by Caroline Lee
Brohn’s gaze kept sliding between Nessa and his mother. Mam looked…so bloody happy. She was pressed up against the laird’s side, beaming up at him. What had they discussed that afternoon? After Nessa had given her father the lecture about his duty to his own happiness?
One thing was for certes: No one seeing the two of them together now could doubt the two turtledoves were a metaphor for his feelings for Mam.
Lara must’ve realized it too, because she was beaming happily, holding Alistair’s hand. When the laird finished, she spoke up.
“That reminds me of the story of the kitchen maid who happened to be in love with one of the laird’s sons. She was a soft-hearted lass and had begun to feel sorry for three chickens, which were set to become someone’s dinner. One evening, she realized one of the female guests was trying to seduce the man she loved, and the wee kitchen maid was having none of that! So she waited until the couple were ensconced in the chamber of the laird’s son, then she opened the door and tossed in the three hens! Can ye imagine the racket they caused, flapping about in their panic?”
The gathered group roared with laughter, calling out their reactions and suggestions.
“Imagine how slippery the room got with all that panicking!” Father Ambrose called.
Liam was nodding happily. “He means shite, Da. He’s talking about shite.”
Evelinde nearly choked on her own laughter, and Brohn watched Malcolm try to keep a straight face, as the man cautioned, “A gentleman doesnae use that kind of language.”
“Speaking of birds,” Agatha began, “do ye recall the tales of the Four Corbies? The sisters who lived in Corbie’s Burn had all been blessed with beautiful singing voices, yet cursed with the gift of gab. It seemed they chattered incessantly, or ‘twas what the rumors said, but their voices were like angels. It took a brave man to betroth himself to one of them…or rather a brave man’s father! The two fathers arranged the marriage, and the poor MacLauren warrior had to convince the wee chattering Corbie, marriage to him was no’ such a terrible idea.”
She continued, but Brohn wasn’t listening. Nay, he’d gone back to watching Nessa, whose expression had darkened at the mention of “fathers arranging marriages.” He remembered what she’d said about becoming a curse after being betrothed to seven Henrys, and each of them dying not long after.
I’m no’ marrying some far-off Henry!
His lips tugged up wryly. Apparently, there were some things which really were beyond her control, eh?
Casually, he pushed away from his place by the mantel and strolled around the outside of their cozy little group. She was seated on a bench, her red and green skirts spread out around her, her back straight.
She looked lonely, he thought.
She must not have seen him coming, because when he moved to her side, she gave a start of surprise. He grinned and knew the exact moment she allowed herself to be at ease around him. She exhaled, her shoulders relaxing, as she offered him a tentative smile…which turned into a gasp when he sat beside her.
Nay, he didn’t just sit beside her, he crowded her. He pushed his hip up against hers, then tucked his arm around her back and dragged her up against him. He demanded she rest against him.
And after a moment of resistance—likely because her family was watching, and surprised by his bold claim—she did.
Her cheek came to rest against the inside of his shoulder, and when he glanced down at her, she was smiling again.
“I love ye,” he whispered, so low he doubted she could hear it.
But her grin grew.
Around them, their families ignored his boldness. Oh, the laird eyed them for a while, his expression carefully blank as he sipped his ale, but Brohn held his gaze and lifted his chin, letting the man know he wasn’t going to back down.
Not this time.
Not ever again.
Nay, Nessa was his, and although he didn’t deserve her, he wasn’t going to give her up.
Not to some “far-off Henry,” at least.
Malcolm told a maudlin story about a couple destined to be kept apart. The lass’s name was also Nessa, and for a while, Brohn listened closely, wondering if ‘twas meant to be a metaphor for their situation. But nay, this lass was betrothed to another man, while loving the hero, and the hero had five rings forged into his sword to commemorate their love. The two of them eventually ended up together, but the path to their happiness wasn’t an easy one.
Then Father Ambrose told a story about a daring Highland spy who, while on a mission to the Lowlands, discovered he’d fathered a daughter by a beautiful former lover. In order to save them both from an evil border lord, he sacrificed his dream and gained a different sort of treasure.
