The Bride Says Maybe (13 page)
“I was not expecting that,” she said.
“I waited for it, but every time when my mother did
it, I was always surprised as well. I liked the giggle.”
She could picture him as a young boy with curly
black hair and laughing eyes. Their children would look like him. Well, they
might have her smile, and she hoped that if they had a daughter, she would have
her nose. His nose was fine for a man but would be unfortunate for a woman.
He noticed her staring. “What is it?” he asked, his
gray eyes still alight with humor.
Tara could have told him . . . but then
where would that lead? She wasn’t ready. Not yet.
“I’m tired,” she offered weakly. Was it her
imagination, or did he appear to understand what she hadn’t said?
“Then good night,” he said. The counterpane had
fallen to cover his hips. He now pulled it up and slid back down into the
covers.
She did the same, except he appeared to fall asleep
immediately. She didn’t.
The candle on the bedside table still burned. Tara
started to rise from the bed to go around and blow it out, when something
irrepressible inside her took hold. She lifted the counterpane for just a peek
at his male bits. She’d been afraid to look earlier, although they had been hard
to avoid.
They were odd-looking, but not threatening. Not any
longer. And when he was relaxed, they appeared soft as squishy fruit. The
thought almost made her laugh, and she carefully lowered the counterpane before
a draft of air stirred him.
She rose and walked around the bed to blow out the
candle. There was no fire in the grate this night. The servants had been busy
helping her. She had a list of tasks as long as her arm. She was also enjoying
the changes she was making to the house. She felt productive.
The scent of melted wax in the air, Tara used her
hand on the footboard to guide her way in the dark to her side of the bed. She
tucked herself back in, but because of the darkness, she ended up closer to
Breccan than she liked.
His arm came around her. Its weight rested on her
hip.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her first thought
was that he was awake. She expected him to move on her as he had done the other
night. Her heart gave a double beat against her chest.
But he did not move. He appeared and sounded as if
he was in deep slumber. He was far more relaxed around her than she was with
him, but that was changing.
Tara found herself falling into a deep sleep.
However, her night was not without
interruption.
At one point, she woke to discover that her body
was cradled next to his, their legs intertwined. Her drowsy mind registered
this, but all she did was smile, strangely content. She fell back into sleep and
dreamed of bannocks rolling around blacksmiths chasing girls who knit and a
powerful stallion who no longer frightened her. Instead, in her dream, she
thought him a magnificent creature.
That morning, she woke to the sound of rain on the
windowpanes and, once again, discovered herself alone in the bed.
“I
want
to make bannock cakes,” Tara argued.
Dougal frowned. “I am happy to make them for you,
my lady, especially if you want little round ones.
Tara made an impatient sound. “I don’t want you to
do it. I wish to bake them myself.”
“Do you know how to cook?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t.”
Tara had a swift retort for the cook, but Jonas’s
voice behind her said with a yawn, “Help her cook them, Dougal. What’s the
matter with you, man?”
“My lady has taken all my help,” Dougal complained.
“She has them cleaning every room in the castle.”
“Which need cleaning,” Tara pointed out.
“Then how am I to do my tasks for supper?” Dougal
said, addressing the question to Jonas.
But Tara was not going to accept this silliness.
She placed her palms on the sides of his jaw and turned him around to face her.
“You talk to me.”
There was a stubbornness in Dougal. He didn’t like
the order. Then again, he had little choice but to obey. “Yes, my lady.” He
looked to Jonas and ground out, “You can see to your own breakfast.”
Jonas held up his hands, begging for quarter, but
he was laughing as well.
In short order, Tara found herself learning how to
make bannocks. “These are the laird’s favorite, right?” she asked Dougal. He had
been about to stir the dough with a porridge stick himself, but she had
commandeered it.
The idea to make bannocks had come to Tara while
she was dressing. She wanted to do something for Breccan, to please him.
“Is this good?” she asked Dougal, showing him the
mixture in her bowl.
He was very surly over having his mistress in his
kitchen. She knew the changes were disrupting him, but he was going to have to
cope.
“Good enough . . . my lady.” He added her
title as an afterthought.
Tara gifted him with her sweetest smile. She was
not going to let him destroy her good mood, and she was very aware of the power
of her smile.
“I’ll heat up the griddle,” Dougal said.
It had been raining steadily outside. The kitchen
door was usually open because of the heat, and today was no exception. Daphne
had made her way to sleep curled up inside the door.
