An Allusive Love (A MacNaughton Castle Romance Book 2)

by Aubrey Wynne

  His blue eyes twinkled with humor when he described a comical tavern scene that involved a stray mutt, a barmaid with a full tray, and a drunken patron. He soon disarmed her with his genuine smile, and she decided not to ponder their closeness and just enjoy the moment, this time alone with the man she loved. When he began to laugh, pulling her into his side, his arm lazily slung across her shoulders, the flutters in her stomach increased.

  Someday, Kirsty told herself, someday soon. Her conviction had held strong all these years. After today, seeing the heat in his eyes, she couldn’t give up. Deep inside her soul, she knew Brodie would be hers.

  *

  “And what was so important he couldna talk to ye here?” asked her mother, scouring the stained and dented wood next to the dry sink. With a sharp blade, she sliced a hunk of venison and added it to a pot simmering over the grate.

  “Leave the lass alone,” chided her father as he filled his pipe. He held a long, thin tinder toward the hearth’s embers, set it to the carved wooden bowl, and puffed at the fragrant tobacco. “Brodie just returned, and they needed some privacy.”

  Her ma snorted. “For what? Advice? If they truly needed privacy, I’d give them the cottage and go outside myself. The lad is no’ likely to settle on a wife for some years to come. And my only daughter is getting older.” She tossed a scrap to Charlie. The chomp of his jaws made them all smile as he caught the piece of gristly meat midair.

  “There’s nothing wrong with a young man seeing what he has to choose from. When he comes to us for Kirstine’s hand, he’ll ken he’s got the best woman in these hills.” Mr. MacDunn chewed on his pipe, his red and gray beard wiggling as his jaw worked. “That smells divine, mo ghràdh.”

  “Yer sweet talk willna distract me.” She wagged a finger at her husband, but the pink in her cheeks told him she was pleased.

  “Ma, please. Could we talk later?” Regardless of the harsh tone, Kirstine knew her mother was only worried she’d be hurt. “What shall we bring for Beltane?”

  Mrs. MacDunn recited the full menu—to her present knowledge—provided by the villagers. Mr. MacDunn grunted occasionally, his hazel eyes following Kirstine as she swept the floor near the fire. She turned her back against his scrutiny and busied herself washing the turnips and potatoes for soup.

  “I stopped to check on the Widow Weir yesterday. The lump on her noggin is better. No more swelling, only a faded bruise.” Kirstine grinned. “She’s a survivor, that one.”

  Her mother laughed. “Aye, I hope to be as tough when I’m her age.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “One of the villagers sent word they need more loosestrife tincture. Spring chills have given several of the children sore throats. A few good gargles should do the trick.”

  “That plant will be in bloom shortly. We’re low, so I’ll add it to my list and collect more.” Kirstine prided herself on keeping their medicines stocked.

  After dinner, her father went out to the blackhouse to feed the livestock.

  “Now tell me what’s happened. I saw a different kind of excitement in yer eyes when he came calling.” Ma sat down at the table and brushed crumbs from the varnished surface onto her apron. “Did he kiss ye?”

  Kirstine’s cheeks flamed. “Och, no, but I thought he would. I told ye I fell from Speckles when I was gathering herbs, and he came upon me while I was flat on my backside. He helped me up and we… he tickled me, and before I knew it, we were both nose-to-nose, and his eyes had turned a stormy blue.”

  “And that’s no’ happened before?”

  She shook her head. “He reached out for a strand of my hair, rubbing it between his fingers, and stared at it as if he’d never seen such a thing. Then Speckles whinnied, and I didna ken what to do, so I ran.”

  “Ye ran?” Her mother threw her hands in the air. “And this afternoon?”

  “Nothing. Back to the old Brodie.”

  Another familiar snort. “Weel, we need to pretty ye up for the cèilidh. Even if he doesna notice, there will be other fine young men in attendance.”

  “I dinna want—”

  “Ye also dinna want to be alone, do ye? Yer twenty years old, my dear, and time is no’ on yer side when it comes to marriage.” She stood and cupped Kirstine’s cheek with one palm. “If he hasna made his intentions clear by the end of the summer, ye need to put him behind ye.”

  The pesky tears burned her eyes again, but she blinked them back. “I canna marry another when my heart belongs to Brodie. How can ye ask that of me?”

