by Fiona Faris
“Och, lass! Th’ sun is barely up, th’ bairn is asleep, an’ I’m in need o’ me rest!” Marcus grumbled as he righted himself.
“Rest is not nearly as important as ensuring the eternal happiness of my best friend and your brother,” Helena replied, crossing her arms over her chest and giving her a look that told Marcus that arguments of any kind would not be welcome.
“Happiness? What’re ye talkin’ o’, lass?” Marcus asked in confusion as he ran a hand over the stubble, gracing his cheeks and jaw.
“Oh come, Marcus! We talked of this ages ago! Of seeing if Brodie and Bea might suit?”
“Did we? I daenae remember it…” Marcus screwed up his face up in concentration.
“Well, we did, and they do. Suit each other I mean,” Helena said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice. She had had such trouble the night before not shouting her joy when Beatrice described the dashing Scot named Brodie with whom she had spent the night. Though she was sorry her friend had had such a terrible trip to Scotland, losing two men she trusted and valued on the road, she was glad that Brodie had been there to comfort her.
Beatrice had been vulnerable with him, letting him help her rather than insisting she take care of herself, as she was so apt to do now that James was gone. By allowing someone into her life, however briefly, Beatrice had finally begun to break down those stone walls guarding her heart. Helena had seen it the night before in the smile on Bea’s face, the slight relaxation in her usually rigid posture.
She had looked more herself last night than she had in the previous two years, and Helena was sure Brodie had a good deal to do with this. In fact, when Helena looked back on the past, she was not sure she had ever seen Bea so excited, not even after first meeting James. James had come with so many trappings, so much history, and duty to uphold. And while Brodie had those as well, things were different in Scotland. There were not so many expectations on the wives of lairds. Helena knew that, were she and Brodie to marry, Beatrice would be able to have the freedom she so clearly desired.
Which was Helena’s ultimate goal, of course: to have her friend happily ensconced in Scotland forever, with a man who would love her for exactly who she was and expect nothing from her but what she was willing to give.
She was so happy that Beatrice and Brodie had already met and developed such a good rapport. All that need be done now was to ensure that they continued in that vein when Brodie returned in a few days. She must ensure that Brodie and Beatrice connected again and under the right circumstances.
Helena said as much to Marcus, her smile so wide she was hardly able to talk. However, rather than looking similarly pleased, Marcus’ bemused, sleepy expression gradually transformed into one of suspicion and judgment as she spoke.
“What?” she asked, schooling her expression into one of neutral innocence.
“Yer meddlin’, Lena. I can tell from that look in yer eye. Yer gaein’ tae try an’ force them together as much as possible once Brodie gets back home, aren’t ye?”
Helena stayed silent, for she could not argue against her husband’s words, but admitting them would only serve to increase his suspicion and growing anger.
“As I thought,” he grumbled, using his arms to bring himself into a sitting position with the pillows at his back. “It’s nae right, Lena. One night together doesnae a true love make. If they’re meant tae be, they shall hae tae figure that out fer themselves, but I can tell ye now that both are vulnerable, an’ might not be best-placed tae find true an’ everlastin’ love at this point in time. An’ ye tryin’ to shove them together will dae nae bit o’ good.”
“B-but you agreed! You said it was a good idea, the two of them together!” Helena argued.
“When did I say such a thing?”
“Two weeks ago, before bed! You said the two of them together would be perfect.”
“Nay, lass. What I remember is me sayin’ they each deserved someone in their life. I dinnae say that they ought to choose each other. In fact, I remember arguing quite heatedly against such a prospect. They’re landowners in two separate parts o’ the kingdom, after all! An’ they’re both sae quite an’ reserved. It’d be nigh impossible tae get them admittin’ any sort o’ feelins’ tae each other if any should arise.”
Helena huffed. “Why are you trying to ruin this, Marcus? Bea was the happiest I’ve seen her in months last night when she was talking about Brodie, and I am certain he will come home from his trip raving about the beautiful Sassenach he met on his journey home. Please, just believe me. It is perfect, destiny. Their ever-lasting happiness is a near-certainty, if only we ensure they are thrown together enough.”
“Leave it, lass. Let them make their own decisions. It’s not kind tae meddle in other’s lives,” he chided softly.
“Even when it’s for their own good and happiness?” Helena leaned in with the pretty smile that usually persuaded Marcus.
However, it seemed that a sleep-deprived Marcus was far less susceptible to her wiles, for Marcus simply laughed as he leaned over and kissed Helena on the cheek.
“Focus on seein’ tae it that Bea has a good time here, an’ leave the romance tae the fates, me love,” he said as he got out of bed and made his way into his dressing room.
As if I would leave something so important up to chance, Helena thought with a huff as she too vacated the bed. If ensuring her best friend did not remain a miserable widow for the rest of her days meant that Helena had to defy her husband, she was more than willing to do so. Men never understood matters of the heart anyway.
