Terri Brisbin (16 page)

It was an even smaller price to pay for the reward of Brenna’s grateful kisses and the look of relief in her eyes. When she finally released him, her eyes turned serious once more.

“There has been no marriage contract between us, Gavin, but I want you to know that I trust you to watch over my dower property and take whatever rents are necessary to send Shamus and his legion of whey-faced foot-lickers to the outer ends of the earth.”

Smiling, he reminded himself never to cross swords with his ruthless wife. “Thank ye, Brenna, but I will keep yer dower lands profitable so that they may one day pass to Donovan as ye’ve planned. My guess is, he will conquer many holdings far and wide to add to his own coffers, but it is only just that he receive the holding. Callum shall one day inherit Montrose, which my men will keep safe for him until he is ready to rule. And as for our babe…”

His hand trailed to her belly where he could almost think about a little Blackburn heir without his gut knotting.

“Your son will have Blackburn Keep.” She made a sweeping gesture to encompass the courtyard and expansive lands. “But what if I prove as fruitful a mother as Rowan?”

They looked down at Gavin’s gentle hound. She watched over Callum and Donovan, who were now covered in happy, barking puppies.

“Perhaps we should wait and see how yer health fares before we borrow trouble.” He would take no chances with this woman who had healed the hurt inside him.

“That’s right. I’d forgotten Blackburn wisdom says never engage your enemy unless you have to. Does that mean you are hoping for a household full of girls so you won’t have to worry about dividing up your lands?”

The image brought a smile to his face. “Heaven deliver us from a brood of willful young Brennas. Can ye imagine a little she-devil with Donovan’s sword arm and her mother’s sense of justice?”

“You are right.” She nodded solemnly before she drew him toward the keep. “Let us not worry about the future and concentrate on the first Blackburn heir. In fact, I think it would be remiss of me not to get to work on the task of motherhood right now when I feel so healthy and full of love for you, my lord.”

And just as it had been that first night when she had appeared in his hall, dripping wet and desperate for his help, Gavin found he could not say nay.

August 1314

S
un streaming down on her favorite haven, Brenna reclined on a blanket near the shallow stream that coursed past Blackburn Keep, promising herself she would close her eyes for only a moment. Her youngest, Elizabeth Aileen, had fallen asleep at her breast after an afternoon picnic, and mother and babe now lay together in the shade of a tall hawthorn tree while the other children played nearby.

At six months Elizabeth was already the very image of her mother, her cries more fierce than any of her siblings had been at that tender age.

When she was born, Gavin had delighted in their newest babe the same way he had celebrated each child she had delivered him—first Ian James who had just turned four, then Gwendolyn Mae who was almost three, and finally, Elizabeth. Each birth had been as easy as her first two—relatively speaking. Of course each one hurt like Hades, but they had all been blessedly quick and uncomplicated, much to Gavin’s relief. Seeing his face strained with worry each time her birthing
pains started let her know in no uncertain terms that she meant everything to her husband.

Thus, it had pained Gavin to leave his family to answer Robert the Bruce’s call four months ago, but he had sensed an end to the long struggle for the throne. And from everything Brenna had gathered from traveling knights over the past two months of his absence, a battle at Bannockburn had indeed ended the Bruce’s long struggle.

Scotland was free at last.

Which was very well and good, but the happy news had not yet brought her husband home. Blinking sleepily at ten-year-old Callum, where he helped his younger brothers bait their lines to fish, Brenna smiled contentedly. Gwendolyn slept on her nurse’s lap on her own blanket a few feet away, a tattered rag doll clutched in the little girl’s fist even in sleep.

Brenna might have succumbed to the urge for a nap, especially with Gwendolyn’s young and able-bodied nurse assuring her she could watch over the children. But a twig snapped a little way up the path, making Brenna bolt upright. Even Rowan seemed to sense something, the dark hound coming to her feet a moment before she sprinted up the path with as much enthusiasm as one of the pups from her most recent litter.

“’Tis a fine life of leisure ye’ve made for yerself, Brenna Blackburn.” A sorely missed masculine voice boomed over the creek-side haven just as her long-lost warrior husband came into view, a grin on his face and a heavy traveling bag slung over his back.