As Brohn listened, he kept glancing between the priest and green-eyed Evelinde. Although it had never been confirmed, the fact Malcolm’s wife had the same color eyes, and the priest had followed her to Oliphant Castle, made more than a few people wonder about their connection.
Had Ambrose, who hadn’t been a priest his whole life, once fathered a daughter, just like the warrior in his story? In the story, the wee daughter was Maeve Maxwell, no’ Evelinde MacRob…but mayhap ‘twas supposed to be a metaphor?
The fact the warrior in the story hatched a gosling, which imprinted on the warrior, and then the wee daughter, had everyone else howling with laughter. But Brohn, smiling, had to wonder how much of the world Father Ambrose really had seen during his travels.
After that, Alistair’s heart-wrenching story about the male healer who fought to save the life of another man, only to discover the man was betrothed to the woman the healer loved, felt more maudlin. Brohn and Nessa weren’t the only ones holding their breath as they waited to find out how the healer and the lass—whose name meant “swan”—would find a way to be together.
After that story, Mam stood up to refill the empty flagons, and when Nessa began to stand to do her duty, the older woman shook her head with a small smile. Brohn was grateful for the chance to hold his love, and suspected Mam knew it.
As she moved from person to person, replenishing their drinks, Moira began another tale. “That one reminds me of the story of the beautiful lass who was married—quite against her will—to a terrifying warrior, whom she believed killed her father. She escaped before the wedding could be consummated, but hated the thought of going without her revenge. So, disguised as a milk maid, she snuck back into her castle, determined to—”
“This sounds like the story Aunt Agatha told,” Malcolm interrupted.
Mam frowned at him. “I assure ye, ‘tis different.”
“For certes?” Malcolm frowned, staring down at his flagon with one eye closed, as if trying to divine the truth. “Revenge, warrior, dead father, determined daughter…?”
“That one involved a partridge, remember? This one has a milking maid. Totally different.”
Smiling, Evelinde nudged her husband with her elbow. “Dinnae interrupt, love.”
“Aye, Da, gentlemen dinnae interrupt!” Liam’s voice piped in reprimand, and the circle of merry makers broke into laughter once more.
After Mam was done, the laird told a story about the old superstitions. But since it began with a rather graphic description of nine naked ladies, dancing around a standing stone in pagan celebration, Brohn—and Father Ambrose, judging from the appreciative sparkle in the priest’s eyes—knew exactly why The Oliphant chose this particular story.
“So one of them, her tits are bouncing up and down, and another one is freezing her poor shapely legs off, aye? And ye can just imagine the noise and the sights, with the moon casting all sorts of shadows—mainly nice round tits, ye ken—and so here comes the—”
Laughing, Nessa held up her hands and interrupted. “Da! Da, there are children present! I’ll tell a story, since ye cannae be arsed to find one appropriate for the holy occasion!”
And then she launched into a story about a laird who took a leap of faith by engaging in an affair of the heart with a more e
xperienced lady-in-waiting. There was plenty of naughtiness in that one too, but Nessa told the story with much winking and metaphor, which thankfully, wee Liam didn’t seem to understand.
The fire was beginning to die down, but none of the gathered Oliphants made a move to add more wood. It was late, and the snow falling outside made it seem even later. Or mayhap ‘twas the ale in their bellies which made it feel that way, a sort of cheerful comfort surrounding them all.
Evelinde told the last story, which was about a laird whose injuries in battle had stolen his sight. He wanted to give up responsibility to his younger brother, but a beautiful piper—who herself carried scars of the past—soothed him with her music, and the two wound up happy and together.
There were more than a few people yawning by the end of Evelinde’s story, although ‘twas agreed by all to have been a good one. Brohn saw wee Tomas was already asleep on his Da’s shoulder, likely exhausted by the walking he’d been practicing under Nanny’s watchful canine eye. Liam was squeezed between his parents, his cheek resting on his mother’s lap, and Evelinde was yawning too. So was Lara, but Alistair had a wicked look in his eye, which told Brohn he was looking forward to getting his wife alone.
