Her eyes widened. Had no one ever raised a voice to her before? She drew three sharp breaths, then said, “I don’t know if you would allow it or not. I know nothing of you,” she added, echoing his own thoughts. “And after the evening I’ve had”—her voice was starting to shake—“I’m not certain I want to know you. Look at the bed. Look at this room. Look at me.”
“I am looking at you, and I’m not certain I like you,” he answered. “This is my house, woman. And my rules.”
“Well, this is my bedroom, man. And here I have some say.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“Because we are married,” she said, giving a lift of her chin as if daring him to challenge her.
“We are not married yet,” he growled. “Not until you are bedded—which right now, is not going to happen this night.”
On those words, he yanked open the door and went charging out to the hall. He slammed the door behind him.
To his surprise, his dogs were not outside waiting for him, not even Daphne. He stomped down the stairs. All was dark save for the fire that was built for her arrival in the front room. He went in and there were his pups, curled up before the hearth. Tidbit and his foxhound brother Terrance were tucked in close to Largo’s side. Daphne slept a distance away from them, as was her custom.
The hounds lifted their heads when he walked in, then laid them back down. Only Largo followed Breccan with his eyes as he moved to the table and pulled out two chairs.
Daphne was more to the point. She surveyed him with the disdain of a governess, then resettled herself so she was giving him her back.
“That’s all right, lass,” he said to her. “I have a feeling I’d best become accustomed to haughty, stubborn women.”
Daphne sniffed her thoughts and feigned sleep.
But the others came back to him. As he settled his weight to stretch out between the two chairs, Terrance and Tidbit prodded his hand with cold, wet noses. He gave them a pat, and that was the invitation to Largo. The wolfhound came up to him.
He scratched the Largo’s ear. The dog’s expression was one of remorse. “Don’t think you spoiled my wedding night. I know you were just giving her a greeting. She’s not like us,” he confided, “and I don’t know what I am going to do. But I must be up before Jonas or anyone else. Do you hear me? Be certain I am awake.”
The dogs stared as if they understood.
Breccan did not want anyone to know he’d spent the first night of his marriage sleeping in a chair. This would be his secret, a secret between him and his dogs, the only ones in his life he could trust.
Tara could not believe that the laird had walked out on her.
She stared at the door, then muttered to herself, “It is just as well he left. I wasn’t ready for him to bed me anyway.”
And that was true.
However, she had sounded as shrill as a fishwife. She could hear her voice now and was slightly embarrassed at her carrying on.
But the dogs had surprised her. It had taken all her courage to lie in wait for him and to find herself attacked—
Tara paused in her thought. “Attacked” was a strong word. So had been “mauled.” She knew she had not been in any danger.
Still, dogs did not belong inside the house.
And the other revelation of all that had passed between them was that she was exhausted.
In less than five hours, her world had been upended.
She looked down at the dull gold band on her ring finger. “I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispered.
Of course, there was no answer. As was so often the case as she was growing up, when she needed advice or wise counsel, there was no one there for her.
Considering the age difference between Aileen and herself, her older sister was always involved in her own pursuits. Nannies and governesses were fine, but they left. Sooner or later, they had to move to a new position, especially when the earl would fail to pay their wages.
Mrs. Watson was kind and good . . . but she was not how Tara imagined a mother would be.
A mother. Laird Breccan wanted children. That was their bargain. Tara would be a mother.
For the first time, she tried to picture what that would mean. Her own mother had died giving birth to her, and the laird wanted children.
A hint of a thought, a tiny inkling of an idea entered her mind. Some would claim that over the past few months she had been behaving erratically. She’d accepted the proposal of one man and run off for another. Truthfully, if Tara could have put off marriage, she would have. She had only accepted the marriage offer because, amongst the debutantes and other young women in society, she had been growing long of tooth. It was past time for her to marry.
But in missing a mother’s presence in this moment, Tara found herself considering that she might had avoided marriage because it has been marriage to her father the earl that had taken her mother’s life—a woman she’d never known.
No one talked about her, not even her father. She’d asked him a question once, but he hadn’t answered. Instead, he had chastised her for having morbid thoughts. Life was for the living.
She studied her wedding ring a moment longer and wished she could have known the woman who had worn it. Like it or not, this ring was a connection between the two of them.
“Would you allow dogs in the house?” she asked, speaking to the memory of the laird’s mother; and then she laughed at herself. She was exhausted.
Tomorrow, she would deal with this marriage. Tonight, she needed to rest.
She tugged the mattress so that it landed on the floor, the frayed ropes hanging from the bed frame. Climbing on it, she brought covers over her head.
Snuggling in, she toyed with the thought that maybe, when she woke, this whole day would disappear. It would prove to have been a dream, and with that pleasantry on her mind, she fell asleep—only to wake and discover on the next day, things were worse than she could have imagined.
