The Laird

by Grace Burrowes

  “What, Brenna Maureen? You can tell me anything.”

  She brushed a thumb over his mouth. “I cannot tell you.”

  Though clearly, she wanted to. For nine years, Michael could not come home. “Then keep your words, and give me your loving.”

  To emphasize his suggestion, Michael let his hands fall away from Brenna’s breasts, so the moment was entirely in her keeping, the decision hers, just as the decision to remain at war had been unilaterally his.

  Brenna did not disappoint. She took his shaft in her hand, seated him at the opening to her body, and settled over him enough to start their joining.

  “Is that how it goes?” she asked, bracing herself on her hands.

  “Exactly like that, and even more, if you’d like. All of me, if it would please you.” He could barely form words, so desperately was he fighting the urge to thrust. “You might move a bit, get comfortable.”

  Her experiments nearly cost him his back teeth, so hard did he clench his jaw. What she lacked in experience, Brenna made up for in courage and curiosity. In no time, the infernal woman had a rhythm, gliding over him easily, with a sweet sort of eagerness which would soon part Michael from his reason.

  “You said we’d pleasure each other more,” she reminded him. “Is this the more part?”

  Lucifer’s bones. “Soon, love. Maybe this will move things in the proper direction.” He added an undulation of his own to her efforts, not half of what his body wanted to do, not a quarter. “Do you like that?”

  Her expression acquired a degree of concentration she didn’t turn on her ledgers or her embroidery, and neither did she answer him.

  Not in words. Her body replied in a resounding affirmative though. Her hips took on a focused, questing sense of purpose, her breathing became labored. Michael added a touch more power to his thrusting as Brenna rose over him on straight arms.

  “Michael?”

  “Here.”

  “Look at—look at me.”

  He looked at her, at her breasts gently heaving with her exertion, at the pale, smooth skin of her torso, at the way blond curls kissed damp auburn where their bodies joined.

  “Look at—” She used her hand fisted in his hair to shift his focus to her eyes, and abruptly Michael understood. He locked gazes with her, let her see all the desperation and homesickness and love in him, gave her irrefutable visual assurances—as pleasure came for them, overtook them, and swamped their every faculty—that she was with her husband, and he was with her.

  And no other.

  When the cataclysm ebbed, Brenna hung over him, heaving like a steeplechaser who’d won over a muddy course against a tough field.

  “Let me hold you,” Michael said, but he made no move to drag her against his chest, because these moments were every bit as fraught as what had come before. “I’d like very much to hold you, I mean.”

  He’d like very much to see her eyes, to know if the past few moments had been the true start to their marriage, or the end of all its hopes.

  “Brenna? Love?”

  Her breathing eased marginally, and she slowly, slowly raised her head.

  To reveal a face transfigured with the sort of joy a man didn’t expect to behold in the mortal realm.

  “What I wanted to say earlier?”

  Michael couldn’t help but smooth her hair back. “My lady, you’ve said sonnets and ballads and volumes.” He did not need to hear her say she loved him, for her sentiments were beyond dispute.

  She caught his hand, kissed his palm, and beamed down at him.

  “What I wanted to say, Michael Brodie, was welcome home.”

  His expression likely matched hers then, for joy, for fatuous pleasure in simply drawing breath, for she’d given him the words, which, especially from her, he had very much needed to hear.

  Thirteen

  Aberdeen always had the scent of the sea on it, like a siren’s perfume, sometimes faint, sometimes strong, depending on the whims of the weather. The fresh, briny fragrance called to a man, promising that distant shores held adventure, magic, and beauty such as a cold, granite city of the North would never allow him.

  Neil MacLogan viewed periodic trips to the coast as a test, not because he wanted to leave his family and sail away, but because he wanted to murder the man he followed.

  Angus strode down one of the twisting side streets leading back from the docks, eagerness making him heedless even in the sharp, bright sunshine of a summer afternoon.

