by Aubrey Wynne
“Thank ye, Brodie,” she gushed with a flutter of her lashes. “I’m parched.”
Sparks shot out, one close to their feet, as a log collapsed into the embers. Orange flicked and trailed into the black night sky. The crackle and pop of charred wood added to the din of voices and boisterous singing. Long shadows pirouetted against the curtain of darkened woods, like a dark puppet show lit by the moon. When Mairi broke the silence to regale him with village news, he focused on the glowing flames and let his mind wander.
On the other side of the bonfire, he watched Kirstine. She smiled at the widower, her face turned up to him. He studied her profile and realized she had an adorable nose. The man returned her smile, and Brodie’s stomach tensed. An unfamiliar feeling dropped in his chest, and his hand went there as if to wipe it away. But the little, tight ball grew.
“Are ye all right, Brodie? Do ye have a pain?” asked Mairi, concern in her eyes.
“Aye, er, I’m fine. Too much meat, I fear.” He stood and held out his hand to help her to her feet. “I need to check on my grandfather. Thank ye for the dance.”
*
“I want ye to meet someone,” Brigid said, pulling Kirstine by the hand. “His family was removed when the lords closed the open pastures for their sheep. He’s back from the coast with his son.”
Kirstine laughed but resisted. Brigid was a close friend and knew her feelings about Brodie. Perhaps she’d seen her brother with another and had the same idea about competition that her own mother had. “What are ye up to? Does he need help or are ye trying to marry me off?”
“Both,” Brigid said with a grin. She waved at the tall, handsome man as he approached.
Liam MacDougal had dark red hair, light green eyes, and a sense of humor. As old as her mother, she guessed. When he smiled and asked her to dance, her reserve fell away. She liked him instantly. He was graceful for his height, and Kirstine enjoyed his company.
“I understand ye’re knowledgeable with plants and herbs. Are ye one I could call when my son gets into mischief?” Liam escorted her away from the dancers as another tune began. He towered over her, but his demeanor was mild. “While I envy his energy, the lad isna the most graceful. He’s already been stitched up more times than I have myself.”
“Aye, myself or my mother. We’re always happy to help.” Then he asked her what she enjoyed most about doctoring.
His expression of sincere interest soon had her chatting easily, and she shared the story of her first patient, a kid goat who’d cut himself on wire. She barely noticed he’d place a refreshment in her hand.
“So you stopped the bleeding, and it adopted ye?” He chuckled and refilled her cup.
“Its mother had died, so I became a surrogate.” Kirstine tried to remember the last time she’d talked about herself at such length.
She turned the conversation back to Liam and his son, and their new home. As they sipped the cool wine, Brodie strolled up like a rooster and introduced himself.
“My sister says ye’re working for us.” He held out his hand. “I’m Brodie, the MacNaughton’s youngest grandson.”
“He’s a good mon, yer grandfather. I appreciate the work,” MacDougal said. “He speaks highly of his grandsons.”
Kirstine saw an unfamiliar gleam in Brodie’s eyes. Almost surly, yet his tone was pleasant. “He’s in the old cottage where ye were born, Brodie. Between the grazing pastures and the castle. Ye’ll run into each other often, I suppose.”
“I helped yer sister with an injured sheep the other day,” MacDougal said. “She has a way with animals. I was impressed.”
“If she had as much finesse with people—”
“I’m right behind ye, brother dear.” Brigid punched Brodie in the shoulder, then turned to the taller man. “How do ye like my friend, Kirsty? I told ye she was a beauty.”
Kirstine closed her eyes as heat flooded her cheeks. She could stomp on Brigid’s foot right now. Brodie made an odd sound, something like a growl.
“We have several lovely widows”—he placed an arm over Kirstine’s shoulders—“closer to yer age.”
She gasped at his rudeness and pushed his arm away. “We’re celebrating Beltane, not betrothals.” Kirstine slapped at Brodie’s hand as he tried to take hers. “Would ye like to dance again, Liam?”
A slow grin curved his lips. “I’d be honored, Miss MacDunn.”
Kirstine bit back the giggle at the glare she knew was burning both their backs.
“I apologize for his remark,” she said as the set began. “Brodie is usually most pleasant. I dinna ken what’s got into him.”
