The Highlander's Welsh Bride: Book 5 in the Hardy Heroines series

by Cathy MacRae

  Birk turned thoughtful, for he had an uneasy suspicion her reply was only partly in jest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The hall erupted in chaos as Carys and Birk stepped inside the long room. Eislyn raced across the floor and flung herself dramatically at Carys.

  “Ye left and dinnae tell us!” she wailed, gripping Carys about the knees. Tegan’s yips of protest added to the din.

  Carys silenced the pup with a snap of her fingers and lowered the bags of coins to the floor, covering them with her blanket. She glanced at the distraught girl, then to her sister, who hung back, eyes wide as she peered from Margaret’s side. Kneeling, Carys gathered Eislyn in her arms, motioning Abria close. After a tiny hesitation, Abria joined them for a reassuring hug before Carys sat them at a nearby table, nudging the bags and blanket beneath the bench with a push of her toe.

  “All is well, fy merched,” Carys soothed, drawing her palm over Abria’s head and smoothing strands of hair from Eislyn’s face. “I went to make certain a friend of mine was well, and the ride back took much longer than expected. He has been a brother to me these past few months.”

  She turned and motioned to Tully, who hovered in the doorway, rocking from one foot to the other in an agitated manner. He brightened and, at Birk’s prompt, hurried to Carys’s side.

  “Eislyn, Abria, I’d like you to meet Tully.” She linked the boy’s arm through hers. “Tully, these are Laird MacLean’s daughters—now my daughters as well.”

  He clenched his fists and ducked his head, giving the girls a slight nod.

  Eislyn tilted her head. “Can he talk? Is he truly yer brother? Why is his hair so red?”

  “He and I became family because we worked together when we had no one else.” Carys squeezed Tully’s arm. “I am happy to call him my brother.” She tousled his head. “I do not know why his hair is so red.”

  “Can he be my brother? I think his hair is nice.” Eislyn asked, sliding from her seat to approach Tully. She gently touched his sleeve. “I like my sister, but I’d like to have a brother, too.”

  Tully flinched, but did not draw back, and he stopped swaying to stare at Eislyn. She stood barely taller than his waist, a slim contrast to Tully’s bulky build.

  “That is entirely up to you and Tully,” Carys replied. “Tully’s mam and family live far from here, and our task is to find them and see he gets home. I do not know how long he will be with us.”

  “He can still be our brother while he’s here,” Eislyn declared. “Mayhap we’ll have a baby brother by the time he leaves.”

  Carys’s eyes flew open wide and she caught Birk’s mocking grin. She struggled to form a reply but was saved when Dewr slipped between Tully and Eislyn, shoving her nose into the girl’s hand. Tegan yipped excitedly, her canine territory invaded by another dog. The corgi’s stumpy tail wagged furiously. Eislyn jumped, her startled look turning to one of pleased surprise.

  She glanced at Tully. “Is she yers?”

  At Tully’s slow nod, she threw her arms about the dog’s neck and buried her face in her ruff.

  “Dewr,” he said. “Her name’s Dewr.”

  “Dewr means courageous in Welsh,” Carys supplied, thankful for the distraction. “She is a very brave dog.”

  Eislyn turned to her sister. “Look, Abria. A new dog and a new brother!”

  Abria reached a cautious hand to Dewr’s thick coat. The dog’s entire body wiggled with pleasure.

  Carys shook her head. “As it is too late to be discussing the family tree, mayhap you can take Tully to the kitchen and introduce him to Cook. If there are any boiled sweets in her cupboard, ask if she could spare one for each of you. Then bring Tully back and we’ll see him settled in for the night.”

  All three children perked up at the enticement of the coveted treats. Catching the whiff of anticipation, the two dogs flanked the trio as they hurried from the room. With an apologetic smile, Carys motioned Margaret to follow the children.

  “I’m very sorry . . ..” she began as the young woman passed.

  Margaret shook her head and waved as she left the room. Carys breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I did not know how the girls would react. Tully usually makes friends without much difficulty, though it hasn’t been an easy time for him of late. He seemed anxious, but I believe he will be fine.”

