The Laird

by Grace Burrowes

Brenna lifted her tartan shawl from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “I suppose an annulment would cost money.” She sat on the bed, as if the weight of this realization took the wind from her domestic sails.

  Michael had money. Ten years of officer’s wages carefully invested, a knack for lucky wagers, and a parting gift from Sebastian St. Clair had left Michael quite comfortable. The Strathdee barony also came with an income, though now wasn’t the time to share that news with his reluctant wife.

  Wearing only his linen drawers, Michael took a place beside her on the bed they’d yet to put to its happiest use.

  “I realized something when I was dreaming of your kisses.”

  “Bother your dreams,” she muttered, though she also smiled, as if him dreaming of her kisses was not entirely a bother.

  “I realized that I love you.”

  She was off the mattress and headed for the door before he could snatch her hand and bring it to his lips.

  “Michael Brodie, that is not amusing, and if you think I’ll fall for sweet words from a man who would rather make war than be married to me—”

  An interesting and appallingly female way to view service to King and Country. “Listen to me, Brenna, before you go flouncing off in a cloud of righteous fury.”

  “I’ve never in my life flounced,” she shot back, turning to face him.

  She looked coldly affronted—she was good at looking coldly affronted—and yet, Michael’s every instinct told him she was hurt, perhaps even scared.

  And had been for some time.

  “I recall the day you came to live at Castle Brodie. You had no doll. I thought girls were born clutching dolls, because even the poorest crofter’s daughters seemed to have something with yarn for hair that they called a doll. You had a storybook.”

  She settled on the hearth, looking brittle and cold in her nightgown and shawl. “When you’re an only daughter with four older brothers and no memories of your mother, a good story can be a comfort.”

  Was that why she taught young Lachlan to read?

  “I worked harder on my lessons after you came to live with us. I understood that you were to be my wife one day, and I could not have you more learned than I was. You were reading French by the time you were ten years old.”

  “French isn’t difficult.”

  “Not for you perhaps.” Michael rose, moved the tray, and took a place beside her. Under his linen-clad backside, the stones were hard and cold, but at least Brenna hadn’t bounced to her feet. “For me, it was gibberish, but command of that gibberish saved my life on many occasions.”

  “Was that why you ended up in France? You spoke the language well?”

  “Most of Wellington’s officers were fluent in French, which was fortunate when French deserters came our way.”

  She hugged her knees. “Were you a deserter, then?”

  “I was not, not to the people who counted, and part of the reason I did not come home to you immediately is that I made enemies on both sides of the war. I did not want to risk them following me here.”

  Brenna turned her head, so her cheek rested on her knees.

  “That’s all you can say? For two years, the entire shire whispers about why Michael Brodie turned his back on his wife, his clan and his holdings, when he might have come home to a hero’s welcome, and that’s your explanation?”

  He wanted to give her more, because the entire shire hadn’t merely whispered. They’d muttered, speculated, gossiped, and insinuated too. In nine years—in nine hundred years—that aspect of human nature would not have changed.

  He also wanted to kiss her. Huddled in her shawl, her toes tucked under her hems, Brenna looked young and unhappy.

  “I made the acquaintance of torturers, Brenna. Men who excelled at inflicting suffering, men who could cherish a grudge like a Papist would cherish a piece of the true cross. The barony is at least in part an effort to provide me with safety by recognition.”

  She studied him, and he bore it, though her pensive expression made clear she was not thinking about kissing.

  “Tell me about this love you think you have for me.”

  He silently thanked her for the change in topic, though in its way, love was no more easily discussed than torture.

  “I knew from the day I first beheld you that we were to be wed. Even a boy of thirteen understands what that involves.”

  “A girl of eight does not. I knew you had a nice smile, and when you teased me, it wasn’t mean.”

  “You were mine to protect, not mine to annoy.”

  She jostled his shoulder. “Such a wee knight, you were.”

