She shook her head in wonder. Perhaps persuasion was better than force.
Daubing the dovecot might not have seemed much like punishment to Cristy, but it promised to be dirty work. So once inside the stone structure, she brought the back of her skirt between her legs to the front, looping it up to tuck it into her belt like the crofters did. There was no point in getting the hem any filthier than it already was.
“Ye’ll have to show me how to make the daub,” she said.
Colin and Cambel took pride in demonstrating their very precise recipe. They showed her exactly how many handfuls of straw, clay, and cow dung to use, though she insisted they employ a spade to measure out the cow dung. They mixed it all in a large wooden bucket, stirring it with a stick until it made a thick paste.
Then, using a few small spades, they began to daub the mixture into every cranny where the sunlight streamed through.
“Da says we can get chickens when the doocot is repaired,” Cambel said.
“I can’t wait to get chickens.” Colin wiped his cheek, leaving a streak of daub there. “I’m goin’ to be in charge o’ collectin’ the eggs every day.”
“I’m goin’ to be in charge o’ the pigs when we get them,” said Cambel.
“What are ye goin’ to be in charge o’, m’lady?” Colin asked.
“I…” she began awkwardly.
Cambel elbowed his brother. “She’s goin’ home, Colin. Remember? Da said when we get the thirty coos, she’s goin’ home.”
Colin pursed his lips in a sad pout. “I don’t want her to go home.”
“But ye like coos, Colin.”
Colin’s chin trembled. “I don’t like coos as much as I like m’lady.”
Cristy felt her heart cave in at his words. No one had ever said such a sweet thing. She bit her lip to keep from crying.
Cambel consoled his brother. “But she promised she’d come and visit us, right, m’lady?”
She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nodded, hoping she could keep her promise. She knew it was only a matter of time before the ransom was paid. It wouldn’t be thirty cows. That was a preposterous number. But her uncle would at least return Macintosh’s own cattle. And then she’d have to leave. But it wouldn’t surprise her if Douglas Moffat forbid her from venturing to the Macintosh holding after that.
It took over an hour to use up the first bucket of daub, though a good portion of it seemed to have found its way onto their clothing. While the lads were mixing another batch, Cristy surveyed the dovecot. The interior was dimmer, now that they’d filled in the lower crevices. She decided they should have the door open for light.
As she swung the door wide, something fluttered out of the path. It looked like a scrap of crumpled parchment. She bent down to pick it up. As she did, she noticed another piece. She compared them. They fit together. Someone or something had torn the parchment in half. There was scrawling on one side, but she couldn’t read it.
An inexplicable tingling suddenly traversed the back of her neck, as if she’d backed into a spider’s web.
“Lads,” she said, wandering back into the dovecot, “do ye know what this is?”
They glanced at the two pieces.
“Parchment?” Colin guessed.
“Can ye tell me what it says?” she asked.
They frowned in concentration as they bowed their heads over the two scraps, deciphering the letters.
“Keep her,” Colin said. “It says ‘keep her.’ But I can’t read this word.”
“’Tis too messy,” Cambel said.
She stared closer at it. She’d seen that scrawl before. “Moffat.”
Cambel shrugged. “Maybe.”
Keep her. Moffat.
The letters blurred as she continued to stare at them.
Suddenly she felt dizzy. Then sick. Then numb. Her blood congealed in her veins. And her heart seemed to shrivel in her chest.
Cristy’s worst fears were confirmed. She didn’t belong. She wasn’t wanted.
“What does it mean?” Colin wanted to know.
How could she answer him?
What it meant was that she was alone in the world. That her own uncle didn’t care about her. That nobody cared about her.
“Are ye all right, m’lady?” Cambel asked, resting a dirty but concerned hand on her skirt.
She looked blankly down at him.
But that wasn’t right. Someone did care about her. These two lads cared about her. They thought she was bonnie…and better than cows.
