The Laird

by Grace Burrowes

  How she would deny herself and her husband the pleasures they’d found in their marriage she did not know, but deny them, she must.

  “Two governesses, then, and a nursery maid,” Michael murmured. “She shall be as a princess, never alone, wrapped in cotton wool every waking hour. Go to sleep.”

  As Michael’s breathing became regular, and the scent of vetiver wafted through Brenna’s senses, a thought stole through her rage and sorrow—a radical, frightening, powerful thought.

  What would keep the children safe, all the children, was the truth.

  About Angus.

  About Angus and Brenna.

  If Michael believed her, then the truth would effectively hobble Angus, assuming Michael allowed his uncle to live.

  If Michael did not believe her, then her marriage was over.

  As it would be, quite possibly, if he did.

  Fourteen

  “The post is full of letters from afar,” Michael observed over a mug of summer ale.

  The posting inn was the heart of the village, both geographically and otherwise, and a dozen people were scattered about the common, sipping their pints and waiting to see if any of the letters Martin Dingle sorted were for them.

  “Post is usually from all over—it being the post,” Dingle muttered, making two tidy stacks of about a dozen epistles each.

  “Let’s see who’s been mindful of their correspondence,” Michael said, scooping up the nearer pile.

  By interfering with His Majesty’s mail, Michael was arguably committing a felony. By interfering with Michael, Dingle could provoke a confrontation that would split the room—and the village—asunder and require direct opposition to the laird whom the shire had waited years to see returned home.

  “Here’s one for you, Goodie MacCray,” Michael said, holding a thin missive up to the window as if he might see the contents the way a candled egg revealed what lay within the shell. “Maybe you’ll let us know how your boys are doing?”

  He wasn’t about to bring the letter to her. The blasted woman could walk eight paces to hear how her family fared. She pushed to her feet, tugged a plain wool shawl about thin shoulders, and snatched the letter from Michael’s hand with her thumb and forefinger.

  “How are they, Goodie? Are they starving on the streets of Aberdeen? Are they so hungry their wives are doing the unthinkable to keep them in neeps and tatties?”

  His tone was light, while the room had gone silent as a tomb.

  Michael’s people were a canny lot, and clearly, the laird was in a mood.

  “They prosper,” Goodie said. “Eagan has a farm, and he and Meg are expecting another little one this fall.”

  “Delighted to hear it.” He swiped another letter off the counter. “And here’s a thick packet for you, Mairead. Maybe it includes a bank draft?”

  He subjected it to the same scrutiny, holding it up to the light, shaking it, drawing as much attention to the letter as if he were a magician preparing to perform sleight of hand for his rapt audience.

  Mairead rose, slowly, her gaze glued to the epistle in Michael’s hand. Whatever was within, she needed it badly.

  And that was fine, because she had something Michael needed badly too.

  “How fare your sons, Mairead? I’ve been meaning to ask.” He tapped the letter against his palm, the way a headmaster might tap his birch cane before administering discipline to a miscreant.

  “They’re in Pennsylvania.”

  “Pennsylvania? Not the wilds of Illinois? The woods of Kentucky? How are they managing in Pennsylvania?”

  A masculine voice came from the door. “They’re managing wonderfully.” Hugh MacLogan came striding into the common, kilt flapping. “Dingle, pull a man a pint, if you please. Mairead’s boys are both married, and they’re farming not far from my brothers. If we get to exporting beef, we expect they’ll sell some for us.”

  “So our crofters’ sons are now contemplating international trade? How things have changed while I was off larking about in service to the King.”

  For good measure, Michael passed out three more letters, and all the while Hugh sipped his ale and watched from the snug. By the fifth letter, little old Vera MacDonald had caught on.

  “My granddaughters are all married and raising their bairns in Boston,” Vera said as she hobbled up to get her letter. “Wee Sara can draw anything, and she sends me the sketches of each child. It’s not the same though,” she said, jutting her chin in Michael’s direction. “It’s not the same as seeing them, hugging them, hearing their prayers each night.”

