Kilty Pleasures (Clash of the Tartans Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  “Aye,” the lass replied gleefully, grasping her hand. “Let’s go.”

  Kyla chuckled. Lily might turn out to be a tearaway tomboy after all.

  *

  Broderick nigh on knocked the bench over in his haste to get to his feet when Kyla and Lily skipped into the hall, hand in hand. Some folk murmured surprise, others outrage at the informality.

  Doreen screwed her already wrinkled features into an expression of horror.

  But Broderick’s heart swelled. He hadn’t seen his sister so impishly happy since before the king’s militia had arrived in pursuit of their father before his flight to France.

  And Kyla—in a vaguely familiar dress that was a wee bit too tight on shapely hips, but had just the right amount of décolletage. His tarse responded predictably. It was completely inappropriate. She had suffered grievous losses, yet she brought a breath of fresh air into a hall that had been solemn for too long.

  The same could be said of him.

  The sight of her was enough to make a man’s heart sing.

  The notion sobered him as he gestured for the lasses to take their places either side of him. Music had always played an important role in his life, but it seemed wrong to sing when things were so dire.

  “Ye look bonnie in a dress,” he said softly, inhaling the aroma of damp tresses.

  She blushed shyly, the flush blossoming across the swell of her breasts.

  He might have babbled something incoherent had Lily not espied the three slings on the table in front of him. Her eyes widened as she picked one up. “Are these…?”

  When Kyla leaned over to grab another, he suddenly found himself peering down the front of her décolletage at two perfect globes and a hint of areolas. His arousal turned to granite. If she moved a little to the left, he might get a glimpse of nipples.

  “Slings,” she exclaimed. “Ye meant what ye said.”

  He half-expected her to climb up on the bench and swirl the weapon over her head. Hippolyta in Caerlochnaven. Obviously, lust was driving him out of his mind. “Aye,” he rasped.

  For at least ten minutes he had little idea of what he was eating as he struggled with his dilemma. Wedged between two excited females who suddenly seemed oblivious to his presence, he tried to ignore Kyla’s breast pressed against his arm, all the while smiling like an indulgent older brother should at his sister’s obvious glee.

  Then came the moment of truth. Lily noticed the third sling. “Why did ye get three?”

  *

  Overheated, Kyla backed away from Broderick, suddenly aware she’d been leaning against him in a most unladylike way. She almost laughed at that notion. Since when had she ever cared about being ladylike?

  Still, her behavior wasn’t appropriate, especially in a dress cut lower in the front than she was used to. A quick glance at the frowning folks in the hall confirmed it. The problem was she’d enjoyed the closeness. For a few minutes, she’d been transported to Dun Scaith, sharing back-and-forth banter with her siblings. Except Lily wasn’t her sibling, and her feelings for Broderick bore no resemblance to the easy camaraderie between her brothers.

  In fact, the Maxwell laird evoked new, but not unpleasant, feelings and cravings and she didn’t know what to make of them. She’d tried to hold on to her bitter resentment. The loss of the Lanmara would always rankle, but she realized she harbored no bitterness towards the man in command of the gunboat. After all, it was Corbin Lochwood who had precipitated the sinking.

  She fingered the sling. Whoever had made it knew what they were about. The weapon was a welcome reminder of home, of pleasurable hours spent with her father, of past difficulties overcome, of enemies vanquished. She hadn’t truly expected Broderick to provide one, but her thoughtless remark about him meaning what he said might have left the impression she doubted his word.

  She glanced up, ready to offer an apology, but the words stuck in her throat. She was close enough now to see his eyes weren’t black as she’d thought. The longing in the deep brown depths caused a peculiar warmth to spiral up her thighs and into her womb.

  He licked his lips like a bairn who wants something really badly.

  She swallowed her nervousness. “I think your brother got the third sling for himself,” she told Lily.

  “Aye,” he replied, his voice deeper than ever. “Will ye teach me?”

  Guilty Pleasures

  The next morning, amid the hustle and bustle of castle folk gathered for the first meal of the day, Broderick drummed his fingers on the rough surface of the wooden table, impatient for Kyla and Lily to arrive.

