by Aubrey Wynne
“With yer sister and an injured sheep. Brigid saw it limping and insisted the leg needed to be wrapped,” his grandmother informed him. “Yer brother, Lachlan, is gone, so Glynnis said she’d assist.”
“That lass does love her beasties. If it’s no’ a sheep, it’s a calf or foal or some wild creature.” Brodie shook his head. “They bring out her gentler side.”
“If she showed half as much compassion to her suitors—”
“Dinna start, Calum,” said Peigi. “She’s young and in no hurry. Leave her be.”
“Weel, I see nothing has changed in my absence.” Brodie chuckled. “Grandda’s right, though. She’ll never attract a husband when she has to prove she can outride and outhunt the poor mon.”
“Exactly my point,” agreed Calum. “A male wants a woman who’s soft and pliant, not trying to beat him in an arm-wrestling match.”
“Is that what ye called me when we met? Soft and pliant?” asked Peigi, her tone deceivingly light.
“Och, woman, ye willna lead me into that trap.” Calum bent over and placed a noisy kiss on his wife’s mouth. “Ye stole my heart from the first. It didna matter if ye were pliant, only willing.”
She smacked his chest but gave him a pleased smile before she turned back to her grandson. “The bonfire for Beltane will be held in Dunderave. Ye’ve arrived just in time.”
Brodie rubbed his hands together. Good food, whisky, and lasses in their best gowns wanting to dance. The Edinburgh girls were bonny enough, but his heart belonged to the Highland pretties. The first of May was always a braw celebration.
“Ye’ll behave yerself, lad,” warned Calum. “Ye’re two and twenty and need to look for a wife, no’ sample the brew.”
He rolled his eyes but said nothing, not in the mood for another lecture. “I saw Kirstine down by the Dunderave path. Her pony had thrown her.”
“No! Is she all right? Shall I go by and check on her?” asked Peigi. His family had always liked Kirsty.
He shook his head but glanced at his grandfather, who now had a familiar glint in his eyes. “Only her pride wounded.”
“Now there’s a fine lass if ye want my opinion,” Calum said. “Comes from a good family, her da works hard tending the cattle and sheep, and her ma is a healer.”
Brodie snorted. “Sounds like a list of wifely qualities. We’re close but no’ in that way. I’ve had this conversation with Ma.” He popped a slice of meat into his mouth and chewed in silence. His mind strayed to the earlier encounter with Kirsty and his body’s reaction to her. A natural consequence from such close contact. He’d have to be careful of that in the future. They weren’t children any longer, as his ma had often reminded him.
“I saw Lachlan at the Thistle. On his way to Glasgow.” Brodie hoped to turn the conversation.
“Aye, yer brother needed a wee respite from Ross Craigg and the bickering. His temper gets the better of him.”
“Lachlan would rather give him a skelping than a lecture,” he agreed. “Craigg’s a blethering eejit who beats his women but avoids a mon’s fist.”
“Aye, and I wouldna trust him if he swore on his mother’s grave.” Calum scratched his jaw. “But now I have two grandsons gone.”
“By the by, Lachlan and I discussed the mill and may have found a solution to our problem.”
The MacNaughtons were partners in a textile mill in Glasgow. Brodie’s aunt had married a wealthy Englishman who had financed the venture but left the daily operations to his in-laws. It seemed English earls could invest in trade, but not dirty their hands with it. Calum had accepted his son-in-law’s proposition and put the entire clan to work, either at the factory itself, providing the raw wool, or weaving special order tartans.
Lord Stanfeld refused to travel to the Highlands, but he agreed to bring his Scottish wife to Glasgow several times a year for a family visit and to discuss business. Once their son, Gideon, was born, the two families had taken an annual summer trip to the town so the MacNaughton cousins would know their English kin. Since the old earl’s death, their cousin Gideon had assumed the earldom, and Ian had taken over the business trips for Calum.