  Any affection from Brenna was precious, and Michael basked in her approval, even if it was for a boy long grown—a boy who’d had decent instincts and a loving heart.

  “You liked me,” he said. “You were quiet about it, but you liked me.”

  Elsewhere in the castle, people were stirring. A door banged, sheep bleated in the outer bailey, and somebody upended a bucket of water onto the stone steps below the bedroom window.

  “You were partial to shortbread,” Brenna said. “Scottish girls are born knowing how to mix up a batch of shortbread, whether they can lay claim to a doll or not.”

  “I’m still partial to shortbread, and I’m still partial to you.”

  The analogy was simple. Brenna appeared to consider it.

  And then reject it. “You hardly know me. I hardly know you.”

  He slipped his hand into hers, lest she hare off to domesticate in some safe, distant corner of the castle.

  “That’s not true, Brenna Maureen MacLogan Brodie. I know you’re fluent in French and you dance beautifully, and this is fortunate, because your singing voice is atrocious. You mutter in your sleep, cannot stand the sight of a weed in your flower beds, and think Sir Walter’s novels are ridiculously sentimental.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Because for eight years, we lived under the same roof, day in day out. I watched you read, knit, and embroider your way through Highland winters. You watched me try to grow a beard when I was seventeen.”

  Her smile said she’d forgotten about that. “You’d grown so tall, but your voice still cracked when you were excited.”

  He wanted to kiss her while she was thinking of that gangly, awkward boy. “We are not strangers, and I do love you and have for years. I’m thinking I’ll kiss you now.”

  She didn’t pull away when he bussed her cheek, and he didn’t press his attentions on her any further than that one chaste peck.

  She did, however, clutch her infernal shawl more tightly.

  “I suppose you think this settles matters between us, because you’ve rediscovered a boyhood affection for the woman you’re now married to?”

  So huffy—while she studied the toes peeking out from under her hem.

  “A few shared memories settles nothing, because if our marriage is to amount to anything, you must rediscover an affection for me. That’s where the wooing comes in.”

  “I’m to endure wooing now in addition to kisses?”

  “You’re a quick study, Brenna Maureen, and yes, you must resign yourself to being wooed. I’ve participated in many a siege, and I’m confident my skills are up to the challenge of wooing you. I still favor your shortbread above all others.”

  He winked at her, and one instant too late realized that likening his wife to a walled city in enemy territory was perhaps not the wisest analogy.

  “You’re confident,” Brenna said, rising from their perch on the hearth. “Have your years on the Continent prepared you for the task before you? Will you bring a rifle to bed with us, Michael?”

  He opened his mouth—then shut it. Wooing Brenna would involve something other than vulgar innuendo, though he wasn’t sure exactly what.

  “No, I will not bring my rifle to bed.” He would stop wearing his underlinen to bed too. “I am puzzled about one thing, though.”

  Brenna paused
before disappearing behind the privacy screen. Her braid trailed down her back, her feet were bare, and she looked reluctantly intrigued—also dear. “What could possibly baffle the Great Wooer of Castle Brodie?”

  Michael stood and prowled toward her, abruptly needing for the discussion to be serious.

  “A marriage is a committed union of two souls, Brenna Brodie, not the desperate attempts of one soul to attach the affections of the other. So I’m wondering: How will you woo me?”

  ***

  “Walk with me, Elspeth Fraser.” From the way Elspeth stopped, then continued as if she hadn’t heard him, Hugh MacLogan concluded that his invitation lacked a certain graciousness.

  “You might as well,” he said as she resumed striding along and he fell in step beside her. “A wee thing like you wouldn’t be able to outrun a fellow like me.” Unless, of course, the fellow was sporting a cockstand behind his sporran such as might trip him onto his ignorant, randy arse.

  “I’m about to explain something to you, Hugh MacLogan, and you’d best pay attention, because what I have to say will stand you in good stead should you ever decide you want to woo another female.”

