A Lord for the Lass (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  By the time they reached Duncraigh Castle, Makenna had exhausted herself with all her doubts. The sight of a somberly dressed Lady Haverille rushing from the castle’s front entrance to greet them was a balm, and Makenna’s heart swelled that she had returned from Bramble Park. She would be in mourning for her father, but she’d still come.

  Malcolm gave a shout, and when Julien let the boy down from the horse they’d been sharing, Lady Haverille gathered him into her arms. He clung to her just as fiercely. Like Celia had been discussing earlier, Malcolm was heir, but far too young to be laird of the Brodie clan. The clan had some healing to do of its own, and it made sense to place another Brodie, one they could trust to bring back its honor and order, and then to step aside when Malcolm was mature enough to take leadership.

  He would need to stay in Scotland and be a part of the Brodies as a Highlander. Duncraigh was close, but eventually, Julien would want to return to France. Wouldn’t he? Makenna couldn’t imagine leaving Malcolm here, to be raised by some other Scot, while she followed Julien to France. But she also couldn’t very well ask Julien to give up his homeland for the Highlands.

  “Chéri,” Lady Haverille said, embracing Julien, but pulling back when he made a soft groan. She peered at him. “You’re injured.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said.

  “That’s right. Who hasn’t endured a knife in the ribs, though it’s been some time since the streets of Montmartre, eh?” Maxim quipped, knowing full well how Julien’s mother would react. She let out a string of French that Makenna assumed was part concern and part anger, her hands pushing aside his coat panels in search of the wound.

  “I am fine, Maman,” he assured her, glaring at Max, who looked much like an older version of Evan or Findlay whenever the two of them would cause mischief. “Sewn up, rubbed down with a salve, and bandaged to within an inch of my life.”

  “That is not humorous in the least,” his mother snapped.

  Sorcha came forward. “I will have a look at Lord Riverley’s wound. I’m sure I have something in my bags that can help with the healing as well.”

  Makenna was certain that her sister would; both her mother and Sorcha had innate talents with tinctures and herbs.

  Lady Haverille gave him a push toward Sorcha while Julien pulled a face. “That name, Lord Riverley. It makes me think my grandfather is hovering like a ghost nearby, grinning with glee. I miss Leclerc.”

  Makenna felt a low pang in her stomach. It was a name he’d deplored for so long. And he’d made it his own, pressed into the decision the day Tildy had abducted Malcolm. Accepted it to give her a fighting chance. Of course, he would regret it now. Misery weighed upon her.

  As Ronan’s men dismounted and led their horses toward the stables, everyone else went inside. Lady Haverille directed the maids to prepare rooms for all of their guests, and insisted Max stay, even though his estate was less than an hour’s carriage ride away. They were all in need of baths, rest, and sustenance, and André was already hard at work in the kitchens. Ronan’s men would make camp outside the castle walls, but he and Makenna’s other brothers accepted the invitation to stay.

  Makenna took Malcolm to his room, where his trunk still sat, packed and ready for the trip to France. A few maids were preparing his bath, and she wanted to direct them to unpack Malcolm’s things next, but hesitated. Malcolm was her responsibility, and he was a responsibility she wanted. But Makenna wasn’t certain if Julien felt the same way. Not so long ago he’d told her that children were not in his future. He didn’t want them; didn’t want that “liability” as he’d called it. He undoubtedly cared for Malcolm’s welfare, but when he’d made Makenna his wife, had he even been thinking about the fact that in doing so, he was also making Malcolm his son? They’d rushed through everything.

  “Yers is nearly ready as well, milady,” one of the maids, Nora, said. Makenna blinked.

  “My what?”

  “Yer bath, milady,” she replied with a curtsy. She was young and the daughter of another one of the castle maids. Makenna had always thought her sweet, especially toward Malcolm, however now, after what had unfolded with Tildy, she was hesitant to trust. Just as she had been hesitant to trust any man after Graeme. And yet Julien had proved to her that it was possible. She took a breath and thanked Nora, determined not to let the wrongs Tildy had committed corrupt anything in her life now.

