by R. L. Syme
“Because that was the last we heard from you when you’d gone with de Moray. And you haven’t exactly been forthcoming with information.”
“I do not pine for… it matters not.” Broccin chewed the end of a piece of bread and considered his options. Duncan practically ordered him, as the Laird, to marry the girl. Malcolm had promised, before his disgrace, that her mother gave family approval.
“I think she’ll say yes, Broccin.”
“Oh, do you now?”
“Aye, I think you should ask her.”
“Well, I cannot ask her today. Not after the news of her father. That wouldn’t be right.”
Duncan put down his cup and sighed. “You have to ask her soon, Broccin, or she will have to return. In fact, if Buckingham knows she’s here, we can expect the steward to arrive as early as tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Broccin growled. “Och, the English.” He couldn’t think. He’d just been encouraged to ask for Kensey’s hand, and by the very man he’d thought laid prior claim to her. He felt like he should be shouting in the hallways. But he was nervous, almost scared. For he wasn’t sure she would feel the same way he did, no matter what Brigid thought.
Kensey suddenly burst into the room. “Broc, you must come upstairs with me. Robert is asking for you.”
Duncan gave his brother a knowing look and inclined his head toward the door. “Go ahead, Broc.” Broccin rose and followed Kensey to the stairs. For the first time in eleven years, when he noticed the sway of her hips, he didn’t berate himself. Or look away.
Chapter Sixteen
Robert was inconsolable and it took the better part of the day and night for Broccin to calm the boy and convince him that sleep would make at least today’s ache less difficult to bear. Broc knew all too well that it would still hurt in the morning, but sleep would at least bring some form of peace.
The boy wouldn’t speak to Kensey, or to Duncan. Malcolm had disappeared with his horse, and Peter was too afraid to enter Robert’s room. But Morainn was a blessing straight from heaven. She came and sat with Broccin, silent as a ghost, and required nothing.
When Robert calmed enough to head toward sleep, Morainn sat at his bedside and held his hand fearlessly. She didn’t speak to him, and the lack of requirement almost made up for Robert’s extreme distress.
The two children fell asleep holding hands. Robert curled into his covers and Morainn sprawled across the edge of the bed, still trying to keep her chair, holding on to his hand even in sleep.
Once Robert’s breath was even, Broc went to check on Kensey. When Robert sent her away, Broc hadn’t seen her for the rest of the day and in the back of his mind, Duncan’s admonition weighed on him.
He needed to find a way to protect her, formally. Legally.
When he reached her door, he knocked quietly and within moments, she answered. Her eyes bleary and red from crying, she should have induced pity, but Broc couldn’t believe how beautiful she could be, even slobbery and sobbing. She covered her white shift in a surcoat that buttoned at the chest and provided enough decency, his imagination didn’t run away with him.
“I wanted to tell you that Robert finally went to sleep.” Broc put his hand on her door and she stood in the tiny opening, half of her body visible. The long red sleeve of her surcoat trailed against the door as she grasped it.
“Thank you.”
“And is there anything I can do for you?” Broc almost smacked his head when the words were delivered. Fool. Bring her father back. End the war. There are many things you could yet do for her.
She sniffed and shook her head. “We can’t ask anything more of you, Broccin. You have been so generous to us.”
Broc smoothed at the rough wood with the palm of his hand as though it were her back. “You could ask anything of me, Kensey. And if I could make it happen, I would. If I could bring back your father, or your mother, even if it cost my own life. If I could return you to your home. Even if all you needed was to be left alone. I would do it if I could.”
Her eyes rounded for a moment, and then filled with tears. She sagged against the door and it swung away from him. Broc reached for and caught her, hauling her against him as she wept.
The feel of her curled up against his body was intoxicating. And even in her despair, she was beautiful. He wanted to console her. But mostly, he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until she forgot all the hardships in her life.
“I’ve feared for weeks that this would happen.” Her voice came out in a hiccough every other word, but he found he could understand her. “And I knew there was nothing we could do. But to be so truly helpless. And to have him just taken from us.”
She lost her words and he held her again, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Broc drew her into his lap so he could fit his arms fully around her and enclose her in a whole embrace.
“And now, Duncan says that Reyf will come for us.” Her body heaved with sobs. “The future is so bleak already without my parents, and I will soon have to leave… Castle St. Claire. When I have been so loved here.”
“Then don’t go back.” Broc had been waiting all night to say these words. Somehow, the moment had never quite been right. But this, he felt, could be the perfect time to speak with her.
“What?”
“Don’t go back. Stay here.”
“But I can’t just stay here. I have to do what my family tells me. What the council will tell me.”
“Blast your family, and blast the council,” Broccin swore.
“I can’t do that.”
He inhaled, acutely aware of the air passing through his mouth and into his lungs. And he held it there, waiting. Every part of his body seemed to be aware in this moment. This was the moment, he thought, that he would take his life into his hands. “Then marry me.”
Even though she’d been expecting them, the words still shocked him. Warmed him to his very core, but shocked him.
“Marry you?”
