“Ye must have scared her away with that foul breath of yours. Gadamn dog!” he grumbled to himself, fanning at his face. He’d had a bonny woman at his side—how the devil had he been left embracing a stinkin’ dog?
This was not his day—his baby sister had gone and wedded a thieving Sassenach and his best friend’s dog was his only dance partner!
Broc tapped him on the shoulder suddenly. “That’s my woman you’re messing with,” he said, and his grin was so wide Colin thought it would split his face.
“Whoreson,” Colin said and pushed the dog away. Merry returned to all four paws and sat before him, panting and wagging her tail happily.
Broc laughed.
“Tis about bloody time ye made you’re way back!” Colin said, his mood soured at being abandoned for the second time in one day.
If possible, Broc’s smile widened. “Aye, well, I’d have come sooner but for a rumor I overheard.” He handed Colin a tankard of ale.
Colin lifted both brows. “Rumor? Och, dinna tell me ye’ve taken to gossiping like an auld woman, Broc!”
Broc’s good humor remained. “This one was particularly interesting, I thought. Seems I heard some poor oaf has shriveled nuts!”
Colin’s face screwed. “You mean to say you kept my ale from me all that time just to listen to gossip about some man’s bloody balls? Christ!”
Broc lifted a brow. “Aye, but not just any man’s balls.” He chuckled. “Your balls, Colin Mac Brodie!”
It took an instant for Broc’s words to register, and then Colin exclaimed a bit too loudly, “My balls!”
Broc burst into laughter and couldn’t stop. His hulking shoulders shook with mirth.
“What the hell are ye talking about? My balls?” Colin asked again.
Broc nodded, not quite able to speak for his laughter.
“Och, I dinna have shriveled balls!” Colin protested, and his indignant exclamation drew the attention of everyone in their immediate vicinity.
Broc laughed all the harder.
“Well, did ye speak up and tell them?” Colin asked, heartily offended now.
Broc gave him an insulted look. “Ye want me to speak up in defense of your balls? I dinna think so Colin Mac Brodie!” He waved his chin in Merry’s direction. “I have enough rumors of my own to crush with that bloody mutt of mine sleeping in my bed! Ye can bloody well defend your own balls!”
“Gadamn!” Colin exclaimed, and lifted his tankard to his lips. He turned the bottom up and downed it all at once, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “This has not been my day,” he muttered. “Not my day at all!”
Time to get drunk, and to bloody hell with women! God’s truth but they were the bane of his existence.
Chapter 3
Seana had spent far too many hours at Meghan’s wedding trying to muster her courage, and then when, at last, she’d confronted Colin, she’d spent the little time she’d had provoking him instead.
She was still kicking herself for it.
Although she didn’t pretend to like him, she had thought herself long past her anger toward him. She had spent years, in fact, lifting herself above such spitefulness.
So why had she been reduced to such bitterness today?
It wasn’t good for the soul, she reminded herself, to dwell in anger. Too oft it only hurt the bearer, because the receiver was scarce aware, or didn’t care anyway.
Colin Mac Brodie might deserve all the ill will she could summon for him, but it didn’t behoove her to give her energy to such wasteful feelings.
Nor, in fact, would it get her what she really wanted from him.
And that, she decided, was the most important thing. She wanted—needed—to wed Broc Ceannfhionn. Life was hard, and she didn’t wish to spend the rest of it alone.
She felt the knot in her dress slipping and stopped to secure the bread she had stashed in her skirt. She hadn’t snatched it from the celebration only to lose it now.
Och, she was weary, but as soon as she saw to her da, she was going to have to rush out to tend the uisge. The next batch was for the MacLean, who intended to purchase it for his daughter’s wedding celebration. And the barrel thereafter would be his, as well, a gift from Seana to Alison. Though Seana didn’t know her well, Alison held a special place in Seana’s heart. She was very happy for MacLean’s daughter.
Alison and Meghan, both, were lasses that Seana would’ve loved dearly to have called friends, and the thought of Alison surrounded by sweet little Leiths made Seana smile.
