by Elisa Braden
Outside, drizzle had turned into pounding rain. Fighting the chill, she’d changed from her damp riding habit into a long-sleeved gown of leaf-green wool. She gathered her tartan wrap tighter around her shoulders, listening to Mrs. Grant’s amusing anecdote about her grandson’s first taste of whisky.
She couldn’t decide which room was her favorite— the hushed library with its dark shelves, the little parlor with the view of the wood, or her cozy bedchamber with its cheery yellow coverlet and elegant desk.
“Mr. MacPherson doesnae care for idleness,” the housekeeper advised Janet. “Ye’ll be expected to keep busy when ye’re nae attendin’ yer lady’s maid duties. He favors a clean house. More so than before he …”
Janet turned solemn. “Ere the Bridewell.”
“Aye.”
Kate sometimes forgot that everyone had known Broderick before he’d been imprisoned—everyone but her.
“Do ye remember summer before last?” Janet asked, digging into another trunk full of Walter Scott novels. “The Highland Games.”
Mrs. Grant hummed low. “The hammer throw. Aye. Who could forget? I may be a grandmother, but I’m nae dead.”
Janet groaned. “And the loch swim. I needed a wee dip, myself, after that.” Their laughter was rich and appreciative.
Apparently, they’d forgotten Kate was in the room. She delicately cleared her throat, but they were too busy debating whether a man’s forearms looked better with rolled-up sleeves or completely bare to pay her any mind.
She slid her three-volume collection of Shakespeare’s poetry onto the shelf and settled the argument. “If it is forearms only, they benefit from sleeves. The mystery is why this is so when a fit man’s torso is best viewed naked.” At their twin shocked expressions, she smiled calmly. “Formal clothing is also quite beneficial. It’s the anticipation of imminent removal, I suspect.”
The two women’s mouths fell agape, their eyes rounding. Kate’s smile widened. Her sisters would be proud—especially Eugenia.
“Mrs. Grant, I should like to be alone with my wife.”
Kate’s heart seized at the deep, rough brogue behind her. Her stomach dropped into her feet. He’d been away from the house since John and Annie’s departure, repairing fences and moving cattle, reportedly. Why must he return now, here, to witness her rehearsing brazenness? She must be cursed.
The housekeeper and maid scurried from the room with apologetic glances before she managed to take a full breath. Finally, she gathered her courage and turned to face him.
Oh, God. He’d rolled up his sleeves.
“We need to talk,” he said, closing the library door.
She raised her chin and brazened it out. “About?”
He glanced around the room then slowly came toward her. He was damp from the rain. “Our marriage, lass.”
Another flitter seized her heart. “Yes, I … did wonder.”
“Wonder?”
Heavens, he made her nervous. Couldn’t he look somewhere other than directly at her? She distracted herself by dusting her hands and then her skirts. “How much wifeliness you would prefer.”
Frowning, he braced his hands on his hips. Dressed as he was in a plain shirt and woolen waistcoat, buckskin breeches and muddy boots, he should not appear quite so attractive. But there was the small matter of his forearms, dusted with black hair, heavily veined and thick with muscle.
She swallowed and considered how hard it must have been for him to rebuild his strength, how much work it must have required to regain those muscles in half a year.
“I should be gainin’ somethin’ from this arrangement, wouldnae ye say?”
She blinked. “Your freedom isn’t sufficient?”
“Some men dinnae consider leg shackles freedom.”
“Hmm. ‘Men are April when they woo, December when they wed.’” She quirked a smile. “It seems my winter will be as cold as Mr. McInnes warned.”
“I havenae wooed ye, Kate. Else, ye wouldnae be speakin’ of winter.”
For a moment, both of them fell silent. Kate was busy battling a heated flush in her lower half. Was her blushing now afflicting her everywhere? This was bad. Further, she suspected wifeliness meant something different to him than to her. Heavens. Had she unwittingly offered more than carpets and draperies?
“Regardless of how it came to be, ye are my wife,” he said gruffly. “I see no reason ye shouldnae behave as such.”