“Jealousy, if I wagered a guess.”
I hope so, whispered the voice in her head. “We have no claim on one another, so it wasna proper for him to give ye that impression.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
When the dance ended, MacDougal returned her to the refreshment table, and she introduced him to her mother. She endured more embarrassment while Ma gushed over the man and invited him for dinner. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mairi whispering to Brodie, his head dropped to listen. He gave the redhead that enigmatic MacNaughton smile—the one that could make any girl swoon—and her stomach dropped.
“He’s just soothing his wounded pride,” said Brigid. “Pretend ye dinna see.”
This night had not gone as planned. Fantasies of her first kiss, clinging to his neck, Brodie’s arms wrapped around her waist…
“Ye feckin’ weasel! I’ll kill ye if ye touch her again!”
The shout rumbled from wood behind Brodie, stunning those nearby into silence. Ross Craigg’s stout form emerged from the trees, dragging Kirstine’s cousin by the collar. Not another clash with Craigg! She gripped Brigid’s hand.
“Da, it was only a kiss. Please, let him go,” a fragile voice pleaded. “We’re betrothed.”
“Not with my permission,” he raged. A strand of his thinning brown hair hung limp over forehead. His splotched face and bulbous nose contorted as the boy struggled beneath the tight grip.
Kirstine’s uncle stormed across the field. “Let go of my son or I’ll give ye a skelping ye’ll no’ survive,” he bellowed, his red beard trembling, fists clenched. Her cousin tried to wrestle away from Craigg’s grasp again but froze at his father’s words. The girl sobbed and wrung her hands, her face tipped and hidden behind a veil of deep brown hair.
“He was groping my daughter, the piece of hog shite!”
“I asked her to marry me,” the boy growled as he wiped blood from his nose. “Get yer stinking hands off me.”
Kirstine held her breath as Craigg raised his other hand to smack her cousin, but her uncle caught the fist in mid-swing. The crack of bone hung in the air, and Craigg crumpled to the ground. Brodie rushed in to catch the unconscious man just before his head hit a rock.
“What the devil are ye thinking, mon?” demanded Calum, marching toward the group. “Ye’re son is in the wood, alone with this lass, and ye punch her father? He’ll want retribution for this.” He made a motion to the fiddler, and the music began again.
“I lost my temper,” muttered Kirstine’s uncle. “He’s had it coming.”
“Aye, and I’m a wee jealous. Every mon in this glen has wanted to do that at one time or another,” Calum admitted. “But he was within his rights this time, and he’ll demand justice for the attack against him.”
“Get something to revive the drunken cow. Quick!” Brodie propped the dead weight against his broad chest and fixed a stern scowl at the young couple. “And this incident is no’ to be repeated.”
Calum accepted a cup from a bystander and tossed it at the limp form.
Craigg spluttered and waved his arms in front of him. Kirstine saw Brodie wink at his grandfather.
“I canna hold ye back much longer, ye sodden hothead. Now promise me ye’ll no’ hurt the lad for accidentally headbutting ye,” Brodie said loud enough for anyone close to hear. “It’s a holiday, and we’ll settle it without viole
nce.”
Craigg blinked and rubbed his jaw. “What happened?”
Kirstine chewed her bottom lip. Would the ruse work? Brodie was clever, and she saw the spark of approval in the MacNaughton’s eyes as he took the lead.
“Dinna play with me, Craigg, and no more whisky for ye tonight.” Calum pointed to the boy, who still held a hand up to his face to staunch the blood. “I’ll let the smashed nose pass, but no more fists. They’re just young and got carried away.”
Craigg scratched his chin and grimaced. “But what about my jaw?”
“What about it? I believe the boy might have given ye a Glasgow kiss in his exuberance to get away.” Calum spread his hands, palm up, and shrugged his shoulders. “Unfortunate, but if ye didna drink so much, ye’d ken what happened.”
“I thought—”
“Did ye see anything indecent besides a wee kiss,” prodded Calum.
“No, but—”
“Weel, then it’s just a matter of two disobedient children. Nothing we’ll be needing a shotgun for.” The MacNaughton smiled, and Kirstine saw where Brodie got every bit of his charm. “How old are ye, lad?”
