Kilty Pleasures (Clash of the Tartans Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  “Aye. Aiglon—French for Eaglet, though she’s full grown now.”

  “I called the dog Boo. His real name was Blue, because of his blue coat.”

  He nodded. “I’ve heard of the breed. From Denmark.”

  “For a while I spoke only to him, but then I became too curious about things. I decided I’d learn more if I asked questions.”

  He put his free hand on her thigh and looked into her eyes. “Ye’re a remarkable woman, Kyla MacKeegan.”

  It was scandalous. She ought to reprimand him for his outrageous behavior, but then he might not kiss her…and his lips were so close, and alarmingly tempting. What would it be like to kiss a man? Would he taste of…

  “Whoo hoo!” Lily shouted. “Direct hit!”

  *

  Broderick loved his sister dearly, but at that moment he could have throttled her.

  On second thought, perhaps it was as well she’d bragged of her prowess just as he’d been about to kiss Kyla’s full lips. She’d probably have been outraged and shoved him off the boulder onto his arse. He’d warrant she could put a lot of force behind a punch.

  As it was, she seemed flustered, blushing as she hurried to Lily’s side. Putting his hand on her thigh had obviously been premature, but he couldn’t deny he’d enjoyed the feel of her firm flesh beneath his fingers.

  Hippolyta! Queen of the Amazons!

  There had to be a way to get her out of the woolen trews.

  Stop!

  Shaking his head at his own foolishness, he got to his feet, loaded his sling with one of the rocks Kyla had selected, and prepared to spend another hour missing the mark.

  Kitchen Nook

  For a large castle, Caerlochnaven’s kitchen was small and crowded. Corbin resolved to remedy that once he took possession. He had no trouble laying his hands on a sharp carving knife lying next to a plate with the last slice of some sort of pie. He scarfed it down so fast, he had no idea what it was. Rabbit?

  Harried cooks and scullery wenches paid him no mind as he sidestepped into the space behind the brick chimney.

  As he’d anticipated, the cook kept a rope bed slung from corner to corner in her little nook. He doubted there was a castle kitchen in the whole of Scotland that didn’t have a warm, cozy place for a cook to nap in between meal times. Scullery maids usually gave the nook a wide berth, aware of the consequences if they woke the weary queen of the pots and pans.

  The hairs on his nape bristled when loud voices brought the kitchen hubbub to a halt. “We’re seeking a monk. Have ye seen him?”

  Most muttered, but one lass said, “He was here a minute ago, but I dinna see him now.”

  As the sound of booted feet receded and chatter resumed, Corbin breathed again and cast about for anything he might use to replace the monk’s robe. Obviously, Hamish had opened his mouth and Maxwell had deemed it odd a monk would arrive just after they’d found the sexton’s body. The man was apparently more astute than he’d thought.

  The gatekeeper had made no mention of the boat being found, however, so he hoped that part of the plan was still a factor. The plan, such as it was, actually wasn’t proceeding according to…

  His resolve was renewed when he espied a skirt hanging on a long nail. He grabbed it and held it to his body. It came to just below his knees, but, combined with the shirt he’d stolen from Hamish, it might just work.

  He put the knife on the bed and exhaled with relief once he’d dragged the irritating robe over his head. He quickly pulled the skirt up over his hips and donned the stained shirt, annoyed that his fingers didn’t seem to be working properly. The rope belt tied around his waist would keep the skirt from falling around his ankles. The cook must be quite a bit broader in the beam.

  He fisted his hands. The disguise would be for naught if he didn’t cover his face. Women didn’t grow beards, though he’d known a few who…

  “Never mind that now, think man,” he muttered under his breath.

  He rolled up Hamish’s trews and stuffed them inside the shirt, then shoved the robe into a dark corner of the hidey-hole, elated to find cook’s black and white checkered shawl hidden there.

  Obviously, the woman didn’t trust her fellow servants.

  He draped the maud over his head and held one end over his nose and mouth, trying to pay no mind to the odor of stale food lingering in the wool.