And then, as she let the pieces of parchment flutter to the ground, she realized someone else cared even more about her.
Brochan.
This note was for him. He must have read it. And he must have torn it in half.
He’d lied to her.
There had been no fierce negotiations. Her uncle hadn’t been willing to trade for her at all. And Brochan hadn’t demanded thirty cows for her return. He’d only said that because he knew there was going to be no return.
He’d made all of that up to keep her from being hurt. He’d tried to protect her feelings.
Her deflated heart slowly filled again—with wonder, with warmth, with joy.
The Macintoshes cared about her. The lads called her “m’lady” and snuggled with her at night and laughed at her playacting. Brochan treated her like a guest, guarded her heart from pain, and kissed her with tenderness.
She dared to wonder if she might make a home here, if she might be able to find a place in their kind and loving household.
She would do whatever it took to earn their trust and be deserving of their love. She’d empty the chamber pots, scrub the garderobe, and pick up coo pats every day if it meant she could be part of their clan.
With a trembling smile, she placed a hand atop Cambel’s sweet head. “I’m all right. Everythin’ is goin’ to be all right.”
Her spirits renewed, she straightened and looked around the dovecot. There were still a lot of gaps to fill, but the sooner she finished, the sooner her darling wee companions would be able to get their beloved chickens.
Her ambitious plans were curtailed when the lads started quibbling.
“Don’t!” Colin snapped at Cambel, ducking his head away.
“I’m just tryin’ to get the daub off your face,” Cambel argued.
“Nay, ye’re not! Ye’re puttin’ more on!”
“Lads,” Cristy chided.
They ignored her.
In perceived retaliation, Colin dipped his finger in the daub and smudged it on Cambel’s cheek.
Cambel’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “Colin! For shame!”
Colin giggled.
Cambel dipped his whole hand in the bucket then and put a handprint in the middle of Colin’s white leine.
Colin’s jaw dropped.
“Lads!” Cristy scolded, planting her hands on her hips.
In return, Colin grabbed a fistful of daub and smeared it across Cambel’s leine.
Cambel gasped.
Then began the melee. The lads started reaching into the bucket and firing sticky handfuls at each other as if engaged in a deadly battle. Soon, brown splats covered their hair and clothing and stuck to the walls of the byre.
“Lads!” she shouted.
Then one of the twins—she wasn’t sure which one—happened by chance to fire a daub missile straight at her. It caught her on the forehead.
All three of them froze in horror as the daub began dripping down her nose.
Cristy didn’t know what got into her. She acted on instinct. With a vexed growl, she reached both her hands into the bucket and smacked the mischievous lads in the face with daub.
Unfortunately, that only escalated the fight. Colin accused Cambel of attacking Cristy, and Cambel accused Colin. They began pelting each other again. And Cristy found herself elbow-deep in the battle.
Not long after that the giggles started.
Brochan smiled as he strode down the brae toward the dovecot. His pe
nitents didn’t sound very penitent. He could hear laughter coming from inside. The sound of his sons laughing always lifted his spirits. But hearing Cristy’s giggles mingled with theirs was like listening to merry music.
He wondered what had made them so full of cheer.
The door was open, so he poked his head into the byre. “What’s goin’ on, my wee merrymak-?”
His question was cut short by the smack of something against his chest. Something wet and brown and sticky.
“What the…?”
Frozen before him, looking as filthy as pigs and guilty as sin, were his sons and his hostage. It didn’t escape his notice that Miss Moffat’s skirts were hitched up like a crofter’s, leaving her mouthwatering legs indecently bare, albeit coated with nasty-looking mire. Indeed, if he weren’t so appalled by the mess, he might have been aroused.
He lifted his fingers to his chest and drew them back with a scowl. Daub. One of the three miscreants before him had thrown daub at him.
“I can explain,” Cristy said. At least he thought it was Cristy. It was hard to tell under all that muck.
“I’m sorry, Da.”
