The Laird

by Grace Burrowes

  More progress, but like the damned French, she gave up ground only grudgingly.

  “May I have that shirt?”

  She had folded the clean shirt at least twice, but tossed it to him now. “That one might be a bit small on you. Hugh isn’t as broad through the shoulders.”

  Michael’s baroness was not offering a compliment.

  Hugh hadn’t access to the London tailors, said to be the best in the world. The shirt was clean and well made nonetheless. Michael left the top two buttons open to accommodate the more snug fit.

  “I’m sure I have a clean cravat somewhere in my bag.” This time, rather than provide his lady with yet another excuse to depart from his presence, he crossed the corridor himself and retrieved his entire traveling bag.

  As he stood before the mirror and wrapped his neckcloth around his throat, Michael caught sight of Brenna in the mirror, arms crossed, plaid shawl wrapped tight. “Why the frown, Wife?”

  He wished she’d object to his moving his effects into what was clearly her bedroom. Wished she’d join battle, because an altercation of any sort required that two parties engage each other.

  “Will you sashay about the castle barefoot?”

  “Half the women in Edinburgh are barefoot as we speak, shoes being too precious to waste on summer wear.”

  When he expected she’d inform him he was not a fishmonger’s wife plying her wares on the lowland docks, Brenna instead tossed his shaving water into the tub, wiped off his razor, threw his towel onto the stack of damp flannels on the floor, and started rolling up his kit.

  “You would have made an excellent officer’s wife.”

  She passed him his kit, the ties fastened in a tidy bow. “Some might say I am an officer’s wife.”

  She would have made an excellent officer. Rather than lay himself open to another telling toss of her uxorial dagger, Michael focused on brushing his too-long hair back from his face.

  “Angus will be expecting you,” Brenna reminded him. “Mind he doesn’t get you too drunk. The staff began inspecting you the moment you rode into the bailey. You were right about that.”

  He set the shaving kit aside, determined to gain some concession from her. “If that’s so, I’ll sleep here tonight, Brenna Brodie. We are man and wife, and a baron needs an heir.”

  She wrinkled her nose, which made her look young and not as formidable. “Any particular baron?”

  Brenna sidestepped as nimbly as if swords had been crossed beneath her verbal feet.

  “We are the Baron and Baroness Strathdee.” He liked the sound of it, even if their title did not impress his lady wife.

  “We’ve good fishing in the River Dee. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  She left the field, off to clean, tidy, polish, or otherwise organize some corner of the house, and yet, Michael did not have the sense he’d inspired his wife into a retreat. A baron might need an heir, but a man married to Brenna Brodie needed his wife’s cooperation if any heirs were to be forthcoming.

  On that daunting thought, Michael headed barefoot for the lower floors, and a wee dram—or two.

  ***

  “I hate Scotland. The mountains are gray and mean, the roads are bumpy, and everybody talks funny.”

  Maeve’s nursemaid might have been deaf for all the impact this litany had on her, so Maeve resorted to heavier artillery.

  “I have to use the necessary.”

  Prebish stopped gawking out the window and aimed a smile at her charge that did not fool Maeve for a moment.

  “You used the necessary at the last posting inn, and if you’re about to tell me you’re famished to flinders and dying of thirst yet again, you know the basket is under the seat.”

  “There’s nothing but scones in the basket, and they’re stale by now. The tea in the flask has gone all cold and nasty too.” Like Maeve’s life had gone cold and nasty.

  “Best appreciate good food while you have it, child. Times are hard, and not every little girl is as fortunate as you.”

  Prebish was a Papist, which Maeve took to mean she prayed frequently, was on a first-name basis with a lot of saints, and didn’t mind so much when people died. When Maeve had been a truly little girl, she had heard many a good story perched on Prebish’s ample lap. On the basis of that long association—and a certain tight feeling in her tummy—Maeve posed a question that had been plaguing her since they’d left Ireland.