Cheers went up from the boys as they ran to greet him, and even little Gwendolyn pried her eyes open and toddled over. She held her arms out to him, doll in hand.

Smiling in spite of herself, Brenna covered the baby with a bit of the blanket before she rose to her feet.

“I’ll warrant my life of leisure has required more effort these last few months than your trudging around Scotland to
help your king, Gavin Blackburn.” She knew full well he only teased her, but she gladly chastised him to uphold her half of their game. They both agreed raising children could exhaust the strongest warrior, but that seeing a babe grow strong and happy was a greater reward than any gold in the household’s coffers.

“Aye, but at least I managed to help him free Scotland in the meantime. And I’ll warrant ye’ve had more fun than me.” He smiled at her over Ian’s head as he hugged his son. Callum and Donovan held up two of Rowan’s new pups for him to see.

“I do not doubt it.” She could scarcely imagine being away from the family for any length of time ever again. Missing those three years of Callum’s and Donovan’s lives had made her all the more grateful for every moment she spent with their children now.

Thanks to Gavin, Shamus Kirkpatrick had stayed far away from her sons these past four years. The old man had set up residence in England after departing Montrose Keep, but she’d heard he passed quietly after a bout of chest pains last winter. One day, Brenna knew Callum would bring peace to the disjointed remains of his father’s clan, but for now, she simply cherished each day of watching him grow strong and smart, his quiet assurance a calming influence on all their children.

After doling out hugs all around and kissing his sleeping baby, Gavin lifted Brenna into his embrace. Her feet dangled just above the ground as he kissed her, his sun-warmed scent surrounding her as surely as his strong arms.

“I’ve missed ye.” He kissed her deeply, his mouth molding to hers for a long moment before he leaned back enough to peer down at her through half-closed eyelids. “Are ye taking care of yerself? Eating enough?”

His hands spanned her waist and smoothed over her hips as if to decide for himself.

“Aye. But perhaps we are a bit inappropriate in front of the
children.” She made a halfhearted effort to wriggle away, though she didn’t really mind when he continued to hold her close. The children were already occupied arguing about how many opponents Gavin had taken down with his sword in the summer’s battles anyway.

“I’ll tell ye the whole of the story over supper tonight, and not a moment sooner,” he promised them before winking down at her.

She could not think about Gavin in the midst of a battlefield without a flutter of nerves and was glad when the children found something else to discuss. “Congratulations on the Bannockburn victory, my lord, but more than anything, I am just grateful you are home at last.”

“Aye.” His word was hoarse with emotions she recognized well. Together they had built something strong and wonderful out of the ashes of old pains and fears and not a day passed that they were not thankful for second chances. “And I want to hear every bit of news, but first I think it’s very important that ye retire for a little while to rest.”

Brenna smiled. Of all the games they played in their marriage, she liked this one the best. “Do you mean to suggest I look tired, my lord?”

“I mean to suggest ye deserve to rest and I’m just the man to make sure ye get everything ye deserve.” The heat in his eyes never failed to send an answering flicker of warmth through her.

“I will be eager to see how much rest this plan of yours involves, but I do not think your children will allow you to escape so quickly.”

He nudged the dark traveling sack at his feet with the toe of his boot. “Then ye underestimate the power of presents.”

The warmth in Brenna’s womb kicked into a full-blown fire as she imagined spending a few hours in her husband’s arms before the meal.

“Have I told you lately that I think you are vastly clever?” Her heart pounded in anticipation.

“It is my aim to please ye, lass.”

Brenna threaded her arms around his neck and thought how truly blessed she’d been to handfast with such a man.

“Believe me, Gavin, you do.”

Miranda Jarrett

For Brides Everywhere: Love and Be Happy!

Staffordshire, England
May, 1805

I
n spite of his rank, Lord Ross Howland, Earl of Mayne, was commonly regarded as having one of the greatest minds of his generation. His mathematical calculations were a marvel, his scientific conclusions profound and inspiring. Yet as brilliant as his intellect was reputed to be, there remained certain questions so complex and eternal that not even Lord Howland could fathom an answer.

“Perhaps you can tell me, Dawkins.” With a great sigh of frustration, Ross pushed his empty tankard across the counter for the barkeep of the Tawny Buck to fill again. “What do ladies want?”