“Ian’s no’ been successful finding a replacement for the supervisor. He hadn’t thought his absence would be extended like this, especially with a new wife.” Brodie busied himself with a piece of bread and another slice of meat but kept a side eye on his grandfather. “We hoped, perhaps, Ian could come home for a while. Let Lachlan stay in Glasgow. I can accompany you when needed for the chief’s duties.”
Calum scowled, his thick brows pulled together. Peigi laid a hand on his arm. “Ye willna be getting any grandchildren from a couple who are separated.”
“Hmmph! I suppose that’s true enough.”
“Weel, that’s settled then.” Brodie moved swiftly to the next subject. “And I’m happy to announce that we have signed a thirty-year lease on the building along the Water of Leith. By next year, we’ll have another mill in Edinburgh.”
“And after thirty years?”
“First option to buy or lease for another thirty.”
“Saints and sinners!” bellowed Calum. “Excellent work, lad. Excellent work. Time for the good scotch.” He peeked at his wife, who rose with a sigh.
“I’ll leave ye both to yer whisky,” she said as she moved toward the door. “Dinna overdo it. Ye’ll have plenty of time to drink with yer grandsons at the end of the week.”
“Just a wee swallow, mo chridhe,” Calum said with a wink. “Just a wee swallow while we finish talking business.”
*
Brodie strode over the sandy hill, between the shrubs of yellow gorse, the chain on his sporran a soft chink to the rhythm of his stride. He’d wanted to walk, take in the smells, the sights, the sounds he’d missed the past month and a half. New grass scented the air and cushioned his step. Spring flowers in late bloom danced at his feet. A hawk soared overhead, spotted a chattering rodent, and dove for its supper. He enjoyed travel—new places, meeting people—but this was his home. His foundation. Space. After a week away, he longed for the rugged mountains dotted with pine and the pastures of bleating sheep and ambling cows.
He thought of relatives and ancient Scottish surnames that had been forced to relocate. There would never be anything as beautiful as this country. But so many families had been cast out in the past decades. Large landowners had eliminated the small farmers, turning their property into sizeable blocks for grazing cattle, then sheep. Leases weren’t renewed, rents were raised, or only cash accepted. The clans had shrunk in size as people were forced out of homes occupied for centuries. Some had relocated to the coast as crofters and fishermen or emigrated to Canada or America. If his Aunt Maeve hadn’t married a rich Englishman, the MacNaughtons might have endured the same hardships. Instead, their clan thrived, along with any smaller clans that had joined with them, including Kirsty’s family, the MacDunns.
He made his way back to the path and around the bend, where a cluster of buildings came into view. His gray deerhound lumbered up to him, its long, shaggy tail wagging lazily. Brodie bent to scratch behind the dog’s ears and suffered several wet licks. The hound had been a gift from his grandfather a couple of years ago, but it preferred Kirstine’s company. She had taken care of the dog when Brodie had travelled to Glasgow last year, and he’d never been able to lure it back.
“How ye doing, Charlie?” The dog howled and thumped its tail in response. “I’d rather wake up to her face than mine too. Can’t blame ye.”
He entered the small courtyard and scanned the property. The cottage was about a hundred years old, with a thatched roof and lime-washed stone walls. The old blackhouse, a long double-walled structure built of flat rocks, held the livestock. Several other, smaller stone buildings were scattered behind the house.
With a crack of his knuckles, he knocked on the heavy planks.
“Weel, if it isna Brodie MacNaughton.” Mrs. MacDunn, a plump woman of average height hailed him from the open window with a
tight smile. The shutter slammed shut, and she met him at the door. A white kertch covered her flour streaked, dark brown hair. She adjusted the worn brown shawl pulled over her striped green and tan gown.
“Kirstine, ye have a visitor,” she called to her daughter, wiping wet dough from her hands on her apron. “So, ye’ve returned home, I see.”
Her tone was polite but lacked warmth. Brodie got along well with Mr. MacDunn, but something had changed Mrs. MacDunn’s attitude toward him several years ago. Around the time Kirstine turned seventeen. It wasn’t his fault that her daughter had turned down two suitors. Sure, Kirsty had asked his opinion. Sure, he had made it known that neither man was good enough for her. But she’d been a grown woman of eighteen, then nineteen, and made up her own mind.