  Last night, he’d suggested a place on the banks of the Nith where they might begin their lessons early in the day since the burial was to take place in the afternoon.

  Had he not been keeping an eye on the entryway, he might have missed Hamish.

  When Broderick beckoned, the faithful old gatekeeper ambled over. “My laird,” he said with a deferential bow.

  “Not often we see ye here for breakfast,” Broderick teased. It was common knowledge Hamish liked to sleep late, and not always in his own bed.

  “Nay, weel, I’ve a visitor, and I thought to take him a tasty morsel to break his fast.”

  Broderick arched a brow. “A visitor? From where?”

  Hamish scratched his head. “Dinna rightly ken. He’s a monk. Arrived yestereve after a boating mishap.”

  Gooseflesh marched across Broderick’s nape. “Is he from Darling Abbey?”

  “That’s the odd thing. He says nay, but…” He narrowed his eyes. “Sorry if I’ve done wrong, my laird. What else could a man do but offer shelter to a servant of God?”

  Broderick pondered the news. A murdered sexton from Darling, and a monk who claimed to be from a different abbey. But there wasn’t another monastery for at least a hundred miles. Could it be that one of the monks had gone berserk and fled? Monastic life sometimes drove men to madness.

  At that moment, Kyla and Lily entered the hall, both wearing trews, shirts, tunics and boots.

  A collective gasp arose from the crowded hall.

  Thoughts of murderous monks and monasteries fled. “Er, nay, I’ll meet him when we leave in a while.”

  Hamish nodded and wandered away as Broderick turned his gaping attention to the lasses. “Where did ye acquire that outfit, Lily Maxwell?”

  He tried unsuccessfully to load the question with censure but, truth be told, his little sister looked fetching in boys’ clothing.

  “They’re Adrian’s,” she replied with a broad smile.

  “Someone found togs for Corbin’s valet,” Kyla explained, “and Lily persuaded him to share.”

  There was a time when he’d known what his sister was doing every minute of the day. Apparently, she’d made friends he was unaware of. He’d have to be more vigilant.

  “And what about ye?” he asked, aware as he posed the question it wasn’t seemly to inquire of a woman he barely knew where she’d procured her clothing.

  She winked at him.

  Winked!

  He tried to wink back, but winking didn’t seem to be a skill he possessed at that moment.

  “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” she replied, sauntering off to the servery to help herself to food.

  *

  Kyla preferred not to disclose she’d filched the clothing from the laundry, having posted Lily as the lookout.

  They both kept silent as they helped themselves to cold mutton and bread, but it was evident Lily was shaking with pent-up laughter, just as she was. “Dinna laugh,” she warned as they made their way to the high table. “Yer brother might renege on his promise to accompany us if he finds out what we’ve been up to.”

  Lily pursed her lips as she took her place.

  Kyla sat, not a little bothered at how easily she’d fallen into thinking of this as her rightful spot. No point getting used to Caerlochnaven. She’d soon be going back to Skye. Strangely, she wasn’t looking forward to returning home—but that was only because s
he’d have to break the news to her father about the birlinn, and tell the drowned men’s parents how they died. Her amusement fled at the sharp reminder of the impending interment.

  “Ye look serious,” Broderick remarked with a smile.

  His deep voice was melodious, even when he was asking an ordinary question. She’d like to hear him sing.

  She reined in her errant thoughts. “I was thinking we should discuss how my crew and I are getting back to Skye.”

  The smile left his face and he shifted his weight on the bench. “Aye.”

  Lily thrust out her bottom lip. “Ye canna go yet. I’ll miss ye.”

  “Weel,” Broderick said, taking Kyla’s hand, “to be honest, the journey’s going to take a good while to arrange. In the meantime, ye can teach me and Lily how to master a sling.”

  Was it the warmth of his hand seeping into her skin that stole her wits? “And in return ye can sing for me.”

  *

  Broderick held on to Kyla’s hand like a lifeline, his emotions all at sea. “I’ve wanted to many a time,” he confessed. “I love to sing, but it seemed like a guilty pleasure in these dire times.”

