An Allusive Love (A MacNaughton Castle Romance Book 2)

by Aubrey Wynne

  Pink spread across her face, and Brodie wanted to kiss her. Those laughing, brown eyes, the full lips… he bent his head just as she turned and hurried to the cottage. He sighed. This had gone on long enough. There would be a proposal today.

  Kirsty carried a chair outside. “Take off yer shirt and stockings off and sit down. I’ll no’ have a mess inside.”

  He obeyed as she bent over the pail and lathered the soap on a brush. He studied the rounded bottom that had started this ordeal. A smile curved his lips. Brodie had never been one to sulk, and his natural humor finally won out. When she swung to face him, her eyes landed on his chest.

  He grinned. “I suppose ye can thank Brigid for the view.”

  Her eyes shot up to his face, gazes locked. Kirsty broke first. The giggles bubbled out again, mixing with his laughter and several snorts.

  She picked up his arm and began to scrub. “I apologize for the roughness, but dye isna easy to remove.”

  “Aye, right.” He felt as if he’d just crawled through a field of thistles. By the time she finished his arms, his skin was raw and pink but only a light layer of blue remained. He stood on the chair, and she did the same for the back of his calves and a halfway up his thighs. The discomfort was worth the intimate contact. Kirsty touched him again, her hand skimming along his skin as it followed the soft bristles. Maybe he wouldn’t skelp his sister after all.

  “It’s as far as I go,” she said, dropping the brush in the dark soapy water. She dipped the ladle in the second bucket and poured it down his legs. “I’ll give ye some oil to soothe yer skin. It should also help to fade more of the color.”

  She returned with a small bottle and a soft cloth. “Hold out yer arms.” She gently applied the oil over his chafed skin, then turned his body around and squatted behind him.

  Brodie’s jaw clenched as the oil smoothed over his lower thigh and calf. “For the love of saints, Kirsty. How much restraint do ye expect a mon to have?”

  “Dinna blame me for yer randy actions. Ye did this to yerself.” She sounded just as frustrated.

  He looked over his shoulder. Her hand slid a little farther up his leg, and he heard her breath catch. She stood quickly and pushed the bottle of oil into his hand. “Apply more when this soaks into yer skin. With any luck, it will be gone in time for the cèilidh.”

  Her hand lingered in his, and he pulled her against him, heedless of the wet wool of his kilt. “Marry me. Let’s be done with this charade.”

  Kirsty hesitated then looked him in the eye. He thought he saw regret, and it tightened the knot in his stomach. “I’m no’ quite ready. Perhaps the next time ye ask.” And she ran into the house, Charlie on her heels.

  Brodie stood there barefoot, his mouth open. Not quite ready? Those words didn’t sound like Kirsty. In fact, the response had sounded almost… practiced.

  “Maybe there’ll be no next time,” he yelled at the closed door, yanking on his stockings. He tucked the oil in his sporran and collected his horse. Something smelled foul, and it wasn’t the dye. Time to have a talk with the MacNaughton women.

  *

  Dunderave

  The day had started so brightly. Ross Craigg replayed the afternoon in his head, trying to figure where, precisely, his plan had gone wrong. The entire MacNaughton family was visiting the village today, even the MacNaughton’s Sassenach-loving daughter. What was her name? Maeve. If he remembered correctly, she’d had eyes for Rory MacDunn as a lass. Shaming MacDunn in front of her would have made his fall from grace that much sweeter. But now it was all falling apart.

  Ross brought his sheep into Dunderave, deposited them behind Reverend Robertson’s cottage, then explained to the minister there had been foul play.

  The reverend hadn’t wanted to bother the chief.

  “MacDunn stole my sheep, altered the lug marks to make them look like his own, and ye dinna want to bother the mon?” He’d spat at the ground. “It’s his responsibility to settle this dispute. MacDunn should be on his way. I’ll wait behind yer house with the beasties.”

  “The sheep could have easily wandered into yer flock. It’s happened before,” Reverend Robertson disagreed. “But if it will end yer complaint, we’ll have the MacNaughton decide.”

  Calum had arrived with two mangy hounds and his English nephew. Ross had rolled his eyes as the reverend explained the basics of sheep farming to the eejit welp.