“So what has Breccan done to earn such a favor?”
Jonas asked. He sat at the table, the hair on his balding pate going every which
way, holding a mug of cider.
“He likes bannocks,” Tara said. “With butter.
That’s why I am making them.”
“Aye, so you are. That lad is a lucky man,” Jonas
said, and Tara frowned, sensing that there was more to Jonas’s words than what
she heard.
She also could feel Dougal’s reaction behind her.
She turned to catch him winking and make an odd gesture to Jonas, who just
grinned.
“I don’t have time for nonsense,” Tara said. “Is
the griddle ready?”
“It is, my lady,” Dougal said.
“Then what do I do next?”
He taught her how to knead. Tara found she liked
working the dough. After what seemed a good half hour, Dougal declared it ready
to be cut it into pieces. Tara performed the chore while Dougal smeared bacon
fat on the hot pan. They dropped the dough into the grease.
“Will it take long to cook?” Tara asked, fascinated
by the process.
“Not since they are so wee. I usually leave the
pieces larger.”
She grinned. “But I want
wee
bannocks.” She hoped Breccan would be pleased.
The rain had stopped. The sky was still overcast,
but this was Scotland. Overcast days were to be expected.
Jonas was watching her, an amused expression on his
face. She sat in the chair next to him. “You look as if I’ve surprised you.”
“I was just thinking how nice it would be to have a
lass as fine as yourself cook for me.”
The compliment brought heat to her cheeks. “I’ve
never cooked before.”
“Breccan’s a lucky man,” Jonas said, as if just now
reaching that opinion.
“Did his mother cook?” Last night, she had pictured
her making bannocks.
“I suppose she could. Certainly, she could have
cooked better than Dougal. A goat could cook better than him.”
“
Hey,
” was the cook’s
warning. He then tempered his tone and said, “I’ll turn these over.”
“No, no, I wish to do it.” Tara hurried to the
fire. Her first attempts were clumsy. She lost one into the fire and a few
bannocks were a bit black. “I’ve never seen them like this.”
“Don’t worry, my lady,” Dougal said. “They are the
way Breccan likes them. That’s why they call him the Black Campbell.”
Tara knew he jested. She would not take these to
Breccan, and she was determined to do better. She wanted them round and not as
misshapen as the ones she was cooking. The next batch turned out not as burnt
and a bit better. She could imagine them rolling down the road, although their
travels would not be as smooth as she had imagined when listening to the
story.
Lachlan looked in the door. He saw her cooking and
smiled, then nodded and went on his way.
“Were you or Lachlan ever married?” Tara asked
Jonas.
“I couldn’t find one lass who could tame me,” Jonas
declared.
“And with good reason,” Dougal chimed in. “There
isn’t a woman alive who doesn’t have something better to do than stand for his
nonsense.”
“I’m certain you are right,” Tara said with a
distracted air as she turned the oatcakes, then looked up with a smile to show
she jested.
The men laughed . . . but it was a
different kind of laughter than what she had usually experienced. In London,
they laughed to woo her, to placate her, to feel accepted by her.
Here, they laughed because they found what she said
amusing. They laughed because they were including her as one of them.
Tara was so taken with the moment, she burned her
bannocks again.
“You have to watch the fire at all times, my lady,”
Dougal cautioned. He helped her with the last batch.
“So what of Lachlan?” Tara asked, wiping dough off
her hands with a linen towel. “Has he been married?”
Jonas became sober. “Aye, he was. He had a wife and
three children. They all died of the fever. He was in the navy in the Indies. He
was out to sea when the fever hit. When he returned home, they were all
gone.”
“That is a terrible story,” Tara said.
“It is not a story, my lady, but the truth of it,”
Jonas answered. “He returned to Wolfstone shortly after that. Said he’d lost his
desire to go to sea.”
“What does he do all day?” Jonas she saw often, but
Lachlan would disappear until dinner.
“He’s a tutor at Breccan’s school. You’ve not seen
the school yet, have you?”
“I haven’t,” Tara answered.
“Well, ask him to show it you,” Jonas answered.
“And while you are at it, ask to see the weavers’ cottages he is building.”
“Breccan is doing that?” she said.
Jonas laughed. “All I have to do is look at you to
see why the lad doesn’t spend his night talking when he is with you. But, aye,
he has many irons in the fire. You might urge him to slow down.”
Tara digested this advice. Apparently, there was
more to her husband than she had imagined. He didn’t come home until late, but
she hadn’t minded that he was so busy.