  “If I’m so fortunate, why did Bridget send me far, far away?”

  Such a scary distance too. The Scottish roads were nothing compared to the pitching of the Irish Sea and the odd languages people spoke in Belfast and Glasgow. In the port towns, Prebish had held Maeve’s hand, and Maeve hadn’t protested.

  “Your sister is expecting a child of her own, young Maeve, and your older brother is now a Scottish baron. He’s the head of your family, and the proper fellow to look after you now that all that nonsense is over with on the Continent.”

  Nonsense was what Prebish called everything from a disagreement among the maids to war to Maeve’s very reasonable arguments against having her hair braided every single day.

  “Tell me again what my brother looks like.”

  Prebish’s smile shifted and became wistful—or sad?

  “He’s a grand fellow, your brother Michael. As tall as Hamish Heckendorn, with green eyes and blond hair. He liked to laugh when I knew him, and your sisters adored him.”

  “Does he still like to laugh?” Because what did it matter if a man was taller than the blacksmith in Darrow if that man was grumpy and sour all the time?

  “He’s been long away to war, Maeve. That can take the laughter out of a man, but there’s nothing like a child to bring it back.”

  Who was to bring back Maeve’s laughter?

  The mountains never changed here. They took all day to get around, and the roads only got worse the farther the carriage traveled from the coast. In Aberdeen, Prebish had declared they needed a day to rest, but they’d also picked up baggage, the weight of which made the ride even rougher.

  “Will my brother like me?”

  Prebish was not ignoring this question. Maeve could see her old face was creased in thought. “He will love you, and you will love him, because that’s what family does.”

  Maeve reached under the seat for the basket of scones—which were not stale—and took a bite, hoping to settle her stomach. Prebish had told the truth—families loved each other, even families who sent their dearest little girl off to strange, cold, bumpy lands—but Prebish had also not answered the question Maeve had asked.

  Would Michael, a brother she’d never met, like her?

  ***

  Brenna had parted from her newly scrubbed husband at the first opportunity, needing activity to keep her from flying at him in a flat panic.

  Heirs were not a fit topic for the dinner table, though, so a lovely meal had been served an hour earlier than usual.

  Of which, Brenna had tasted not one bite.

  “Angus said you set a good table, and he spoke the truth.” Michael offered her a smile and put a slice of cheese on the end of a small bone-handled knife. Brenna took the cheese, knowing she hadn’t eaten enough dinner to sustain a hare in summer.

  She ignored the compliment and the smile, for Angus offering compliments was the local equivalent of Greeks bearing gifts.

  “Thank you.” She nibbled the cheese rather than speculate on what else Angus had said over a glass or three of whisky.

  “Does Angus usually dine here?”

  “He dwells in the dower house, and is well looked after there. This is our own cheese, you know. I like it particularly well.”

  From Michael’s expression, Brenna’s dodge hadn’t worked.

  He cut himself a thick slice of cheese in a single, clean stroke.

  “Why is my uncle residing in the dower house when we have an entire castle available to shelter our family?”

  “The castle is drafty, dusty, and without many modern conveniences
, according to Angus.” While the dower house, built at the insistence of Michael’s mother, was an architectural gem full of comfort and innovations. “Your father gave him the tenancy of the dower house with your mother’s permission.”

  This was not far from the truth, if the late laird’s semi-drunken ramblings could be trusted. Brenna had been too grateful for Angus’s absence to question the explanation.

  “I suppose it’s the least we can do for Angus, as much of the running of the place as he’s taken on. Will your cousins join us for meals?”

  As Brenna finished her cheese and washed it down with the last of her wine, it occurred to her that Michael was much concerned with reconnecting with his people. He wanted to review his staff first thing in the day, had asked for a list of the departed before he’d taken his bath, and now wanted to know the comings and goings of Brenna’s cousins and their families.

  “Come,” she said, rising. “I will answer your questions as we walk.”