“Aye, lass, marry me.” He stopped, still unsure of his footing. “Unless you would rather have Duncan.”
She shook her head and looked up into his eyes. “But I don’t want Duncan.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
Broccin took a deep breath. “It may not be for love, Kensey, but I could provide a home and care for you. I’ll protect both you and your brother. And I promise no harm will come to either of you while you live under my roof.”
***
Kensey’s heart sank slowly into her stomach. Even though she hadn’t expected flowers or poetic verse, she had expected some sort of love from the man who sat before her. She certainly didn’t expect him to give her the speech she imagined all the arranged couples gave one another. I know it won’t be for love, she kept hearing in her head. His words stung her to her very core. She knew now that, even though she would accept his proposal, she would never give him her heart. Not until she had his in return.
She searched his goldenrod eyes before she answered. They were so hopeful and so earnest, and he was such a good man. He was, after all, the one she always wished for, the one she thought would solve her problems, the one she hoped would always be at the door after a knock.
The little time she’d spent loving Albert had taught her that anticipation meant so much. Wanting someone to be around often led to those deep feeling of need and want. Although so did infidelity, but if she was certain of one thing, it was that Broc would only ever give his heart to one woman.
He felt so deeply, with such conviction, even when he didn’t admit it aloud. He would never be able to split his attention. He wasn’t a duplicitous man.
So she must make him need her, and then love her. And then, once she was certain of his love, she would allow herself to think of love again. But to protect herself from the kind of torment Albert had visited on her, she promised herself never to love more than he did.
Kensey took his hands. “You have been so
generous to us, and I trust you completely. One day, we may come to love each other. And one day, even the memories of our past may fade away until there’s only our life together. I hope that for us.”
“As do I.” The bright twinkle in his eyes gave him the look of a boy with his most prized gift.
Build on that anticipation, she thought. And someday, I will love you, too.
***
Once Broc left, Kensey anticipated being left alone. It was nearly bedtime for the rest of the house, and she wanted to keep their betrothal just between them for a short time longer. Just to know in her heart that she would one day be his.
She was surprised when another knock sounded at her door. She wrapped herself in the red surcoat again, hoping it might be Broccin. Perhaps he wanted to seal their betrothal with a kiss. Admittedly, she’d wanted the same thing.
But Duncan waited on the other side of the door instead of his brother. She feigned a yawn and asked his business. But before he could answer, she noted his visible distraction. Something had happened.
“Don’t hold your tongue. Just tell me what happened!” she couldn’t hold in her enthusiasm.
He held up a folded piece of parchment. “A rider came from Wick today. I’ve had a letter from Fiona.”
“You did?” Kensey asked excitedly. She threw her arms around Duncan’s neck and squealed in glee. The letter had been folded into quite a small square and it took Kensey a moment to work it loose from its intricate folds so she could read it.
Duncan reported ahead of her reading. “She says she thinks of me day and night and wishes she could be with me.” He looked up at Kensey every few seconds with a gleam of love shining in his eyes.
She remembered that look. Albert had looked at her that way once. It was the way her father looked at her mother. The way she thought Broc might one day look at her, if he would let his guard down.
That was love.
“She says she still believes that our love will sustain her. And she assures me that Colin is much occupied with raiders and warriors. He has not touched her in…” he stopped, his countenance dropping, “that way since he tried on their wedding night, and shows little interest in trying again. She says nothing of his violence, however. I have it from Malcolm that Ross is extremely violent with her, but she bears it.” A tear glimmered in the corner of his eye. “I cannot bear to think of her even living with that animal, let alone...”
Kensey finished the sentence for him. Let alone sharing his bed. She couldn’t imagine it either. And now that she was to be married, she would know what it was like to share a man’s bed, and she’d still not be able to think of Fiona with anyone else but Duncan.
“She loves you.” Kensey reassured him, covering his hand with hers. “She loves you and she still has hope.” She leaned over the open sheet of paper. “What else does she say?”
“She sent her father’s ring to you, and asked that you keep it safe. Then she said that she loves both of us and hopes to see us soon.”
Kensey swallowed hard. Fiona sent something to her home, no doubt. She couldn’t know about Mother and Father, or about Buckingham. Or Broc. She wondered what ring it could have been. Certainly not something Colin would miss. Nor her father. But she resolved to write Fiona in the morning with her news. And to tell Duncan. And Robert. For now, she was safe. Her brother was safe. Fiona was holding on. And all that could be well in the world was well.
Chapter Seventeen
Broccin spent most of the time precluding his wedding away from his intended bride, which some undoubtedly found odd. But in his mind, it was the only way he could keep himself emotionally and physically in check. The night he’d spent in her room consoling her was trying for him and nearly sent him over the edge. He had to keep reminding himself that she was to be his. His. And in short order. But even though he tried his damnedest to stay away from her, he still felt drawn whenever she made a noise in the night or when she looked into his eyes in just a certain way.
The wedding was to be a magnificent affair. A feast was prepared, a celebration planned, and a grand time expected by all. Brigid had set everyone to work planning for the big event. The oldest son takes a bride. And the house was always aflutter with something until the very day of the wedding.