  Grinding his teeth as he waited for quiet to descend on the kitchen, he looked down at his disguise, his hand on the handle of the knife tucked into the waistband. “The laird of a mighty clan reduced to wearing a threadbare skirt and a foul-smelling shirt. I look like a wretched peasant. It’s all the fault of the MacKeegan wench. She’ll be sorry.”

  Burial

  Kyla decided to wear a dress for the burial. It was appropriate for the solemn rites in the chapel, but not warm enough to protect against the chilly east wind blowing off the Firth as her crewmen were interred in the small cemetery outside the walls.

  The balmy weather they’d enjoyed in the morning had deteriorated. As a child of Skye, Kyla should have been prepared for such an eventuality. She shivered, despite the woolen maud provided by Doreen.

  The castle’s resident presbyter intoned a prayer for the dead as the shrouded bodies were lowered into the grave. He’d been kind and respectful, but he hadn’t known the two young men personally, and they were from a family that held to the auld religion. She had an urge to rant and rave about the hardship the loss would inflict on their small community back home.

  She looked across at Nicolson. He showed no emotion and many might think he didn’t care, but she recognized the tell-tale tic plaguing his right eye. Beside him stood Adrian, a youth who might have suffered the same fate were it not for the navigator. Was he pondering that reality as he stared into the grave? If the young valet was to be believed, Corbin had cared naught for the boy’s life.

  His actions were tantamount to murder.

  That notion led to thoughts of the sexton.

  She shivered. It was too much of a coincidence. But Corbin had paid for his malevolence with his life, hadn’t he?

  Broderick stood ramrod straight at her side. It struck her full force that she didn’t need to tell him of her sorrow for the folk of Ywst—he knew. But she was responsible for the guilt marring his handsome features. She’d blamed him when ultimately the sinking was Lochwood’s fault.

  If she voiced her feelings, she might burst into tears and never stop; a MacKeegan couldn’t allow that to happen. So she kept silent.

  Grief threatened to choke her when Broderick took off his cloak and nestled it around her shivering shoulders.

  She grasped his hand lest she swoon. His warmth kept her afloat in a cold sea of confused emotions.

  *

  Broderick hadn’t shed a tear over his father’s death but, for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to howl like a babe as handfuls of earth were tossed atop the shrouded corpses of two youths he’d never met.

  The surviving members of the Hebridean crew scowled and he supposed their hatred was understandable. The loss of cousins would be felt keenly in a small community.

  Lily surreptitiously slipped her hand into Adrian’s, as if she sensed his feelings as he stared into the grave. However, the lad was a valet—from an enemy clan to boot.

  Kyla shivered, clearly distraught, and it was of some consolation that she held on to his hand after he gave her the cloak. Had she forgiven him?

  He bristled at that notion. What was there to forgive? The entire disaster could be laid at Lochwood’s door.

  A drowning boy deprived of a chance to survive; an ancient sexton beaten to death.

  Murder and murderous intent. Were the two crimes linked?

  He’d assumed a mad monk had killed Cladh, but what if Lochwood wasn’t dead?

  Several of the bales of cloth had washed up on the banks of the Nith. Could one of them have carried Corbin Lochwood to Darling Abbey?

  He resolved to intensify the search for the monk
as soon as they returned to the castle.

  The Maxwell piper tuned his instrument, ready to bring the ceremony to a close. Perhaps it was the drone of the pipes that prompted Broderick to clear his throat and give voice to the song made popular a hundred years before after the disastrous slaughter of thousands of young Scots at Flodden.

  I’ve heard the lilting, at the ewe-milking,

  Lasses a-lilting before dawn o’ day;

  But now they are moaning on ev’ry day dawning;

  The Flowers of the Forest are withered away

  In the morning, nay blythe lads are scorning;

  The lasses are lonely, woeful and gray.

  Nay dallyin’, nay talkin’, but sighing and sobbing,

  The Flowers of the Forest are withered away.

  At harvest and shearing, nay youths now are jeering,

  The binders are auld men, wrinkled and gray.

  At fair or at preaching, nay wooing, nay coaxing,

  The Flowers of the Forest are withered away.