  Because she’d moved dinner up, and because they were in the Highlands, the sun was not yet set. In high summer, the gloaming lasted for hours—hours when work might be done, or a husband might be reasoned with.

  “Where are you taking me, Brenna?” He was amused, not in fear of a kidnapping.

  “You asked me to list for you all of those who’ve left your holdings in your absence. We’ll start that list down by the kirk.”

  The castle chapel had been demolished in some long-past wave of reformatory zeal and the stones reused for other structures, so Brenna led her spouse through the postern gate and down the wooded hill toward the village.

  “Even the trees are taller,” Michael said. “Do we still have as much venison as we want?”

  “We do, and thank God for it. Venison and potatoes, salmon when they’re running, grouse, mutton, oats most years, and we trade wool for much else. I’m jealous of my kitchen gardens, and the conservatory provides a few delicacies. I suppose Angus would have discussed the crops with you.”

  That was as close as Brenna could come to asking about the hour Michael had spent behind a closed door with his uncle. Angus would share his version of Brenna’s history with Michael, and he’d do it at the time and place most likely to benefit Angus and burden Brenna—or destroy her.

  Michael took her hand. Just slid his fingers through hers, and kept right on walking, while Brenna lost track of every thought in her head.

  “Angus complained, of course,” Michael said. “Cheerfully, because we Scots always complain cheerfully, but he let it be known I am much indebted to him for cobbling together ten more years of solvency on land that begrudges even the hardiest sheep a living.”

  “Five years,” Brenna said. “Your da didn’t fall from his horse until five years ago, and he managed his land properly until the end.” Though he hadn’t managed much else well.

  “May we rest a moment?” Michael didn’t drop her hand, but instead came to a stop at a small clearing. Heather sprang up amid the bracken, and evening sunlight slanted through deep forest shadows. The scents were fresh, green, and soothing.

  Michael had endured hardship after hardship with the military. He was not asking to rest because his feet were tired.

  “It will be dark soon,” Brenna observed.

  Still, Michael did not drop her hand. “A soldier learns to treasure beauty where he finds it. Tell me about the day my father died.”

  Five years ago, Brenna hadn’t known where to write to her husband, or if he was even still alive.

  “Shall we sit, Husband?”

  Ages ago, somebody had graced the clearing with a plain plank bench, and that bench had endured too. Brenna untangled her hand from Michael’s and took a seat, but the infernal man simply came down beside her and recaptured her hand.

  “Were you here when he died?”

  “I was with him. He asked that I remember him to you and tell you he was proud of you.”

  Michael hunched forward, one forearm braced on his thigh. He stayed that way for a long moment before he spoke.

  “If we are blessed with children, we will tell them we are proud of them, but we will also tell them we love them, and when they are gone from us, we will tell them we miss them and pray for their safety every night.”

  “Aye.”

  She hurt for him, despite all intention to the contrary, because he wasn’t the cheerful, braw fellow who’d gone off to war years ago. He was both more and less than that young man, and the changes had been wrought through privation, violence, and misery.

  “Was it awful, in France?”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

  “Yes, it was awful, for many reasons. In some regards, the wars were hardest on the French people. They gave untold thousands of their best and boldest young men to the Corsican’s bloodlust, and eventually, few were left at home to tend the crops or raise the children. One couldn’t help but admire the French, just as they grudgingly admired the bravery and tenacity of their foes.”

  “All this gallantry only made for more widows and orphans.” And wounded, starving soldiers.

  “Just so.”

  Brenna searched for anything she could give him that might be of comfort. “Your father was always a bit tipsy toward the end, but no more so than any other aging laird. The gout plagued him, and drink was his consolation. He was on his favorite horse, and they simply took a bad step before a jump.”

  More quiet passed, such as the woods at dusk were quiet. Squirrels chattered and leaped about, and birds fluttered in the canopy above.

