Tara searched his face. He seemed sincere. “Do you trust my honor now, Laird?”
“I’ll take a risk.”
She placed her ungloved hand in his. For the briefest moment, she felt a surge of a new confidence, of the sense she was making the right decision.
This was a momentous step. This man would be the father of her children.
They shook. His hand engulfed hers, and yet she did not feel threatened. He was the first to break their hold, taking up the reins of his horse.
“The reverend is waiting,” he said. “Let us see this deed done.”
Tara had almost forgotten that she was to have been married within the hour. He mounted, then offered a hand.
So here it was. The decision had been made. All she had to do was act.
Trust was not easy for Tara, but she had made her decision. She reached for his wrist, and he lifted her up onto the saddle in front him. Her legs rested across his.
“We ride on,” he told his uncles, who rode up to join them. “My lady, this is my uncle Jonas.” He nodded to the smaller of the two men. “The other is my uncle Lachlan. Follow me,” he ordered.
The uncles did as he bid, but Tara could almost hear the questions in their heads. It was to his credit that Laird Breccan did not see a need to explain. She wished she could be close-lipped around her relatives and not have them ask a hundred questions.
They easily covered the three miles to Annefield, a lovely home that her family had built less than a hundred years ago.
Torches lit the front door. A stable lad walked the Reverend Kinnion’s horse in the gloom of a falling evening.
“Let me go in the servants’ way,” Tara said, before they came too close to the door, where someone would spy her in her disguise. She directed him on a path through the woods lining the yard. “Set me down here.” Once her feet were on the ground, she looked up at him. “I will see you inside the house.”
He nodded and turned away, the other riders following him. Tara watched him go. Had she made the right decision?
Did she have any other choice?
She escaped inside the house.
Upstairs, in her room, she found the housekeeper, Mrs. Watson, and her maid, Ellen, frantically whispering. They stopped when she entered the room. Mrs. Watson collapsed in relief, then her eyes widened in shock.
“Oh, my lady, don’t tell me you have been running around the countryside dressed like a lad again?”
“Very well, I won’t. Ellen, give us a moment of privacy.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and left, her eyes alive with curiosity.
Tara took Mrs. Watson’s arm and led her away from the door, where they might be overheard. She’d known Mrs. Watson most of her life. Beyond her sister Aileen, the housekeeper was the closest Tara had to a mother figure. She was also someone Tara could trust.
“I am to marry,” she told the housekeeper.
“I know. That’s why we were worried when you weren’t here. The bridegroom is expected at any moment.”
“He will wait for me,” Tara assured her. All men waited for her. “Besides, I have something more pressing I need to know.”
“And what is that, my lady?”
“Please, Mrs. Watson, tell me, what happens in the marriage bed. And how quickly can one create a baby?”
Chapter Four
The hands on the earl of Tay’s mantel clock ticked off the passing of time.
Breccan sat in a chair in the corner of the receiving room, waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting.
Almost two hours had passed since he had delivered Lady Tara to the house. He should have been married and halfway home by now.
After the first hour, the Reverend Kinnion had assured him the vows would not take long. “But also,” he offered in a confiding tone to Breccan, “here is an observation from a man who has been married these past five years and more, women are a bit like cats. They have their own understanding of time. I find it easiest to not press my wife to be anywhere at a certain hour. Well, save for Sunday services.” He’d laughed at that last as if it was his own wee joke.
Breccan thought the reverend needed to take his wife in hand. Time was a precious thing to waste.
However, since Breccan had purchased a special license for this marriage—doing it the English way so that it was very legal; after all, he was paying a small fortune to wed the woman—and because he did not want to be accused of not respecting Lady Tara, or of not following the procedures expected of those of her class, or of doing anything that his Campbell relatives would not, he waited.
And with every passing second, his temper built.
This room was not a comfortable room. The portraits of proud Davidsons frowned down upon him from the walls. The furniture lacked the sturdiness of Wolfstone’s, his ancestral home, and he was not accustomed to needlepoint pillows or fancy silver candlesticks.
Jonas had made fast friends with the earl of Tay and his never-ending bottle of whisky, growing louder and more boisterous as the time stretched. They entertained each other with stories and lies in front of the small coal fire in the hearth.
Lachlan was trying to herd Jonas in, but the truth was, he savored a drop or two himself, so his shepherding was halfhearted at best. One would have thought the Campbells and the Davidsons were the fastest of friends to hear the three of them go on.
Of course, when Breccan had first arrived at Annefield, the earl had already been well into his cups. The man had actually stumbled and fallen to the floor.
His servant, a tall man with the hewn features of an aging Viking, named Ingold, had literally picked the earl up and physically moved him into the receiving room. Ingold had not behaved as if this was unusual behavior.
But it was to Breccan. He liked a drink as well as the next man, but he would never be slovenly about it.