“We’re sorry, Da.”
For the first time in his life, Brochan wasn’t sure which twin was which. Their faces were covered in mire, and straw stuck out at all angles from their hair.
He shook his head in disbelief. It looked as if they’d been having some sort of full-scale daub war.
Then Cristy snickered.
The lads covered their mouths, stifling giggles.
Brochan glowered at them from the doorway, his arms crossed sternly over his chest—just below the splash of daub.
But the mischief-makers couldn’t contain their laughter, and soon the rafters of the dovecot were ringing with the sound of unfettered glee.
Brochan narrowed his gaze and gave them a dire warning. “If ye think I’m goin’ to let ye get away with this, ye’re mistaken.”
He then proceeded to do what any wise laird would do to maintain the upper hand and establish his dominance. He joined in the battle and defeated them all soundly.
When they ran out of munitions, they collapsed in a laughing heap on the floor of the dovecot. Daub not only caked their clothing and stained their skin. Muddy splats also decked the walls and littered the floor.
But it was worth it to hear their laughter. For the first time in too many days, now that he had an extra helping hand, Brochan felt he could spare a few moments for frivolity.
Of course, the mess had to be cleaned up. And the lads needed to be scrubbed from head to toe before he’d let them into the tower house.
“Ye know what this means, lads,” he said.
One of them sighed. “Since we were wicked, do we have to clean out the garderobe?”
“Ye already smell like a garderobe,” he told them. “But nay. I think we need to make a trip to the loch to get the stink off.”
The lads cheered. They hated their weekly bath in a tub, but in summer, they were always keen to take a dip in a loch.
Before Brochan could exercise prudence, the lads extended an invitation to Cristy.
“Ye come with us, m’lady! Ye’ll love the loch!”
“Aye, and ye can get the stink off ye too!”
Cristy hesitated. “I’m not sure your da—”
“Please, m’lady,” one of the twins begged. “I want to show ye the frogs.”
“And I can swim. Ye have to see how I can swim.”
After that, despite Brochan’s qualms about inviting a lass to bathe with them, he knew she could hardly refuse.
“Fine. I’ll come.”
At first, frolicking in the loch was fairly harmless. Since their clothing was coated with muck, the lads waded in, fully dressed, to rinse it out of their trews and leines.
But the lads were unaccustomed to swimming in their clothes. So they very quickly and unabashedly peeled off their soaking garments, tossing them atop a boulder at the water’s edge, and returned to swimming and splashing about like a pair of naked kelpies.
The lads took turns showing Cristy how well they could swim, and she praised their efforts. Of course, though she could wade into the water, she dared not go too deep. Her drenched wool skirts would pull her under. So she stood waist-deep in the loch, washing her face and loosening her braid in the sunshine.
While she watched the twins, Brochan watched her.
It seemed like Cristy had blossomed in the last few days. That first night, her face had been full of fear and hate and anger. But now she was radiant. Her eyes were joyful. Her head was held high. Her smile was wide and open. She was truly beautiful—in body and in spirit.
He wanted to keep her…forever.
Then he was struck with a bolt of guilt. That was the promise he’d given his wife.
Besides, it was a foolish wish. Cristy didn’t belong to him. Even if her kin refused to negotiate for her return, he couldn’t help but believe that, deep in her heart, she longed to go home.
The kiss they’d shared had been an accident, something fleeting and meaningless. The last thing a carefree young lass like Cristy wanted was to be tied to a man with two wee sons, two old servants, and a holding he could barely manage.
So then what was he going to do with her? He’d delayed her leaving, both to salvage her feelings and because he selfishly wasn’t ready to part with her yet. But he couldn’t keep up the pretense of holding her hostage. At some point, he had to let her go.
He knew that. So why did it agonize him so much to think about it?
Cristy smiled at the lads, clapping her hands in approval as they showed her the pebbles they’d collected from the loch bottom.