“I’ll be eighteen by Samhain,” he mumbled from beneath his hand.
“And the lass?”
“She’s sixteen,” spit out Craigg. “I’d put a shotgun to my own head before I’d be joined to a MacDunn by marriage.”
Brodie let the man go. “I dinna think such tragedy will be necessary. I’ve been caught in the woods a time or two myself without any harm done.” He slapped Craigg on the shoulder. “Tell me ye’ve no’ forgotten what it’s like to be young?”
Craigg squinted at Brodie then shook his head as if to clear it. “We’re going home,” he grumbled and took his daughter roughly by the elbow. She covered her face in her hands and continued to weep as he pulled her away.
No one liked Ross Craigg. Any witnesses were happy to see him get back what he often gave his wife and daughter. They also knew the girl would pay once the wagon was out of sight.
“That man will get his someday,” Brigid said to Kirstine. “Fate has a way of giving ye back what ye’ve given most to others.”
A chill slithered down Kirstine’s spine. “I hope his wife and daughter survive to see it happen.”
Chapter Four
Pleas and Promises
Ross snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched forward. His jaw ached from grinding his back teeth. A thorn in his side, those MacNaughtons. When Calum had married Peigi Craigg, the two clans had forged a peace, ending a decades-old feud. Then the Craiggs had pledged fealty to the MacNaughton, followed with years of tirades by Ross’s father. Rants about the partiality toward Peigi’s branch of the Craiggs over his own family, the favors given to them, the rewards handed out to their sons. The only comfort Da found was in the whisky that eventually claimed him. Even on his deathbed, his last words to his son had been to continue the enmity.
Dinna follow them like the rest of the bleatin’ sheep. Keep yer own counsel and bide yer time.
They’d been left destitute. Without any income, he’d been forced to crawl to the man responsible for his father’s death. His jaw clamped again at the memory. Calum had been reluctant to hire him at the mill, citing his family’s penchant for drink. As if the MacNaughton wasn’t known for his own “wee swallows” throughout the day.
Ross’s mother had gone to Peigi, begged and pleaded for a job for her son. She had two more young ones and a bairn to feed. So, Ross had gone to Glasgow and worked the power looms twelve hours a day in a sweltering stone prison. Day after day after day. Who could blame a man for a few nips to pass the time? But some lass had gone blethering to the manager. He’d received a proper laldie for his misconduct and been sent to the docks. Heavy lifting and sweeping. A Craigg swishing a broom while a woman operated his machine. He brought a bottle every day after that. Until he accidentally knocked that young boy into the river.
It wasn’t his fault the lad couldn’t swim. Ross had tried to pull him out, but the boy wouldn’t stop screaming. He’d only held his head under for a moment. To get the lad to be quiet, but he’d grown too quiet. The manager, a blustery Sassenach, had suspected foul play but couldn’t prove anything. Still, Ross had been sent home in disgrace. That was when he’d found out how much his mother had changed. She refused him hospitality in his own home. And Calum had supported her, even sent one of his human sheep to guard the house.
Ross had vowed to get his revenge against the MacNaughtons. He’d followed his father’s advice ever since: bided his time and kept his eyes peeled for small victories along the way.
Nessie sniffled beside him.
“Shut yer sniveling mouth!” He backhanded her to reinforce his request.
She’d caused enough trouble. Oh, how he’d wanted to plant a facer on that younger grandson tonight. It would be almost as good as smashing Lachlan’s smug face. But Ross had been on the other end of a fist before, and it hurt like hell. He touched the bridge of his nose gingerly, then cringed at the pain in his cheek.
Being chief didn’t give Calum the right to intervene in a man’s business. And that whiny MacDunn. He’d been added to Ross’s list.
“Ye’re lucky I didna kill the feckin’ eejit.” He looked at his pathetic daughter, crying silently into her hands. “Tell me the truth. Did he touch ye? Under yer clothes? By devil’s own hand, if he tried to put his—”
“No!” Nessie cried, the moon glinting off her wet cheeks as her hands fell away. She clutched at the bench for balance as the wheels hit a deep rut.