  “I’m not certain how ye accomplished it, but ye have them eating from yer hand,” Birk said, a brow raised.

  “They’re eating from Cook’s hand,” Carys corrected. “’Twas generous of Eislyn to name him brother.”

  Birk shrugged. “She’d hoped Abria would be a brother, though she accepted her from the moment she was born. A good thing—” He broke off, face flushed, a scowl twisting his lips downward.

  Carys glanced about, but their presence no longer seemed cause for concern, and the room was mostly empty of servants and listening ears.

  “Why? What happened? I have already caused the girls harm by absenting myself today. I should not have left the castle without telling them. I need to know what other behaviors to avoid so they can grow accustomed to me and not fret over things so much.”

  Birk rubbed the back of his neck, clearly unwilling to continue the conversation. “I dinnae wish to speak of it, for it tweaks both my ire and my pride. Howbeit, if ye believe it would help my lasses adjust to ye and our new life, I will soon tell ye what I can.” His frown deepened. “Dinnae press me on it.”

  It was a start. And more than Carys had expected. She offered a soft smile to indicate her appreciation and changed the subject.

  “Where would you prefer Tully bed down until we can make firm plans?”

  Birk perched one hip on the edge of the table. “Would he be more comfortable in a room on the family’s floor, or in the barracks with Dugan?”

  “Why don’t we give him the choice? Having Dewr with him will help.”

  “Ye dinnae suppose he expects to sleep near ye?” His brows plowed together and Carys hid a laugh at his obvious consternation. A tingle of awareness blossomed low in her belly and a sigh slipped out before she could stop it. She bit her lip.

  In an instant, the people lingering in the hall did not matter. Birk’s blood thickened and he shifted his position on the table. He wanted his wife, wanted to hold her in his arms, feel her skin against his.

  “’Tis time for the bairns to find their beds,” he rasped, his throat dry.

  “I told Margaret she could have the evening to herself,” Carys said, a breathy, apologetic tone to her voice. “’Tis difficult to watch the girls without help of some sort.”

  “Ye thought to stay with them this night?” Birk held his rising temper in check. They were his children, after all, and he should appreciate his wife’s concern. But he wanted Carys in his bed tonight—and every night.

  “Nae. Only for the evening—which we missed.” She tilted her head. “If ’tis any help, I had not planned on being gone so long, nor had I intended to abandon our bed.”

  “Nae, it doesnae help,” he growled, tempering his response with a sigh of resignation.

  “’Twill take longer to put the girls to bed,” Carys mused. “They are that excited. But ’tis important they get a good night’s sleep and prepare for travel on the morrow.”

  Birk gave her a blank stare. “Travel?”

  Carys frowned. “Do we not leave for MacLean Castle in the morn?”

  King Edward’s balls in a vice! He’d forgotten. Only this morning he’d been anxious to announce his marriage to the elder council and bask in their consternation when they realized he’d married a penniless woman with no family from Wales, on the run from Edward’s army. He rather relished regaling them with the qualities his new wife possessed. Generosity, ferocity, selflessness—and beauty. He did not desire her for her connections or what monies or land she might bring him and cared not that she had none. He wanted her. And now he found he did not want to share her.

  “We will stay here. For a time.” He cleared
his throat. “We must see to Tully.”

  Carys raised a brow. “You did not seem to find him particularly important earlier today.” She stepped closer. “What has changed?”

  “Ye ask a lot of questions,” he muttered, not expecting to deflect her curiosity, but he gave a half-hearted try.

  She laughed. “How else shall I discover things? You are quite close-mouthed when it comes to information, Laird MacLean.”

  So, she hadn’t forgiven him that bit of neglected information. And yet, it puzzled him that it would appear to disagree with her to be a laird’s wife. All the women he had dealings with would have given their front teeth to be married to him. Their eyes fixed on his money, his power, the status his wife would have. They appeared before him in their finery, posing prettily in fine wools and silks, hoping for satins, brocades, and velvet. They glittered with modest jewels about their necks and upon their fingers, knowing of the treasures his aunt had brought with her from the Holy Land. Pigeon’s blood rubies the size of a robin’s egg, pearls set in delicate gold filigree, emerald necklaces weighing as much as a small sword. The MacLean treasury was vast—and well known.