The earl of Tay’s hair was a mess. It blew every which way, as if he’d been pulling it straight up in the air. His waistcoat had stains of his last meal dribbled down it, or perhaps his last several meals. He smelled foul of stale whisky and body odor. He was a far cry from his beautiful daughter, and this was something else to give Breccan doubts. Sons were very much like fathers. Were daughters?
The Reverend Kinnion, after having Breccan grumble over his attempt to make excuses for the bride, had taken a seat by the front window. He appeared to be watching the misty evening give way to nightfall.
Breccan didn’t know the minister well. The first time they’d laid eyes on each other had been the day Breccan had gone to the kirk in his pursuit of another glimpse of Lady Tara. He’d wanted to be certain that she was as he had remembered her.
She had been. That Sunday morning, seeing her dressed in her church finery, she had been every bit as lovely as he’d recalled. More so even. Seated in the back of the church, Breccan had not been able to take his eyes off her and had decided he had to have her.
After the service, the reverend had approached him. Breccan had been polite to the minister although he had not felt comfortable in the church. Many would have said it was because Breccan was the devil himself, but the truth was he did not like going any place where people could comment on his great size. The pews were too narrow and close for his long legs. He’d stood out. He couldn’t hide amongst them, and it made him feel awkward. He knew they judged him.
But nothing made him feel more foolish than cooling his heels waiting for Tara Davidson to stoop to come down the stairs of her house and marry him. She insulted him. She thought she could treat him like one of her London swains.
Well, the blood of a thousand Highlanders flowed in his veins. He had pride.
Breccan rose. “I’m leaving. Come, uncles—”
“Wait, wait, you can’t leave yet,” the earl of Tay drunkenly informed him. “We haven’t finished the bottle. We have a celebration here—” He pause
d. “Something’s happening, but I can’t remember what it is.” He began giggling at his own ineptitude.
“I find nothing to celebrate,” Breccan answered. “And you can tell your daughter, I’ve been here and gone.”
“You can tell her yourself,” Tay said, punctuating the word with a burp. “She is behind you.”
Breccan turned sharply, uncertain whether to believe him. After all, how could Lady Tara arrive and he not be aware—?
She was there—and looked more beautiful than his fevered fantasies could have ever imagined.
He’d never seen a garment finer than the one she wore. The creamy gauze of her dress seemed to flow around her, emphasizing her trim waist and rounded breasts. He knew little of women’s frills, but the lace over the skirt added the sort of femininity that highlighted the blessed differences between men and women. Her glorious hair was artfully styled high on her head. Pinned to it was a veil that trailed behind her with a grace saved for angels and muses.
She wore no jewelry. She needed none. The clear perfection of her skin and her vivid coloring were adornment enough.
He could not speak. He could not think. Every male part of his body had come alive, especially since she smelled sweeter than spring air to him.
This was how he’d pictured her, innocent and willing. What man would not want such a wife?
He ached to gather her in his arms and drink in the perfume that was uniquely hers. He didn’t think he could ever tire of that scent.
And then, she pushed her advantage too far.
She’d accurately read his masculine need, and, with a canniness that would have made her wastrel of a father proud, she took a step in Breccan’s direction and greeted him by lowering her head like a concubine flattering her lord. Long, dark lashes created small fans against her cheeks.
Any man who saw her this way would be affected. Certainly Jonas, Lachlan, and even the happily married Reverend Kinnion were stirred. Jonas actually whimpered, a sound echoed by the minister.
His uncle Lachlan breathed out the words, “You are a lucky, lucky man, Breccan.”
And Breccan felt his temper explode.
Her behavior was too studied, too obvious. She’d kept them waiting on purpose, so that she could make this appearance. He’d wager she now expected him to offer slavish devotion, a sign she could behave however she pleased. Oh, yes, she would be pleased to make him dance to her tune.
And his reward? Why, she might gift him with a smile.
Well, he was not like one of his dogs who gratefully begged at the table for the slightest morsel. He knew when he was being teased, and it worked, damn it all. His manhood was as straight and hard as a yeoman’s staff. Just the sight of her was enough to send him howling with desire.
But a man worth his salt could not allow his woman to have the upper hand. Not if he wanted her respect.
“Come, Jonas, Lachlan, we are leaving.”
“What?” Jonas said, the word bursting out of him in his surprise.
But Breccan didn’t repeat himself. He had said what he had to say once, and that was enough. He walked from the room, brushing right by Lady Tara.
Tara took a step back, almost thrown off balance by Laird Breccan’s shoving his way past her out the room.
Nor did he stop to apologize.
He continued walking right to the front door, snatching his hat up off the side table before a surprised Ingold could react. The laird opened the door himself and left the house.
She was stunned. He couldn’t leave. They were to marry. The reverend was here. She’d made herself very attractive for the marriage, and this was after speaking to Mrs. Watson and having one of the most disturbing conversations of her life. He was lucky she’d forced herself to come down the stairs.
Furthermore, men did not walk out on her.
She walked out on them.
Laird Breccan’s uncles began to follow. The shortest, Jonas, drained the drink in his cup before he left. He gave Tara a rueful, longing last gaze before slinking out the door.
