The Laird

by Grace Burrowes

  Michael turned to greet MacLogan’s brothers, the smile freezing to his lips. Dantry was still growing into his muscles, though he had his brother’s height and red hair. Neil, however, was big, had dark auburn hair, and was by no means a stranger to Michael.

  Even though Michael had seen Neil MacLogan in his nightmares for nearly ten years, he stuck out a hand in greeting anyway. Neil was Brenna’s family, and thus Michael’s family too.

  ***

  Brenna floated through her day, occasionally touching her fingers to her lips and wondering how married people got anything done. A few kisses—a few wonderful, lingering, marvelous kisses wrapped in her husband’s strong arms—and Brenna had gone daft.

  This was how Hugh had felt about his Ann, how—once upon a time, long ago—Goodie MacCray had felt about Donal. A feeling more blessed than sunbeams, even more blessed than the fresh breeze whipping off the loch and setting the Brodie pennant to flapping against the flagpole above one corner of the parapet.

  The feeling had grown even better, when Michael had framed her face with his hands and touched his mouth to hers, slowly, deliberately. She’d peeked and found him watching her, his concentration ferocious and tender all at once.

  That kiss—her pleasure in it, Michael’s lips curving against hers when she’d grabbed him by the hair and kissed him back—proved so much was possible for them that Brenna would never have dreamed they could have.

  A kiss like that was a foundation, upon which hope and joy and—

  Brenna’s mental effusions evaporated, between one feathery, lovely thought and the next, for out behind the stables, Angus Brodie walked in from the paddocks, carrying a child on his back.

  A girl child.

  Since Michael’s return, Brenna had lapsed in her vigilance. She hurried down through the castle and across the bailey, too sick with dread to castigate herself for that now, and too angry.

  She forced herself to emerge from the stables at a dignified pace. “Maeve Brodie, you are old enough to walk.”

  Angus sauntered along, making no move to put the girl down. His hands were laced under the child’s bottom, while Maeve’s arms were around his neck.

  “It’s a long way in from the yearling paddocks, Brenna. You’ll not begrudge a wee child a piggyback ride, now will you?”

  Damn him. He manipulated and implied and finagled until his actions were above reproach, kindly even, and Brenna was cast in the role of villain or incompetent.

  Sometimes both, if Angus was in a particularly nasty mood.

  “Put the child down, Angus. She told no one where she was going, and she knows better. I’m frequently on the parapets, and can see disobedience and foolishness when it goes skipping across my bailey of an afternoon.”

  The girl wriggled down and stood beside Angus with her hand in his. The sight nearly caused a reappearance of Brenna’s noon meal.

  Maeve hung her head and scuffed her boot heel in the dirt. “I’m sorry, Brenna. I wanted to visit with Wee Bannock, and—”

  Because Brenna had once been a small, lonely girl in Castle Brodie, she could finish the sentence: and Uncle Angus promised me some treat, some special outing, that my young conscience could not withstand. Brenna saw that the outing had not taken untoward turns, either, which was a relief so vast it would fill the loch.

  Brenna saw as well when Angus gently squeezed the girl’s hand, a signal to Maeve not to implicate Angus in her first failed attempt at truancy.

  “I know better,” Maeve said, dropping Angus’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

  She would know better still before the day was over.

  “To the castle with you, Maeve, and wait for me in the solar. You are not to go in through the kitchens, either.”

  Where Cook would fuss and cluck, Lachlan would sympathize, and Michael might interfere, if his business in the village were concluded.

  Angus at least waited until Maeve scampered off before he marched up to Brenna and stood breathing pipe smoke and lemon drop at her.

  “You have no say where that child is concerned, Brenna.”

  “She cannot be wandering off. She’s new here. She could get lost, hurt, or worse.”

  He gave her a strange look, part humor, part convincingly honest regret, and part glee, because he no doubt knew what proximity to him did to Brenna’s insides.