“Your bannocks are done, my lady,” Dougal said. He
brought over the last pan. These were brown. They would do.
“Do we have a basket for me to carry them in?” she
asked.
“One moment.” Dougal fetched a basket with a handle
and started to line it with a towel.
In the meantime, Tara tried to break one of the
bannocks. It had been a long time since she’d had one. Years, in fact.
The oatcake was hard to break. Perhaps it would
soften as it cooled. She took what she’d broken off and offered a piece to
Daphne. Terrance and Tidbit, the foxhounds, had taken to following her around as
well. They had been lounging outside the kitchen. Dougal said they preferred the
outdoors. They now came rushing over to taste the treat.
Tara divided the other piece of bannock between the
dogs. They accepted it but after a taste, let it drop from their mouths.
“They don’t like it,” Tara said.
“Dogs know nothing,” Dougal answered. “They eat
squirrel innards.”
Tara made a face at the thought. She straightened
and took her cape off a hook on the wall. Dougal had the basket ready. “Now I
just need to find Breccan,” she said.
“I would start at the stables,” Jonas advised.
“That’s what I shall do. Oh, did you place butter
in here, Dougal?” she asked, moving to take the basket.
Dougal jumped as if just remembering the butter and
hurried to prepare a small crock of it for the basket.
Tara took one last look at her bannocks. They
definitely looked as if they could roll down the road. And she was proud of
them.
She took off out the door to find Breccan.
B
reccan raked an angry hand through rain-soaked hair. He wore an oilskin coat and stood in the center of one of the cottages being built for the weavers. He’d been there for a good two hours studying the structure.
Beyond the partially finished structures, several of the crofters, male, female and some children, most of whom had been eyeing these buildings as new living quarters, waited for his verdict.
Amongst them was the weaver Ian Ewing, who Breccan had hired to organize the work. The man lived in a crofter’s hut less than a mile from here. Part of the agreement for him to come to Wolfstone had been the promise of one of these cottages.
But they were all going to have to wait.
His uncle Lachlan stood close at hand. “What are you going to do, lad?”
Breccan surveyed the careless work that had been performed by the builder, a man he’d just chased off with the threat of stringing him up by his bollocks if he ever saw him again. The walls had been set on dirt. There was no foundation beneath them, and that was only one of the problems.
“I’m going to finish them,” Breccan vowed.
Lachlan leaned close. He had invested in the project with Breccan. “I’ve given you all I have, lad. Do you have the money?”
“I have some of what we have left. I’m too canny to pay the man all.”
“That is a relief.”
“I was told he was good.” Breccan had a mind to ride to Glasgow and ring William Govan’s neck. The man had assured him that Thom Roberts could build the cottages to Breccan’s design.
“I know.”
“But,” Breccan said, surveying all that still needed to be done, “I’m also glad that the man didn’t finish. If he had left that ceiling beam with the crack in it in place, then the roof could have fallen in. I’ll finish this. I now know I have as much sense as that ass had.”
“Breccan, do you have the time?”
He looked to his uncle. “Do I have a choice? Do you see them out there? They are waiting. I promised them this.”
“No one is going to hold you responsible—”
“I hold myself responsible. We’ve invested in this, Lachlan. If it is successful, then we’ll all do well. All of us, the crofters, too. But that weaver is going to leave before we know enough about how to operate the machinery if I don’t deliver on a promise.”
“But what of money, Breccan?”
“I can’t let the money we’ve spent go to waste,” Breccan said. “And it is my fault it is tight. If I’d kept my mouth shut when Owen was going on, then I wouldn’t have put the stake up for the race.”
“He put you up to it. The man is always pushing.”
“Aye, but the knowledge doesn’t help us now. My pride is what is really at stake, Lachlan, for both the race and these cottages.” He considered the matter. “The lads will need to take down these walls, and we’ll put a proper foundation in. That won’t cost much. I hate to think of how much of our money the man put in his own pocket.” But there was enough left.
“With all willing hands at work, we can finish these before Hogmanay,” Breccan said, referring to the end of the year. One advantage he had was that, since the building had started, he’d been approached by a number of men with the skills he needed who had been looking for work. He’d referred them to Roberts, who had insisted he use his own relatives. Well, that was done.
“You can do this?” Lachlan queried.
“I’m anxious to try my hand at it.”
“It will call for a good amount of time,” his uncle warned. ”You have a new bride, and you’ve not joined her for dinner yet.”
