An Allusive Love (A MacNaughton Castle Romance Book 2)

by Aubrey Wynne

  “We need to talk, Brodie.” Kirstine stood on the plaid, afraid to sit down or let him too close. His touch always muddled her brain.

  “About?”

  “Wagers and ponies and betrothals.”

  His face fell, those blue eyes avoiding her gaze. “Ye’ve been speaking with Brigid.”

  She nodded. “How could ye? Is our love so trivial that ye’d bargain with it?”

  “It wasna like that.” He tried to take her hand, but she clasped her fingers tightly behind her back. “A mon needs to make such decisions on his own and no’ be harangued under his own roof. I was only trying to gain some peace for a bit. Ye ken how much I love ye.”

  His voice was low and convincing; her reserve was crumbling.

  “I remember ye complaining about it. It’s the other half of the bargain that has my feathers ruffled.” She stepped off the plaid, putting more distance between them. “Brigid feels she’s the reason ye finally asked me.”

  Anger flared in his eyes. “Ye truly think Brigid could push me into something so serious and final?”

  Kirstine shrugged as the knot grew in her stomach. Maybe she was making too much of this. “She certainly believes it.”

  “Ye dinna understand,” he said, his tone cajoling again. “I went home that day, and she’d made some tarts. The expression on her face was so pitiful, I couldna tell her, right then, that I was already betrothed. I wanted her to enjoy her moment.”

  Kirstine softened and ventured a look at Brodie. He was so handsome today. His black hair combed back, a fresh shirt already untied at the throat, showing a hint of his chest.

  “Will ye set Brigid straight?”

  He nodded, stepped forward and pulled her close. “Aye, as soon as I get home. I would have told her later that day, but we got word about Ian.” A shadow flashed over his face. “After that, it didna seem important. Until now.” He nuzzled her neck.

  “I want us both to be ready when we join hands.” She tipped her head back and gave him access to her neck, her pulse quickening. Would his effect on her ever dampen?

  “To be honest, I’d decided to wait until the fall.” His lips trailed fire along her shoulder.

  “What changed yer mind?” He pulled her hips closer and squeezed her buttocks, sending sparks of heat to her core. She closed her eyes and moved against him.

  “When we met that day, I saw the tears in yer eyes and ken I’d hurt yer feelings.” One hand came up to cup her breast, kneading and teasing through her bodice. “I felt sorry for—”

  Her eyes flew open. “What?”

  His hands came away, palms out as if to defend himself. “Och, let me rephrase that.”

  “Ye felt sorry for me?” Kirstine planted her fists on her hips and blinked back angry tears. Oh, how she wanted to skelp the man.

  “Ye looked so pitiful. The tears… and trying to be brave. I just wanted to make ye happy.”

  Without thought, her hand came up and slapped his face. Her palm stung; his eyes flashed shock, then ire as he rubbed his cheek.

  “I’ll no’ accept a proposal out of pity. There are plenty of men who would be happy to take me as a wife and mother of their children.” Her voice wavered, and she whistled for Charlie. “Consider yerself free.”

  “Wait, Kirsty. We need to settle this.”

  “Brodie, I’ve waited a lifetime for ye.” She shook her head, needing to get away, to run as far and as fast as she could. “I accepted the selfishness and understood yer reluctance to marry before yer eldest brother. But I have my pride, too, Brodie MacNaughton. Save yer benevolence for a female who’s happy to settle for it.”

  “There’s a dozen I could call on right now.” He folded his arms across his chest.

  She whistled for Charlie, and turned to leave, refusing to let Brodie see her tears.

  “If ye think so poorly of me, I wonder why ye wanted to marry me at all,” he growled, still rubbing the imprint of her hand on his face.

  “Because I love ye, faults and all,” she whispered. “And I assumed ye felt the same.”

  “Dinna walk away, then want to make up later.” He yelled as she followed her hound down the hill. “I’ll no’ be here moping for ye.”

  What just happened? Kirstine had never planned on breaking off the betrothal. She’d only wanted Brodie to admit to his part in the sibling rivalry and apologize. Her temper had gotten the better of her. It wasn’t like her to spout off like Brigid. Kirstine had always been calm in the face of conflict or during an emergency, and yet, he’d set her off so easily. Why? Perhaps her trust in Brodie was fragile when it came to his affections? Or maybe she was tired of always being so understanding.