  “We use common pasture and have two ways to identify the sheep. Keeling—a paint on their wool—distinguishes from a distance who owns the sheep or lug marks can be cut into their ears. Each farmer has his own particular notch.”

  “Mine is one V, and MacDunn’s mark is two overlapping Vs.” Ross had wanted to get on with it.

  Calum had inspected the animals and frowned. “It’s no mystery to me. They all have the MacDunn lug marks.”

  “The second mark was added.” Ross had enjoyed the worry on his MacDunn’s face. “Look closer, ye’ll see one of the Vs is more recent.”

  Calum had rubbed one ewe’s ear, his eyes narrowed. “MacDunn, what kind of thievery is this? Do ye think my brain’s no bigger than this sheep?”

  “I swear to ye by all that’s holy, I didna add that mark,” the accused had bellowed, panic in his voice.

  Craigg had been careful to keep the smile from his face, tasting revenge. It was one thing to argue over livestock that had been mixed together. It was another to steal. If the marks had been added, it was proof of deceit. Men had been hanged for such an offense. The best-case scenario was flogging. Either way, Craigg would have won. Until the English pup interfered.

  “You’re saying you never tampered with those ewes, and no one under your employ touched them to add a mark?” the mealy-mouthed grandson asked.

  MacDunn shook his head.

  “He’s a liar! He did it, and he’ll hang for it, by God.”

  But Calum had played Almighty. “I make the judgments here. We are in Scotland, not England. I’ll no’ hang a man for a bit of wool, but I’ll flog him myself if he’s lying.”

  “The MacDunns have a reputation for pilfering. Ye’d take his word over mine? My cousin Alisabeth lives under yer roof, and ye side with this common criminal?” Craigg had sneered. “Or are ye getting weak in yer old age and afraid the MacDunns will retaliate?”

  “I take offense on both counts, Craigg. Our clans have been at peace for too long for ye to speak such filth.”

  Craigg had seen the warning signs of MacNaughton’s temper. He’d decided not to risk a huge fist in his face. Then the reverend, MacNaughton, and the Sassenach had gone back into the cottage to confer. Craigg had stayed behind, guarded by Calum’s black hairy beast. The Death Dog. And in ten minutes, his plan had gone awry. He and MacDunn were ordered to return with their children.

  Now, he gave Nessie a sideways glance as they stopped in front of the minister’s house. “Someone will pay for this,” he muttered at her bent head. “And keep that shawl pulled tight, ye hear me?”

  She nodded and pulled the length of material around her belly.

  “Keep yer mouth shut and let me speak for both of us.”

  They pushed their way into Reverend Robertson’s small crowded parlor. Nessie kept her head lowered as he’d instructed, her dark hair hiding her face. MacDunn and his skinny boy were already there. Craigg heard the end of the conversation. Damnation! The MacNaughton knew Nessie had tried to elope with the MacDunn boy.

  Calum looked at the tall, lean lad. “Hamish, how old are ye?”

  “Seventeen, sir.”

  “Do ye love the lass?”

  Hamish gave Nessie a sideways glance and nodded. “With my last breath.”

  “Weel, let’s hope it doesna come to that. Nessie, do ye love him?”

  “She’s too young to ken what she wants,” groused Craigg.

  “I’ll hear the lass’s own words, Ross,” Calum ordered.

  Nessie sniffed, picked up the edge of her voluminous apron, and wiped at the tears trickling down
her cheeks. “With all my heart and soul.”

  Stupid bitch! Craigg let out a low growl and knocked her on the side of her head. She stumbled, and Hamish lunged for him. The foulsome cur. Craigg stepped back, digging his nails into his daughter’s arm. Both deerhounds jumped to their feet with a snarl, teeth bared and hackles up. MacDunn wrapped his son in a bear hug, the boy kicking and throwing punches in the air.

  “Touch the lass again, Craigg, and ye’ll have my fist in yer face. Ye understand?” Calum said in his kingly tone.

  He grunted in reply, still scowling at his daughter for ignoring his order of silence.

  Calum smiled at Nessie. “Lass, are ye with child?”

  One hand rubbed the side of her head where her father had smacked her. Now the other hand instinctively cradled her belly, showing a swell under the ample material as she nodded.