Kirstine peeked over the loft, then scrambled down the ladder, her skirt in one hand. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, Ma.” She grabbed Brodie’s hand and pulled him back outside. “She’s in a foul mood today. We’re best away from the cottage.”
As Kirsty pulled him along, that strange stirring in his belly returned. He tried to quell it, recognized it as the early signs of a new romantic involvement. This was his best friend. And he needed her. If they went down that path together, he might lose one of the people most important to him. Women seemed to come and go in his life, but Kirsty was his constant support, his rock.
She threaded her fingers through his as they ambled down the lane. The touch of her skin sent a warm jolt through him… excitement and disquiet at the same time. Not a good combination.
Chapter Two
Altering Aspirations
Merciful heavens! How she had missed him. Earlier that day when he’d pulled her from the ground, Kirstine had wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him full on the mouth. She hadn’t, of course. Yet… Brodie had turned a spill from a pony into a moment of passion. The first between them.
Kirstine had recognized the moment he’d realized it, sensed the shock when he reached out and fingered her hair. His touch made her skin dance. She’d held her breath, her insides quaking, as new sensations rippled through her body. Then the eejit pony had snorted, and the hunger in Brodie’s dark blue eyes faded. So, she’d ran to calm her own pounding heart.
“What did ye want to talk about?” She settled into their usual comfortable pace with fingers entwined and arms swinging between them. “It sounds important.”
Kirstine wore a champagne walking dress with apricot trim and a sash that she’d sewn herself. An old London fashion magazine, La Belle Assemblée, had been passed around between the local girls. Though the sketch had been several seasons old, it was still much better than the outdated clothes the villagers wore. Her free hand fingered the apricot lace scallops along the collar. Her mother had scoffed at the high waist and lower neckline, declaring the English fashions had no place for working folks. Good sturdy clothes were fine enough unless there was a service or a cèilidh. There hadn’t been a sizeable gathering since Hogmanay, and those New Year festivities had been months ago. Kirstine was ready for some amusement.
“I stopped at the Thistle on my way home from Edinburgh,” he began, swinging her arm back then forward, “and ran into Lachlan on his way to Glasgow.”
“That’s for the best. Ross Craigg has been muttering to anyone who will listen since his dispute with my uncle over some sheep. Craigg paid for some lambies, but disease swept through last month, and half of them died. Uncle tried to pay Craigg back, but the mon wanted a prize ewe instead of the coin.” She smirked. “Your grandfather accepted my uncle’s cash and gave Craigg some MacNaughton lambs. Now Craigg tells everyone that Lachlan threatened his hide if he didna accept the terms offered by the MacNaughton.”
“That mon could argue with a mute. I’d wager he was found in the woods and adopted into that clan. It’s beyond comprehension that he comes from the same blood as Lissie.” Brodie pulled her off the path and over to a clearing. They had a view of the mountains in front of them, a jagged skyline of brown and greens capped with white. “Lissie and Ian have a part in what I want to talk about.”
He unclasped his plaid and spread it on the ground. Kirstine sat down and hugged her knees. Brodie stretched out next to her, propped on his elbow, his head in his palm. Her gaze trailed down his body from the linen shirt open at the neck, down the muscular thighs, to the thick calves. He was a fine-looking man who, she realized, was oddly quiet.
His fingers traced the bold lines on the plaid, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Kirstine wanted to push that thick, black curl from his forehead and comfort him. She sensed the urgency in his silence.
“Come out with it,” she urged quietly. Her chin rested on her knees, but she turned her head to keep an eye on him. “Ye always feel better when ye think out loud.”
“Aye, if I’m with ye when I do it. Others just try to tell me how they would solve the problem.” He sighed. “My brother, Lachlan, doesna feel he is the right choice for chief when Grandda steps down. He’s of the opinion I would be a better candidate.”
She nodded and waited.
“He has no patience and hates to placate grown men who bicker with one another. I argued against it. He was no’ considering of the serious issues the chief deals with and the leadership the MacNaughton provides.” Brodie sat up, both arms behind him now, his head thrown back. “Grandda willna like it.”