  She was half Michael’s size and close to three times his age. She’d been a child when the ’45 had turned Scotland into an oppressed province of the Crown, and she knew the value of survival.

  “Madam, if you’d like passage to Boston, your laird and his lady can arrange it for you, just as your lady has arranged it for anybody else with the gumption to make a new life in a new land.”

  He’d surprised her, but better than that, he’d challenged her, and Vera did not disappoint.

  She cackled, revealing four teeth optimally situated to holding a pipe. “You’d miss me, Michael Brodie. There’d be no one to tell the stories on your grandfather and his da. No one to tell Dingle when he’s mixed a nasty batch of ale for rushing the process.”

  She shot Dingle an admonitory glower, though the poor bastard probably hadn’t served a bad batch of ale for thirty years or more.

  In the snug, Hugh tried to hide a smile behind his ale.

  “We’d muddle on,” Michael said. “We’d muddle on without anybody who misses their family too much to stay here with us, and we’d be happy to help them arrange their travels.”

  He slapped the rest of the letters down before Dingle, shot a look at Hugh, and headed for the door. When he’d gained the sunshine of a pretty summer morning, he stood for a moment, listening.

  The murmuring started up within two seconds of the door swinging shut, and that was good. Let these people comprehend that they either stood with their laird and his lady, or they stood in line for a ticket to the New World.

  Michael’s next stop was the minister’s cottage, where he’d suggest some sermon topics that deserved consideration over the remainder of the summer.

  “What was that all about?” Hugh MacLogan asked.

  MacLogan hadn’t emerged from the posting inn that quietly, but Michael had been that intent on his list of homilies.

  “I’m angry,” Michael said, striding off. “Mad enough to knock heads about, pitch those ungrateful biddies off their…tenancies, and relieve the parson of his living.”

  “It’s a fine day to be in a temper,” Hugh remarked. “Anything in particular set you off? You’re not known to be hotheaded but then, any fellow who was at war as long as you were might have a few quirks.”

  “We’re going the wrong way,” Michael said, stopping in the middle of the High Street. “The minister lives south of the inn.”

  “Do you feel a confession coming on?”

  “I’m more in the mood to cast the moneylenders out of the temple,” Michael said. “Brenna told me about being robbed all those years ago, and the small-minded, ungrateful, worthless fools who are my people have held her responsible for every sick calf and dropped stitch since.”

  For though Brenna hadn’t said as much, Michael knew the Scottish temperament, and knew how badly a scapegoat could suffer when the regiment was feeling mean and no enemy obliged their destructive appetites.

  “So you’ll change their minds about Brenna by threatening to cast them off their land? Interesting approach.”

  Hugh was a brave man, and like many truly brave men, he was casual about his courage. Given the state of Michael’s temper, one might even call MacLogan cavalier.

  “I’m none too happy with you, either,” Michael said, changing direction to head for the trees. “What the hell were you thinking? Allowing a young woman, alone, to take off on horseback when you knew she was carrying a year
’s worth of profit in her purse?”

  Now Hugh’s expression shuttered. “I don’t get free of this place that often.”

  For no good reason, Michael wanted to hit the man. “Everybody in this shire has lost the gift of plain speaking. What the hell does leaving the village have to do with abandoning Brenna and jeopardizing her safety?”

  “I wanted to bring my Anne a token, and Aboyne is a market town.”

  More indirection. Michael contemplated howling at the moon, except the sun was well up.

  “Aberdeen is a damned trading port, and you couldn’t find your lady a hair ribbon there?”

  “Hair ribbons in Aberdeen would come dearer than hair ribbons in a market town.”

  Michael started up the incline toward the castle, and MacLogan showed no inclination to leave him in peace.

  “You mean to tell me you allowed Brenna to risk the roads without escort because you were pinching pennies over a bloody hair ribbon?”