  “I’m listening.” He could listen to her scolds all day and far into the night, though he’d rather listen to her sighs and bury his nose in the glory of her wheat-blond hair.

  “When a man approaches a woman, and he wants to gain her notice, wishing her good day will generally get matters off to an encouraging start.”

  Matters had got off to an encouraging start the day he’d laid eyes on her, only to proceed exactly nowhere in the intervening two years.

  “Good day, Elspeth Fraser.”

  She smacked his arm and muttered something that might have been, “Ye thrawn, glaikit mon.”

  Ann had called him the same thing more than once.

  “I’ve a question for you, woman, if you’re done handing out lessons in flirtation and violence.”

  As they approached the wooded hill upon which the castle sat, she walked faster. “Simple civilities are not flirtation. What did you want?”

  He wanted to flirt with her but didn’t know how. More than that, he wanted her to flirt with him.

  “How is Brenna getting on with her long-lost husband?”

  Elspeth stopped as they gained the shelter of the trees and turned blue, blue eyes on him. He loved her eyes, loved the way they conveyed her intelligence and humor, her heart—and her temper.

  “Why is it any of your concern?”

  “Brenna is my cousin, and I don’t know this baron. He’s been gone so long nobody really knows him, and we haven’t an explanation for much of his absence.”

  “Why don’t you ask Brenna?”

  Off she marched through the trees, as if that question settled the business. He caught up with her in four strides, because her legs were that short.

  Though they’d likely fit around his waist well enough.

  “If I were to ask Brenna, I’d have to present myself at the castle, which would cause talk. Brenna would tell me all goes well with her husband, when the man hasn’t the sense to call on his own tenants without Angus Brodie glowerin’ at his side.”

  Elspeth’s steps slowed. “I’ve seen them ride out together, Michael and Angus. Brenna has too.”

  He walked along beside her in silence while the birds sang and the breeze soughed through the pines. The morning was pretty, the girl was pretty, and the fellow…had never been pretty. Not in his looks, not in his manners, not in his speeches.

  “I’m worried about Brenna,” Hugh said, the same sort of thing he might have blurted out to his Ann, or whispered to her in the dark at the end of the day. “What sort of man leaves his wife to contend with things at home, when the war’s long over and the Corsican growing fat and bald on some faraway island?”

  Elspeth was worried too. Hugh caught that in the single fleeting glance she flicked in his direction.

  “Michael’s reasons are for Brenna to determine. They’re married, and they’ve been sharing a bed since the day the laird returned.”

  Interesting, and exactly the sort of thing Hugh would not have known how to inquire about.

  “And?”

  Any man who’d been married to the mother of his two children knew sharing a bed might be a result of exhaustion and convenience, and did not necessarily guarantee the couple in the bed enjoyed wedded bliss.

  Elspeth caught her toe on something, a root, a rock, and stumbled a bit, but Hugh was too preoccupied with the glints of red in her hair to grab for her elbow.

  “And Brenna seems fine,” Elspeth said, catching herself and marching on. “Her baron watches her when he thinks she’s not looking, as if he could see the girl he married in the woman she’s become.”

  Hugh scanned the path for more promising obstructions and saw none. “From what I could gather, the girl he married was no prize, through no fault of her own.”

  “I should hit you again,” Elspeth said on a weary sigh, “but I don’t want to bruise my knuckles.”

  They’d come to a clearing partway up the hill, one that sported a bench. The lady wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “Sit with me a moment.”

  She looked around the clearing, as if hoping for a wild boar or some other distraction to come along, not that boars had frequented the woods in centuries.

  “You neglect your manners on purpose, don’t you, Hugh MacLogan?”

  If only that were the case. With others, he was polite enough, but with her…

  She sat, and through some female trick, managed to do it truculently. “None of your dirty rhymes, Hugh MacLogan.”

  He took the place beside her, though a gentleman was supposed to ask.