Oh. Oh, dear. She had offered … And he did expect … that. Could she? Her eyes tumbled down the length of him. The great, towering length.
“I’ve matters to tend that will take me away from home most days,” he continued in measured, businesslike tones.
“Lockhart,” she whispered, eyeing his scars.
The one near his mouth pulled tight. “Aye. He must be brought down, lass.”
She nodded. “How?”
“That’s nae for ye to fash about.”
“You have to find him, yes? Perhaps I could help.”
The scar scowl deepened. “As my wife, ye’ll stay where I put ye. Which is here. Content yerself with fillin’ bookcases and plannin’ supper.”
“This is a lovely house, Broderick, but I shouldn’t care to remain imprisoned here whilst you go traipsing about hither and yon—”
“I’ve work to do,” he snapped. “The distillery. Dealin’ with crofters. Findin’ bluidy wanderin’ coos.” He stretched an enormous arm above her shoulder to pat the empty bookshelf behind her with a solid thump. “Why do ye think this place hasnae been properly furnished, eh?”
She struggled for breath, overwhelmed by his cooling scent and heated nearness. He was gripping the shelf, now, staring down at her with a glittering eye.
“Nah,” he rumbled, his gaze falling to her mouth. “Stay here. Be my wife. Perhaps I’m owed a bit of comfort, hmm?”
She swallowed against a dry throat. Examined the slashes through his brows and strong, square jaw. He still shaved his whiskers, she noted. Even with the ridges and valleys carved by evil men, he kept up with that one, simple daily task. “C-comfort. Yes. Perhaps you are.”
“Aye, then. Ye’ll follow my instructions.”
She would? There were instructions? She’d always imagined it would simply begin with kissing and end with … well, more than kissing. “Are you saying there is a specific procedure you’d like me to follow?”
An impatient sigh. “Just do as I ask, and all will be fine.”
“I’ve only just unpacked everything.”
He frowned. “Aye.”
“Are you … content to have me remain in the bedchamber I selected?”
He raked a hand through his hair, causing a lock to fall across his patch. “Take whichever room pleases ye, lass. ’Tis nae matter to me.”
Ah, so he wished to conduct their marriage as many in the ton did—with separate chambers and, ultimately, separate lives.
“I see.” She folded her hands at her waist, swallowing a lump of … joy. Yes, it must be joy choking her and not disappointment at all. This was what she’d wanted. She’d be free to pursue her writing, and he’d be free to pursue his revenge, and she’d simply follow his instructions when he needed wifely comfort. Very sensible. They were hardly a love match, after all.
“I want ye safe.” His low, quiet rumble jerked her head up. “Mayhap we didnae have the best beginnin’, lass. And I cannae promise ye easy because that’s as daft as promisin’ the moon. But I will stand betwixt ye and all others. Munro. Lockhart. So long as I’m alive, any man who seeks to harm ye will deal with me first. Ye ken?”
Yes. She understood. She couldn’t breathe, really, because he’d stolen all her air. But she understood the promise he’d just made to her. Better than anyone, she knew the punishment he could deliver to his enemies.
“I do,” she whispered. “And I—I will bring you comfort, Broderick. Perhaps we may comfort … each other.”
His nostrils fl
ared. He nodded, his eye burning as it traveled her throat and flickered briefly to her bosom. It didn’t linger, however. “We’ll discuss this more at dinner.” His arm retreated. He rubbed his nape and backed up with a grimace. “I smell like the coos.”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed.
He didn’t. Rather, he stared down at her with dark intensity.
“Apologies.” She covered her mouth with her fingertips and peeked up at him. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I just adore the way you say cow.”
“Coo?”
She giggled. Nodded.
The slightest quirk of his mouth lifted the scar. “Highland coos shouldnae be mocked, m’lady.”
“I wouldn’t dare. And you don’t smell like them,” she insisted. “You smell … splendid.”
He raised a brow.
“I don’t know what it is. Something cooling like mint or pine or snow. I find it soothing.” She leaned closer and breathed deep. “Your soap, perhaps?”