So when Broccin found himself staring down at Kensey as she stood at his side, trembling on his arm, he had to silently thank his sister for her attention to every detail. Brigid adorned the great hall in ornate décor that dwarfed even what they had for any other event. She had seen personally to the gilding of the bride, as well. The gown had been one of Broccin’s mothers. It was a deep amethyst color with gold braiding around the bodice. Brigid added a trim of gold-shimmering ribbon around the skirt and the long, bell-shaped sleeves. Then, another around the hem of the low waist that flowed back into a long sash that just crested the floor. She had even prepared a special plaid brat for Broccin to wear with a sash that matched her honey-colored trim. The deep greens in the weavers’ pattern married the hue in Kensey’s gown beautifully, as they walked together toward the priest Duncan had brought from Wick. A true priest, and not just a rector. His accent told that he wasn’t English, which did Broc’s heart a good. Every detail had been seen to.
Not only was her gown gorgeous, but Kensey looked even more radiant and angelic than Broccin had ever thought possible. To his interested amazement, he found himself calming as they walked, arm in arm, toward the priest. He had been anticipating this moment for so long, and it was finally upon him. However, the trembling of her arm laced through his caught him off guard.
He tried to convince himself that she’d had plenty of time to reconsider his offer of marriage. And surely, if she’d wanted to get out of marrying him, she could have found some way to do it without alienating herself from his family, which may have been her biggest concern.
He certainly hoped that once they were married, these odd barriers would come down, between them. He longed to be able to talk freely with her. To have the kind of ease in their communication that Andrew and Elizabeth had, or Brigid and Alec. To know someone’s heart truly.
“Please kiss your wife, Lord Sinclair,” Father William whispered as Broccin continued to stare at him. “Since you didn’t hear me the first time.”
Unsure he’d heard the priest correctly, Broccin came out of his inner thought process and repeated, “Kiss? My wife?”
“Yes, that would be my suggestion,” replied the Father.
He had practiced, in his mind, how he would mingle his gentility with his strength. How he would win her with their first kiss and how he could show his love for her in this one perfect moment. But the hurried note in the priest’s voice propelled him into action without thought. He felt not at all like a man in love about to claim his first kiss as a husband from the woman that he wanted to share his heart with since childhood. Not like a man entitled to claim the beautiful, yet stoic lady standing in front of him. Not like the lover he wanted to be, for her sake. But a strange specter of humanity.
Broccin finally came back to his senses and took a step toward the angel in front of him. Reaching a strong hand to her face, he guided her toward him. Slowly, as if capturing the moment exactly in his mind, he lowered his head down to hers and waited for her to meet him partway in their first kiss as a married couple.
However, she did not press her lips to his and he was left hanging there for a few seconds, contemplating the demise of everyone witnessing this spectacle. Finally, he bent and captured those lips he’d been dreaming of for most of his life. But as he tried to deepen the kiss, he felt her reluctance fade.
When cheers erupted, his awareness of the public nature of their intimacy made him pull away. That sweet moment gone, now all that was left was the truth. They were married. What she felt or didn’t feel aside, she was his wife. He belonged to her in a way he’d never belonged to another person. In all his desire of her, he’d forgotten the gravity of what they’d done. Her p
ast, his past, now gone. They were all each other would have for the rest of time.
No wonder every wedding he’d ever seen ended with everyone drunk to high heaven. This was a heady moment, like looking directly at the sun. Stay in it too long and it might blind a man.
He would have carried her away from that altar if she weren’t so light. As it was, she came along quick enough to suit him and he’d had his first cup of ale quick enough. Once they’d taken their seat at the head of the table, the feast had been laid out and the room looked ablaze with festivity. The crowd silenced as he raised his cup, expecting a speech no doubt, and when none was given, the restlessness was evident.
“Drink hail!” Duncan finally called out. “To the new laird of Sinclair, and his beautiful wife.” Everyone in the room raised their cups in salute except Kensey and Broccin. “May your days and nights be filled with happiness, may you be blessed with fruitful lands, may your pleasure always dwell in one another, and may your family be blessed by your union.” He ground his cup onto the table and yelled, “Drink hail!” As everyone else did the same before drinking their mead, Broccin finally spared a smile for his bride.
The formalities were at last behind them and he could breathe again. The cosmic import of the moment was gone. He was simply a man with a beautiful woman at his side, and that made for a good day.
“Shall we have the music now?” Duncan asked, leaning toward his brother as the chatter in the hall rose.
Broccin nodded curtly. He signaled for the minstrels and felt the expectant eyes on him. Never a particularly adept dancer, he almost loathed to do so, but he turned to Kensey. “Would you dance with me, wife?”
The word caught in his throat. Wife. She was his wife. He was her husband. Perhaps no amount of time could have prepared him for husbanding. In the span of a kiss, he’d turned into his father.
“Oh, of course I will, husband,” she said demurely, not meeting his gaze. He rose and took her hand, escorting her to the middle of the floor.