  He held his breath when she gripped his hand and leaned close to his ear.

  “We shouldna feel guilty doing things that bring pleasure to others,” she whispered. “I believe Lily would find solace in yer singing.”

  He glanced at his sister, happily chewing bread. A stranger from the Hebrides had seen what he’d failed to see. He’d been so busy tending to Lily’s physical needs—clothing, food, and the like—he’d overlooked her deepest need.

  “Ye’re right, Kyla MacKeegan,” he replied loudly enough for Lily to hear. “While we’re out and about learning how to slay giants, I might just burst into song.”

  Lily beamed and hugged his arm. “He has a lovely voice,” she assured Kyla.

  “Eat up, then,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’ll meet ye in the tunnel. Hamish has a visitor.”

  A Mad Monk

  Corbin startled awake. The door to Hamish’s quarters stood open, just enough to allow a sliver of daylight to penetrate the hovel. He got to his feet and examined his legs. Satisfied they weren’t full of flea bites, he grimaced as he shrugged on the hated robe and slipped his feet into the worn sandals. He’d barely slept, convinced he was being bitten. How else to explain why his whole body itched?

  He’d heard the creak of the main gates opening earlier. Hamish was nowhere to be seen, though he must have peeked in and left the door ajar. Had he gone to inform the laird of his visitor? The faint echo of voices indicated folk were up and about. The gatekeeper would soon return to his post.

  Corbin scanned his dingy, cramped surroundings. It was evident the old man lived a hand-to-mouth existence. There was a pile of clothing in one corner. It was unlikely any of it would fit, but he grabbed a yellowed shirt and well-worn trews, tucking the malodorous garments under his robe. Patting the resulting paunch held in place by the rope belt, he chuckled, pleased it added to his disguise. As did the odor, he supposed.

  It was risky, but he decided to make for the kitchens, mainly to filch food, but also to arm himself with a sharp knife since he’d not had the opportunity to steal one from Darling.

  He gritted his teeth when the hinges of the arched door creaked as he carefully eased it open. After looking right and left down the tunnel, he slipped into the shadows.

  *

  Broderick encountered Hamish standing outside his gatehouse door, the heel of bread still in his hands. The old man looked confused, but that wasn’t unusual. “What’s amiss?” he asked.

  Hamish shrugged and entered the chamber. “I dinna rightly ken,” he admitted.

  Broderick followed, wrinkling his nose against the odors of age and neglect. He’d have a word with Hamish about the conditions he lived in. As laird, he ought to have inspected these quarters before now.

  It was clear the visitor had left. The linens on the pallet were rumpled, but such was probably always the case.

  “Did he sleep here?” he asked.

  Hamish nodded. “Aye, curled up like a babe when I peeked in on my way back from…er. Mayhap, he didna want to impose.”

  The certainty this elusive cleric had something to do with Cladh’s death weighed heavily on Broderick. “If he returns, he’s to be detained. Looks like we have a mad monk in our midst.”

  He made a detour to the barracks where he ordered a search be undertaken and the missing man apprehended on suspicion of murder.

  “Willna be hard to find a monk,” one of his knights jested. “If he’s still in the castle.”

  Confident that was true, Broderick decided against postponing the sling lessons.

  *

  Kyla was glad to see a smiling Broderick waiting for them at the entrance to the tunnel. It was irrational, but she found the dark passageway oppressive. As if sensing her unease, Broderick proffered his arm. “May I escort ye, Lady Kyla?”

  She willingly accepted his support, but Lily pouted. “What about me?”

  Broderick crooked his other arm. “Of course,” he replied with mock seriousness. “How remiss of me, Lady Lily.”

  Giggling, she linked her arm in his and the trio proceeded jauntily through the tunnel.

  Anxious to be out in the open air, Kyla didn’t speak until they’d crossed the drawbridge. She wanted to express her gratitude for his consideration of her silly fears, but perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to always reveal her feelings to this man. Instead, she remarked on something she’d noticed earlier. “Yer men seem to be searching for someone.”