“Liniment.” Was his voice thicker than before? Raspier, certainly.
She hoped he wasn’t falling ill. “Well, you should have a hot bath and more liniment at once. Is it really necessary to work in this weather?”
“If I dinnae wish to lose my cattle, aye. A broken fence is a useless fence.”
“Couldn’t your men handle the repairs? They appeared capable.”
His brows crashed into a glower. “I prefer to do it myself.”
“Why?”
“Keeps my hands busy. My mind from strayin’.”
“Straying to what?”
A muscle in his jaw flickered. He looked at her mouth, her bodice, her skirts. Then, he backed up a step. Another. And another. “Things I shouldnae be thinkin’ about, lass.” When he finally pivoted and strode to the door, it almost seemed he had to force himself to open it.
“We’ll speak at dinner, yes?” She didn’t know why she asked, only that she wished he would stay longer. Wished they didn’t have to wait to continue their conversation.
He didn’t reply. Just halted. His hand squeezed the doorframe until his knuckles whitened. Then, he gave a single nod and left her alone with only the hush of rainfall for company.
If Broderick hadn’t thought it would shock Kate’s sensibilities, he’d have washed in the wee loch beyond the garden. But then, if it weren’t for Kate, submerging his body in frigid water wouldn’t have been necessary.
Bloody hell, he hated when his brothers were right.
Even now, after a hot bath and a round of self-delivered relief, he had trouble tucking his cock into his trews. It wanted … her. The thing was hard as a hammer. Throbbing. Maddening.
She was maddening. Gazing up at him with those rich, dancing brown eyes. Laughing with that crack-hitch-and-tumble rhythm. When she’d gone breathless at his mention of wooing her, he’d nearly forgotten how hideous he was. The way she looked at him, she didn’t seem to see the scars at all.
Disgusted, he shrugged on a waistcoat and then his brown wool coat. They’d be dining together this evening. He’d explain more clearly that she had leave to manage the household as she pleased, so long as certain instructions were followed. In the library earlier, he’d conveyed that she could rely upon his protection, but before he could elaborate on the specifics of how the household should be run to ensure her security, she’d distracted him with her laugh. Witchcraft, it was. Brilliant. Glowing. Unrestrained.
Coo. She loved the way he said coo. She’d laughed—twice—and his body had lit on fire. Everything inside him had wanted to take. Take and take and take. Her mouth, her breasts, her tongue. He’d wanted to fill her and drive gasps from those lips. He’d wanted to watch her come.
He sat on his bed and ran a hand through his hair. God Almighty, he needed a woman.
But what he had was a wife. A beautiful, virginal wife who should not be offering to make their marriage “proper.” She deserved better than a broken, vengeful man.
His body didn’t care what she deserved. His body wanted to flood hers with seed. Feel her rippling around him. It wanted to steal pleasure for itself and damn the bloody consequences. But he couldn’t do that to her. After all this was over, after Lockhart was dead and the danger to his kin had passed, she mustn’t suffer for having married him.
He shoved up, ignoring the pain in his knee and shoulders. Pain was nothing. The goal was everything.
He found her in the dining room, smiling and chatting with Mrs. Grant. She now wore blue silk rather than green wool.
“My niece, Merry, insists on being carried everywhere. She is three. So, you see, your granddaughter is not so unusual.”
“Are ye sayin’ I should indulge the wee bairn?”
“Well, if she turns eighteen and continues her eccentricity, some intervention might be in order.”
Mrs. Grant chuckled, placing a platter of trout on the table and casting Kate a considering glance. “Ye ken a fair bit about bairns for a lady who has none, Mrs. MacPherson.”
Broderick’s chest tightened when Kate’s smile softened. She leaned forward to light the tapers at the center of the table. From his vantage in the shadows of the doorway, he could see the swells of her bosom and the dark, tempting cleft between.
“We Huxleys are rather … prolific. Legendarily so, I’m afraid.”
“How many nieces and nephews have ye?”
Gracefully, Kate pivoted to move a pitcher of cider from the sideboard to the table. “Fifteen? No. Seventeen. Drat, I’ve lost count. I did, however, devise a solution. It’s a small trick I employed when I was a girl to help me remember my sums.”