Horrified thoughts of what Laird Breccan’s desertion could do to her reputation filled her mind. She had already scandalized society by jilting one perfectly good man because she had loved another who, in turn, had rejected her. Oh, the tittle-tattlers had laughed with delight over what they considered her very deserved rebuke. But Tara did have pride. She would not, could not allow herself to be the victim of a third scandalbroth.
Especially when the man whose name would be attached to hers was the Black Campbell.
Didn’t he understand she was doing him a favor to marry him? He was hairy and dark and three times the size of a normal man. He was also surly.
What other woman did he believe he could marry?
Her father yawned. “Oh, this is not good.” He reached for the whisky decanter and appeared surprised to find it empty.
The Reverend Kinnion asked in a confused voice, “Should I leave?”
“Absolutely not,” Tara snapped. “You stay right there.” She charged out of the receiving room and through the front door Ingold had opened for the uncles.
By the doorstep’s torchlight, she could see that the laird had not yet mounted. He had been in the act of offering vails for service, or tips, to the stable lads.
He noticed her come out of the house. His scowl deepened.
Well, she didn’t give a care what he thought. She marched onto the drive and placed herself right in front of his horse.
He started to guide the animal around her, but she rashly grabbed the horse’s reins and clutched them tight. She and the laird were practically toe to toe.
“Where do you believe you are going?” she challenged, her temper so white-hot the brogue she’d spent years struggling to contain reared its Scottish head. Nor did she feel fear as she stared up into his fearsome countenance.
“I’m returning home and to my bed,” Laird Breccan said, attempting to pull the reins from her.
She wasn’t going to let him have them. She would let him and his horse drag her to hell before she released her hold. “You are not,” she replied. The horse danced a step but did not run over her. “You asked for my hand, and we are supposed to be marrying right this minute.”
“We were supposed to marry two hours ago, my lady.” Again he attempted to take the reins, his frown saying he could not believe she would defy him. But Tara was not about to let him have them, not without violence.
“I am ready to marry now,” she said.
“I’m not.” This time he used his superior height to his advantage, reaching around her with both arms—and their bodies bumped, her breasts against the flat planes of his chest and abdomen.
A jolt like a spark of fire shot through Tara.
He must have felt it as well. He yanked back as if burned, releasing his hold on the reins.
Tara didn’t understand why there had been that charge of awareness between them, but she knew how to press her advantage. She held up the reins. “We have a bargain. Or are you going to run away from your money and your pride, Laird?”
An expression crossed his face that could be likened to the gathering of storm clouds. “I will not let you play me for a fool.”
Tara looked up at this boulder of a man. He now represented her only course for living her life on her terms. Her life was crumbling around her, but Laird Breccan offered escape.
“You don’t want me to play you for a fool?” she repeated. “Then the challenge for you is to tame me, sir.”
It was a provocative statement. She’d meant it to be. Most men could not refuse such a gauntlet being thrown down before them.
He was no different.
Almost against his will, his gaze slid to her breasts. Oh yes, he’d felt the charge between them.
And inside her, at her very core, she felt a rippling of desire. It
expanded through her being, filling those very breasts that had claimed his attention and bringing a warm flush to her skin.
He raised his gaze to her lips, and, for a second, she thought he would kiss her. She wet her lips, suddenly having a need to keep them moist, suddenly aware of a number of reactions she’d not experienced before . . .
“He puts himself in you, my lady,” Mrs. Watson had told her upstairs.
“What do you mean ‘puts himself in me’? How can he do that?” She knew that people who were lovers spent hours in each other’s bed. She had heard whispers. She could imagine it would be nice to sleep beside someone she liked. But she wasn’t completely clear on the practical steps to breeding, and it was breeding that Laird Breccan wanted of her.
Mrs. Watson had hummed for a moment as if searching for the right words. “He will use his male bits. Do you know men and women are different?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, he will put his bits against your bits.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Tara had argued. “Or are you saying we are like dogs or the horses and behave in that manner?” She’d seen animals mating. She shouldn’t have. The servants and Aileen had tried to protect her, but she’d grown up in the country, and, in truth, she had found their rutting too earthy for her tastes.
“Not quite,” Mrs. Watson had said, to Tara’s great relief.
“Then what is the difference? And for how long do we have to do such at thing?” Tara had asked with great distaste.
“My lady, your husband will know. Trust him. The bits go together nicely if it is done right. All you must do is lie quiet. It will be over before it has begun . . .”
Mrs. Watson’s prediction echoed in Tara’s mind, even as she felt an unfamiliar tightening of muscles in her female “bits.”
Laird Breccan took a step back, as if needing to put space between them, as if he, too, was suddenly very aware of her. His action seemed to give him room to breathe.
“Aye, we have a bargain,” he agreed. “But I’ll not be playing games. Do you hear? I’m a simple man, a straightforward one.”
The Bride Says Maybe Page 4