His chest ached as he thought of no longer having her in his life. True, he’d only known her a few days. But in that short time, she’d already become fast friends with his sons, and she’d already made a place for herself in his heart.
It wasn’t the place his wife occupied. No one would ever have that place.
But he’d grown undeniably fond of Cristy. And since he cared about her, as much as it pained him, he had to tell her the truth. It was the right thing to do.
With a resigned sigh, he called out, “Lads, are ye good and clean?”
They groaned in protest. If it were up to them, they’d swim in the loch all day.
“Ye need to get back to the tower and give Mabel your wet clothes.”
“But, Da…”
“Please, Da, we want to stay.”
“If ye stay, ye won’t get your chores done. And if ye don’t get your chores done, ye won’t get to see the comet tonight.”
“I don’t mind,” Colin said. “I’ve seen the comet.”
“Me neither,” said Cambel. “I’d rather stay here and swim.”
Brochan could honestly say he didn’t blame them. Cristy’s company was much more engaging than a star hanging silently in the sky. But he needed some time alone with her.
Remembering that persuasion was better than force, he said, “I’ll make a bargain with ye. If ye get into dry clothes and finish your chores, I’ll tell ye another story tonight.”
“The Oak and the Reed?” Cambel asked.
“Nay, The Tortoise and the Hare!” Colin cried.
“Ye always get The Tortoise and the Hare,” Cambel complained.
“Whoever gets to the tower first can pick the tale,” Brochan decided.
The lads sprang out of the loch, dripping, grabbed their clothes, and skipped toward the tower house, naked as newborns.
“Don’t go near the cattle!” he yelled after them.
“We won’t!” they called back.
He watched them scamper away for as long as he could, loath to confront Cristy with the painful news he had. When he could delay no more, he turned back…and froze.
Her clothes were in a pile at the loch’s edge. Afloat in the water, letting the current lap at her bare shoulders, was beautiful Cristy, wearing naught but a smile.
He didn’t know
whether to be pleased or horrified. Fairly quickly, his body made up his mind for him. Within his trews, he felt a swelling as he continued to gaze at her and imagined what lay hidden beneath the waves.
“Are ye goin’ to stand there all day?” she teased.
He gulped. “Maybe.”
She obviously didn’t know the power of her own beauty. There was no way to have a serious discussion with the lass while she was naked and so damned tempting.
“Why?” she asked sincerely. “Don’t ye know how to swim?”
“O’ course I know how to swim.”
“Then come join me,” she cooed, playfully twirling in the water.
She bobbed up briefly enough for him to catch a glimpse of a pair of lovely, pale breasts with dark points just beneath the surface. His mouth went dry.
“Ye aren’t afraid o’ me, are ye?” she teased.
He scoffed, though it came out as more of a croak.
But aye, he was afraid of her. She made him think of mad things, like forgetting his marriage vows, kissing her again, and holding her hostage forever.
Bloody hell.
“Ye’re not afraid I’m a kelpie, here to lure ye to your doom?” she said with a laugh.
That was exactly what he was afraid of.
But he couldn’t very well turn down her perfectly innocent invitation. She didn’t mean anything by it. And he wasn’t a coward.
With a sigh of defeat and determined to keep things as casual as possible, he began stripping off his clothes.
Chapter 9
Cristy’s invitation was anything but innocent.
She wasn’t unaware of the effect she was having on Brochan. She wanted him to kiss her again. And she knew that men, like cattle, could be more easily moved when they were guided along. Just as he’d said, persuasion was better than force. So she intended to persuade him.
What she didn’t expect was the effect Brochan would have on her once he started undressing.
When he whipped off his leine, her breath caught in lusty surprise. His bare chest was taut with muscle, his stomach ridged, narrowing to a trim waist. His shoulders were broad, and his arms were massive. No wonder he’d been able to pack her off to the tower house with such ease that first night.
The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2) Page 23