Her brown eyes, so like his own, blazed with hatred. For a moment, he thought she would strike him. Her own father. The ungrateful whore. “Go ahead.” He nodded at her trembling fist and white knuckles.
Nessie’s anger flickered and died. Her shoulders slumped, and she sucked in the growing sob. “N-nothing untoward happened, Da. It was only a kiss. I swear.”
Ross reached over and threaded his fingers into her dark hair. Then he closed his fist and snapped her head back. “If ye ever go against me again, I’ll squeeze yer scrawny neck until yer face turns blue and yer eyes pop out. Do ye understand?”
Nessie pressed her lids shut and nodded. A tear leaked out of one corner. “I promise to be good, Da. Just dinna hurt Hamish, please. I beg ye, dinna hurt him.”
“Lovely. But ye ken it’s my duty as a conscientious parent to discipline a willful and disobedient child. The high and mighty MacNaughton may stop in for a visit to be certain I didna abuse ye.” He put the reins between his teeth and talked around the leather. “So, I must be careful when I administer my punishment.”
He grinned for the first time in hours at the fear widening her eyes. “Aye, right. Ye understand it’s yer own doing.”
Ross pulled back his free arm and drove his fist into her stomach. She clutched her belly to curl around the pain as she gasped for air. He clucked sympathetically as he held her head back; her blinking eyes stared blindly toward the moon. Then he kissed her on the forehead and released his grip. “There, now we both feel better.”
Chapter Five
Candor and Kisses
The first day of May dawned bright and clear. As she did every year, Kirstine ran to the nearest meadow at sunrise. Legend decreed if a lass washed her face with the morning dew on Beltane morning, her beauty would last longer. Brodie was waiting for her with his annual posy of wildflowers.
“Ye dinna need to scrub yer face.” He handed her the bouquet. “Ye’re bonny enough as ye are.”
His raven hair clung to his square jaw and curled at his neck, as if he’d quickly washed his face and hadn’t bothered to dry his skin. Her gaze hung on his mouth, turned up in a smile, showing straight white teeth. Her breath quickened, his flirtation with Mairi the previous night forgotten.
“Do ye no’ like the flowers?” he asked. His boot shuffled the soft ground, sending wisps of morning mist spiraling around his ankles. “I picked them in a hurry because I didna want to miss ye.
It’s our custom, ye ken.”
Kirstine nodded and chewed her bottom lip. Should she tell him how she felt before the Maypole festivities? The way he said “our custom” in that silky, deep voice made her belly quiver. No, she’d wait until tonight when she was dressed in a lovely gown with her hair twisted and tied with ribbons.
“I thank ye, kind sir.” Kirstine giggled, taking the bouquet. “If the dew truly worked, I imagine even the vain men would try it.”
“Perhaps they do.” He stepped forward and held out a corner of his plaid. “Ye missed a spot.” He dabbed at her jaw, drying her skin.
Her breath caught as his movement slowed. Looking up at him, she was trapped in that intense blue gaze. His thumb slid over her bottom lip and sent a thousand wings beating in her stomach.
“Ye dinna need to scrub yer face,” he repeated.
Kirstine shook her head, eyes closed, and his forehead touched hers. Fire. His skin was like a hot flame licking at hers. Kiss me! Her heart screamed. Merciful heavens, kiss me. His mouth was so close; his breath fanned her chin. The scent of honey drifted between them, and she resisted the urge to lick her lips.
Aarroooo! They both blinked at the deep howl. Charlie came loping across the meadow and jumped against Brodie’s arm.
Brodie grunted, scratched the dog’s head, and pushed it to the ground. “And good morning to ye too, Charlie.” He sighed and looped her hand into the crook of his arm. “I suppose we shall both escort ye home now.”
Had she glimpsed disappointment in his eyes? She smiled as they strolled in a comfortable silence. The sun peeked over the mountains. The promise of a lovely day. Pinks and reds lit up the sky, a spectacular backdrop for the birds’ morning song. Her bare feet were cold against the wet grass, and the smell of pine and earth and Brodie filled her nose.
“Do ye have an opinion of how I handled the Craigg catastrophe?” he asked.
She laughed. “I was proud of ye, Brodie, and so was yer grandda. I saw it in his eyes.”