* * *
Brodie had done what he considered to be an admirable job of avoiding thoughts of Beatrice as he rode toward home. The repetitive beat of his horse’s hooves beneath him and with the wind that whipped through his auburn hair slowly lulled him into a thoughtless state of mind, where nothing but his body and the surrounding clouds and muddied hills existed. He was entirely in the moment, all his mental and physical energy focused on his thighs as they clenched the horse’s flank, his hands as he held the reins, his eyes as they scanned the horizon for the turn in the road that would lead him to Castle Eilean.
The turn to the castle appeared up ahead a few minutes later, and Brodie maneuvered himself and his horse down the dirt road. The turrets of the castle were just visible over the treetops of the forest ahead. A few miles through the thick of the trees, and he would be home.
As he entered the forest, the smell of moss and damp and fresh earth overwhelmed him. Brodie breathed in deeply, closing his eyes for a moment and relishing the scent. He didn’t need his vision to traverse this path anyway; he had ridden it so many times by now that it was etched into his mind. He sometimes saw the track in his sleep, his eyes scanning over each tree he would need to pass to make his way through the forest into the clearing that led to the bridge.
Opening his eyes, he saw a large birch tree ahead, its pale bark standing out against the dark brown of the oak trees surrounding it.
Nearly there now, he thought, for this was the second to last birch he needed to pass before arriving at the clearing. And sure enough, a mere minute later, he was exiting the dark forest into the weak light of an early autumn afternoon.
He picked up the pace as he crossed the bridge, eager to hand off Hercules and escape into the warmth of the castle with a dram of whiskey and whatever the Cook had crafted for the midday meal. He hadn’t eaten before leaving the tavern, and his stomach was growling now.
Waving at the guards, he passed through the door to the inner courtyard to find his brother waiting for him with Padraig in his arms.
“Look, Paddy, yer uncle’s returned as promised!” he said, picking up Padraig’s hand and waving it at Brodie.
Brodie couldn’t help breaking out into a grin as he hopped off his saddle and strode toward his nephew. Gentle taking the lad from his brother’s arms, he hugged Padraig close before spinning him around, whispering, “I missed ye, lad” in the little boy’s soft, delicate ear.
“An’ we missed ye as well, Brodie.” Marcus leaned toward Brodie and clapped him on the back.
Brodie smiled ruefully at his brother, a mite embarrassed at having his loving words overheard. Marcus had always been the more open of the two of them; he had no trouble voicing his thoughts and emotions. He told Helena he loved her the day they met, and every day since.
But Brodie was quieter, both in speech and in his heart. It took him time to warm up to people, to let himself trust them enough to show his true feelings. It was partly why Gavin’s death had so affected him; he’d spent so much time getting to know the lad that he had never actually voiced just how much the boy meant to him before he died.
But ye’ll nae make th’ same mistake again. Ye’ll share yer feelins’ like yer daein’ now, he told himself. It was uncomfortable—laying himself so bare, letting himself be so vulnerable—but if it allowed him to share his feelings before it was too late, it was a worthy price to pay.
“How was yer trip?” Marcus asked as he signaled for one of the guards to lead the horse around to the stables.
“Twas good. Tirin’, but good,” Brodie answered as they walked toward the door that led to the castle’s main entrance.
“Tirin’? How sae?” Marcus opened the door to the sitting room and ushered Brodie and Padraig inside.
Brodie nearly groaned as the warmth from the fire made its way toward him, warming the chilled bits of his leg that had been exposed to the cold air while he rode.
“Tea, or would ye prefer whiskey?”
“Whiskey, please, an’ make it a good dram. I’m tired an’ cold.” Brodie shivered as he took a seat.
“Tired an’ cold! An’ ye, a Scottish laird! Fer shame, brother!” Marcus rolled his eyes in mock outrage.
“Aye, well, we cannae all be so young as ye,” Brodie grumbled as he set Padraig on his lap, letting the little lad try to balance on his feet while Brodie held his wee hands.
“Yer plenty young, brother. An’ ye’d best rest up afore dinner, fer Helena has planned a lavish meal now that her friend has arrived.”
“Aye, the famous Beatrice! When did she get here?” Brodie asked as his brother handed him a glass generously filled with whiskey. Brodie turned Padraig so he was sitting on his lap, his back to Brodie’s stomach, before taking the drink. The shiny liquid seemed to intrigue the bairn, who stared with rapt attention as Brodie brought the whiskey to his lips. It was pure fire going down, but och, was it good. It warmed every inch of him, ridding him of any linger tense chill and allowing him to sit back in his chair and feel. Padraig curled himself further into his lap, resting his cheek against Brodie’s belly, and he sighed with contentment.
He and Marcus talked more of Beatrice and Helena, and then, when Brodie had drained his whiskey and Padraig was fast asleep, Marcus sent him up for his own rest and a bath.