  Makenna went to her rooms and spent the next hour in the bath, calling for the water to be warmed rather than to get out once it started to cool. She hadn’t been alone in days, and even now, she could hear the voices of Ronan’s men through the open windows. They were a comfort, though, and she wondered if, when they struck camp and headed back to Maclaren, she and Malcolm would be with them.

  Once again, the prospect of leaving Duncraigh weighed on her. Before, she’d been preparing for France. Now, possibly a return home. Odd, how that didn’t sound quite right. She’d grown up at Maclaren, and it was one of her homes, but somehow, in the short time she’d been here, Duncraigh had come to feel like home, too. Not just the structure itself, but the people inside it. Lady Haverille, Malcolm, Julien. But would they all just carry on, pretending they married under normal circumstances? Makenna didn’t think she could. She bit her lip to keep from floundering with dejection.

  “I’d warn you that in biting your lip you’ll face consequences,” Julien said, his voice startling Makenna and making her splash the bathwater as she jolted. “But after dealing with that bastard of a laird, I’m afraid I can’t even stomach a mere joke about punishing you.”

  She craned her neck to see Julien entering her room, closing the door behind him.

  “I didnae hear ye enter,” she said, unnerved to find herself alone with him, especially after all her questioning thoughts. They needed to speak, but she was afraid of what might be said out loud, and decided.

  He picked up the length of toweling Nora had left on a chair and unfolded it, holding it up to receive her. “Maman says the feast is nearly ready. She heard Highlanders ate their weight in food, so I hope you’re famished.”

  Makenna hesitated. The bathwater would not be much of a shield, but she felt odd about standing up so boldly in front of Julien. He was her husband, yes, but for how much longer?

  He sent her a wicked look. “Are you feeling shy, Lady Riverley?”

  She heard his inherent challenge, and predictable as the sun, could not ignore it. She gripped the edge of the soaking tub and stood, water sluicing down her body as the rush of heat went on to pinken her neck and other, lower parts of her. Why did he have to be so provoking? Or so handsome. Even with the few scrapes and bruises he’d received in the duel with Colin, and the smudges of darkness under his eyes from lack of sleep and days of travel, he looked irresistible.

  Julien took a few moments to circle her with the toweling, first allowing his eyes to graze upon her breasts and stomach and legs. His slow, seductive grin caused the juncture of her thighs to throb. The memory of their night together came to her with unrestrained clarity. Each moment, every touch, all the ways he’d shown her what tender lovemaking could be like. It seemed so distant a memory, and yet also close enough to still feel the heat of it. Julien’s hands lingered on her towel-wrapped body as she stepped from the water, her bare feet making small pools on the cold stones.

  He kissed her wet shoulder, his tongue licking the dampness. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his breath prickling the fine hairs all over, from the backs of her thighs to the crown of her head.

  “Julien,” she said, the sound nothing more than a sigh as his arms wound around her, his fingers pressing against her buttocks and slowly rucking up the towel linen. She wanted him; the need burned through her, and as he nipped at the skin of her shoulder, then neck, and then finally cupped the flesh of her backside and squeezed, she moaned.

  They were man and wife. There was no reason at all they should not be together. Nothing to stand in the way of their union.

  Except the
possibility of an annulment.

  She went rigid in his arms at the thought, and Julien felt the change. He pulled away and peered at her. His eyes searched her face and he looked ready to ask what was the matter, but then, at the last moment, let out a breath and stepped fully away. Her body went cold. With relief? With rejection? His features were inscrutable, the teasing curve of his mouth gone.

  “It’s been a long and difficult day,” he said finally, raking his fingers through his hair. “Actually, it been rather hellish. And I’m not being very solicitous, am I? Finish dressing and I’ll see you in the dining room.”

  He took a bow and left her room. Left her standing there, naked except for the toweling. Julien, the biggest rogue in all of France, had walked away from bedding her. Because he wasn’t being solicitous. For all the world, it felt as if he’d caught himself from making a mistake. As if he hadn’t wanted to consummate the marriage. Well, then. She’d been drowning in questions all day and there was her answer.