“What is the trick?”
A faint blush touched her cheeks. “I sing their names. Would you care to hear?”
“Oh, aye. I do enjoy music.”
Kate folded her hands at her waist and cleared her throat. “The first to arrive was sweet Beatrice, who was a blessing despite being toothless. Next came a boy named Gabriel, whose pointed head made his mother squeal. Followed by an angel named Emma, whose father had quite the dilemma, because twins were quite unexpected, and that would make any man apoplectic.”
Mrs. Grant’s polite smile gradually gave way to a grimace. “Er, I seem to have forgotten the neeps. I do beg yer pardon.” She fled to the kitchen, leaving Kate alone.
Broderick watched Kate’s lower lip tremble then firm. After a moment in which she appeared to gather her pride, she resumed lighting tapers while humming her previous tune, wavering between a warbling falsetto and a threadbare alto.
By God, his wife was a dreadful singer. He winced as her voice skated past the proper key and cracked. She paused to clear her throat.
“Ye changed yer gown.”
She jolted and spun. “Broderick. Good heavens, you startled me.”
He strode the length of the room, halting across the table from her. Best to have a piece of furniture between them, else he might do something rash. Kissing her, for example. “I didnae wish to interrupt yer performance.”
Her blush deepened, washing the swells of her bosom. “Hardly that.” Her gaze roved across his shoulders and down to his waist. “You appear refreshed.” She gestured to the platters. “Mr. McInnes has prepared a veritable feast. I do hope you’ve brought your appetite.”
His greatest appetite wasn’t for food. “Aye.”
Her fingers fluttered nervously before rising to spiral a curl along her cheek. “My mother often says there is nothing that cannot be improved by a good meal.”
Mrs. Grant returned with two more platters, followed by the kitchen maid with a basket of bread. The fearful maid shot him nervous glances then fled as though her drawers were on fire.
Kate, he noticed, glared in the maid’s direction. She didn’t explain her irritation, merely gesturing to the two place settings at the head of the table. “Shall we?”
Minutes later, Broderick wondered if dining with his wife had been a mistake. Partly, the problem la
y in watching her lips close around dainty bites. The other trial came while listening to her amusing stories about Annie’s battle to keep Marjorie MacDonnell out of her kitchen. Kate would pause occasionally to laugh.
Every time she laughed, Broderick grew harder.
“The rub of the matter is that Mrs. MacDonnell makes very fine shortbread—even better than Annie’s.” Kate grinned and giggled. “So, it is not a simple matter of banishing her entirely. John has suggested they hire a cook, but Annie won’t hear of it.” She slid a forkful of roasted turnips between her lips and chewed thoughtfully.
Broderick drained his cup of cider and poured himself another.
“I suspect she’ll reconsider after the babe is born,” Kate continued, her fingertips strumming the rim of her plate as though she were playing the pianoforte. “That is what always happens.” A sigh. “And thus, the process is complete.”
He frowned, scarcely able to focus on what she was saying. Those fingers. Those lips. The heady scent of her hair and skin. “What process?”
“The mind infection.”
He waited for her to elaborate, but she simply took another bite and released another sigh.
“What is the mind infection?” he asked.
Her color deepened, and she gave a small shrug. “A small theory of mine. I’ve watched it happen to my sisters. First, they fall in love. Then they marry. Then they produce children. Then they transform.”
“Into?”
“I don’t know. Something other than what they were, that much is certain.”
He frowned. She seemed content with her conclusion, though it made no sense.
Rather than explain, she patted his wrist. “Not to worry. I won’t suffer such a change. That is why our sacred union suits me so well.”
“Ah. Is that why?”
“Oh, yes.” She shot him a brilliant smile and took a drink of her cider. “You and I will never fall in love with one another.” She fluttered her fingers in a graceful, dismissive wave. “The very idea is absurd. We suit precisely because there is so little chance for attachment.”
The food in his stomach started to churn. He took another swig of cider and wished it was whisky.
