The Bride Says Maybe

by Maxwell, Cathy

  Flora giggled, Lachlan grinned and shook his head and Tara wanted to run.

  She needed for this night to be done and over before her nerves caused her to embarrass herself. Tears had become her ever-present companions.

  To his credit, the laird appeared equally ill at ease. “Do you need a private moment?” he asked.

  Tara felt her heart lurch, uncertain what he was asking until she realized he wondered if she needed to use a water closet. “Aye,” she answered gratefully.

  “This way,” he murmured. He carried her valise and led her through the sitting room, where Flora was lighting more candles for his uncles, and into another back room, and finally outside through a back entrance. “Here it is,” he said, stopping in front of a stone building a few feet from the back door.

  Tara was not eager to go inside. She’d been to places like this before, and she did not like them. Then again, she could use a private moment. Who knew when she’d have such an opportunity again?

  She drew a deep breath and went in, closing the door behind her. To her surprise, the room was well kept and not a terrible experience at all. They had always said Wolfstone needed modernizing, and she now understood exactly what they meant. She almost feared what she would find in the rest of the house.

  The laird waited respectfully for her outside. His dogs were not with him. Seeing she had noticed their absence, he said, “They heard a deer. They took off running. Even Daphne, although with her wee legs, she can never keep up.”

  “Oh.” She had nothing else to say.

  He seemed equally awkward. “We will take these back stairs,” he said, directing her back into the house. She lifted the heavy skirts of her habit and started climbing.

  The stairs were not as narrow and winding as the front staircase. A draft of cold wind seemed to swirl around her. She realized that she had not thought to bring her cloak. Hopefully, Ellen would see that it was packed in the trunk. There were doors off the staircase. They were closed, probably to keep out the cold air.

  “Here is my room,” the laird said, and reached in front of her to open a door to Tara’s right. The room was dark save for the moonlight flowing through two large windows. There were no draperies around them, and no welcoming fire had been lit in the hearth.

  Holding her brace of candles, Tara walked in, her footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor.

  Laird Breccan closed the door behind, and suddenly the room seemed very small. Tara worked to not panic.

  He walked past her to the four-poster bed that dominated the center of the room. It was not an ornate piece of furniture but sturdy and substantial, as one would expect for someone of his size. He set the valise on the bed.

  “There is a trunk over by the corner for your things,” he said. He crossed to the hearth and knelt. He began building a fire. He was using peat and wood and seemed to be deliberately busy, as if attempting to avoid meeting her eye.

  Perhaps he was as nervous as she?

  The idea seemed preposterous. What did he have to fear? He would be the one doing the splitting!

  “I know the chest is not enough room for what you own,” he continued, “especially with my gear in there. I’ll move it out tomorrow, and I’ll see if I can have another chest made or whatever you wish. You know more about your needs than I do.”

  I need to return to Annefield.

  She stayed silent.

  Smoke came from the hearth. He waved it away and checked the damper. It was open, but a peat fire was always smoky in the beginning. They didn’t use peat in the house at Annefield.

  He stood, and she could have sworn he was taller than ever. She stared at the corner post of the bed. They stood not more than three feet from each other. She braced herself, waiting for him to pounce.

  Instead, he said, “I’ll give you a moment.”

  He left the room.

  Tara found she could breathe again. She was so thankful, she almost sank to the floor. Instead, she set the candlestick on the chest.

  The furnishings truly were sparse, and there wasn’t any softness anywhere.

  She walked over to the bed and tested it by sitting on the edge. The mattress was hard and rested on a bed of loosely woven ropes. They were a bit loose. She imagined the laird had to see these ropes tightened often. They would stretch with use and time.

  She hadn’t thought about beds before.

  Whenever she had thought about marriage in the past, she’d had vague ideas of what married life would be like. Truthfully, she hadn’t concerned herself with anything other than the wedding breakfast. She’d planned whom she would invite and what would be served, but she was realizing that she’d ignored many practical matters.

  She rose from the bed, but as she did so, her foot bumped something on the floor. Bending down to see what it was, she discovered a stack of books piled haphazardly beneath the head of the bed where the room’s shadows had hidden them. One was open and facedown. Aileen would have scolded him for treating a book in that manner.

  Tara pulled the open book out to see what it was. She couldn’t tell. It was written in Greek. Puzzled, she placed the book back. Laird Breccan didn’t seem like the sort who would be bookish.

  Then again, what else was there to do out here in the wilds of Scotland? She had even started sampling the books at Annefield although it was not a pastime she enjoyed.

  A knock sounded at the door. “My lady?” her husband’s voice asked.

  Panic made her chest heavy. “I’m not ready. Not yet. Just a minute more.”

  “Very well.”

  She paced around in a circle and decided she must be brave. She opened her valise and removed her nightdress. Ellen had packed it.

  Tara removed her hat and pulled the pins from her hair. Her hands trembled as she plaited it into one long, fat braid. She prayed she didn’t embarrass herself when the time came for her to let him have his way.