Colin Mac Brodie was going to choke on his envy some day when he saw what a fine, fine wife the MacLean’s daughter was going to make his brother! And Seana would love to be near the day he realized beauty sometimes blinded one to the ugliest of hearts. It would serve Colin right to wed someone whose face was beautiful but whose soul was black. Didn’t he know that sometimes the greatest treasures were found covered in the deepest mud? A little love and care to brush it clean was all that was needed.
A smile would suit that bonny face much better.
Seana’s brows drew together at the memory of his words.
So bloody what if he’d called her bonny! He couldn’t seem to help himself. He probably called every woman bonny… at least every woman whose face and body was perfect enough not to turn his gut. As for Alison or Seana… he was too empty-headed to see beyond their faults.
But Seana didn’t care!
Nor did she care if he had a perfect smile, or if the blue of his eyes were like the pale blue of a summer sky.
It was Broc she wanted.
Not Colin.
And she wanted children, too. She wanted laughter, and little hands tugging at her skirts. She wanted to care for Broc and mend his shirts.
She wanted kisses and a warm body next to her in bed at night—all those things, and more.
She frowned at that thought.
The thing was… try though she might, she could not quite envision herself kissing Broc.
Mayhap because she’d never kissed a man before, and didn’t know how it was done?
Broc was certainly a beautiful specimen of a man, so tall and strong, with golden hair and all his teeth. Seana had no problem imagining how a woman might wish to kiss him. She was certain, in fact, that the reason he was not wed as yet, was simply because he was too tall to see the way women ogled him. He looked eternally over their heads, oblivious to their longing glances—hers as well.
Broc was going to make some very fortunate woman a wonderful husband, and Seana intended for that woman to be her.
Tomorrow, bright and early, she was going to seek out Colin once more, and beg his help in winning Broc. She only needed to know a bit about the gentle giant… what sort of women did Broc like? And how should she act? Mayhap, even, Colin would speak to Broc in her behalf… or simply make him aware of Seana’s interest. She didn’t know precisely what she wanted from Colin, though he certainly seemed the expert in matters between men and women.
She nodded, pleased with her plan, as vague as it was.
She wasn’t about to let herself lose the next opportunity when it arose, else she’d spend the rest of her life alone… with only a bloody cat whose complete trust and affection she was never going to win.
Her gaze sought out the shadow moving alongside her in the gathering darkness of the forest.
Wretched cat!
Seana would have liked to think it had grown fond of her and loved her so dearly that it could not part with her company, but she knew better. It followed her everywhere, that much was certain, but it had never allowed Seana to pet it. She might come close enough to touch it, but it never remained to be loved. It darted away the instant it felt her touch upon its sleek black fur.
“I see you,” she told the nearly invisible cat. “I think you like to torture me, rotten beast!”
Her father had found the animal years back, when his eyes had only begun to go bad. He had gone out to check his spirits and had returned with the cat he had for
ever after referred to as “My Love.”
Seana stopped suddenly. She couldn’t help herself. “My Love,” she called out, just to see if it would come to her.
She was forever trying to win the cat’s affections—forever and to no avail.
The cat stopped when it realized she was no longer walking. Seana peered hard through the misty forest to catch a glimpse of its sleek dark body moving toward her.
My Love was beautiful, to be certain, beautiful and clever and more than just a wee bit wild.
“Here, My Love,” she called out, once more coaxing it. The cat peered out from behind a tree at her. Seana caught the glimmer of a golden eye through the shadows of the forest. She stooped, making soft cooing noises as she tried to win the animal’s favor. “Here kitty.” She reached into her skirt and tore off a tiny piece of bread and held it out to the cat. It was growing almost too dark to see, but those shimmering yellow eyes were more keen than her own, she knew.
“Damned cat!” she declared, when it was obvious that it would not come, and surged to her feet. She popped the piece of bread into her own mouth and slapped the crumbs from her fingers. The cat simply watched her, unwilling to move, unfazed by her indignation. Certainly, it seemed unmoved by her gesture—or even the fact that she’d eaten her offering, as well.