If anything, supervising the building of the cottages would give Breccan one more task to keep his mind off his bride. He’d not tell Lachlan he hadn’t bedded her yet. Any man would think he was daft. They wouldn’t understand that Breccan wanted more than just Tara’s body, he wanted her love.
Of course, a beauty such as hers could claim every man’s heart. However, she understood that her physical appearance wasn’t permanent. She had wished for a man who could love her fully for the person she was.
Breccan was just biding his time until she realized
he
was that man. Until then, hard labor would relieve some of his frustration. It was damn difficult to spend the night beside such an enticing creature as his wife and keep his hands off her.
He’d almost broken his vow to let her come to him in her own time when she’d lifted the covers on him last night. He’d known what she was looking at, and it had taken considerable concentration to not react. He was fortunate he’d been on his side. If he’d been on his back, he would have created a tent out of the counterpane.
“What has you smiling?” Lachlan asked, reminding Breccan to stay in the moment.
“A random thought,” Breccan murmured, then said, to reassure his uncle, “I’ll see the work done. And in truth, I will appreciate the challenge.” He turned to the men awaiting his verdict—some of his clansmen who had been helping Roberts. “We need to take it down. All of it. This time, we’ll do it right. Now that the rain has stopped, let’s see how much we can get done.” The weather had been dismal earlier, but for the undertaking of moving rock and timbers, one didn’t need dry ground.
They came willingly to help. Apparently, the big fear had been that Breccan would abandon the scheme.
Breccan was about to set to work with them, Lachlan at his side, when he noticed a figure walking on the road toward them—his wife.
Her hair was like a beacon. She’d styled it up on her head and had not bothered with a hat, perhaps because she would have covered it with her cape if it rained. She carried a basket, and his pups, Terrance, Tidbit and Daphne pranced at her heels.
Largo roused himself from where he’d been resting, waiting for Breccan. With a bark, he trotted up to her.
Tara stopped and gave the big beast a pat, before looking up and smiling at Breccan.
He could swear his heart was in danger of stopping every time she looked at him as if he were the only man in the world.
Was there any woman more beautiful than his wife? He thought not. He never tired of looking at her, not with those large blue eyes.
He left the work and went walking to greet her.
Lachlan and the lads said a few teasing things in his wake. Breccan didn’t care. He’d barely heard them.
He approached his wife. Her smile, just for him, had widened in greeting. Her skin was so perfect, her teeth so white.
She held up her basket. “I made you some wee bannocks.”
“You what?” He wasn’t certain he’d heard her correctly. He took the basket and, with his hand at her elbow guided her to where they could have some privacy away from the prying ears of the others. From here, he could still see the work being done on the cottages but have a quiet moment with his wife.
“I baked bannocks,” she repeated, “like in the story last night.”
“I didn’t know you could cook,” he said, lifting the cloth over the oatcakes.
“I’ve never cooked anything before,” she confessed. “This is my first effort. But I rather liked doing it. There is satisfaction in making food. Of course, Dougal and I argued. He wanted to make two big bannocks, but I insisted on wee ones.”
“Oh, so these are Dougal’s bannocks,” Breccan said with a sense of dread. Dougal was not a good cook. He was fine with meat, but his bread was tough and his bannocks in the past had been harder than rocks.
“No, they are mine,” she countered. “And they are still hot. I brought butter as well.”
She
had made bannocks for him, and she’d taken to heart his description of how he liked them. No gift could be finer.
Breccan set the basket on the ground and pulled out a bannock and the small crock of butter. For a second, he feared the dogs would stick their nose into it, but the hounds and Daphne took a sniff, then turned away.
If the dogs didn’t want it, then Breccan knew it would be bad. He dipped his bannock in the softened butter. He smiled at Tara.
She smiled back, her eyes brimming with pride.
He crunched into the bannock. His teeth did not make much progress. True to Dougal’s talent, the oatcake was dry and hard, but Breccan was determined. He managed to bite a bit off and gnawed away with his side teeth. The champing of his teeth sounded loud in his ears, but Tara didn’t seem to notice.
Breccan swallowed as soon as he could.
Such chivalry certainly deserved a kiss, and that is what he had in mind. A proper kiss. He hungered for it.
“They are tasty,” Breccan said, wishing he had some ale to wash it down—or to soften them.
Tara looked up at him with the trusting eyes of a child who was delighted to have accomplished something. “I wanted to please you,” she said.