“Ah, now that’s a true puzzle, my lord, isn’t it?” Dawkins puffed out his lips and shook his head as he poured the ale. “Do you be referring to a particular lady, my lord, or the species as a whole?”

“A particular one.” Ross watched the bubbly foam subside, automatically calculating the precise rate at which the tiny bubbles must pop and vanish or spill over the side of the tankard. “My sister Emma.”

“Lady Emma?” Dawkins’s disappointment was palpable. “Not any of those darling pagan lasses, the ones what wear no clothing beyond flowers and grass? Them that chased your boat on your journeys to Tahiti and other such places? Not the ladies the papers made such a fuss about?”

“Oh, no,” Ross said, unwilling to be distracted. The women of Tahiti
had
been beautiful and startlingly unconcerned with their nakedness, but they were also so inconstant in their attentions and such born thieves in the bargain that their appeal had soon waned for Ross, as it should for any proper-thinking Englishman. “Those ladies were easy enough to please. A new iron cook pot and a pair of green glass ear-bobs, and they’re happy as can be. My sister’s a different challenge altogether. You have heard she is to wed?”

Dawkins’s grin spread from one broad cheek to the other. “’Course I have, my lord! The entire county’s rejoicing with the news. Could there be a prettier couple than Lady Emma and Sir Weldon Dodd?”

“No, there could not.” Ross nodded with satisfaction. In the decade since their parents had died of the same fever, he’d been Emma’s sole family, and he was delighted that she’d managed to settle herself this way with so much joy and so little fuss. “My sister has wanted Sir Weldon since she was in the nursery, and to her good fortune, he felt the same admiration for her.”

“They say the best matches are the ones made in the cradle, my lord.”

“Dawkins, that’s precisely where I still picture her,” Ross said. “I can scarce believe she’s old enough to marry, but somehow since I’ve been away, she’s turned seventeen. Seventeen, for all the world! When I sailed, she was still climbing in the lofts to look for kittens, with bits of straw in her hair and pinner.”

“Time does fly, my lord. And you have been gone from England for a good long time.”

“Nearly three years.” Ross glanced out the window to see
how the repair was progressing on his coach’s wheel. His appointment as an astronomer on board a navy-sponsored voyage of discovery had taken him clear around the world without serious mishap—until, that is, he’d come within the last ten miles of Howland Hall, and the rutted ditch that had broken a wheel spoke. That irony had tempered Ross’s impatience, and the two tankards of good country ale—ah, what he and the rest of the
Perseverance
’s crew would have given for such a taste in Buenos Aires, say, or Honolulu!—were making the wait easier still to bear.

And if he were honest, he’d admit that this homecoming would be different from any of the others. For one thing, he had never before been away from Howland Hall for so long. In the middle of the Pacific Ocean, time hadn’t mattered, and each day and night had blended into the next, and the next after that.

Yet when he’d been reunited with Emma in London a fortnight ago, he’d been shocked by the change in her. Since he’d been away, she’d finished her schooling and become a grown woman, a beauty. She was ready to marry and have children and God knows what else while, at thirty, Ross himself remained a wanderer and a dreamer more occupied with the stars in the sky than the mortals on this earth.

Each morning his looking glass showed he even appeared the same—amiable, agreeable, a bit disheveled and a bit distracted, enough to prove he was a gentleman but no fop. He had seen and learned more of the world, certainly, but he hadn’t evolved or grown or changed, or whatever else it was a man was supposed to be doing, and despite Dawkins’s ale, the idea was sobering.

He sighed again, running his fingers through his hair. “So you see my problem, Dawkins. What can I give to my sister to mark her wedding? What do I offer to a young lady who has never wanted for anything?”

“What to offer, what to offer.” The barkeep wiped his
cloth over the bar in slow circle. “That iron cook pot won’t do for Lady Emma. What of a new jewel? Don’t ladies like those?”

“She already has more baubles than she could ever wear,” Ross said. “And I intend to give her the pick of our mother’s jewels from the strongbox before the wedding.”

“You’re a most generous gentleman, my lord.” Dawkins frowned, thinking. “A new gown, then, or bonnet with rare feathers?”