  Makenna’s limbs shook as she dressed, without the help of a maid until Nora returned to help with her hair. She was grateful for the maid’s presence; she would not cry in front of her, and so she forced back the threatening tears. Too soon it was time to go to the dining room.

  She entered to find all her brothers already present, though she’d known they were there by the booming of their voices, heard from all the way down the corridor. Sorcha and Brandt were also seated at the table, along with the Earl of Cranston. The men stood upon her entry.

  “I was so preoccupied earlier, I have not yet welcomed you home,” Lady Haverille said, appearing at Makenna’s side, arms outstretched. She embraced Julien’s mother, feeling another strike of pain. She’d grown attached to the older woman, and like Malcolm had, Makenna clutched her a moment longer than necessary.

  “You’re overwhelmed, I’m sure,” she went on, showing Makenna to her chair. With a start, she realized it was the seat at the very end of the table. The one reserved for the lady of the house.

  “Oh, I cannae sit here. This is yer seat,” she said, drawing up short. It was where Lady Haverille had sat during every dinner.

  “I am not Lady Riverley,” the woman replied with a wink, and gave her a nudge forward. Makenna sat, and met the direct gaze of her husband down the length of the table. His eyes were troubled and introspective, but he didn’t speak.

  “How are Aisla and your new bairn?” Sorcha asked Niall, who sat diagonally from her. “And little Lachie must be walking by now.”

  “Walking?” Niall replied. “He’s already working alongside me in the mines.”

  Evan barked a laugh. “Aye, the tot’s got more muscles than Finlay here.”

  Sorcha rolled her eyes as Finlay scowled at his brother. Their boisterous conversation continued, discussing family and the cairngorm mines that Niall ran at Tarbendale, the improved health of Makenna’s father, Laird Maclaren, so much so that he’d gone on a hunt for the first time in years, and they even goaded Ronan about Lady Maclaren’s renewed attempts to catch him a wife now that he’d returned from the Continent. This last was met with a silent glare from the warrior, and abruptly, the subject was dropped.

  Makenna realized she had not spoken two words around the same time as everyone else. They looked down the table at her, to where she was pushing her thin slices of tender beef about her plate. It didn’t matter that she was starving, she couldn’t eat a bite.

  “Makenna,” Ronan said. He, too, had not spoken, until now. “Why did ye no’ say anything about how Graeme was treating ye? We believed ye were well cared for. If we had kenned the truth, we would have come for ye.”

  The entire table went silent. It was nothing she had not expected. Her brothers were bound to be upset, and to question why she’d kept the truth of her marriage secret.

  “Does it matter now?” she asked. “It’s over.”

  “Aye, it matters. Did ye no’ trust we would fight for ye?” Ronan pressed.

  “I did, aye, and I trusted that ye’d likely die for me, and I couldnae let that happen. So I lived with it.”

  Until she couldn’t any longer.

  Ronan sighed, and crossed a dark look with Niall, who then asked, “Were ye truly living, Makenna?”

  She set down her fork, finished pretending to eat. No, she hadn’t been living. She’d been existing. And now…maybe she wasn’t very good at starting over.

  “Is it just me, or are all Maclarens stubborn as rocks?” Julien asked after a moment of quiet.

  Brandt raised his mug of ale. “The Montgomerys heartily agree.”

  Sorcha smacked Brandt’s arm, causing him to spill.

  Makenna’s throat ached from wanting to both scream and sob. She’d never wanted to burden any of them with the truth about Graeme; she’d been afraid of their reaction, but that wasn’t all. She’d been afraid they’d think her weak. But she’d forgotten something important that she’d been reminded of, firsthand, today—that family could only make her stronger. She felt it now, sitting among them. She could no longer run or cower from uncertainties in her life. She was a Maclaren first.

  “So,” Finlay said, his mouth half full of beef. As always, wrapped up in the contents of his plate and not in the conversation taking place around him. “Ye’re a marchioness now, are ye?”

  For once, she thanked her clotheided brother for being obtuse. This was the opening she needed.

