dinnae think I could be both? Happy and the laird?”
“I would make it so,” she vowed, surprising herself.
I could make ye happy even if ye were the laird.
“Then marry me, Lara,” he whispered. “Make me happy.”
And by marrying him, he’d have a chance at becoming laird.
She sighed. “ ’Tisnae that I dinnae want ye to be laird, Alistair…”
“Then what is it?” His hand snaked around to rest against the back of her neck, reminding her of his strength, and how easy ‘twould be to raise herself up on her toes and taste him again. “Why will ye no’ marry me?”
She hesitated and dropped her gaze to his chin. Despite the awkwardness of the explanation, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away from his touch. Rather, she leaned into it, trying to make sense of her own mind.