  “Even on the battlefield, it can happen like that,” Michael said softly. “We lost many a soldier to disease and exposure, rather than to bullets. Too many.”

  She could not tell if his use of “we” referred to the French or the British. Probably both.

  “Your father also told me to give his love to your mother and sisters. I wrote to your mother to let her know this.” He’d been proud of his son, but his wife and daughters had had his love—too late, of course, but they had.

  Another absent kiss to her knuckles. “Thank you.”

  His expression was so bleak, Brenna’s heart ached. “I ride his gelding, you know. Boru is a fine mount, though Angus wanted to shoot him.”

  “We’ll ride out tomorrow, then, you and I.”

  “If the weather’s fine.” Except first they had a night to get through. “Shall we be on our way? Soon it will be too dark to read the headstones.”

  “You were taking me down to the cemetery?”

  “Aye.” And still, he kept her hand in his. He’d been like this as a young man too, affectionate, full of casual touches and easy smiles. She had loved him for that, loved him desperately. “Michael, I realize we will share a bed tonight, but if you expect…”

  He sat beside her, her hand in his, his expression unreadable in the forest shadows. “If I expect—?”

  She rose and walked across the clearing, twigs snapping under her boots. Maybe this was a discussion best held outside the castle walls, or at least begun there.

  “I cannot join with a stranger.”

  “I would be alarmed if you could, but I’m not a stranger. I’m your husband.”

  He’d followed her across the clearing, and she hadn’t heard a sound. The heat coming off of him, the scent of vetiver, and his voice told Brenna her husband stood immediately behind her.

  “Why didn’t you come home, Michael? The armistice was more than two years ago, and you didn’t serve for the Hundred Days. You’ve been on British soil for more than two years, and I’ve received exactly one note from you in all that time.”

  “You’re angry,” he said, his hands settling on her shoulders. “I can under—”

  Brenna wrenched out from under his grasp and faced him.

  “I am not angry, and you cannot understand, any more than I can understand why you’d remain behind enemy lines in France, year after year, bound by some duty you haven’t taken the time to explain to yo
ur own wife.”

  “One doesn’t generally advertise one’s location behind enemy lines, Brenna.”

  “One doesn’t generally spend years behind those lines, then wait two more years to come home, Michael.” The light was waning, and this topic wasn’t the point of their errand beyond the castle walls.

  “I had yet to discharge my duties to my satisfaction or to my superior’s satisfaction.”

  Bother his superior.

  “Every soldier gets leave, Michael Brodie, and yet, I had no leave from being your wife. I thought about haring off to London, you know. Presenting myself on your doorstep to see if you recognized me.”

  He remained silent, did not even try to apologize or explain.

  “Your parents separated for all practical purposes,” she said, because any reaction from him was better than his continued silence. “Many couples do.”

  “We’ll not separate.” He sounded exactly like his father, and exactly like his uncle, too.

  “You failed to consummate our union when you had the chance, went marching off to war for longer than was necessary, could not be bothered to write to your own wife twice a year, and now you come wandering home in expectation of…what? An heir on the way by Christmas? Are you daft?”

  “We’ll not separate, Brenna Brodie. Angus tells me our finances are precarious, many of the tenants have left for the New World, the English pass one tax after another, and the people remaining need their laird and lady. Mother should never have gone back to Ireland.”

  “You are so certain of that,” Brenna said, “and you know nothing of it, because you were not here, were you?” The bitterness in her tone must have registered, because Michael’s expression was shocked.

  “Michael,” she said gently, “we have been separated for nearly a decade. I no more want to be your cast-off wife than you want to follow in your parents’ footsteps, but creating a family is not another order from headquarters to be dispatched with all haste.”

  “I fail to comprehend—” He went silent, and in that silence, Brenna could see him building up a wall of masculine pride and Scottish male stubbornness. If he had his way, he’d bed her by morning, preferably more than once, and mark it off his list of obligations to be seen to.