Father Ambrose stretched. “A partridge, a pair of turtledoves, three hens… All of these stories deserve to be immortalized in song!”
There was general chuckling, but Brohn knew he couldn’t let everyone leave yet.
There was one more story which needed to be told.
“ ’Tis my turn, and I suspect ‘twill be our last one,” Brohn announced.
Beside him, Nessa started, then straightened. Reluctantly, he dropped his arm from around her shoulders, knowing he couldn’t afford to be distracted. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and lowered his voice the way he’d learned from Mam.
“This is a story about a ghost. A ghostly drummer, in fact, who was said to warn about doom.”
“Doom?” Liam whispered sleepily.
“No’ this story again,” huffed Lady Agatha. “I practically made this one up!”
Brohn nodded. “Aye, ye practically did, and ye had all of us believing in it for a long time, did ye no’? A ghostly drummer, who haunted the walls of an ancient Highland castle. All those who heard it were doomed to fall in love; ‘twas the reason behind the drumming, was it no’? Love?”
He knew he had their attention, so he met each watcher’s eyes in turn. First Lara, who was smiling, then Alistair, then on to Agatha, Father Ambrose, and finally, Malcolm. “The ghostly drummer was helpful, ye see. He—or possibly, she—kenned there were two lovers in the castle who didnae feel they could be together openly. They were of two different stations in life, ye see—a laird and naught more than a housekeeper.”
The Oliphant cleared his throat. “There’s nae naught about being a housekeeper, lad,” he grumbled with a warning in his tone, his arm sliding around Brohn’s mother. “Moira is the heart of this castle as far as I’m concerned.”
Brohn didn’t acknowledge the claim, but held his laird’s eyes and dropped his chin slightly in agreement before continuing. “ ’Twas up to the ghost to send messages to the lovers concerning when and where to meet. The messages were communicated through code, indicating when ‘twas safe for the lovers to be together. But then, one day, the ghost simply vanished.”
“Why?” young Liam asked.
Father Ambrose spoke up, “Likely banished to Heaven or Hell, laddie. Ghosts dinnae belong on our earth.”
But Brohn held the laird’s gaze while answering the priest, “Nay, Father. He vanished because he was nae longer needed. The laird and the housekeeper, ye see, had announced their love. It took some convincing, because one of them was sure she wasnae worthy of the other…but the laird was able to prove to her that his happiness was based on having her as a wife, and that his clan’s prosperity and happiness would follow. And so the ghost disappeared now that the couple nae longer had to hide their love.”
He held his breath, hoping he’d made the right decision.
His laird held his gaze, the man’s blue-gray eyes—the same shade as his stubborn, wonderful daughter’s—getting stormier and stormier, until Mam pinched him. Then William Oliphant let out a big huff, rolled his eyes, and stood, pulling Brohn’s mother to her feet with a surprised yelp.
“Well, I was going to announce this tomorrow, since today’s a holy feast and all that, but since that brash clot-heid over there let the news out already, I’ll confirm it!” His irritation seemed to melt as he pulled Mam up to his side, one arm around her middle, and beamed down at her. “Moira’s finally agreed to become my wife.”
Their little group burst into cheers, some having already known of the long-time affair, others surprised by the announcement. Brohn blew out a breath—not willing to admit how relieved he was—and dropped his gaze to Nessa.
All around them, their family rushed to congratulate the laird and Moira, and Brohn pulled his love to her feet.
Holding her hands, there by the dying fire, he captured her gaze.
“My mother and yer father deserve to be happy, Nessa,” he whispered.
Slowly, her grin grew. “I think ‘tis the most wonderful thing. Thank ye for bringing it out in the open.”
“Nay, love, ‘tis ye who talked him into it. ‘Tis ye who made him realize the possibilities.”
And in doing so, had opened Brohn’s heart as well.