  His comment about feeling sorry for her had hit a nerve, and the slap had been spontaneous. It had taken them both aback. Now it was too late, too late to take back the hurtful words, too late for apologies. Brodie was stubborn. It would be a long while before he’d listen to any explanation she cared to give, and his ego would never allow him to apologize. Oh, if only he would.

  As soon as she was out of sight, Kirstine picked up her skirts and ran across the meadow, away from Brodie, away from her lost dreams. If only she could have left her broken heart in the pines.

  *

  “Women are the most irritating, confusing, pain-in-the-arse creatures the Good Lord ever put on this earth.” Brodie paced up and down the dining room. Glynnis sat quietly, her needle poking through the linen as the thread silently moved through to the other side.

  “What did ye do, son?”

  He stopped and turned on his heel, agitation churning in his gut. “Why does everyone always assume I’m at fault?” He began pacing again. “She believes I’m arrogant and selfish.”

  “Aye, right.”

  “Ye’re my mother. Could ye show me a wee sympathy here? I’ve just lost my bride.”

  “Ye ken where to find her.” His mother never looked up from her sewing.

  Calum sauntered in. “Sounds like there’s heart trouble here, and it’s no’ mine.” He thumped his chest. “Strong as ever, I am.”

  “Grandda, tell Ma this isna my fault.”

  “I canna do it.” He walked to a side table and poured a short glass of whisky and held up it up, a brow arched his bright blue eyes.

  “Aye, might as well,” Brodie groused. “Any words of wisdom ye’d care to impart?”

  Calum snorted. “My wife wasna willing at first either. She left me a letter, freeing me from our betrothal.”

  Brodie plunked down on a chair beside his grandfather. “I never kent that.”

  “I had to go after her. On Hogmanay, no less.” He tossed back the whiskey and ran a hand through his gray-streaked raven hair. “Another wee swallow?”

  Brodie finished his own and slammed down the glass for a second drink. “How did ye convince her?”

  “Made it easier to agree than to keep saying no.”

  “I’ll no’ make a fool of myself, chasing after a fickle woman.” He scowled at his mother’s bent head, and the smirk she didn’t try to hide.

  “Look who’s calling someone fickle,” she murmured.

  His grandfather chuckled. “This has nothing to do with pride. It’s about proving yer unswerving loyalty and having the mettle to do whatever it takes to make matters right. It’s about being the kind of mon the clan would someday accept for their chief. A leader with an unshakeable foundation who looks to hearth and home. Ye canna understand a mon’s need to protect his wife and children if ye dinna have any yerself.” Calum stood and stretched, letting out a loud yawn. “But mayhap ye and Lachlan have changed yer minds about that plan.”

  Brodie opened his mouth to argue but caught his mother’s eye. “What?”

  “He’s right. We all ken ye love her. That’s the easy part of commitment.” Glynnis sighed and put down her needlework. “She’s stood by ye, and put up with yer selfish ways, since ye were both children. She’s loved ye and waited for ye to become the man we all kent ye could be. And in ye
r gratitude, ye’ll let yer pride get in the way of a lifetime of happiness.”

  His gut twisted. They were right. They were all right. The wager had been childish. Brodie had only recently realized what had been under his nose all the time. A future without Kirsty wasn’t a possibility.

  “What should I do?” he asked. “I’ve made a mess of it, I’m afraid.”

  “Ye do just what yer grandda said. Ye wear her down with thoughtfulness and court her until she canna stand it any longer. Make it easier for her to say yes than to keep turning ye down.” Glynnis smiled and leaned over to pat his cheek. “Things have always been too easy for ye.”

  “What if she willna give me the chance?” Had he gone too far? The game of Spillikins came to mind. Was this the one stick that sent pile toppling?

  “She loves ye, son. Just put a little effort into it, let her ken she’s worth it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sorry Is As Sorry Does

  The next day

  Kirstine’s mouth dropped open. “Mrs. MacNaughton, ye’re the last person I would expect at my door.”