  “You honestly believe I’m the worst thing that could happen to a wee lass who’s wandered to the foals’ pasture of a summer’s day, Brenna? You wound me, and all over a few silly moments years ago, which your female imagination has inflated past all reality. Allow me to remind you of some relevant facts: my father and brother were laird here, your husband depends on me for guidance when it comes to the estate, and if I take a notion our best bottom land cannot be wasted on cow pastures, then your cousins—the last of your clan to stand with you in this shire—will be on the next boat out of Aberdeen.”

  For Brenna to counter with scathing indignation would only please him. To kick him where she should have kicked him fifteen years ago would enrage him.

  “Am I supposed to choose my cousins over that innocent child, Angus? For I will not.” She had contemplated killing him on many occasions now that she’d grown older. The notion comforted far more than it appalled. With Angus gone, Maeve would be safe, and Brenna’s cousins could raise their cows.

  Though Michael would not understand, and the justice of the peace might have something to say about it.

  Perhaps Angus saw the speculation in her eyes. Saw that the adult woman was gradually weaning herself from the fears of the young girl.

  “You daft woman, have you told your husband about the money you lost us all those years ago? Told him how bitterly we’ve struggled thanks to your arrogance and incompetence? Why don’t you worry about that, instead of a little walk to the paddocks, which—must I remind you?—are also visible from your parapets, among many other places?”

  He shook his head, his attitude not so much disgusted as disappointed, for which Brenna purely, cleanly hated him.

  When he’d stomped off, kilt swinging for want of a sporran to hold it decently in place, Brenna stood for long moments, breathing her rage into submission.

  Rage could be a fine thing. Rage had kept her alive when she’d been so ashamed she’d dreamed of flying off the parapets to a place where nothing hurt, and young girls didn’t have to endure behaviors they shouldn’t understand.

  She’d been angry at Angus for years, angry at the old laird and his lady, and then angry at Michael too, though he, of all of them, was blameless. She would be angry a bit longer, despite Michael’s return, and despite his marvelous kisses.

  As Brenna gathered her tartan shawl about her and pondered the scold she’d visit upon Maeve, Neil MacLogan emerged from the trees, silent as a cat. If he ever smiled, he’d be the handsomest of Brenna’s cousins. He wasn’t smiling now.

  “Were you spying on me, Neil?”

  “Was he bothering you?”

  While Brenna’s animosity toward Angus was consistent and fortifying, Neil’s antipathy toward the older man was a seething, dangerous presence in the back of his eyes. The sight was far more attractive to Brenna than it should have been.

  She started walking in the direction of the stables, much of her joy in the day contaminated by a few minutes in Angus’s company.

  “He made a fool of me. I came down here prepared to tear a strip from him for leading Maeve astray, when all he’d done was carry her in from the foals’ pasture.” He hadn’t had to pluck the child from the castle, hadn’t had to entice her in the least. Angus was nothing if not patient and observant.

  Neil fell in step beside her. “You won’t let me kill him.”

  This was also true. “He doesn’t need killing, he needs watching.” Constantly, unceasingly.

  “He seems to understand that.”

  “Maybe he’s getting old.” People outgrew their wickedness, or were cut down by it. The gallows seldom ended a long life.


  For the length of a paddock, Neil kept his silence, and it was too much to hope that he’d drift off without sharing more of his thoughts.

  “Don’t tell yourself he’s getting old, Brenna. Age won’t stop Davey MacCray from craving his liquor, and Angus is the same way, only worse. He watches and waits, like an ugly sea beastie under his rock, until somebody lonely, invisible, and hurting wanders by or is late on their rent, and then he devours his prey.”

  Brenna had never asked what Neil had seen, what he’d heard in the village. This was as honest as he’d been with her, and it was more than honest enough.

  “I won’t let this happen again, Neil. You need not warn me.”

  And still, Neil prowled along at her side, big, dark, and quietly, lethally angry. Nobody built a stone wall as sturdy as Neil MacLogan did, or as quickly. Brute strength was part of it; he also had sheer, unrelenting focus too.