Chapter Seven
Even on the floor, the mattress was lumpy, as if it had never been turned. Tara knew exactly where the laird slept because the wool-stuffed mattress was contoured to his form. She’d spent the night curled in what would have been the center of his body. It had been the only comfortable place.
However, with daylight came optimism.
She’d learned a long time ago that her wisest course was to the make the best of things.
The hour of the day when she woke was not as late as she usually slept in London, but not as early as she usually woke at Annefield. She’d started the habit of an early-morning ride. That would not happen today, and she found she missed it.
Pushing her sleep-mussed hair out of her eyes, she clambered to her feet and stepped off the mattress. There were no drapes on the windows, so the sun of what promised to be a fine autumn day streamed through panes of glass that could use a cleaning. The floor appeared clean enough until she spied some dog hair. Its presence did not surprise her.
There was work to be done here, but it wasn’t as dire as she had anticipated from her misadventures last night.
The fire had died out. However, it had been built in a clean hearth. That was a good sign. This might have been a bachelor’s household, but a sense of Scottish cleanliness and good order prevailed . . . beneath the dog hair.
Then again, it was now her house. She was the mistress, an interesting concept since she had no relationship to the furniture in the house. This bedroom wasn’t like hers at Annefield, where James Stuart had slept on the bed, and, therefore, it would remain forever in that room. She could make changes here.
Of course, as was often the situation in drafty old castles, the bedroom was not spacious. However, a washstand with a privacy screen could be fitted in the far corner by the bed. There was also room on the wall by the door for a dresser and perhaps a wardrobe.
In London, she’d been attracted to furniture designed in the style of the ancient pharaohs. She’d liked the gilded sphinxes and the graceful carvings on the chairs. She was certain the furniture was expensive, especially since it must come from London, but Laird Breccan was a wealthy man. After all, he’d paid her father’s debts. Would he not pay for a bit of elegance in his home?
Furthermore, this style would suit him. The laird was a big man. He needed strong, masculine furniture. She could picture him in a cross-framed chair. He would look a bit like a warrior general, a fanciful thought that caught her by surprise.
She remembered he was in church one Sunday. Her father had enjoyed making a jest over Laird Breccan’s presence. In some way, a tiny corner of her brain had noted him. Her mind’s eye recalled his sitting in the back of the congregation. He was not a man who could hide, even in a crowd. He always stood out.
Of course, that Sunday, she’d been distraught over hearing Ruary had eloped . . .
Tara pushed the memory from her mind. Ruary’s rejection still hurt, and with that hurt came an almost overwhelming sadness for what she’d lost.
Instead, she forced herself to think of furniture.
She didn’t look in the direction of the broken bed with the mattress on the floor and the lattice-worked ropes broken and frayed. The sight of it reminded her of the fight they’d had, the one in which he had warned her, We are not married yet. Not until you are bedded.
Tara released her breath with the heaviness of acceptance. She was going to have to let him have her. She had no choice. Two children; her freedom.
But for right now, her first move was to dress.
There was no maid, and she hadn’t expected one this morning. She dressed herself in the long-sleeved day dress of a soft, peach-striped cambric with a gauze fichu at the neckline. Some people claimed women with her coloring should not wear the rose and peach hues, but Tara enjoyed defying convention. She also liked the way these colors gave her skin a soft glow.
Swiftly braiding her hair, Tara fashioned it in a knot at the base of her neck and walked to the door. She stood a minute, trying to listen through the heavy wood. She didn’t hear any movement. She dared to open the door, cracking slightly and bracing herself for another wild-dog attack.
No one was in the hall.
She went out onto the stair landing. There was barely room for two people to stand on it. The stairs wound up to another room not far above her, and there was a door that opened into another room on her level.
The stairs were as drafty as she remembered them to be because of open arrow slits in the wall. Someone should have closed them up or put glass in to block the air. She doubted anyone would be firing arrows at their enemies from the towers in this day and age.
Curiosity propelled her to open the door, to discover a long room that was larger than the receiving room at Annefield and almost empty of furniture. There were desk and chair and a huge, leather-upholstered chair in front of the carved-stone fireplace that dominated the center of the interior wall. Once again, there were no rugs on the floor.
Opposite it was a bank of three arched, mullioned windows. Tara quite liked them and walked over to investigate. They overlooked a charming garden that she had caught a glimpse of from the bedroom window.
Late-season roses bloomed over a trellised gate. There were well-tended beds of flowers that were sadly losing their vigor with the coolness of the season, and herbs were being allowed to go to seed in preparation for winter. Beyond the garden was a road that must lead to the stables. A bank of trees at a curve in the road blocked her view.
People had told her that Wolfstone needed modernizing, and she could agree. There was plenty of room here to build a water closet, especially one that could be accessed by the laird’s bedroom although it would mean moving a wall—
A footstep sounded on the stairs.