  Carys wore the leather trews and tattered shirt in which he’d first seen her. A heavy woolen cowl, once dyed black and now faded to a mottled gray, graced her neck. Leather bracers adorned her arms, scuffed yet oiled and cared for. Her fingers were bare, not even a wedding band from her former husband. Had she traded it for coin when hunger had urged practicality over sentiment? He realized he’d not placed his own ring on her finger, an oversight he needed to address. The world needed to understand she was now Lady MacLean and belonged to him.

  Black hair swept back from her forehead, revealing skin so pale it shimmered. Nothing about her shouted wealth—or avarice. To look at her, she’d seen much hardship—and endured.

  Yet, there was a grace about her, something about the way she boldly met his gaze that did not bespeak life as a crofter. Her skills with weapons was something no peasant woman, no matter how pressed by war, would know.

  Carys Wen filia Pedr. Who are ye?

  She sighed. “I suppose you have your reasons and will tell me in time. At the present, I am tired and wish a bath. Would you see to the children for half an hour?”

  Guilt at dodging her questions forced him to agree. Cook would soon send the weans from her kitchen and with Margaret away, someone would have to mind them until bedtime. Birk eyed the lengthening shadows falling through the narrow windows and sighed.

  “I’d rather assist ye but see the merit in not allowing the bairns to run about unattended. Mayhap ye will scrub my back once they are abed?”

  Carys flashed a smile full of shy challenge that intrigued him. Could it be for all the passion she shared with him last night, she experienced something different with him? He sent her a wolfish grin.

  “Shall I teach ye something new tonight?”

  Her cheeks flamed and Birk’s loins tightened. Her gaze remained steady, but he read mischief, not embarrassment, in the sparkle of her eyes.

  “You are an intriguing man, Laird MacLean,” she answered, her tone lightly mocking. “So very willing to assist a young woman such as myself.”

  “Not any young woman,” he growled, exchanging his teasing for indignation. “My wife.”

  “Aye. I am your wife.” She stepped close and kissed his brow. “Though I fear I am less than appealing in my current state—”

  He grabbed her upper arms and dragged her against his chest, covering her mouth with his, silencing her words. She tensed, then, with that magic that beguiled him almost into incoherence, softened and sagged into his arms, molding herself against him. Her breasts, nearly hidden beneath tunic and cowl, pressed against his chest. Her slender hips fitted between his thighs, grinding against his cock.

  Blood leapt hot through his veins. He wrapped his arms about her and broke the kiss to nuzzle her neck. “Yer current state is tying me in knots. I dinnae know what to do except hold ye and take ye to bed and not let ye go. I dinnae like sharing ye.”

  “I think ’tis best to continue this in private,” she sighed, tilting her head, exposing more of her neck to his lips. “Once the girls are abed and Tully is settled, and . . ..”

  Birk nipped her neck with his lips, pushing the cowl aside to breathe her scent.

  “Oh!” She breathed out, a whisper of sound. Whisky did not intoxicate him half as much. He tugged at her tunic—and she stepped back, gently forcing his hands down.

  “My presence is enough of a shock to the people. Let us not give them something more to gossip over.”

  Birk’s breath came harsh as he fought past the fog and became aware of the darkening room around him, the quiet footsteps marking the passage of people seeking their beds. As if to punctuate his need for awareness, Eislyn swept into the room like a small storm.

  “Da! Cook knew Tully’s da! She cried over Tully and gave him an extra treat!” She continued her prattle as she lunged across Birk’s thighs, clambering into his hastily arranged lap. Abria, Tully, and the dogs followed, piling about Birk’s feet.

  Carys drew a few steps away, gathering her blanket and two small bags from beneath the bench. She hefted her belongings as if they were unexpectedly heavy and Birk wondered if she’d fall asleep in the tub. She waggled her eyebrows.

  Her laughter floated back to him as she drifted toward the stairs.