  Glynnis smiled. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” She stepped aside. The older woman swept in, her gold-pinstriped, umber skirt swishing against the doorframe. Her auburn hair was swept up in a tidy bun, and the MacNaughton blue eyes held sympathy. Not pity. There was a difference.

  “I assume ye’ve heard?” Kirstine asked, chewing on her bottom lip. “Can I get ye some tea?”

  Glynnis nodded and sat down at the kitchen table. “Is yer mother here?”

  “I am,” answered Mrs. MacDunn from the back of the cottage. She emerged, tucking a stray brown strand under her kertch, a basket over her arm. “Have ye come for the oils, then?”

  “Aye, it’s one reason.”

  “And the other?”

  “I’d like to speak with Kirstine,” admitted Glynnis. “And ye’re welcome to listen and advise.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Kirstine tamped down her nerves and forced her hands to lie still in her lap. “I hear yer sister is visiting?”

  Mrs. MacNaughton grinned. “Maeve hasna been home since she married. Her English earl didna care for the Highlands, so we always met at the textile mill in Glasgow. It’s the first time my nephew, Gideon, has seen the castle. Scotland has been quite an adjustment for him.” She reached out and caught Kirstine’s hand. “Now, we need to talk about my numpty-headed son.”

  To Kirstine’s surprise, her mother took neither side. “Sounds as if they backed each other into a corner and couldna find a way out.”

  “But Brodie loves ye and will be asking yer forgiveness,” added Glynnis.

  Kirstine’s heart leapt. Could they mend this rift? The argument had escalated so quickly. She’d gone over it a hundred times in her mind since yesterday.

  “… And I’m here to be certain ye make him work for it.”

  Her mind snapped back at those words. “How?”

  “He’ll be wooing ye, and ye need to keep him at arm’s length. No kissing or namby-pamby. Let him yearn for ye. And when he asks ye to marry him again, tell him ye’re no’ quite ready. Perhaps the next time he asks.”

  Kirstine bit her lip, her mouth quirking up at the corner. “That will tug at his temper.”

  “I hope so. A mon should appreciate his wife, and my son has taken too much for granted in his easy life.”

  “And ye’re sure he’ll ask again?”

  “As the moon rises every night.” Glynnis patted Kirstine’s knee. “We’ll see all of ye at the cèilidh in two weeks? Maeve and Gideon have given us a grand excuse for a distraction.”

  “We’ll be there,” answered Kirstine’s mother. “In fact, I suspect my daughter will be in a new dress. One of those fancy London styles.”

  *

  Late September

  “Ye’re off to Dunderave?” asked Brodie. “Do ye need me?”

  “Ye have work to do,” Calum said with a wink. “Besides, it’s a social visit. Yer Aunt Maeve hasna seen the villagers in decades, and she wants to introduce Gideon. I’ll extend a personal invitation for the celebration next week.”

  “My poor cousin will be surrounded with well-wishers. I tried to talk Gideon into wearing a kilt, but he’d have none of it.” Brodie laughed. “We’ll continue the onslaught, though.”

  “How goes the courting?”

  Brodie’s smile faded. “She’s pleasant enough but distant. If I could just kiss her, it would save time.”

  “I dinna remember ye being in any hurry before.”

  “Which is why I’m in this predicament now.”

  After the family left, he cut some wood for Enid and exercised two of the young colts. Later in the afternoon, he began his daily mating ritual, as Grandda called it. He took a half-bath, shaved, and dressed in a clean shirt and his Sunday kilt, added fresh stockings with bright flashes to the sides. Then he saddled a horse and headed to the meadow to collect a posy for Kirsty.

  A week of this ridiculous routine and he hadn’t even had a kiss for his effort. Kirsty had returned to her role of dear friend, but his body wasn’t accepting the change. Yesterday, they had sat together at the swimming loch, and he leaned down to kiss her. She had turned her head, and his lips grazed her cheek. He’d held his breath to stop the groan and wondered if he’d seen pity in her eyes. Pity! If Brodie didn’t know better, he’d swear she was enjoying his discomfort. But what really got his goat was she and Brigid were thick as thieves again.