She started on her way again, determined to ignore the beast once and for all. A rustling of leaves followed her, almost too faint to be heard, but Seana knew it was there. “I dunno why ye bother to follow!” she huffed. “I think you’re trying to drive me mad!”
“You’ve some bloody wicked sense of humor, My Love! I’ll warrant you’re laughing behind those evil eyes o’ yours! Well, I dinna care!” she assured it. “Away with ye, accursed beast—begone!”
And she began to sing: “Ohhhhh, I have me a gentil cok…”
Chapter 4
Colin first came aware of the break of daylight behind his aching lids, and next the weight of an arm or leg upon his bare arse. He’d drank far too much, and his head was throbbing… almost as much as his…
Christ, but it was frozen… he groaned, but didn’t dare move, afraid to cause himself more damage—not that he was afraid of a little pain… but he was greatly afraid of a little pain there.
He’d passed out, it seemed—though not alone—upon the ground. And more’s the pity but he’d been far too drunk even to work off the frustration his mystery woman had left him with. He imagined himself surrounded now by plump breasts and round bottoms and lamented the fact that his head was aching far too much for him to even roll over and thaw his cok against the wench’s bottom.
He groaned and opened one eye, then closed it again. Pain shot through his head and he thought he heard his sister railing at him, though he knew it was the tortured invention of his uisge-battered brain.
Colin Mac Brodie! Look at ye! Who’s going to take care o’ ye now, ye sodden oaf?
Och, nobody, he acknowledged, feeling sorry for himself. He might have answered, even, but he knew Meghan wasn’t really there.
His sister was well and duly wed now, whether he liked it or nay—for better or worse—to that rotten Sassenach husband of hers! Montgomerie had better take good care of his sister, or the cur was going to answer first to his fist, next to his sword.
Just now, however, his first concern was in thawing his cok. Whatever had possessed him to strip down and dance naked before the fire last night? Stupid bastard, he railed at himself. What had he been trying to do? Prove to everyone that his nuts were not shriveled?
He opened his eyes, squinting against the brilliant morning rays, and peered back at the foot lying upon his thigh.
It was a male foot.
“Gadamn!” he said, kicking it away, and rolling toward the fire, heedless of the remaining coals that sat cooling. “Aaayyyyyyyiiii!” he howled, and leapt up as a hot ember singed him upon the arse.
A frozen cok and a burnt arse! How much worse could the bloody day begin!
Broc grunted, opening his eyes and squinting up at him. An amused smile suddenly turned his lips.
“Whoreson bastard!” Colin railed. “What makes ye think my arse was made to warm your gadamn foot!” He peered back at his singed flesh, cursing beneath his breath.
Broc didn’t seem the least contrite. In fact, his grin widened. “Not that I enjoy the idea of my foot up your arse, Mac Brodie, but no one told ye to go and strip bare. Och, but we didna need to suffer it, ye bloody bastard!”
“Aye, Mac Brodie,” grumbled Broc’s young cousin, Cameron, waking, his hand going to his head. “Damned uisge.” He groaned in pain. He glanced about. “Hmmph… where did all the women go?”
Colin frowned. “Home,” he answered irascibly. “Where are my bloody clothes?”
Broc chuckled. “Gone with the women,” he revealed, to which Colin replied with a muttered curse.
There was something inherently wrong with this scene; a bunch of witless men warming their arses by the fire and not a woman to be spied! Christ! The women had been smart enough, at least, to steal away before morning light and were likely all sleeping sweetly with their blushing cheeks lying upon soft pillows while the men were left here to pick rocks from their arses and burn their nuts on hot coals.
He spied his tunic balled up beneath Cameron’s head and his breacon laying over Broc’s legs and spat another string of oaths. He marched over and yanked the tunic from under him and the breacon from his legs.
“Well, ye werena using it!” Cameron said in self-defense, and it was less what he said and more the look upon his face that struck Colin wrong. Colin snarled at him and Cameron added sullenly, “I need to take a piss.”
“Aye, do that!” Colin urged him, eyeing him with rancor. “And take your time while you’re at it!”