  “Och, sweets and excitement right before bedtime. Whatever was I thinking?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Carys startled as a hand rested heavily on her shoulder. Strong and broad, the palm stroked across her back, fingers digging gently into muscles lax with sleep. There was no accompanying bid for her to rise, to face a day of toil and fear, of daily struggles and sorrow. The demand was deeper, triggering a familiar warmth in her belly. Her breath deepened as she fought her way through to wakefulness.

  Her eyes flicked open, registering not the walls of the cave or the snow-flocked trees of Wales, but new landmarks she was growing to learn. Heavy curtains draped the soft bed beneath her, open to sunlight on the hearth from the unshuttered window, and the scent of fresh bread.

  Her stomach rumbled.

  “I expected a different hunger.” Birk chuckled in her ear. “But I can accommodate either.” He moved from his reclined position next to her, muscles rippling across his shoulders and back. The heat in Carys flamed to life.

  She gripped his upper arm and pulled him back to the mattress. He fell across her, arms braced on either side to keep from landing atop her, and grinned.

  “M’lady has a different plan?”

  His voice, silky smooth and seductive, spiked her pulse. She twined a fingertip in the crisp hairs of his chest.

  “If you’ve no objection,” she murmured, tracing the line down his belly, drawing a finger past his waist.

  Birk sucked in a rumbling breath and lowered his mouth to hers.

  “No objection at all.”

  * * *

  Birk had considered his plan to remain at Dairborrodal Castle a sound one. He could answer most questions which arose at Morvern from this distant seat. Keeping his private life separate from that of his other obligations had become important to him. It appeared the privacy would not last.

  He scowled at the leather bag stuffed with missives. Concerns, requests, items requiring his signature. Council news. Council requests. Shipping manifests and invoices.

  They would have to return home soon. No later than the end of the sennight.

  He leaned back in his chair, rolling the quill between his thumb and forefinger, idly noting the tiny drops of ink spattering the blotter.

  A serving lass appeared through the partially open door and silently placed a flagon of ale on his desk. She turned to leave the room.

  “Find Dugan for me, will ye, lass?” Birk murmured, scarcely giving her a glance. Rising to his feet, he moved to the open window where the occasional thud—sounds of knife practice to his trained ear—punctu
ated the normal sounds of the castle. His gaze met the slender form of his wife, clad once again in leggings and tunic, next to a diminutive replica of herself—right down to the dark hair and leggings. Carys mimed the action of throwing a dagger, blade balanced between thumb and first two fingers. Eislyn mimicked her perfectly. Birk grinned.

  Late afternoon sun strayed through gathering clouds promising an evening shower, glowing warmly on Carys’s leggings, emphasizing the curve of her bottom. Birk’s grin slid into a surge of lust for his wife. His attention broke reluctantly as Dugan entered the room and took the chair in front of his desk.

  “I see the messenger delivered his packet.” Dugan nodded at the bag. “Ye dinnae slit his throat, did ye? Shall I dispose of the body?”

  “I dinnae kill the lad,” Birk groused, leaving the much more interesting sight outside his window for the issue at hand. Nighttime approached and he could wait. Probably.

  “Though it crossed my mind,” he added. “I liked Dairborrodal when it was a refuge from Rose and her harping. I like it even better now and dinnae wish to return to Morvern.”

  “But duty recalls ye?”

  “Aye. There are disputes to settle and a ship to have refitted, another to be unloaded and sent on its way.” He stuck the quill in its pot and leaned back in his chair.

  “’Twill be no hardship to see the Már is ready. She was taking on supplies last week when ye changed yer mind about going back to Morvern.” Dugan rose. “’Twill be good to be home. I think yer ma will like yer new wife.”

  Birk sent him a sour look and Dugan laughed. “Ye cannae keep yer hands off her! I dinnae know how to describe what is between the two of ye, but ’tis nae the shyness of newlyweds. ’Tis a fierceness, and we have all noted it.”

  Satisfaction softened Birk’s scowl. “Nae, she isnae shy. And I willnae apologize for touching my wife.”