  Twenty paces behind, Neil followed silently, patiently, knowing exactly where the bastard was headed. Another right turn, three houses down, to a tidy, nondescript dwelling sporting geraniums in the window boxes, for God’s sake. The gray stone steps were scrubbed, as if a prosperous merchant’s wife presided over a hardworking staff within. The windows gleamed like blank eyes, though behind each one, curtains were drawn closed.

  And always would be.

  Angus glanced up the street, then up at those windows, his expression containing an eagerness that made Neil’s gut clench. Between two cheery pots of geraniums, a half-dozen tin soldiers lay scattered on the stones, their skirmish ended by whatever heinous responsibilities some boy had been called to within the house.

  Angus raised a hand to knock, then instead smoothed a palm over his hair, the gesture as nervous as a suitor with a ring in his pocket.

  “Knock on that door, and you will not live to see the sunset,” Neil commented pleasantly. “In fact, you probably won’t last until teatime.”

  Angus’s hand lowered slowly. He turned as if he might not have heard Neil’s soft promise.

  “Fancy a taste of fresh game yourself, MacLogan?”

  The words were taunting, but in Angus’s eyes, Neil saw fear, which wasn’t half as gratifying as it should have been.

  “Are you afraid I’ll beat you to death?” Neil asked, gathering up the soldiers. “Afraid I’ll tell Michael what a sick old pervert you are and let him beat you to death?”

  “If I’m a pervert, so are half the schoolboys in English public schools, and you along with ’em,” Angus replied, but he began walking back the way he’d come, briskly, because nobody lingered on that tidy stoop admiring the geraniums for long.

  Neil dropped the soldiers in a pocket and fell in step beside him.

  “What young boys do among themselves behind locked doors is a far cry from what you’re about. Attempt to visit that brothel even once more, Angus Brodie, and I will tell Michael exactly what passed between us all those years ago.”

  They turned a corner, so the afternoon sun was obscured by taller roofs. This wasn’t a geraniums-and-scrubbed-stoops sort of street, it was more of a sailors-looking-for-a-tavern thoroughfare, with more foot traffic.

  “You’ll not say a word,” Angus muttered. “A few moments years ago are hardly worth remarking, and Michael would wonder why you kept silent so long.”

  On two previous occasions, Neil had made similar threats, and Angus had come back with similar taunts. The victim was too ashamed to disclose abuse; this was a tenet the Anguses of the world relied on to protect their freedom.

  “I am not the only person whose silence allows you to swagger around above the ground, old man. You would have seen my family thrown off their property had I accused you, and Brenna needed us close by.”

  “You’ll never say a thing,” Angus retorted. “You might not have wanted what you got from me, but you didn’t protest, and your brothers would spit in your eye if they knew what you’d done.”

  No, they would not. Neil knew that for a fact.

  “I could not protest. Those who’ve complained in recent years have lost their holdings, but Michael is back now. If I were you, I’d take a notion to see more of the world, old man.”

  They’d reached the doors of a decent-looking establishment trading as the Boar and Hound. Angus stopped and spat into the gutter.

  “The castle is my home, and I’ll not leave it. You, on the other hand, had best be sure your rent is paid
in coin—and to the last groat. Whisper so much as a hint of your lies where Michael can hear them, and it’s you who’ll be taking ship—if you’re lucky.”

  “My truths, not lies. If I take ship, I’ll take certain little parts of your anatomy with me,” Neil said. “That is a promise, Angus Brodie.”

  He bowed, courtly as any titled baron, and turned on his heel, back the way they’d come, for a certain set of soldiers needed to be returned to their rightful owner.

  ***

  Michael Brodie was a god, a genius, a man whose children Brenna would cheerfully, cheerfully bear by the dozen.

  “You’re quiet,” he said, his hand trailing over Brenna’s shoulder. “Have I loved you to sleep?”