No words could be sweeter, even if the heavens had opened and angels appeared to sing a chorus of hosannas.
I wanted to please you.
His strategy had paid off. His wooing had worked.
And now for the kiss.
Breccan leaned down to meet his wife—
A crack was the only warning before the crashing sound of stone walls caving in.
He pushed Tara behind him, even knowing she wasn’t in danger, and, a beat later, he was racing for the cottages. The front wall of the corner cottage had caved in. A woman started screaming even as more of the walls crumbled.
Breccan shouted, “Stay back.” He ran forward. To his relief, he saw Lachlan and Jonas. They were coughing and looked around, then Lachlan shouted. He pointed, and Breccan could see that the ceiling beam had fallen. It rested at an angle, half of it on the floor, the other half still being held by the wall, but not for long.
“
Breccan
,” Lachlan said. “The beam fell on Ian.”
In horror, Breccan saw Ian beneath the heavy beam. Ian was trapped. He gasped as if breathing was difficult through his panic. “I’m pinned,” he warned them. “I can’t move.”
His wife had been the one screaming. She now tried to climb across the rubble to her husband.
Breccan said, “Move her out of the way.”
His uncles and the others were attempting to lift the end of the beam on Ian. Other men were on their knees trying to dig beneath him.
Breccan saw that way would not work. They needed leverage and they must hurry because the wall holding the other end of the beam threatened to cave as well. If that happened, Ian would be crushed. As it was, who knew what injuries he had already suffered.
There was little time to waste, so Breccan used himself for that leverage. He went directly beneath the beam even as Lachlan warned him to stop.
“If that wall caves, you are both gone,” his uncle warned.
Breccan’s answer was to brace his shoulder against the beam, raising his arms to grasp it with his hands. In this way, he hoped to direct the fall once the beam was lifted. It would not serve to throw it off and have the heavy wood land on Ian’s head.
“When I give a shout, pick up your end,” he said to his uncles. “Ian, be ready to move.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Help him,” Breccan ordered those who had been trying to dig.
They nodded understanding.
Breccan drew in air and released it. There had been a time when Jonas had him picking up heavy objects for sport. He’d once lifted two anvils, one stacked on the other. This would be different, but the weight would be about right. It was a matter of believing he could do it.
He released his breath, and said, “
Now.
” He put everything he had into his back and his shoulders.
It helped to groan, to rage against this accident that could take a man’s life. Breccan gave all he had. Everything. He would not cry quarter.
After a few agonizing seconds of doubt, the beam moved. “
More,
” he roared. He could no longer tell what the others were doing. His whole being was invested in his battle with the beam.
And then, miracle of miracles, he raised the beam.
There were shouts. Someone said, “We have him, Breccan. He’s safe.”
Only then did Breccan release his hold and move out of the way. He practically fell forward and not a moment too soon because the weak wall holding the other end collapsed, and the beam fell like deadweight to the ground.
Breccan looked around. “Is everyone safe?” he asked, panting, as he tried to catch his breath. His every muscle had been strained to its limit. He started to fall to his knees, then caught himself—and that is when he saw her.
Tara stood by the side of the cottage. Tears streamed down her face, and her eyes were dark with concern.
He tried to smile, to reassure her, but he knew it looked like a grimace.
Her response was to come forward. She took his great face in her hands and gave him the kiss of which he’d dreamed.
T
ara had been shocked to see the building caving in. She’d heard the screams. The wife had begged for anyone to save her husband, and there were those who believed that Ian would die. There were those who ran from the collapsing house.
Breccan had moved forward.
And then she’d witnessed the most amazing sight. This man who could entertain her with the gentlest of stories, who struggled to control himself, who showed patience to her, now placed his own life in danger.
Anyone could see that the beam was in peril of falling to the ground. It was huge, massive, and strong enough to hold up the floor of a house. It would have killed the man on the ground.
But Breccan had saved him.
If she had not seen him lift the beam with her own eyes, she would not have believed the story.
And now she came forward, struck by how fortunate she was to have this man in her life. The realization was just that clear.
He was no ordinary being, and she knew that even before he had displayed the strength of a Hercules.
She went to him. She went in gratitude, in amazement . . . and, most, surprisingly, in love.
Yes, love. She was falling in love.
And love surprised her. She’d returned to Annefield and the valley because she believed she loved Ruary.
But now, she wondered if she’d ever loved before.
Breccan was
the one
. One life; one love.