  “Shut yer feckin’ mouth, ye no good whore!” Ross warned.

  Nessie shoved a fist in her mouth to stifle a sob.

  “Weel, this isna so complicated after all, is it?” Calum crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. “Craigg, it seems ye have two choices. Ye give yer daughter consent to marry the lad so the bairn has a father, and I don’t flog ye. Or I flog ye, and tell the whole village what’s conspired here.”

  “Ye’ll not tell me what to—”

  “Make yer choice.”

  With gritted teeth, Ross spit out, “Marry the little brogan off. She’s dead to me.”

  “Fine,” said Calum in a cheery voice. “And as dowry, she’ll bring along anything her ma would have given her. As a wedding gift, ye’ll give them the sheep in the back, seeing they already have MacDunn’s lug mark. Agreed?”

  “Aye,” Ross growled.

  “Aye,” agreed MacDunn as cheerfully as the chief.

  “Rory MacDunn, will ye take the lass in? They canna live with the Craiggs.”

  “Aye.” He gave a sharp elbow to his son. “See what comes from trusting the chief? Justice.”

  “And a lovely wife,” added the minister.

  “And there’ll be no laying of hands on the lass before she leaves yer home. Do we have an understanding?” Calum’s eyes locked on Ross.

  Craigg jerked his head in assent but looked directly at Gideon, his eyes blazing with hate. That no-good Englishman had somehow been responsible for this. He felt it in his bones. “I dinna ken why this is any of yer affair or how ye were privy to my business. But it’s not over yet.”

  “Mind yerself, Ross. Ye’re lucky the MacNaughton is a generous man,” the minister said grimly. “Dinna put more strife upon yerself or yer family. Let it go.”

  Calum smiled at the young couple. “We came with an invitation to MacNaughton Castle, a cèilidh to celebrate the return of my daughter, Maeve. We may as well as have a wedding while we’re at it.”

  Craigg drove home alone. He didn’t care where his daughter slept for the next week. It was war now. Another marriage decided by the great MacNaughtons. When he first discovered Nessie was pregnant, he’d wanted to beat her until she lost the babe. Then today’s scheme had come to him. After he’d revealed MacDunn as a thief, Ross would have smothered the bairn at birth and dumped the bastard on MacDunn’s doorstep.

  Instead, MacNaughton had demanded an apology and the five sheep with MacDunn’s lug mark. The animals were worth more than the sniveling girl. He drank deeply from his flask.

  His father’s words haunted him, wouldn’t stop ringing in his ears.

  Dinna follow them like the rest of the bleatin’ sheep. Keep yer own counsel and bide yer time.

  It had been his time. He clenched his fists; he would call in some help. It would cost him, but a hired man would also be the perfect scapegoat if anything went awry. Another plan began to form. The wedding would be at the castle. Everyone drunk and off their guard. Behind the castle gardens was a copse. Nice and dark.

  Craigg slammed open his cottage door and shouted for his wife. She was huddled in bed, pretending to be sleep. He grabbed her long braid and jerked her head up, backhanding her. “Get up! I’m hungry.” Her whimpers eased his anger.

  By God, they would all pay.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Untimely Impediments

  A week later

  MacNaughton Castle

  Kirstine twirled around her bed, imagining a dance with Brodie later that night. She smoothed out the indigo dress with a silvery gossamer overlay. The waist was high, and the neckline was low. Too low, in her father’s opinion. A delicate lace trim, matching the sheer material, had taken her a better part of a day to sew.

  “Are ye ready?” Her mother stood below. “We need to leave in an hour.”

  “Aye. I’m so happy for Nessie and Hamish. He’s marrying his true love, and she’s escaping the devil.”

  “That mon will get his comeuppance. Beasts like that always do, eventually.”

  Kirstine pulled on her most expensive stockings and secured them with leather ties. The soft leather shoes were snug but comfortable on her feet. She climbed down the ladder and handed Ma the ribbon. Turning, she lifted her long tresses so her mother could tie the ribbon about her waist.

  “Get my ivory comb and mirror and sit down at the table.” Her tresses were soon arranged, fastened at her crown with another thinner, iridescent ribbon, curls dangling on the back of her neck. Her mother added sprigs of dry heather and stepped back.

  “Pretty enough to be getting married yerself.”