  He’d loved her to freedom, to relief so vast it filled every corner of Brenna’s soul, to peace and joy and ferocious insights she’d ponder for years when she had the privacy to do so.

  “You want to chat now, Husband? Is that what comes after the pleasuring?”

  Michael’s lips brushed over her ear. “So you were pleasured. A husband likes to hear about these things. I was pleasured too.”

  Brenna could not doubt that, could not for a moment fail to sense in him the same repletion and wonder filling her heart.

  “Kind of you to tell me. That was not pleasure, Husband.”

  His hand on her shoulder paused; then he took to rubbing her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Did I get it wrong, Brenna? Shall I try again, do you think? Practice makes perfect, and we have hours before supper.”

  He was teasing her. She bit his nipple, gently. “It wasn’t only pleasure. We’re married now.”

  “Aye.”

  Bless the man, she did not have to explain.

  “How do you like being married to me, Brenna? Be honest.”

  He meant she was to be brave, to trust him, which was not a command she could entirely obey—though neither could she entirely ignore it. Not now, not after this. Some of the rosy joy dimmed, the way a sunset loses its fiery glory as night approaches.

  “I love being married to you, Michael Brodie, but it’s difficult too.”

  “Because I take up space in your bed? Can you not see some advantages to that arrangement?”

  His gentle levity had tears threatening.

  “I can see the advantages, but being married, it becomes harder to know—that is, certain things aren’t easily shared.”

  He kissed her forehead this time. “Just tell me. We’ll sort it out. We’re getting better at sorting things out, and we’ll get better still.”

  Brenna had dwelled for years in high, cold mountains, but Michael was assuring her she need not dwell there alone. The generosity and folly of his assurances washed through her, bringing despair and hope in equal measures.

  “In the village, things were awkward.” They were awkward in the bed too, as Michael’s male member slipped from her body, leaving dampness in odd places.

  He patted her bottom. “Cuddle with me, and we’ll discuss this.” As casually as if they were trading places at a card table, Michael scooted out from under her, grabbed a handkerchief off the night table, and passed it to her.

  “Is this why men always carry a handkerchief?” Brenna asked, putting the little square of cotton to use on parts now curiously tender.

  “It’s why I’ll always carry two,” Michael said, holding out an arm.

  He’d known she needed a handkerchief, and Brenna knew he needed to hold her—they were married—so she cuddled down against his side and prepared to offer her trust to go along with her body and her heart.

  “Your people don’t like me.”

  “Our people, or they don’t like us.”

  Generous of him. “They like you, Michael, or they’ll recall they once did, and will like you again soon, but they don’t like me, for the most part.”

  And that hurt—it still hurt.

  Michael brought the covers up over her shoulders, wrapping her in warmth, vetiver, and another scent that was intimate, masculine, and Brenna’s to treasure.

  “Is their resentment because you send their sons and daughters to Canada and America? Surely that’s better than starving down in Aberdeen on a diet of mackerel and seaweed?”

  “The emigration is part of it, but not all. They hate Angus for the evictions, and well they should.”

  “I nearly hate Angus for the evictions,” Michael said, rolling to his side so he faced her.

  She could roll to her side so she faced him, or she could remain on her back, staring at the ceiling.

  “This room has cobwebs, there in the corner by the window. Do you see them?”

  “I see my wife, trying to say hard things and worrying what my reaction will be. I love you, Brenna. That’s my reaction.”

  She should tell him she loved him, for she did. The conviction was amazing—also terrifying. Brenna shifted, so her back was to Michael’s chest, her hips tucked into the lee of his body.

  “The people, our people, think I stole the entire proceeds of a year’s wool harvest from them.”

  Michael’s arms came around her, one under her neck, the other around her waist. “I would pronounce that accusation ridiculous—you would not steal from the devil himself—except you mean it seriously. When did your great larceny occur?”

  He was trying to hide it, but Michael was angry. She loved him for being angry on her behalf, she who’d never thought to love a man for anything.