  “Then ye better let him ken how ye feel.” Her mother grunted with disgust. “A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse. Subtlety doesna work on mutton-headed men. I say, a little competition would be a good way to open his eyes.”

  *

  Brodie picked up speed and broke into a run, paying no attention to the bleating sheep that griped at him or the rhythmic thump of his sporran against his thighs. He needed to rid himself of this tension, the tightness in his chest and… other places. Sort out what had changed between Kirsty and him in such a short time.

  He’d wanted to kiss her again. And what the hell had she been wearing? Where were her usual simple wool skirts and modest necklines? This afternoon he had seen the outline of her body through that thin gown. The beige muslin material, with light orange ribbons and embroidery, had cast a golden glow over her skin. The flimsy shawl had done nothing to cover her curves. When she’d leaned back, exposing her neck to the warm sunshine, he’d glimpsed the creamy swell of her bosom. His fingers had itched to trace the lace, slide under the delicate border, and stroke the soft fullness beneath.

  A low growl worked up his throat. Was she trying to look like the proper misses that strutted about Glasgow and Edinburgh? She was a Highland lass, not a debutante.

  The devil take him! Sweat dripped down his neck, under his shirt. A sweet ache penetrated his muscles the longer he ran; his lungs burned but it cleared his head. By the time he stopped at the swimming hole, he panted, hands on his knees, and sucked in great gulps of air. Then he peeled off his clothes and dove into the clear, cold water. He swam toward the waterfall and stood under it for a while. Let the falling drops pound the soreness from his shoulders and chest.

  His muscles relaxed, and his natural optimism returned. He’d spent too many days in the saddle, that was all. The run had released that excess energy, the pent-up excitement from the business ventures and bustling city.

  When he swam back to the rocky bank, he found his sister Brigid on the jumping boulder. She waved a cold meat pie at him, took a bite, and grinned. “Ye ken how many lasses would like to be where I am right now?”

  He laughed. “Ye minx. Turn yer head so I can dry off.”

  “What’s it worth to ye?”

  “Does everything have to be a bargain with ye?” He sighed and ran both hands through his wet hair, smoothing it back. “What if I dinna whip yer hide when I catch ye?”

  “Ye canna catch me.” She stuck out her tongue. “But since I havena seen ye in so long, I’ll do ye a favor.”

  “How grand of ye, sister.” He grabbed his plaid and rubbed himself down quickly, yanking on his shirt. “I’m good.”

  Brigid turned back to him, her long auburn curls flashing in the late afternoon sun. She watched him in silence as he wrapped the kilt around his waist and secured it. He sat down to put his stockings back on, and she climbed down the rock to plop beside him.

  “I’m starving, sweet sister. Can ye spare half of that?” His mouth watered as she took another bite of the flaky crust.

  A bit of carrot missed her mouth and plopped onto her lap. With a wicked smile, she gave her other dirty hand an obligatory wipe against her skirt, picked up the gravy-covered chunk, and tipped her head back to drop it into her open mouth.

  “I’m hungry too, dear brother.” She took another bite and chewed slowly with her lids closed, groaning loud enough to set the hounds to howling. Her feet wiggled back and forth, the coarse brown skirt halfway up her calves, reveal
ing her dirty stockings and muddy boots.

  “Have ye been chasing piglets? Ye need a wash yerself, ye filthy lassie.”

  “At least I’m no’ barefoot. Ma is happy I’m at least covering my toes.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I missed ye.”

  Brodie grinned. He and Brigid were the youngest and had always been close. His mother said he’d been the only one who could soothe his sister as an infant. He still had a knack for calming her temper, though it took more effort as she grew older.

  “Do ye want to go hawking tomorrow? Enid’s ready.” Brigid referred to the bird she’d found injured and tended to over the winter. “We’ve no’ gone since November.”

  “Ye named the hawk after our cook?” he asked as he crisscrossed and tied his laces. “What was the reasoning behind that?”

  “They both have a ferocious scowl but are good at what they do.”

  Brodie howled with laughter. “I’ve missed ye, too, Brigid. And aye, we’ll go tomorrow.”

  His sister’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve been collecting wood for the bonfire. Mairi’s asked about ye.”