“What are yer feelings? Would ye welcome the responsibility?”
He was silent for a long while. “Aye, I believe I would. I have the temperament to deal with people fairly.”
“So do I,” she said simply. Brodie needed to come to his own conclusions.
“How do I convince Grandda? Lachlan has tried to talk to him, and he willna listen. Says he just needs more time to learn the ways of negotiation.” Brodie chuckled. “Lachlan has a knack for trade negotiations, not diplomacy. I’ve never seen a mon enjoy haggling more than my brother. He’s the MacNaughton that should run the mill. Ian should be home with his wife.”
“Haggling and negotiating are different things, and yer grandfather kens it. He’ll come around.”
“Ye think so?”
“Aye, ye’re clever at solving problems, always have been. Ye can be impartial, and everyone likes ye.” Kirstine leaned back on her elbows, side by side with him now, their faces turned up to the sky. Fluffy bits of white hung in the pale blue, rearranged into vague shapes, and floated away. The sunshine warmed her skin, and a soft breeze flipped up the hem of her skirt. “What does this have to do with Ian and Lissie?”
“Ye ken the supervisor at the mill quit. Ian must stay until a replacement is found, and that has no’ been going well. Lachlan wants to share the duties in Glasgow. Give Ian more time to spend here with Lissie and start his family.”
“And?”
“Grandda has agreed to that much for now. Lachlan expects me to persuade the MacNaughton to let him stay at the mill. I’m afraid I’d have to enlist the help of the faeries to work that kind of magic.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “Instead of telling yer grandfather, ye need to show him. Go with him as Lachlan did, but speak up so he not only hears yer ideas but sees other men’s reactions. That will convince him quicker than words.”
He nodded. “Aye, there have been several instances I might have approached a dispute differently. Och, it wasna worth the argument at the time but now…”
She rested her cheek against her knees and smiled at him. “Now, you want yer voice heard.”
Brodie leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I love ye, lass. I kent ye would help me through this.”
“By listening? Anyone can do that.” She laughed, his nearness warming her skin. “Ye always have the answers in yer head, Brodie. Ye just need to dig around all the uncertainties and find what’s in yer heart.”
“Ye’re my neutral territory. I dinna have to choose my words so carefully with ye. With others—even my family—I must worry over whose feelings I might hurt or whose temper m
ight flare if I dinna express myself well. I canna just spout off ideas to solve a problem, in case my intent is misinterpreted.”
His consideration of others was one reason she loved him so. Sure, he had his faults, acted like a green lad when it came to his female infatuations, but he would see his folly in that respect. Brodie would be a confident and honorable chief who would serve his clan well.
He sat up, and the pressure of his shoulder against hers sent her pulse racing. He turned his head, his breath hot against her neck.
“Will ye always be here for me, Kirsty? Ye’re like family.” He took her hand in his. His thumb stroked her skin, and a swell of pleasure coursed through her belly. “There has always been something special between us.”
Merciful heavens! This was it. She held her breath; her heart pounded so hard she was certain Brodie could hear it. He bent his head. She closed her eyes.
And then he kissed her on the cheek and stood, tugging her to her feet. “I should get ye back before yer ma takes a skelp at my noggin.”
Her face flushed at the images that flooded her brain. The thump slowed along with the disappointment. She blinked quickly at the sudden burn in her eyes.
Patience! He’s coming to his senses, her heart whispered.
Slap him! her brain urged as she suppressed a giggle.
They walked back down the lane, and he asked what she had done during his absence.
“Well, the Widow Weir fell, trying to hitch her own wagon and bumped her head. Her horse—”
“Och, but I saw some pretty ponies in the city. One was a fine bay, wasted as a carriage horse just standing around waiting for a customer. I saw it as I left a fine establishment my first night there.” The rest of their exchange revolved around his time in Edinburgh. Conversations usually spun back to Brodie. Kirstine didn’t mind; she enjoyed the deep timbre of his voice.