  “Dantry’s our poet, unless you’d like a few verses of old Rabbie Burns.” Who could, indeed, be naughty—brilliantly naughty. “Would Brenna tell you if her husband were making a nuisance of himself?”

  “You mean if he’s pestering her in bed, and because she’s his wife, she has to allow it?”

  Yes, he’d meant exactly that, among other things. “Aye. Brenna deserves more careful handling than that.”

  Her posture lost some of its starch, as if, all odds to the contrary, Hugh might have stumbled upon a sentiment with which Elspeth agreed.

  “Are you in love with your cousin, Hugh? Because if you are, that’s no help to her now. Brenna is loyal, and in some ways more proper than a duchess. If her husband exercises his privileges, then you’ve nothing to say to it—and neither does she.”

  As Hugh watched a shaft of sunlight burnish Elspeth’s hair to the hues of a crackling fire, he realized several things: First, Elspeth was worried about Brenna too, and that was not good. Second, Elspeth completely mistook familial concern for something else. Third, nobody could see them as they enjoyed a moment of privacy in the woods.

  “Elspeth Fraser, I have no amorous feelings toward my cousin and I never have. Brenna would gut me like a rabbit if I so much as winked at her wrong. You, however, are not my cousin, not married, and not armed with anything more than a sharp tongue.”

  Elspeth’s brows had just drawn down in puzzlement when Hugh leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.

  ***

  “No woman ever knew less or cared less about wooing a man than I do,” Brenna said, whipping around when she reached the end of the parapet. “I am married to a ridiculous man.”

  Elspeth saw in Brenna the same tension she often saw in her employer. Many people thought bitterness drove Brenna—and some would concede she had good reason to be annoyed—but Elspeth suspected Brenna was haunted by a vast bewilderment about human interactions generally, and her marriage in particular.

  “You are married to a clever man,” Elspeth said. Over at the loch, two red-haired kilted fellows were making their way down to a beach shielded on three sides by trees.

  “I want none of this sentiment Michael seems hell-bent on introducing to our marriage. He’s the laird. Why can’t he harass the tenants
, waste money in Aberdeen or Edinburgh, occupy himself with making and drinking whisky, and disappear to London for months at a time?”

  The question was so plaintive, it distracted Elspeth from the men pulling their shirts over their heads a quarter mile to the east.

  “You used to like your husband.”

  Like a bird in flight dropped by an arrow, Brenna plopped onto the stone ledge that lined the interior side of the crenellations.

  “I may still like him, but I cannot understand this affection he claims to hold for me.”

  Dantry MacLogan was not as muscular as his older brothers, being the youngest, but Neil was a fine figure of a man. Not as fine as Hugh, though.

  “You are not so hard to like, Brenna.”

  Brenna rose and came over to stand next to Elspeth. “Where’s Hugh?”

  Brenna did not see that the MacLogan brothers were shedding their clothing, only that they were missing a sibling.

  “One of them always stays within shouting distance of Annie, or they take her with them if they have to leave the property.”

  “Smart of them.” Brenna turned her back to the stone wall before any truly interesting male parts were in evidence. A silence spread, during which two kilts were draped upon the rocky beach and Elspeth watched naked men dive into a loch cold enough to wake the dead and kill the living.

  “They could send Annie to you,” Elspeth said. Because how was Elspeth to further her acquaintance with a man when he spent most of his time hovering around home and hearth?

  “No, they could not. I had to argue for an entire summer to pry Lachlan loose from them, and then only on certain terms.”

  The silence took on a pained quality—a more pained quality. “Hugh has stopped bathing in the loch.”

  “How am I to woo my dratted husband?”

  Elspeth hurt for her friend, even as she wanted to pitch her over the parapet. “You start by listening to him.” As she had not listened to Hugh when he’d surprised her on the path. “You pay attention to him, and you’re good at paying attention, Brenna.”

  Though a woman who could turn her back on the fine specimens on the beach without even a glance was not a woman with a natural advantage when it came to wooing a fellow.