  Mairi. A bonny redhead with freckles, a pert nose, and ample bosom. A perfect diversion. Perhaps she’d chase away these peculiar sensations.

  Brigid wrinkled her nose when he grinned. “What about Kirsty? If ye had half a brain—”

  “Which I dinna, as ye and Ma often remind me when it comes to her.”

  “She’s a silly thing. I dinna ken how ye put up with such giggling lasses.”

  “The same way I put up with a domineering, nosy sister.” He stood and helped her to her feet. “With copious amounts of patience, humor”—he leaned over and snatched the last bite of pie while pushing her into the water—“and swift feet!”

  Brodie let out a guffaw as Brigid spluttered and flapped, sending a wet spray over his head. He grabbed his shirt and sprinted up the grassy slope. His sister’s curses floated after him, most of which should never grace a lady’s ears, let alone come out of her mouth.

  Chapter Three

  Fire, Ire, and Passion

  The pounding of a hundred hooves sounded against the earth. The crowd parted and the Highland cattle thundered past them. Brodie loved tradition. Tomorrow was Beltane. The celebration of the coming of summer. Tonight, May Eve, was his favorite of the activities. The Craiggs drove their fold past the bonfire, a blur of red and dun shaggy hides with pointed horns. Everyone cheered as the beasties settled into their summer pasture.

  Next, those who fancied themselves brave enough or drunk enough would leap over the flames of the bonfires before they grew too high. A rainbow of orange, red, and yellow melted together as the sun set. Smaller fires were lit, and smoke curled upwards with the aroma of roasted meat. The clank of wooden and tin mugs blended with raucous laughter, the giggles of children, and their mothers’ reprimands. Several men from smaller clans hurdled the growing blaze. One boy singed his backside, and his mother chased him around with a poultice. Brodie figured the lad’s face was redder than his bum.

  “Ye ken ye have to jump for our family with both Ian and Lachlan gone.” Brigid poked him in the side, dark cherry waves brushing her waist. The MacNaughton blue eyes flashed with challenge. “I’d do it for ye, but I promised Ma to behave like a lady tonight.”

  “Hmmph! And perhaps Bossie the cow will fly over the moon.” Brodie spotted Kirstine by the food table. Mairi was nearby, making eyes at him and smiling. His gaze drifted back to Kirstine, and suddenly Mairi lost some of her shine. Her hair was too frizzy, her freckles too numerous, her body too full. Where Kirstine seemed to be…

  “Are ye all right? Ye have a queer look on yer face.” Brigid popped the last bite of a tart into her mouth and sucked the crumbs off her thumb and forefinger. She followed his eyes. “Kirstine gets bonnier every year. It’s a wonder she’s no’ married.”

  “It’s no’ my fault,” he groused.

  Brigid’s eyebrows shot up. “No one said it was. Perhaps I’ll introduce her to the widower, MacDougal, since ye’re no’ interested. He’s got a young son, and they just came back from the coast.”

  He ignored her attempt to make him jealous. “Tried his hand at crofting?”

  “Aye, but he couldna make a living at it. Worked in a fishery and hated it. Grandda hired him to help with the animal husbandry.” Brigid wiped her fingers on her plaid and put her hands on her hips. “He’s in charge of breeding an English stock with our sheep. MacDunn attempted it, but disease took the lambies.”

  “So I heard.” His eyes remained on Kirstine.

  “He’s a handsome mon.”

  “MacDunn?”

  Brigid elbowed him in the side. “Liam MacDougal, the widower. Do ye listen to anything I say? The tall one over there with the dark red hair, holding the lad’s hand.”

  Brodie grinned. “May the heavens fall upon us. Brigid MacNaughton finds a mon attractive. Where is our mother? She’ll fall on her knees in thanks.”

  “No’ for me, ye eejit. For Kirstine. She’s nigh on one and twenty. He’s a wee old, in my opinion, but ye canna tell by his face.” She pursed her lips. “And the child looks no more than five. Ye ken how Kirsty likes to cluck over the bairns.”

  He grunted. Why did Brigid playing matchmaker put a knot in his stomach? “Weel, I’m off to warm my backside. Wish me luck.”

  “Ye’ll need it after waiting so long. The fire’s building,” she called after him.

  “My grandson, Brodie, will be next to jump.” Calum held up a hand. “I dinna ken if he waited for the fire to grow because he’s so verra brave or if his arse is just cold.”