  Making quick work of undressing, she pulled the nightdress over her head and climbed on the bed. What did one do when sacrificing oneself? She pulled back the counterpane and climbed beneath the sheets. They were clean but not as fine and soft as the sheets from Annefield.

  Tara studied the ceiling a moment, prayed for courage, and then said, “I’m ready.” She closed her eyes and braced herself.

  The door opened.

  She could feel his presence. She pictured him standing in the doorway, hopefully clothed—

  Or was he?

  Could he be standing in the door naked? It was a startling thought—first, because she’d had the notion—she had never once in her life pictured anyone naked, even Ruary . . . and then secondly, if his clothes weren’t on him, where were they? Would he have removed them on the landing—?

  She had to look. She must open her eyes, even if she was afraid to because she didn’t know if she would like what she saw. Still, Tara did have curiosity—

  But before she could make up her mind, she heard Breccan shout an angry, “No.”

  It was the only warning she received before a heavy, furry body landed on top of her, knocking the wind out of her.

  Tara opened her eyes and found herself nose to nose with the laird’s gray beast of a dog who happily slurped her face with his tongue.

  In horrified seconds, other hairy, wiggling bodies with foul dog breath and rough paws bounded into the bedtime fray, climbing over Tara and trying to lick her everywhere they could.

  She opened her mouth to scream, overwhelmed by the attack, but at that moment the ropes holding the bed on her left side broke, as if the extra weight and activity were too much. Dogs and woman went tumbling to the floor.

  Chapter Six

  From the moment Breccan had knocked on the door and heard her timid, “I’m ready,” all conscious, deliberate thought had left his brain. Every drop of blood he had in his body, and certainly any intellig
ence he owned, had rushed straight to that part of him that was hard and stiff with wanting.

  Indeed, from that day when he’d laid eyes on Lady Tara, this had become his normal state. He had only to think of her, and his body had yearned. The nights alone in his bed had been the worst.

  And now here she was in it . . . and beckoning him to join her.

  So could he be forgiven for not realizing that his pups had come up the stairs behind him?

  He’d barely registered their presence. After all, they were a part of his life and, yes, it was true, he slept with them more often than not. He’d usually made them sleep on the floor, but there had been many times, such as during thunderstorms, when he’d let them join him. They had always relished the opportunity.

  However, never had they charged the bed the way they did with Lady Tara in it.

  They had barged past Breccan, Largo, his Danish hunting hound who was big enough and strong enough to almost knock him down, leading the pack. The others, the fox hounds and little Daphne, had been anxious to join.

  It was as if they wanted to give Lady Tara an enthusiastic welcome.

  However, cheerfully greeting her was not the activity Breccan had wanted to take part in this night.

  He’d reached for the dogs, but they were too quick for him. They bounded on top of the bed, sending Lady Tara into a fit of screeching alarm.

  And then the bed broke.

  The mattress ropes had been frayed. Breccan had known that. He’d meant to have them replaced, but what with juggling all of his plans for the weaving and the horses and paying the earl of Tay’s debts, well, it was a detail that had slipped his mind—unfortunately.

  Lady Tara and dogs were dumped onto the floor inside the bed frame. Tails, ears, red hair and bare legs were jumbled up together as they all scrambled to right themselves.

  Even Daphne was in the mix. Her short legs made it difficult for her to leap up onto the bed. Breccan always had to help her. She’d been jumping on the floor the way she did, begging to join the others. Now that everyone was on the ground, Daphne bounded into the game, her round little body quivering with excitement.

  It was quite a welcoming, except Lady Tara didn’t seem to be enjoying it.

  Breccan had started forward to help, but the flailing of his young wife’s legs, feet and toes riveted him to the ground. He remembered all too well the sight of those legs clad in breeches and tall boots. They were even more shapely without them.

  So he didn’t move as quickly as he should have to her rescue.

  That was all right because she managed to free herself, showing an amazing resilience. She reached for one of Breccan’s books and came to her feet, swishing it through the air like a sword, her braid over one shoulder.

  “Stay back, you beasts.”

  They appeared to do as she said, tails wagging. Breccan knew they were just biding their time. “They think it is a game—” he started to advise, but at that moment the book came in contact with one of the foxhound’s head.

  She’d struck sweet Tidbit, a sensitive dog if ever there was one.

  Tidbit yelped and fell back, as did the other dogs. Daphne spoke for all of them when she looked up at Lady Tara, her beady black eyes full of disapproval, and barked sharply.

  Lady Tara’s response was to threaten Daphne with a book beating.

  And it wasn’t just any book she would knock them with but it was a copy of THE ELEMENTS by Euclid that he had borrowed from a military engineer he had met in Glasgow.

  Now, he moved forward, coming up behind her.

  That was an expensive book, and he could ill afford, especially at this moment, to pay the man back. He grabbed the book just as Lady Tara pulled back to swing it again at his dogs.

  She whirled to face him. “Take them out of here,” she ordered, wild-eyed.

  “Don’t be angry. They are just trying to say welcome.”