Cameron leapt up from his bed upon the ground, dusted himself off and walked away into the woods to relieve himself. Colin shook his head as he watched the lad go. “If he were not your cousin…”
“He’s young,” Broc replied. “Give him a few years.”
Colin cast Broc a glance. “For what?” he snapped, and pulled his tunic over his head.
Broc shrugged.
“Anyhow,” Colin advised, straightening the wrinkles from his tunic, “’tis not me who needs to be wary o’ that boy.” He nodded in the direction of the woodlands where Cameron had gone. Merry lifted her head and peered back at him, as though sensing his gaze. “Seems to me has his own ideas about how things should be done. I see that look in his eyes.”
Broc shrugged again. “He’s at that age, Colin. Full o’ piss and vin aigre, and thinks the old ways are dead.”
Merry sat and whined for attention. Broc snapped his fingers and she came loping toward him. He reached out to stroke her back and she sat upon the ground between his legs.
“With those damned Sassenachs invading our lives, he may well be right!” Colin remarked. “Soon they’ll have no need to raise swords against us! They’ll breed us out of existence! Think we are stupid, do they? That we dinna know their plan! King David is a bloody fool, or a Sassenach one!”
Broc ignored his dire predictions. He glanced again in the direction of woodlands where Cameron had disappeared, still contemplating his cousin. “He has not taken to Iain’s new wife.”
“Oh?” Colin lifted both brows. “Why not?”
“Well… I dinna ken exactly, but I think he does not trust her. He blames her for coming between Iain and Lagan is my guess.”
Lagan was Iain MacKinnon’s cousin. All Colin knew of the man was that he had tumbled from the cliffs at Chreagach Mhor soon after their return from England. The details, however, were obscure at best, for the MacKinnons were good about keeping their secrets. He would ask Broc, but even as good of friends as they were, Broc was a MacKinnon through and through.
Colin nodded. “I canna say as I blame him for that. I do not like it much that my sister has wed a gadamn Sassenach, but I would not like it at all were Leith to do so. There is a di
fference, I think, between a Sassenach bride and the Sassenach bride of a laird.”
Broc gave him a knowing glance. “Aye, well, soon enough you’ll not have to worry about that. He’ll be wedding MacLean’s daughter.”
“So it seems,” Colin agreed, dismissing the topic, uncomfortable with it. He was aware of Broc’s continued scrutiny but ignored it.
That his brother was wedding Alison MacLean did not disturb him in the least. He didn’t want the girl any more now than he did before. That Leith had stepped forward to wed her when Colin could not even abide the sight of her made Colin feel the lesser man. So what if she had crossed eyes? She was sweet and kind, as Meghan had oft pointed out, and Colin didn’t like that part of himself that could not see past her silly imperfection. He had hurt her, he knew. His sister was right; he was a shallow brained oaf.
“At any rate…” Colin shrugged away his thoughts, “…why should Cameron like her simply because she is Iain’s wife?”
“’Tis not simply a matter of liking her or not liking her,” Broc revealed. “He does not accord her the respect due her as his laird’s mate. Iain’s patience grows weary.”
“Then let him suffer Iain’s wrath. Mayhap it will humble him. He could use a bit o’ that, I think.”
Broc cast him a troubled glance. “I am responsible for my cousin. When his da died, he was left to me to protect—he and his wee sister, Constance, though I do not know what to do with that one! She runs about nakey most o’ the day, chasing after Merry, and there is no one about who can keep her clothes on.”
Colin chuckled. “And what of Page?” he asked. “Can she not see Cameron is just a boy and simply give him time?”
Broc frowned. “It isna Page he angers. In truth, she pretends not to notice, but I can see verra well it pains her. Ye canna understand, Colin, and you do not know the whole story. You canna blame FitzSimon’s daughter for what passed between Lagan and Iain simply because she is English. Page had nothing to do with it.”
Colin cast him a curious glance. “Mayhap, but since when do you go about defending Sassenachs?”
Highland Brides 03 - On Bended Knee Page 3