  Hugh paused in the shade of towering evergreens. “You needn’t shout. We were thirsty, the barmaid was friendly, and Brenna was in a tearing hurry. I didn’t know she had the coin in her purse, I thought it was in her saddlebags, and those we’d brought in with us. Brenna rides well, and we thought we’d catch up to her within the hour.”

  They’d reached the clearing with its ancient bench. Michael contemplated wrenching the thing from its location and using it to bludgeon MacLogan.

  “Why didn’t you make any effort to defend Brenna? Why no investigation? Why has she been pilloried for this year after year?”

  MacLogan appropriated the bench, the dappled forest shadows nearly camouflaging him in his work kilt, boots, and plain shirt.

  “Because for once, I agreed with Angus.”

  Michael kicked at some ferns encroaching on the path, then felt rotten for it. “Explain.”

  “Angus said any defense of Brenna would only make her look more guilty and raise more questions. The fact of the matter was, she chose to go on alone, she chose to take the risks of continuing unescorted, and she chose to take the money with her as well. She was a woman grown and in a position to make her own decisions.”

  “Did your wife console you with that logic as well?” MacLogan looked so miserable, Michael concluded Anne MacLogan had railed at her husband at length over that very same pile of tripe.

  “I regret that decision now, Laird, but when I’ve raised the issue with Angus, I’m admonished to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  “Somebody’s lying. Brenna did not steal that money.”

  “How can you say that? You weren’t here.”

  “MacLogan, if you believe Brenna stole from her own people and used the money for her own comfort, then you and yours are welcome to leave as well. I’ll pay your passage anywhere, provided you leave before the summer is out. Brenna Brodie did not steal that money.”

  Something crashed through the bracken above them, a deer likely, startled out of its midday nap—not that Michael was yelling. Quite.

  MacLogan scooped up some rich, black dirt and let it fall through his fingers. “If you clear off everybody who doesn’t like your wife, who will pay your rents? Who will work your lands?”

  “Wrong answer, MacLogan. Perhaps you’d best start packing. Brenna will miss you.”

  MacLogan rose and dusted his palms together. “Brenna is no thief, and I’m her kin. If she was robbed when I was tasked with keeping her safe, the responsibility is mine. I’ve said as much to her.”

  “You needed to say as much to the village, and you have not. Not in years of allowing your cousin to suffer from being the victim of a crime.”

  MacLogan tilted his head up, as if a stray beam of sunshine might find its way to him despite the dense canopy overhead.

  “I’ll say as much now, and Neil will too, but, Laird, what good will it do you to send from your home every tenant and relation who thinks your wife guilty?”

  MacLogan was a good man, maybe even better than most, but he was a man who’d gone for years without a woman in his life, without a woman in his heart.

  “When Brenna faces rejection and judgment on every hand, it isn’t a home for her. It’s a place to live, a place to work herself to exhaustion, a place to fret over and lay fires in the winter. She’s making camp between battles and sieges, not making a home. Castle Brodie is not a home for her until she’s loved and respected here, rather than merely tolerated. I love her and I respect her, and I will see others treat her appropriately or escort them to the property line.”

  MacLogan studied the trees for a moment, then dug in his sporran. “Read this.”

  “What is it?”

  “A letter from my middle brother. He talks about the markets, and the best place to land cattle if we’re thinking of exporting. His choice is Baltimore, but you’ve seen something of the world. Your opinion might be worth hearing.”

  A man could not export beef from Aberdeen if he’d taken ship himself. Michael stuffed the letter in a pocket, admitting to himself that he was relieved MacLogan would not tuck tail and run for the coast.

  “I’ll read it. Where are you off to?”

  “I’ve a notion to pay a call on our minister. Give my regards to Brenna.”

  He ambled off, intent on his confessions—or something—leaving Michael with a letter in his pocket and a towering need to kick somebody’s kilted backside.

  Anger wouldn’t sway anybody’s opinion of Brenna—MacLogan had been right about that—and Michael wasn’t exclusively angry. He was also worried, maybe even scared.