“I’ve already granted her free rein with her mantua-maker for her wedding clothes.” Ross recalled the bills forwarded by his sputtering accountant. “I told her to indulge herself, and she obeyed. If Weldon holds firm, Emma won’t need so much as a new pair of stockings for a good five years.”

“Maybe a smart little gig, my lord, with ponies to match?”

“That’s Weldon’s gift to her.” Ross’s smile was becoming more of a desperate grimace. “She wrote an entire letter to me about it.”

“Then there must be something rare you’ve brought back from your voyaging, my lord. A seashell, or a unicorn’s horn, or some other such marvel of nature?”

“Unicorns are creatures of the fancy, Dawkins, with no basis in science or truth.” Ross took another long drink of ale, finding comfort in the warmth and well-being spreading through his limbs. “With Captain Williams’s approval, I did name an uncharted island after her—Emmalasia—but she did not seem impressed.”

“Ahh, well, you know how females be, my lord. If they can’t show a thing off and preen before their friends, then what’s the use for it?”

“Exactly.” Ross nodded, grateful for Dawkins’s enormous wisdom in these matters. “But Emma is my only sister, the dear, sweet lamb, and I must give her a gift that is rare and special and worthy of her.”

Beside Ross, another man cleared his throat, a great, portentous rumble.

“Forgive me for catching your words, my lord,” the man said, “but I could not help but overhear the nature of your sad, sorry dilemma. And I can offer you hope, my lord. I can offer you a miracle. In short, my lord, I can offer you a wedding gift among wedding gifts.”

Ross turned, taking care not to spill his ale. It was good that he did, for the man was not at all what he’d expected.

Instead of the farmer’s smock or ostler’s leather waistcoat that was the usual dress here at the Tawny Buck, this man wore a long purple cloak like a druid wizard’s, trimmed in tarnished gold braid, and oversize rings on his fingers. His curling white hair flowed to his shoulders with leonine luxuriance, and his face was craggy with nobility: a nose fit for Caesar, a brow broad yet solemn, and blue eyes, the startling color of deepest midnight, that had seen much suffering and joy yet had flinched from none of it.

Ross frowned and gave his head a little shake to clear it. Was it the ale, or the old man himself that was making him think in such…such a poetical fashion?

Waiting for Ross to reply, the man folded his arms over his chest with an exaggerated sweep, the purple cloak furling like a plush wave around him.

Still Ross remained silent, not quite sure what to say, and the old man raised his chin, and his voice.

“Yea, my lord, I have the answer you seek,” he boomed. “The one sure way to make your lady sister rejoice with delight, with gratitude, with—”

“That’s enough now, you old rascal.” Dawkins had come around from the bar, and with one hand twisted in the shoulder of the old man’s cloak and the other grasping his arm, he began ushering him toward the door. “His Lordship don’t need the likes of you bothering him about his private affairs.”

“No, no, Dawkins, let the old fellow stay.” Ross smiled. One thing he’d learned from sailing in a navy ship was that the best information often came from the most unlikely of men. “I’d like to hear this wondrous suggestion of his. God knows I don’t have any of my own.”

With a contemptuous look for Dawkins, the old man pulled free of the barkeep’s grasp, then bowed low to Ross.

“I am Alfred Lyon, my lord, your most humble servant.” He curled his hand through the air with an extra flourish. “Exclusive proprietor, director and leading player of the esteemed and venerable Lyon Company of Traveling Thespians, and now entirely—
entirely!—
at my lord’s service and whim.”

“An actor.” Dawkins shook his head with disgust. “Which is the same as saying rubbish and trash. Have you heard enough, my lord? Shall I put him out on the dung heap now, before he picks your pocket and steals your drink?”

The old man drew himself up with full-blown indignation. “Sir, I am neither a thief nor a gypsy, but a practitioner of the most noble of the dramatic arts.”

“I’ll vouch for anything Mr. Lyon steals, Dawkins,” Ross said. Of course the old rogue was a dissembler and a deceiver—what else was acting, anyway?—but Ross had drunk the precise amount of ale to find Mr. Lyon vastly entertaining. “Especially if he can tell me what to give my sister.”