“It’s good to see ye, but och, ye smell like a horse’s arse,” Marcus joked as he stood outside Padraig’s nursery, about to put the lad down for his nap.
“I’ll see I’m properly cleaned an’ attired for the night’s events, daenae worry,” Brodie called as he walked down the hall toward his own chambers, his steps lighter than they had been in months. As he turned toward his room, however, he halted at the scent of lavender, blueberries, and honey.
Mags, he immediately thought. That was exactly her scent, that deliciously sweet mix of flora and herbs. For the rest of his life, Brodie knew he would not be able to walk by a lavender bush without thinking of the lass. In fact, he wouldn’t even need the lavender bush. He would think of her every day, without preamble, simply because she had made him feel cherished, desired, understood. Though their night together was short, it had changed him.
If only I could see her again, he thought as he crawled into his bed, letting the clean sheets slide over his naked body. It was a pleasant sensation, but nowhere near as pleasurable as the feel of the Sassenach’s hands on his body, her soft fingers caressing all of him until he was crying out.
Brodie felt himself harden, but his desire warred with his fatigue, and the latter eventually won out, pushing him into a deep, dream-filled sleep that lasted well into the late afternoon.
Chapter Thirteen
Beatrice was holding Padraig in her arms, pointing out all the birds chirping in the trees outside the nursery’s windows, when she heard the creak of the floorboards behind her.
She had managed to avoid all thoughts of Brodie for a good three hours, but whirling around, thought she had conjured up a vision of him. It would not be the first time her mind had played tricks on her; for the first five months after James died, she swore she saw glimpses of him about the house.
But those glimpses of James did not speak, whereas this one did, in a low voice she recognized instantly.
“Maggie?”
Brodie’s voice was flush with excitement, as were his cheeks as he strode toward her.
His hands came to her shoulders, and he beamed at her, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his eyes.
I know the feeling
“Maggie, what’re ye daein’ here? Did ye track me doon somehow? Och, how good it is tae see ye! I’ve thought o’ little else these last few days except ye, an’ the night we shared, an’…”
Beatrice held up a hand to stay any more words from coming out of his frustratingly beautiful mouth.
“Please, Brodie,” she closed her eyes briefly to steady herself.
When she opened them, it was to find Brodie staring at her with hurt in his eyes. This made her stomach lurch, but she needed to talk to him before he became too excited. Before his mind ran off with fantasies of the two of them repeating their assignation. Before his idea of her as Maggie, the strong, sensual Englishwoman was solidified.
“My name is not Maggie. It is Beatrice. Beatrice Smythe, Duchess of Marlow. I am here not to see you, but to see my dear friend Helena. She is my best friend, and I have come for a month-long visit to spend time with her and Padraig.” She looked down at the little boy in her arms, who was staring between her and Brodie with confusion.
“But…but why would ye lie, lass? About yer name? About who ye were? Did ye ken who I was when we met? Did ye ken I was laird o’ this castle?” his voice rising with every word spoken.
He thinks I took advantage of him, tricked him, Beatrice realized.
“No! No, I did not know who you were. Helena only ever referred to you in her letters as Marcus’ brother, and then, once they were married, as her brother. She never named you, so I did not know that you were…who you are.”
“Then why did ye lie about who ye were?” He looked confused, but far less angry and hurt.
“Because I did not want to be myself. I am…my life is…” she struggled to find the words.
“Complicated?” Brodie supplied, and she nodded.
“Yes. If I gave you my real name, all those trappings of my life that make things so complicated would have followed me into that room with you. But as Maggie, I had none of that to contend with. I was able to be someone else for a night, someone without my problems and past. It was freeing. It was nice. But it was only one night.”
“Aye. I understand now,” Brodie sighed, all the warmth leaving his eyes. “Ye wanted one night with me an’ nae more. Ye didnae want tae see me again.”
“I…I couldn’t, even if I had wanted to,” she added softly.
“But did ye?” a spark of hope mixed in with the sadness. “Did ye want to see me again?”
“It doesn’t matter; I can’t. Not even now we’re apparently living in the same place. I am still me, and therefore we cannot repeat that night. We cannot be lovers again. I’m sorry.”
“Aye, so am I, lass.”
“Here, take Padraig. I have to…I have to…” she said, but she did not finish the sentence. Instead, she placed Padraig carefully in Brodie’s arms and then walked out of the room, unable to stand another moment in the man’s presence. Not when she knew how much he wanted he
r. Not when she knew how much she still wanted him, though loathed to admit it.
She wanted him, even though he represented her betrayal of James, even though he had made her act in ways wholly improper for a woman of her station.
But she couldn’t face him, knowing what she knew now, and so she walked away.
* * *
Brodie watched Beatrice flee the room.
“Well now, that was a mite strange, was it nae?” he asked Padraig, who was looking up at him with what was either confusion or flatulence—Brodie was never quite sure.