  Kirstine picked up the small mirror and turned her head one way, then another. Her stomach tumbled at the reflection. Was that really her?

  “How many times has the lad proposed?”

  With a smile, Kirstine counted out loud. “The dye disaster,” she began, giggling at their nickname for that day, “and the last three days in a row.”

  Despite his threats, Brodie had returned to propose every day. She gave him the same answer each time. “I’m no’ quite ready. Perhaps the next time ye ask.”

  He’d smiled and nodded, as if he were in on the scheme. “A treasure is worth waiting for,” he’d responded each time.

  “And ye’ve stood firm?” her mother asked.

  “Aye, but tonight I will tell him yes. I canna play with his heart any longer.” Kirstine knew he was sincere, and it was time to move on with their lives. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered again as she thought of his lips on hers, his hands skimming along her—

  “Did ye hear me?” asked Ma. “Never mind, I ken where yer mind is. Now, here comes yer father with the wagon. Remember yer shawl.”

  Kirstine fetched the tartan wrap, checks of forest green against a deep blue that matched her gown. She wasn’t in a hurry, since Brodie wouldn’t attend the wedding. Brigid had sent a message that she and Brodie would be late. A cow in distress, a fall birthing, took priority over a cèilidh. Brodie had volunteered to help. She smiled and wondered if he considered it voluntary. His sister had a way of pressing her unwilling brothers into service.

  MacNaughton Castle bustled with activity. In the main hall, Peigi gave last minute orders to housemaids and cooks. “Be certain there is plenty of wine and ale. My husband willna be happy if we run out of either. Once the food is served, ye may join in the festivities. Keep at least two on duty throughout the day and evening to check the pitchers and platters.”

  Guests already filled the hall for the late morning ceremony. Tables lined one wall with small pies, breads, and fruit compotes. More trestles were set up with benches for eating and visiting, white linen spread across the wooden boards with candles and crystal water bowls for washing. Glynnis and Lissie were overseeing the table decorations, placing entwined circles of marzipan at intervals on the table. The sugar creation sparkled and shed twinkling crumbs along the length of the linen. On the dais, silver goblets and plates had been set out for the guests of honor and their hosts.

  The smells were as dizzying as the surroundings. Venison and pig sizzled on spits, and scents of simmering dishes floated up from the k
itchen. Nessie and Hamish had hoped for an elopement at best. Fate, and the MacNaughtons, had given them a memorable ceremony and the best gift of all. A chance to be happy. What they made of their lives from here would be up to them.

  “Ye’re lovelier than the first day of spring after a long winter. If my brother doesna come to his senses, I’ll marry ye.”

  Lachlan stood smiling down at her, handsome in his tartan kilt and blue dress coat, auburn hair combed back, the silver chains of his dress sporran glittering. He had returned for the festivities and would escort the bride to the kirk. Ross Craigg had refused to attend the ceremony. No one had argued his decision and hoped he didn’t change his mind.

  “Today is about Nessie and Hamish, but I thank ye for the compliment.” Kirstine blushed.

  A stranger stood at the entrance of the hall dressed in the English fashion, his wine-colored tailcoat fitting snugly across his shoulders with an embroidered gold waistcoat and matching trousers. He had the same dark looks and blue eyes as Calum and Brodie, except his features were sharper, more English, she guessed. His intense gaze searched the room and landed on something behind her.

  Kirstine turned to see Lissie blushing, then disappear into the crowd. “Is that yer cousin and aunt?”

  “Aye.” He waved them over. “I’ll introduce ye.”

  Maeve was a tall, graceful woman with shining auburn hair and a brilliant smile. She resembled a younger Peigi, but with the MacNaughton eyes.

  “Are ye enjoying yer visit?” Kirstine asked after the introductions.

  “Aye, it’s been too long.” Maeve nodded at several passersby. “I’ve no’ attended a cèilidh since I was a girl. I feel years younger just being here.”

  “I’m surprised ye’ve kept yer brogue.” There was such a difference between mother and son when they spoke.

  “I’m afraid it gets stronger the longer she’s here,” explained Gideon. “May I ask if you are related to the MacDunns of the day?”

  Kristine nodded. “Hamish is my cousin. We are grateful to yer grandfather for his intervention.”