  Lily ran ahead into the fields, twirling the empty sling over her head.

  Broderick put a reassuring hand on Kyla’s arm. “Aye. The gatekeeper gave shelter to a monk yestereve. He’s disappeared, which is suspicious given the murder of the sexton.”

  A chill prickled Kyla’s nape. She covered Broderick’s hand with her own, lest he try to pull away. “Was he from Darling?”

  He looked into her eyes. “He says nay, but why are ye so worried?”

  “I dinna ken. The monastery is far away, across the Nith, yet the sight of it fills me with foreboding.”

  Broderick put his arm around her shoulders as they walked. “My theory is that the monastic life has driven the man mad. ’Tis possible he murdered the sexton who likely ferried him across the river.”

  It sounded feasible, yet…

  “Why cross to Caerlochnaven? Couldna he disappear more easily if he went north to Dumfries?”

  Broderick scratched the stubble on his chin. “Ye make a valid point, but who can predict what a madman might do?”

  “Are we going to learn how to use a sling or nay?” Lily cried from the riverbank.

  Kyla suddenly realized she’d slipped her arm around Broderick’s waist as they’d walked hip to hip, as if they were friends—or more, judging by the impertinent grin on Lily’s face.

  Kyla stepped away. “Yer pardon. ’Twas for balance,” she lied.

  “Aye,” he replied with an enigmatic smile, “’tis easy to lose yer balance in unfamiliar terrain.”

  Confidences

  Broderick was proud of the way Lily quickly got the hang of the sling, and told her so, basking in the glow of Kyla’s smile at his words of praise.

  Normally coordinated and agile, he was too preoccupied with the memory of Kyla leaning against him, putting her arm around his waist, trusting him. They’d walked in step, hip to hip, as though they were…

  “Ye missed again,” Lily mocked.

  He chided himself as his rock failed to find its target for the umpteenth time. “I’m nay good at this,” he confessed, though he’d joined the lessons to be with Kyla, not in the expectation of mastering the skill.

  “But ye will be,” she replied.

  He tucked the sling into his belt and perched on a boulder. “How can ye be sure o’ that?”

  He edged over when she unexpectedly sat next to him.

&
nbsp; “That’s what my father used to say when he first started to teach me. I was hopeless at it, and I became frustrated.”

  As the warmth of Kyla’s hip seeped into his body, Broderick knew only too well what frustration was. “A patient man,” he remarked.

  She hesitated, as if deciding whether to share more of her childhood. “Ye dinna ken the whole story. I refused to speak until I was seven years old, but Dadaidh still loved me.”

  He suspected she’d shared a very personal piece of her history, so he risked putting his arm around her waist, ostensibly to prevent her slipping off the boulder. “Can I ask why ye didna wish to speak?”

  She frowned into the far horizon. “It seems childish now, but at the time I suppose I was angry.”

  He said nothing, afraid she might think he was prying too deeply.

  “I’m baseborn. My mother died birthing me. My grandfather, the clan chief, insisted I be cast out.”

  Broderick was beginning to understand the reason for this young woman’s fierce independence. “But yer dadaidh protected ye.”

  She sniffled back a tear. “Aye. But he wasna always at home and my maternal grandmother took care of me. I hated when he was gone, afraid someday he’d nay come back to Dun Scaith, and I’d be…”

  He put his arm around her shoulders when the words caught in her throat. “Ye were a lonely bairn. ’Tis understandable. What caused ye eventually to speak?”

  She choked back a sob, then smiled at him weakly. “I met Isabel’s dog.”

  *

  Kyla had no idea why she’d shared personal details with Broderick Maxwell. No one outside her immediate family knew, and she doubted her father was aware she’d resented him. Perhaps, she hadn’t even realized it herself until this moment. And to reveal to a highborn laird that she was baseborn! “Ye think I’m daft.”

  It came as a relief when he didn’t scoff. He held her close and made no mention of her illegitimacy.

  “Nay,” he said. “I converse with a bird as if it understands every word I say.”

  Suddenly, the raptor he treated like a pet didn’t seem as ominous. “Yer eagle?”