  “For the time being,” she replied. A fork grated across a plate, and Makenna suspected it was Lady Haverille’s. She met Julien’s eyes before blurting out the truth. “It was a marriage of convenience that will be annulled. A strategy Lord Riverley and I employed to make certain Colin would not shoot us on sight when we went to rescue Malcolm.” And Tildy. Though there was no need to speak of that traitor ever again.

  Julien held her stare across the table, unblinking. With every heartbeat thudding in Makenna’s chest, everyone around the table stopped eating, even Finlay. Julien’s stare bored into her, until Makenna squirmed. At last, Julien sat forward and cleared his throat.

  “A marriage of convenience?” He set down his napkin. “There is nothing convenient about a marriage to you.”

  Cutlery dropped upon plates around the table, the sharp sounds reverberating in Makenna’s ears and crawling up her spine. Ronan, Sorcha, and the rest of her brothers pushed back their chairs and stood, one by one. Ronan hooked a finger toward Julien.

  “Get up.”

  “What in the world…” Lady Haverille murmured as her son got to his feet and kicked back his own chair. Makenna’s heart sank as her siblings escorted her husband from the room.

  “What are they going to do?” Julien’s mother asked, twisting in her seat to watch them leave.

  Brandt lifted his ale as if in a toast. “Welcome him to the family properly, of course.”

  Makenna snapped from her thoughts, knowing exactly what that meant. She shot to her feet and made to run after them, but was stalled by a choking sound from Lady Haverille, who had teetered to her feet as well and stood there unsteadily, her hand to her heart.

  “Will they hurt him?”

  Worried for the lady’s health, Makenna turned back to her instead, pushing a reassuring smile to her lips. “Nae, of course no’. Please, sit. All will be well.”

  At least, she hoped so. She had the sudden, sinking feeling it wouldn’t be.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Julien was glad to be dragged out into the Duncraigh courtyard in a tangle of muscled arms and bodies. Otherwise he would have turned that entire dining table on its head and started screaming like a Parisian fishmonger.

  Marriage of convenience indeed. What in the world was his complex, infuriating wife thinking now? She’d been quiet and peculiar since they’d arrived back at the castle and then later in the bath. She’d retreated into herself, her face tight and unreadable. For a moment, he’d wondered if it had to do with her confession of love and whether she regretted it. She’d said those quiet words to
him in the moments before she’d believed Colin would drag her away, and Julien had been too stunned to make a reply. Too stunned to consider his own feelings. And then, of course, the battle had ensued.

  What he should have done when he’d found Makenna earlier in the bath, was toss the exasperating baggage over his shoulders, thrown her flushed, wet body on the bed, and made love to her until she was speechless. Then, she wouldn’t have any ludicrous proclamations of annulment or marriages of convenience. She was his. Didn’t she realize that he had no intention of letting her go?

  But now, thanks to his wife, Julien had worse things to worry about.

  Like an infamous Maclaren brawl.

  He faced the five Highlanders who stared at him, and wanted to laugh. Four men and one woman. Arms folded and bulging with sinew, their scowling expressions were identical. These bloody barbarians were his family.

  “Five out of seven,” he drawled. “The only one missing is your sister, Annis.”

  “She’s the worst of the lot,” Niall shot out. “And dunnae forget the one inside.”

  At the thought of Makenna, Julien’s vexation with himself doubled. He couldn’t forget her if he tried. Restless energy and lust twined through him at the provocative images of her damp red hair and long naked limbs filling his brain. A good fight would take the edge off. Then, he’d find his wife, take her upstairs, and make his intentions very, very clear. Removing his coat and rolling up his shirtsleeves, Julien smirked. “Shall we get on with it, then?”

  “Nice waistcoat,” Finlay said, snickering at the emerald-green fleur-de-lis design.

  “Thanks, I can give you the name of my tailor once I’ve wiped the floor with you.”

  Evan guffawed. “I like ye, Frenchman.”

  “Haven’t you heard? I’m a marquess now. It’s Lord Riverley to you.”

  “French to English, I’m no’ sure which is worse,” Evan said.

  “Your mother is English,” Julien reminded him, and then glanced at Finlay. “And isn’t your wife from Brighton?”