  “I heard him threaten you, Brenna. Heard him threaten us.” Neil used the Highland version of us, us MacLogans. The sole remnants of the clan in these parts, which included Brenna, apparently, at least in Neil’s thinking.

  “You’ve paid your rent, and Michael’s here now. Angus can’t throw you off the property merely because he’s peevish with me.”

  Neil stopped her before they gained the barn. Inside, some unhappy horse kicked rhythmically against the wall, a usually docile beast turned violent for the sheer, bored hell of it.

  “If Angus thinks he can’t come after us cousins, then he’s all the more likely to come after you, Brenna. He’ll whisper his lies into Michael’s ears, bring up the past as if it happened yesterday, discredit you and find ways to turn your husband from you. When that happens, you come to us.”

  She should have appreciated such an offer—Hugh had never been as explicitly supportive—but instead, Neil’s words scared her.

  “Michael is a good man, and he’s my husband.” Though if she had to choose between Michael and her cousins? Between Michael, and Lachlan or wee Annie?

  Neil shocked her then, twice. First, he shocked her by smiling, a slow, sweet smile devastating in its sadness. Second, he kissed Brenna on the cheek.

  “I was a good man once too, Brenna Maureen MacLogan Brodie, and you are a good woman.”

  He sauntered away, into the barn, and soon the horse stopped its kicking, while Brenna remained between the paddocks, wondering how in the world she would tell her husband—before Angus did—that she’d betrayed her people to the tune of hundreds of pounds they could ill afford to lose.

  Nine

  An extra round of ale made the tavern a merry place at midday, though Michael knew better than to linger. He’d be toasted into standing for another round, and then another. Somebody would alert Davey MacCray that the pipes were needed, and soon nobody’s afternoon would be productive and everybody’s wives would be wroth with the laird.

  He walked out into the bright afternoon sunshine, a Gaelic blessing ringing in his ears.

  A kiss from his wife, a toast from his people, and life was good.

  “Showing the flag before the troops, are ye?” Angus fell in step beside him, and the glow of the day dimmed. Angus would have been tolerated among the good spirits inside, much as Michael had been tolerated among his French and English confreres, but never welcomed.

  “Angus, good day. I wanted to discuss cows with Hugh MacLogan, and a pint or two seemed in order.” He’d meant to discuss cows with MacLogan anyway.

  “A bit of fraternizing on the laird’s part makes sense when he’s been off to war. A henchman’s role is different.”

  Angus had apparently appointed himself to the role of trusted delegate. They gained the trees at the bottom of the hill, and in the shade, even the summer day bore a slight chill.

  “My return will change things, Angus. I appreciate that you’ve taken an interest in the estate in my absence, but you’ve earned the right to pass that burden to me now.” Such diplomacy. Michael’s former commanding officer would have been proud of him. Of course, St. Clair had also excelled at the delicate art of torture.

  “I will pass the estate burdens to you, gladly. Particularly if you think cattle can thrive in a land that knows much more of winter than any other season.”

  Michael said nothing. The Highland cow had been a staple of the crofters for centuries and gave birth happily in blinding snow, which was not at all the point.

  “How are the plans coming for your wee party?”

  “I’m on my way to discuss that very topic with my lady wife.” And perhaps to cadge a few more of her fierce, sweet kisses.

  “You’re wise to keep your hand in. Brenna’s a good girl, and she’ll want very much to impress you, but you mustn’t let her be too extravagant. Folk will take it amiss.”

  Angus fell silent as the path up the hill reached its steepest point.

  “We’re to celebrate my return, but not too lavishly?” Though hadn’t this celebration been Angus’s idea in the first place?

  “Aye, that’s it exactly. Ever since— On second thought, Brenna won’t want to appear unthrifty, so likely I’m worrying for naught.” Angus made a great production of huffing and puffing, when Michael damned well knew his uncle was healthy as a mountain goat.

  Also crafty as a fox. Michael took the bait anyway. “Ever since what?”