In the firelight, her eyes twinkled mischievously. “ ’Tis true. They owe us both for their happiness.”
And more than anything, more than his next breath, Brohn wanted to wrap his arms around her. He wanted to pull her against him and press her heart against his so she could feel its beat. He wanted her to know—to feel—how much she affected him.
But this wasn’t the time.
He hadn’t quite shown her what she meant to him.
So instead of lowering his lips to hers, instead of claiming her before her entire family, he lifted her hand and brushed a kiss across her palm. When she shivered slightly, her eyes glazing with desire, he hid his grin.
Soon, my love.
Soon, he’d be able to show her he understood his duty.
“A toast!”
When Nessa turned to acknowledge Father Ambrose’s cry, Brohn dropped her hand, glad for her distraction.
With one last grin, he turned and slipped into the shadows.
Chapter 9
Nessa scrambled to pick up her cup—even though it was only half-full—and toasted to Moira and Da’s happiness. Father Ambrose was waxing poetic about love and marriage, but ‘twas hard to hear him over everyone else’s shouts of amazement and joy.
She smiled and sipped at her ale, watching her family crowd around the happy couple. She wanted to hug them both and offer her congratulations, but she’d wait.
Besides, she had other things she was determined to talk to them about as well.
‘Tis been quite the holy day, eh?
Grinning, she turned to share her joy—and mayhap a naughty wink—with Brohn. But he was gone.
Surprised, she turned in place, searching their little group for him. Nay, he wasn’t clamoring to congratulate Da and his mother, and he wasn’t standing at the edges either. He wasn’t there, and he wasn’t watching. Where was he?
Her mouth dropped open.
Was it possible he’d abandoned her? After the moment they’d shared? He’d kissed her palm in front of everyone, by all the saints!
Nay. Nay, there had to be an explanation for why he’d left her. Didn’t there?
A doubt nibbled at the back of her mind.
He didn’t stand up for ye to yer Da before. How certain are ye he’d do it now?
She closed her eyes on an angry hiss. Anger at him, and anger at herself.
Mayhap…mayhap she shouldn’t spill her heart to her father this night.
Mayhap she should figure out what Brohn wanted from the future, first.
She lifted her cup to her lips
to hide her frown, but didn’t sip. Instead, she stood and watched her family laugh and tease one another. Malcolm bounced Liam on his hip, and the lad squealed happily as Evelinde swayed gently to keep the bairn asleep. Alistair was yawning, but Lara’s eyes twinkled merrily as she pulled her husband’s arm over her shoulder and waved her farewells to everyone.
Nessa waved in return, then took a gulp of the ale, as if she’d been planning on doing that all along. The cool liquid went down fast, causing her to cough a bit, but it was soothing when the rest of her felt so hot. Itchy and hot and irritated.
After placing the cup on the table once more, she turned to see Malcolm’s family climbing the steps and Agatha embracing Da. She was saying something quietly to the laird, her wrinkled hands on his cheeks as she whispered intently. Moira was beaming though, so Nessa was certain it was something nice.
When she finished, the old woman pulled Da’s head down and placed a kiss on his brow, like a sort of blessing. Then she did the same for Moira, and stepped back, nodding in satisfaction. To her surprise, Nessa felt her throat closing up with emotion.
Aunt Agatha had always been with them, and it was hard to imagine the feisty old woman ever leaving them. But she’d been right earlier, when she said that one Christmas, one Hogmanay, would be her last. Nessa prayed this wasn’t it and she’d have her great-aunt’s council—at times frustrating, shocking and hilarious—for years to come.
Father Ambrose offered the old woman his arm, then slammed his hand against Da’s shoulder in congratulations. Da was smiling in bemusement behind his beard, and Nessa could tell he was pleased by whatever his aunt had said to him.
And then the priest led Agatha away, and ‘twas just Nessa, Da and Moira left.
Taking a deep breath, still not sure what she needed to say to her father, she approached Moira with her arms out. The plump housekeeper pulled her into a hug, and Nessa buried her head against the woman’s shoulder.