  Brenna had let him hold her last night, but nothing more than that, and while they’d exchanged a few civilities over the issue of Maeve’s safety, the topic had become a lit grenade launched in the direction of their fragile marital trust.

  Michael had no idea why this might be so, and Brenna wasn’t about to pass along any clues.

  Which made it all the more imperative that he search Angus’s quarters sooner rather than later.

  ***

  What few people were left in the Highlands managed to generate as much drama as a garrison of French soldiers and their families, and the entire population of greater London.

  “Take it,” Sebastian St. Clair said, holding an ivory silk handkerchief out to the Baroness Strathdee. He used neither his commanding officer voice nor even his Baron St. Clair voice. He used his devoted nephew and doting husband voice, which provoked the lady to a fierce glower.

  Michael probably adored that glower on his Brenna, though he’d be horrified to see the lady in tears.

  “My thanks, Baron. Good day.”

  She would have stormed off with his little flag of truce, but Sebastian could not allow that. He fell in step beside her.

  “What had you barreling out of those trees like a fox who’s heard two packs in full cry?”

  “I’ve things to see to,” the lady said, her pace picking up to that of a whirlwind. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Alas, that I cannot do,” he said, taking Michael’s wife by her wrist. She wrenched free with a speed and strength Sebastian might have expected of a seasoned fighter.

  “What are you about, Baron? You are a guest in my home, and every courtesy must be shown you, but I’ll not tolerate bullying.”

  She stood her ground, when she might have made a grand, offended exit.

  Sebastian liked this woman, and Milly liked this woman, which mitigated in favor of leaving the lady in peace. Michael, however, loved the Baroness Strathdee. Brenna Brodie had been the emotional ballast keeping her husband sane even across international borders and roiling seas, though she apparently failed to grasp this herself.

  Because Michael loved his Brenna, Sebastian was doomed to interrogate her. “Michael would kill me if I bullied you, and thanks to me, he knows all manner of clever ways to ensure I suffer terribly in the process. Let’s stroll a bit, shall we?”

  She sent a look back toward the trees, one of longing and hurt, and yet, she would not be rude to
a guest. “A short walk only.”

  Michael had stomped down the postern path at roughly the same velocity as Michael’s wife had emerged from the woods.

  “I was a torturer, you know, in service to France.”

  He took perverse pleasure in admitting his prior profession before polite company, enjoyed watching lords and ladies squirm when he said what they all murmured behind perfumed gloves and painted fans.

  The admission held no joy now, but rather felt like reciting the sentence an innocent accused would endure if convicted of a serious crime.

  Brenna Brodie snorted. “Are you intent on torturing me now? It’s already been tried, and yet I’m still enjoying excellent health, aren’t I?”

  “You were crying, my lady.” Her admission about already having been tortured upset Sebastian. One lost the knack of detachment when one was ferociously loved, and for the queer pang in his heart, he had Milly to blame.

  Or thank.

  Somebody had abused the Baroness Strathdee’s trust at length, though Sebastian did not believe she regarded her husband as her betrayer. Not yet.

  “Do you suppose I should be confiding in you, my lord?” she said, churning along into the castle’s back gardens. “My husband is home after nine years away with little contact. We’re bound to encounter the occasional rough patch.”

  Sebastian tried to snap her off a white-and-yellow daisy, but daisies were tough and fibrous, and he ended up half pulling the thing out by its roots. His bungled gallantry had done the unexpected and made the lady pause.

  “Here,” she said, producing a folding knife from a skirt pocket. “Daisies want trimming.”

  She smiled too, mostly with big green eyes that had recently been crying. The effect was lovely, if conducive to more pangs of a half-French heart. Sebastian took the knife and trimmed dirt and roots from the flower stem.

  He presented the blossom to the lady. “Do you know what daisies stand for?”

  She took it, but didn’t do anything so foolish as bring it to her rather definite nose. “They stand for a bit of cheer and a deal of weeding. For some they stand for provocation to sneeze. Thank you.”