  At e’en, in the gloaming, nay young men are roaming,

  ’Bout haystacks wi’ the lasses to play.

  But each lass sits dreary, lamenting her dearie,

  The Flowers of the Forest are withered away.

  As the last verse drifted away on the wind, he risked a glance at the assembled mourners. Singing the poignant song had filled his heart with optimism, but had it been inappropriate?

  Tears trickled down Lily’s cheeks, but she was smiling.

  Several of the sniffling Hebridean crewmen nodded pensively. Even the stone-faced Nicolson seemed moved.

  The cleric gripped his prayer book and stared heavenward.

  But it was something in Kyla’s eyes—surprise, gratitude, sympathy, kinship—that confirmed what he knew in his heart. The song had soothed her troubled spirit and lightened the burden of guilt he’d carried since his father’s execution.

  He was elated when she accepted the offer of his arm.

  The somber cavalcade wound its way back to the castle to the haunting strains of the piper playing the lament.

  *

  People were subdued as they gathered for the evening meal, which befitted the occasion. Those who hadn’t attended the burial were aware it had taken place.

  But Kyla sensed something in the mood of the castle folk had changed. Certainly, the smiling Broderick seemed more at ease. She suspected the news that he’d sung so poignantly at the funeral had spread rapidly.

  It was as though the weight of Alasdair Maxwell’s crime and ignominious punishment had lifted from the clan’s shoulders as well as from Broderick’s.

  Expectation hung in the air.

  “Lily spoke true,” she told him. “Ye’ve a marvelous voice.”

  He winked at his sister. “I dinna ken about that, but I do love to sing.”

  “He plays too,” Lily bragged. “Any instrument.”

  His endearing blush warmed Kyla’s heart, as well as a very private part of her body. “Aye,” he confessed, “though my favorite is the fiddle.”

  She was beginning to see a completely different and unexpected side of Broderick Maxwell. Fiddlers on Skye played raucous reels and jigs that folks simply had to dance to. “I’d love to hear ye play the fiddle,” she said, “but I suppose ’tisna appropriate on this occasion.”

  “Nay,” he agreed, as servants began to take away the last of the trenchers.

  Hearing the regret in his voice, she plucked up her courage. “I think yer clansmen want to hear another song from ye.”

  He scanned the hall, frowning in surprise, then got to his feet. “Weel, we canna disappoint them.”

  A hush fell over the crowd as everyone turned to look at their laird.

  “Today we buried two young men here at Caerlochnaven. They didna deserve to drown far from their Hebridean home. Let us think of their families and dedicate this song to their memory.”

  He cleared his throat, then began.

  Where, oh where is yer Highland laddie gone?

  He’s gone wi’ streaming banners,

  where noble deeds are done,

  And it’s oh, in my heart I wish him safe at home.

  Where, oh where did yer Highland laddie dwell?

  He dwelt in Bonnie Scotland,

  where blooms the sweet blue bell,

  And it’s oh, in my heart I loved my laddie well.

  What, oh what does yer Highland laddie wear?

  A bonnet with a lofty plume,

  and on his breast a plaid,

  And it’s oh, in my heart I loved my Highland lad.

  What, oh what if yer Highland lad is slain?

  Oh no, true love will be his guard

  and bring him safe again,

  For my heart would break if my Highland lad were slain.

  Rowdy applause greeted the end of the song, and there was nary a dry eye in the place. Most had hummed along.

  As for Kyla, Broderick’s rich, melodious voice had wrapped itself around her heart. She reluctantly admitted inwardly that she was falling in love with him.

  *

  Corbin had taken an enormous chance, but hunger had driven him to the crowded Laird’s Hall. Hampered by the need to keep his face covered, he’d scooped up from the servery only what he could hold in one hand.

  He lurked in the shadows near the entryway for a moment before making his getaway. All eyes were on the Maxwell laird holding forth with some maudlin song—and Kyla MacKeegan gazing at him as if he were Gabriel come down from heaven.

  It was enough to make a man’s blood boil.