  “Brenna will tell you in her own time. We had a spot of trouble a few years after you left, and people in these parts have long memories. Brenna was little more than a girl, and she doesn’t deserve to be held accountable for ancient history, but she’s a MacLogan. They were never a very trustworthy bunch.”

  As if the Brodies had never shifted allegiance? Never made pacts with the various devils who’d taken a hand in Scottish politics? And in what corner of Scotland had less than a decade ever qualified as ancient history?

  They crested the hill, the view of the village below and the fields and loch beyond steadying Michael. It was good to be home, and unlike those fellows in the pub, Angus gave his loyalty freely and did not expect Michael to still be earning it when his grandchildren were climbing this hill beside him.

  “Why don’t we stop by the dower house, and I can retrieve some of the ledgers you’ve stored there?”

  “Those dusty old things?” Angus snorted. “You aren’t so very anxious to return to your bride, are you, then?”

  “I’m very anxious to return to my bride, but if I have those ledgers to study, then I also have an excuse to remain at the castle, rather than hare all over the shire trying to look busy.”

  Which seemed to be what Angus’s day consisted of, come to think of it.

  Angus’s smile made him look very like Michael’s father. “She’s training you already. Good for our Brenna, I say. Come along, then.”

  The dower house sat just outside the bailey, the location chosen by Michael’s mother. His father had groused and stomped about the castle, complaining about the expense, but he’d spared no effort to please his wife.

  “You’ll wait here,” Angus said as they reached the door. “A bachelor household isn’t always prepared for company, and it’s a fine day to enjoy the fresh air.” He winked and disappeared into the house, so Michael took a seat on the front steps.

  It was a fine day to enjoy the sunshine, and even if Michael had wanted to see the inside of the house that his mother had fitted out down to the last teacup and table runner, Angus was entitled to his privacy.

  Michael could visit the dower house anytime, and Brenna awaited him at the castle—Brenna and her kisses.

  ***

  “I’ve missed you, Wife.”

  Strong arms encircled Brenna’s waist from behind. Her inclination to struggle was checked at the last instant by two things: Michael’s vetiver-and-lavender scent enveloped her at the same moment she would have raised her foot to stomp on his arch, and Michael’s mouth landed on the slope of her shoulder.

  Already, she knew him by his kisses.

  “You miss me after a few hours in the
village?”

  “I miss you after a few minutes in the village. Let’s go to our rooms.” He growled his suggestion against her neck and let Brenna feel the rising evidence of his arousal against her backside.

  She wanted to go to their rooms, though they’d have plenty of privacy here in her solar. Wanted it badly, but alas, not for the same reasons he did. And yet, she made no effort to leave his embrace.

  “You randy pestilence, I have work to do.”

  “So do I. We can do it together, in bed. I’ve ever been enthusiastic about reading in bed.”

  To be teased by one’s husband was a lovely addition to the day—provided he was teasing, and Brenna could not be certain he was.

  “You’ve been swilling ale, Michael Brodie. Shall I read you temperance pamphlets in bed?”

  “I’ve been missing my wife.” He turned her by the shoulders, and with no more warning than that, covered her mouth with his.

  Maybe the ale had made him a bit clumsy; maybe the altercation with Angus had left Brenna more off balance than she knew. In an instant, Michael shifted in her mind from a teasing husband to a menace she could not control, a menace she’d faced many times without warning, and in circumstances she could not flee. When Michael’s arms tightened around her, she struggled in earnest, the only thought in her head to get free.

  “Brenna, calm yourself.” Michael had her loosely by the upper arms, his green eyes full of concern. “I seek only your kisses.”

  She could not break his hold, could not—

  “Wife, you’ll do yourself an injury. Please cease your thrashing and—”

  His pleading tone penetrated her panic, and Brenna abruptly went still. “I’m sorry. You startled me.”

  Michael’s hands dropped, slowly, the way a canny groom backed out of a stall when a green horse had turned aggressive.

  “Do you want to hit me, Brenna?”

  His tone was cautious, full of bewilderment, but also holding a note of self-doubt, and that tore at Brenna’s composure in a whole new way.