  “Two years after you left. I wanted them to take me seriously, wanted to prove I could bargain with the merchants as the lady of the shire ought. My cousins accompanied me, and a few of the tenants. The tenants went home ahead of us to tell of our good fortune—I’d done a good job, you see. We were set for the year, and perhaps a bit more.”

  “You’re still doing a good job.”

  She could manage this recitation because his arms were around her, because his strength was at her back, and because in the comfort of their bed, he’d allowed her the courtesy of turning her face to the shadows lengthening along the wall.

  “I had the money with me, right with me, and when we stopped at the inn in Aboyne, my cousins wanted to linger over another pint. I was impatient and wanted to get home so I could brag on my accomplishments.”

  She managed that last with more sadness than bitterness, an accomplishment in itself.

  “Go on.” Michael’s embrace had not changed, and his words were merely pleasant, like the kiss he dropped on her nape.

  “I was set upon by a half-dozen thieves. All wearing kerchiefs over their faces and hats pulled low. They knew exactly what to take, including my horse. The horse was eventually found wandering near Hugh’s land, still in its bridle and saddle.”

  “But your reputation had been sent galloping straight into the sea,” Michael said. “Were the thieves caught?”

  “By the time my cousins got me back here to report what happened, there was no point wasting time searching. Aboyne is miles away, and night was falling.”

  “Tracks don’t sleep,” Michael said, arms tightening around her. “When the welfare of an entire village is at stake, somebody should have at least asked questions and alerted the authorities.”

  “Angus took care of that. He suspected the merchants were responsible, that they’d given me a good price because they knew they’d only be paying it temporarily.”

  In the ensuing silence, Brenna wished she’d been brave enough to face Michael as she told her tale, for then she might have had a clue as to his reaction.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Brenna? This isn’t all of it.”

  His tone bore a hint of commanding officer, or exasperated husband. Because she could not—could never—tell him all of it, Brenna scraped together one more handful of courage.

  “Angus put his theory forth only after the villagers had concluded I’d taken the money myself. Hugh, Neil, and Dantry couldn’t vouch for me, because they’d seen nothing. Without witnesses, I could not be tri
ed.”

  “And neither could you be exonerated,” Michael concluded. “Then you produced funds sufficient to send half the youth of the shire across the ocean.”

  How clever he was.

  “Stupid of me.” She was so tired of feeling stupid.

  “Stupid, indeed. Why should you confirm their verdict with generosity you might have squandered on your own finery? Far better to hoard up your wealth while our people starved. They were so willing to convict you without evidence, they deserved to starve.”

  He’d been angry before; he was furious now. Brenna could feel the heat coming off of him, feel the tension thrumming through him. Because he was enraged, she could let her own anger go and acknowledge the weary sorrow beneath it.

  “If I protest my innocence, I’ll only make it worse,” Brenna said. “I understand that, and it was a long time ago. We manage. They may not like me, but at least when you’re about, they’ll respect me.”

  Michael heaved a great sigh against Brenna’s back. “I haven’t been about, though, not for years. Would you feel any better if I told you your sacrifice indirectly contributed to vanquishing the Corsican?”

  Brenna did roll over then, only because Michael allowed it. If he’d chosen to pin her to the mattress, he had many times the strength to do it.

  “I could not have been a proper wife to you nine years ago, Michael. It’s enough for me that you had a hand in vanquishing the Corsican. Let the past go, and I’ll do likewise.”

  The hair behind his left ear stuck up at a funny angle. Brenna smoothed it down, then added a few more caresses now that she could pet him as much as she liked.

  Because they were married, and because she’d asked him to take a vow of sorts with her.

  “I’ll let the past go when the people you’ve spent nine years looking after let it go.”

  Not the answer she’d needed, but pure Michael.

  He shifted over her, right directly over her.

  “If we’re careful, do you suppose we might bring each other pleasure again? This talk of robbery and judgment inspires me to seek closeness with my wife.”