  “Very well, I’ll leave,” she replied, and started to step over the bed frame, her balance thrown off by the mattress beneath her feet. Breccan reached forward to help her, but she yanked her arm away—and that is when he realized her nightdress was made of very thin stuff.

  He could see the shadow of her breast. He had seen her bare legs. She was naked beneath that gown.

  Suddenly, Breccan had strong motivation to make her happy.

  “Out,” he barked at the dogs, lifting the book himself and threatening them.

  His pets gave him quizzical looks. He rarely raised his voice with them.

  “Go on now,” he ordered, gesturing toward the door.

  Tails stopped wagging. Largo and the foxhounds slinked off the mattress, moving toward the door. They looked back as if asking him if he was truly angry or just teasing them? Perhaps this was a new game?

  “Out,” Breccan bellowed, the word ringing to the ceiling. He was indulgent with his dogs, his clansmen, everyone—but he did expect to be obeyed when he used that tone of voice.

  They went running to the door, their tails between their legs.

  Well, everyone went running save for Daphne. She still stood on the mattress, as proud of herself to be there. She gave a bark as if to punctuate his order to the others.

  “I meant you as well, Daphne,” he said.

  She looked around as if there was more than one Daphne in the room, and she had no intention of going anywhere. Breccan knew his pet. She did not believe the order pertained to her.

  With a sound of frustration, he dropped the book on top of Lady Tara’s folded clothing on the chest and picked Daphne up with both hands. He marched the terrier to the doorway, placed her on the floor and scooted her out. He shut the door.

  At last, he was alone with Lady Tara.

  He turned to her.

  She stood in front of the fire. She was so bloody beautiful. He wanted her undressed with all haste—

  Daphne scratched the door. He knew it was her. The scratching had an impertinent sound. “Go away, Daphne,” he ordered, then apologized to Lady Tara, “Jonas was supposed to keep the dogs with him—”

  “Those dogs are wild,” she declared, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Dog hair is all over me.”

  Breccan understood. Dog hair could fly everywhere, and he hated it in his mouth as well. Those short hairs could be pesky.

  “They are good pets—” he started to assure her, daring to move closer to her. Her nipples were erect. He could see the outline of the points of them against her nightdress.

  “Good?” She waved toward the bed with its mattress aslant. “Did you see what they did to me? They attacked me.”

  “No, they didn’t—” he tried to soothe.

  “They did,” she shot back, the outrage in her eyes as sharp as lightning bolts.

  Breccan didn’t wish to argue. He yearned for her gentleness, for her affection . . . and to bury himself as deep as he could in her sweetness—

  Daphne scratched again. One of the hounds howled a protest.

  “Have you not been around dogs? Breccan asked. His gaze riveted on his lady’s toes peeking out from the hem of her nightdress. She had cute toes. He’d not known toes could be special, but hers were. He took another step toward her. He wanted to worship every inch of her, but first he had to take her in his arms. “My pets were just greeting you—“

  “Fleas. I’d wager they have fleas.” She began itching madly. “I’m certain of it.”

  Visions of worshipping vanished. “My dogs don’t have fleas,” Breccan said, annoyed with the charge.

  “You wish to know if I’ve been around dogs? Well, let me tell you, I have. I’ve been around lots of dogs.” She tossed her head, as if in an act of defiance, as if she expected him to challenge her.

  He wouldn’t do that. He could barely focus on what she was saying. The vibrant color of her hair was a distraction. She had
beautiful hair. He longed to run his hands through it and see if it was as silky to the touch as it looked—

  “Well-trained ones,” she continued, “that know their place in life. They live outside. They are never allowed inside the house—”

  Lust died. “Outside? My pets go wherever I go, especially on a cold night. I have outside dogs. But these? They need to be inside.”

  “You have more dogs? How many dogs do you have?” She made him sound unnatural.

  “As many as I want,” he said, put off by her attack.

  Lady Tara held out her arms and looked around as if she did not know what to make of him. “Well, you can have your dogs or you can have me,” she said. “I shall not live with dogs in the house.”

  If she had demanded anything else, Breccan would have given it to her. He would have thrown Jonas and Lachlan out the door without a backward glance.

  But he liked his dogs. They were his confidants. Many a time when he’d felt backed into a corner, their loyal acceptance had helped him regain his sense of purpose. He could always count on them, something he could not do with people.

  Something he had wanted to do with the woman who was his wife . . . and who really didn’t have a care for him.

  In one fell swoop of insight, Breccan realized he didn’t know this woman at all, and they had promised themselves to each other until death. Had he been mad?

  No, randy.

  There was something about her that attracted him in a way no other female had. He could study the curve of her cheek, the line of her neck, and the way she used her hands to express herself for all of time, but that didn’t mean he could live with her, especially over his dogs.

  “I don’t take ultimatums, my lady.”

  “And I will not be mauled by animals,” she informed him coolly, as if he were a mere lackey.

  “Do you really believe I would allow that to happen to my wife?” The words exploded out of him.