“I can, my lord, and I shall, and fully recognize the privilege it is to share your noble company. But—but—” Lyon coughed and stretched his neck up like a chicken in distress. Popping his eyes, he fluttered his fingers over his throat. “Forgive me, my lord, but—but—my speech is inhibited by the dryness, quite as parched as the great Sahara.”

“He wants you to buy him a drink, my lord,” Dawkins said. “I told you he’ll take your coin one way or another.”

Ross motioned towards the tap. “Then give Mr. Lyon a tankard of his own to dampen the great Sahara.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but my throat is my instrument, a gift from the gods.” Lyon made a strangled cough. “Brandy, my lord, only gentleman’s brandy, by my surgeon’s decree.”

“Then your surgeon’s a horse’s ass,” Dawkins began, but Ross nodded.

“Give Mr. Lyon his brandy,” he said, “and in return he will tell me his idea.”

“Not an idea, my lord, but a proposal.” Lyon took the tiny tumbler of brandy and held it up to window’s light, frowning at the liquid like a jaded connoisseur before he downed it in a single gulp.

“To whit, my lord,” he began. “My company of players finds itself, ah, between engagements, and able to address and accommodate your dilemma. Because my company includes the most inspired of playwrights, we can create a play in honor of the bride and her groom, a performance so exquisitely tailored to honor their especial love that they and your guests will marvel at your inspiration, your cleverness, your generosity!”

Dawkins snorted. “There now, my lord, I told you he’d nothing of use to offer you.”

“I’m afraid that my sister wouldn’t judge it as rubbish, but as the most exciting thing imaginable,” Ross said, bemused. “To see herself prancing about the stage, the heroine of her own romance—why, there’d be no living with her afterward.”

“Maybe not when she’d seen the actress meant to play her, my lord.” Dawkins flicked his thumb toward the old man. “If she’s the mate to this one, then Lady Emma would demand your head for supper, my lord, and who could blame the lady?”

“I assure you, my lord, that the fair lady bride would be played by my own daughter, a maid of twenty.” Lyon bowed again. “Though a doting father might be faulted for bias, I can say with perfect honesty that Miss Lyon is a beauty of pure and unaffected grace, such as would only honor your lady sister.”

Dawkins made a skeptical huff for Miss Lyon’s beauty, but her father chose to ignore it.

“Your guests will only applaud the likeness, my lord, I am sure,” he said. “I absolutely guarantee it.”

“Indeed.” Emma would be entertained, true, but when he thought of the wedding guests—Weldon’s family, the oldest, dearest friends of his late parents, elderly aunts and uncles and godparents, officers and gentlemen that he knew from the admiralty—he could not imagine they’d share Emma’s delight in this ragtag old actor and his company of gypsy players. They’d whisper that he must have lost his wits while the sailing round the Horn, to offer such an entertainment for such an occasion. Dawkins would simply call him daft.

And if he accepted Lyon’s proposal, they’d all be right.

“Can you confide to me the date for Hymen’s visit to your home, my lord?” Lyon asked, ruffling his fingers across the edge of the bar. “If we are to honor the lady bride as she deserves, then we must begin to make our arrangements as soon as—”

“Your coach be ready, Lord Howland.” The stable boy raced up to Ross, his cap in his hand. “They say th’wheel now be better’n new.”

“Thank you, lad.” Ross finished the last of his ale and rose, fishing in his pocket for a few coins to settle his reckoning. “Here you go, Dawkins, for your ale and your ear.”

“Thank’ee, my lord.” Dawkins touched his forehead. “Much joy to Lady Emma and Sir Weldon, and a happy homecoming to you, my lord.”

“The return of Ulysses from his many voyages, my lord!” Lyon flung his beringed hands up to the heavens to show his gratitude for such divine inspiration. “What more noble way to begin the piece! The tragedy of the fall of Troy, the shrill wrath of the Harpies, the awful majesty of Scylla and Charybdis! Ah, what potential for spectacle!”

For a brief moment, Ross contemplated the full horror of
himself at the center of such Homeric mayhem. “No piece, Mr. Lyon, and no spectacle,” he said, settling his hat on his head. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but I fear my imagination isn’t equal to yours.”

His purple cloak fluttering, Lyon hurried after Ross as he headed for the door. “But my lord, if you please, if I can but explain further how we would—”