  Speak of the devil. Both women were in the yard singing, bent over a squat barrel, stirring the contents with two poles. Kirsty’s backside swayed back and forth as she moved the pole, and his kilt formed an instant tent. Like a hound on a scent, ye traitor, he thought, looking down at his lap.

  A mental image of the old Widow Weir, naked, tamped down his desire as he quietly dismounted. He pulled a stale oatcake from his saddlebag and clucked to Charlie before he threw the treat. The dog bounded down the land, so Brodie was free to sneak up on the sweet bottom beckoning him across the yard. The girls paid no mind as they belted out their tune. That Rabbie Burns could write of love as well as any female.

  And fare thee weel, my only luve,

  And fare thee weel a while,

  And I will come again, my luve,

  Tho’ twere ten thousand mile!

  Just as Brodie reached the pair, his hand pulled back for a wee randy slap, and Brigid turned.

  “Saints and sinners!” she screeched, dropping her pole and clutching her chest. “Ye’re as quiet as a ghost.”

  Kirsty turned, eyes narrowed at his arm frozen in mid-swing. “What were ye planning on doing?”

  Blasted sister. “I was told ye were going to Dunderave with the rest of them,” asked Brodie. He could hear the irritation in his voice and gritted his teeth when Brigid gave him a smug smile.

  “I’m helping Kirsty dye some cloth. Ma said there was no need for me to tag along and complain the entire day.”

  “Weel, I can take over for ye.” Brodie peered into the dark liquid, then held up the flowers. “For my bonny lass.”

  Brigid rolled her eyes. “Ye can do better than that with Grandda’s blood running through yer veins.”

  “Did I ask yer opinion?”

  “Did we ask for yer company?”

  “I trust this to be one benefit of not having siblings,” interrupted Kirsty. She leaned her stick against the barrel and wiped her hands on her apron. “They’re lovely, Brodie. Thank ye.” She turned to his sister. “And thank ye for yer help, Brigid. I think we’re about done for now.”

  A silent message seemed to pass between the women, for Brigid opened her mouth then shut it with a nod. As she walked past him, Brodie reached out and yanked an auburn curl. It was childish, he knew, but his nerves were on edge, and she was grating every one.

  Brigid whirled and pushed back at his chest. It caught him off balance and time seemed to slow. His body teetered, arms swinging in
giant circles as he fought to stay on his feet. Then he lost the battle and splashed backside into the tub of dye. The women scattered to avoid the indigo spray, laughter trailing behind them. He gritted his teeth and gripped the rim of the barrel as his feet dangled over the edge.

  “Brigid!”

  His bellow echoed down the glen as Kirstine’s eyes grew wide. Her hand covered her mouth, but it didn’t silence the giggles. Brigid pressed her lips together and attempted a straight face. Then the two friends looked at each other and burst into another round of guffaws, clutching at their bellies.

  Brodie heaved himself up. The blue water sluiced down his legs and soaked the back of his white stockings. His elbows were a deep indigo, and he didn’t want to know what his cheeks looked like. He cast his most ferocious glare at Brigid.

  “Uh-oh.” His sister turned on her heel and ran down the lane, almost falling over Charlie on his way back. “I’ll see ye tomorrow night, Kirsty,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Ye’ll no’ see the morning if I catch ye,” he yelled after her, waving the posy he still clutched in his fist.

  Kirsty made a valiant effort to stop giggling, but obviously, his appearance was too comical. He held out the mangled flowers. She accepted them and led him toward the well.

  “We’ll need to clean ye up quickly or the dye will set. We’ll rinse off the worst of it, then I’ll fetch some lye soap.”

  The first bucket washed away any remaining arrogance.

  The second cooled his temper.

  The third made him realize how ridiculous he looked—clothes drenched, skin splotched purplish-blue—and sent Charlie into a fit of howls.

  “Come up to the house now and bring two pails of water.” She patted his cheek and gave him a sweet smile. “I’ll see how much color I can scrub from yer arms. It’s mostly around yer elbows.” Her eyes traveled down his body.

  “What about my legs?”

  “Aye, I’ll do what I can within, but I’m not reaching up yer kilt. Ye’ll have to deal with your buttocks on yer own.”

  “I remember a time ye had no qualms with touching me beneath my kilt.”