  As the crowd chuckled, Brodie sprinted and leapt over the fire, the spindly flames licking at the hairs on the back of his thighs. He landed in a crouch on the other side, stood, and raised his arms in victory.

  “May the sun shine bright, our pastures remain green, our livestock healthy, and our children’s children be raised upon this land.” Calum held up a cup, met with shouts of approval.

  The night sky turned a deep purple as the last of the daylight sank behind the mountains. The keening wail of a bagpipe took precedence, and the clan members bowed their heads for the first song of the evening. It was a Gaelic ballad of warriors and blood and courage. When the final notes faded, someone yelled, “Something a wee more jovial, if ye please!”

  A fiddler dragged a bow across his strings, and several pipers joined to fill the night air with the twang and whistle of ancient musical instruments. Several men formed a line, the traditional dance steps light and quick as fine wool kilts rose and fell to the rhythm of the tune. Applause echoed as the song finished, and the men took a bow. A Scottish reel began. The dancers circled around the fire with their arms entwined. Onlookers clapped to the quick, boisterous beat as their clansmen completed the centuries-old ritual.

  Brodie looked up at the stars, brilliant against the black sky. The first couples weaved past him, and he scanned the faces for Kirstine. His grandparents joined the dance, and he saw his mother lift her skirt as she caught a neighbor’s hand to be pulled into the fray.

  Fingers covered his eyes from behind, and he smiled. “I was looking for ye. Would ye to care dance the next reel?”

  “I’ve been looking for ye too,” whispered a voice in his ear. “I’d love to be yer partner.”

  Shite! It wasn’t Kirstine. With reluctance, he turned to acknowledge Mairi’s beaming face. Come, ye dunderhead, he scolded himself, ye counted on this lass to distract ye.

  “Good evening, Mairi,” he said with a bow. “Are ye enjoying yerself?”

  “Aye, and more so now.” Her green doe-eyes searched his face. “Ye were looking for me?” She took his hand and pulled him into the group of dancers lined up for the next set. “It must be yer lucky day, then.”

  It was a fast-paced dance, and he and Mairi were breathing hard by the end. “Shall I get ye something to drink?” he asked politely. Her freckles blended into her red cheeks as her fingers smoothed her f
razzled curls.

  “Aye, I’ll wait for ye away from the fire.” She nodded toward a long tree trunk laid out as a bench. It was shadowed by a small group of pines.

  Brodie was pouring a sweet watered wine for Mairi and had just added a portion of whisky to his own when Kirstine approached.

  “I see Mairi found ye,” she said. “She certainly has the energy for a reel.”

  “And ye have the grace for it,” he answered with a smile. “I was looking for ye when she surprised me from behind. I hoped it was ye.”

  “Every time I try to find ye, someone else stops me. Either a parent thanks me or Ma for help, or needs advice on a medicinal herb, or someone wants to dance.” Kirstine accepted the cup he offered. “But I’m here now.”

  “And I must deliver this to Mairi.” He thought disappointment darkened her eyes, but her lips turned up when he said, “Ye’re lovely tonight.”

  Her flaming hair was pulled up with a ribbon, and her lustrous red waves spilled down her back. The bonfire highlighted the streaks of gold in the long curls and the flush of her cheeks. She wore another stylish, high-waisted gown that drew his gaze to her full breasts.

  “That color blue looks bonny on ye.” He wished he didn’t have to bring any refreshment to Mairi. “Is it new?”

  “Aye, I made it myself from a sketch I saw in a London fashion magazine. The color matched your eyes.”

  “So ye were thinking of my eyes when ye made it?” He wondered why that pleased him. “Or do ye say that all to the lads?”

  “Ye ken I’m no’ a flirt like that Brodie MacNaughton. He teases all the lasses and skips away just as they hand him their heart.”

  He leaned close, his nose brushing her cheek. “Perhaps one of them should chase me.”

  “Och, ye’re too fast for me. Maybe Mairi could catch ye.” She gave him a wink and sauntered away.

  He scowled at her retreating back as heat washed over him. Was she playing the coquette? Where was his Kirstine, and who was this new woman he’d come home to? He walked back to Mairi. She reached for the mug and pulled him down beside her.