  But who was the pretty, bright-eyed lass sitting next to Maxwell on the dais? Certainly not the dimwitted, painfully thin little sister he’d heard about.

  He smiled when he caught sight of something else he hadn’t expected. He’d assumed Adrian had drowned, but here he sat, larger than life.

  On his way back to the hiding place he’d located in the castle’s undercroft, he pondered a way to use the young valet and the only other surviving Maxwell sibling—what was her name?

  A change of plan was called for.

  Music to My Ears

  Broderick wasn’t surprised when Lily’s eyelids began to droop. She’d had a full and eventful day, but still summoned the inevitable pout when he beckoned Doreen to take her to bed. “I want to stay with ye and Kyla.”

  “’Tis past yer bedtime,” he replied, hoping the evening wasn’t going to end with an argument.

  Kyla came to his rescue. “I’m tired too. I’ll come with ye, Lily.”

  He racked his brain for an excuse to accompany them, but his sister solved the problem as she rose from her seat. “Will ye play me to sleep like ye used to when I was a wee bairn, Broderick?”

  It was a poignant reminder of happier times. The perceptive Kyla was correct that Lily missed his music as much as he did. “With pleasure,” he said truthfully.

  He summoned his valet. Teak nodded when told where to find the shawm tucked away in his armoire.

  Seemingly satisfied, Lily took hold of his hand and Kyla’s. The three sauntered out of the hall, Doreen trailing behind.

  As they walked hand in hand along the corridor to Lily’s chamber, Broderick was transported back to a time when his parents used to escort him to bed in the same manner. He’d been cherished by a gifted mother who’d passed on her love of music; had she sensed she would never meet the bairn she carried?

  He glanced across at Kyla who smiled back as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, but eyed the shawm quizzically when Teak handed it to him at the door of the chamber.

  Impatient to play for her, he blew a few notes, the heat rising in his face when strident off-key sounds emerged from the long-neglected instrument.

  Kyla’s green eyes widened.

  “Nay yet,” his sister whined. “When I’m abed.”

  “Come along, cheeky lass,” Doreen admonished, prodding Lily to the boudoir.

  “Only if Kyla helps.”

 
Broderick rolled his eyes at the stubborn minx’s ploy. Kyla shrugged in feigned resignation and the three females disappeared.

  He sat in one of the armchairs by the hearth and played a scale. The instrument definitely needed new reeds, and possibly a new pirouette, but it wasn’t as if he was intending to play for a concert audience.

  Nevertheless, he wiped his palms on his trews, one after the other, strangely nervous. He could probably play the shawm in his sleep, but with Kyla watching…

  *

  Kyla sat on the edge of Lily’s mattress, listening to Broderick’s music. She’d often helped Isabel put her four half-brothers to bed, but there was something endearing about a tired little lass tucked up in clean linens, her face red from Doreen’s scrubbing.

  She was amazed Lily hadn’t yet fallen asleep. Her own eyelids were drooping.

  The musicians at Dun Scaith played shawms, but the sounds emerging from Broderick’s instrument were deeper, more soothing. She tapped her hands together softly when he stopped playing. “Bravo.”

  He blushed at the praise. “’Tis a tenor,” he explained, as if he knew she’d heard the richer tone, “and in need of new reeds.”

  “I’m afraid I dinna ken much about music,” she admitted.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “But ye ken whether ye like a piece or nay.”

  “True. I like what ye just played.”

  “Our mother taught him,” Lily interjected.

  “But ye dinna play?” Kyla asked.

  Lily yawned. “Nay, my mother died birthing me.”

  Kyla’s mouth fell open. She had more in common with this wee lass than she thought. She’d always regretted not knowing her own mother. However, if Elspeth hadn’t died in childbirth, Darroch MacKeegan might never have brought his illegitimate daughter under his protection. She’d probably have lived the hand-to-mouth life of a peasant. But such sentiments would entail relating more of her history to a young lass who’d lost both parents than was prudent. “’Twas my stepmother taught me what I ken of the finer things in life,” she revealed.

  Lily sat up. “Like what?”