She turned just as Laird Breccan started to pass the doorway. He must have been on his way to check on her because, catching a glimpse of her in the main room, he came to an abrupt halt. He stepped inside the door, having to duck as he did so. The doorframe had not been designed for a man over six feet in stature.
For a moment, they seemed to take each other’s measure.
He was a well-built man. Because he was so tall, he intimidated. However, now, she discovered he was not all that scary. Yes, his shoulders were broad, and he had an air of true power, but his manner was unassuming. He wore work clothes—buff breeches, worn boots and a hunter green waistcoat over a homespun shirt. He hadn’t bothered with a neckcloth.
She wondered if he had been out exercising the horses. The smell of fresh air was about him. He had also still not shaved. She wondered when he would, although the few days’ growth of beard on his face was not unattractive. Besides, if a man wouldn’t shave for his wedding, when would he?
As for him, he seemed to be taking a truly good look at her for the first time . . . and she sensed he wasn’t entirely happy with what he was seeing.
It was not vanity for Tara to believe she was an uncommonly beautiful woman. Almost everyone of her acquaintance, including the Prince Regent, said it was so. Why should she doubt them?
But she did.
In moments of blinding self-honesty, Tara knew they were wrong. She clearly saw her defects . . . and lately, not just the physical ones.
Now, someone else seemed to see them as well.
He spoke. “The dogs are outside.”
That was a concession. She recognized that she might have overreacted the night before. Having not been around dogs as pets, she didn’t understand those who doted on them. Thinking back, she had sounded a bit churlish last night. “Thank you. I know they mean a great deal to you.”
He nodded but didn’t speak. Was he waiting for a compromise from her? The only person she’d ever met halfway was her sister Aileen.
Then again, wasn’t a husband at least of the same importance as a sister?
We are not married yet. Not until you are bedded.
Those words seemed to hang in the air between them. Especially, “not until you are bedded.”
But if he was thinking in the same direction, she couldn’t tell. Instead, he said, “I thought you might need some private time and your breakfast. That is why I came for you.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated a beat, then heard herself say, “I was thinking, you could put a room for a water closet here. I mean you have the room, then it would be there for the bedroom.”
A part of her must have wanted him to exclaim over her cleverness, a desire that caught her off guard—but then, maybe it shouldn’t. He was her husband, and shouldn’t she want to make the best of a bad situation?
His response was a frown. “These are stone walls. They are a foot thick.”
“They have done renovations to royal palaces. I’m certain something can be done here,” she replied.
“Palaces,” he repeated, as if with that one word he could dismiss her suggestion as gibberish.
“Yes, palaces,” she answered. “Is this not a castle?”
He shook his head, not even entertaining her idea. “This way.” He started out of the room, expecting her to follow.
And she did. She didn’t have a choice. It was either follow him or wander aimlessly around Wolfstone.
But when she had a chance, she was going to repeat her water-closet suggestion. Just because he was mired in his ways didn’t mean her idea lacked merit.
He took her down the staircase and outside to where the garderobe was located. It was only a step or two from the back doorway, but still, certainly he could see how more convenient it would be if the room was upstairs.
Also waiting outside were his dogs. They sat in a line by the door, the tallest to the smallest, like children waiting to greet a new governess. Their tails began wagging as he came out of the house, but
their heads dropped when they caught sight of Tara following him.
Well, not all heads dropped.
Daphne, the black terrier, lifted her nose to glare with shiny black button eyes. She even gave a growl—
“Daph-ne,” the laird warned in a low voice.
The terrier stopped the growling but not the glaring.
The dogs’ reactions startled Tara. They acted like individual people. They seemed to understand everything that was happening and had formed opinions. But that couldn’t be. They were dogs.
She disappeared into the garderobe to see to her business. It was barely a more pleasant place in the light of day. There were narrow windows close to the roofline that allowed for air.
When she came out, she saw that the laird waited a respectful distance from the building. The dogs were gone, save for Daphne. The terrier appeared to have taken it upon herself to protect all from Tara.
She barked and went running to the laird as if warning him.
“She doesn’t like me,” Tara said to the laird as she approached. They stood on a stone-paved walkway that connected the castle to several outbuildings.
He didn’t argue. “You’ve placed yourself on her bad side. Daphne can hold a grudge. She’ll forgive you by and by.”
“She’s a dog,” Tara felt she must point out.
“And what does that have to do with anything?” he said, indicating with a nod for her to follow him.
“A dog can’t have human emotions,” Tara explained.
“Obviously they can. You just said you felt she doesn’t like you. Dislike is a human emotion.”
Tara frowned, certain he was deliberately trying to vex her. He had to be upset about last night. She’d always heard men cared about the marriage act more than women. She’d overheard more than one matron complain as an explanation for a husband’s pouty mood.
She skipped a step to catch up with him, putting her hand on his arm to beg him to stop for a moment.
He turned.
“I’m sorry last night didn’t go the way it should have.” There, she had apologized, and it was prettily done in her mind.
The Bride Says Maybe Page 8
