The Laird (Captive Hearts)

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SIGN UP NOW! Copyright © 2014 by Grace Burrowes

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Also by Grace Burrowes

The Windhams

The Heir

The Soldier

The Virtuoso

Lady Sophie’s Christmas Wish

Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal

Lady Louisa’s Christmas Knight

Lady Eve’s Indiscretion

Lady Jenny’s Christmas Portrait

The Courtship (novella)

The Duke and His Duchess (novella)

Morgan and Archer (novella)

The MacGregors

The Bridegroom Wore Plaid

Once Upon a Tartan

The MacGregor’s Lady

Mary Fran and Matthew (novella)

The Lonely Lords

Darius

Nicholas

Ethan

Beckman

Gabriel

Gareth

Andrew

Douglas

David

Captive Hearts

The Captive

The Traitor

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Author’s Note

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Acknowledgments

Excerpts from
The Captive
and
The Traitor

From
The Captive
From
The Traitor
About the Author

Back Cover

To those who have not yet begun to heal

Author’s Note

This book took me down a somewhat different path from its many predecessors.

Michael and Brenna (and their community and family) arrive to a happily ever after, but they must first wade through issues from Brenna’s childhood that are among the toughest a child can endure. Brenna triumphs over the intimate betrayals in her past, and she and Michael emerge strong and heart-whole by the end of the book. Their path, though, traverses more sadness and struggle than I usually write.

Conflict this painful and complicated isn’t everybody’s idea of good material for a love story, and yet, I also think
The
Laird
is one of my most heartfelt romances. If you journey with Michael and Brenna to the book’s happy conclusion, let me know what you think of their tale.

I love to hear from readers, and can be reached through my website at graceburrowes.com.

One

“Elspeth, I believe a Viking has come calling.”

At Brenna’s puzzled observation, her maid set aside the embroidery hoop serving as a pretext for enjoying the Scottish summer sun, rose off the stone bench, and joined Brenna at the parapets.

“If Vikings are to ruin your afternoon tea, better if they arrive one at a time,” Elspeth said, peering down at the castle’s main gate. “Though that’s a big one, even for a Viking.”

The gate hadn’t been manned for at least two centuries, and yet, some instinct had Brenna wishing she’d given the command to lower the portcullis before the lone rider had crossed into the cobbled keep.

“Lovely horse,” Elspeth remarked.

The beast was an enormous, elegant bay, though its coat was matted with sweat and dust. From her vantage point high on Castle Brodie’s walls, all Brenna could tell about the rider was that he was big, broad-shouldered, and blond. “Our visitor is alone, likely far from home, hungry and tired. If we’re to offer him hospitality, I’d best inform the kitchen.”

Highland hospitality had grown tattered and threadbare in some locations, but not at Castle Brodie, and it would not, as long as Brenna had the running of the place.

“He looks familiar,” Elspeth said as the rider swung off his beast.

“The horse?”

No, Elspeth hadn’t meant the horse, because now that the rider was walking his mount toward the groom approaching from the stables, Brenna had the same sense of nagging familiarity. She knew that loose-limbed stride, knew that exact manner of stroking a horse’s neck, knew—

Foreboding prickled up Brenna’s arms, an instant before recognition landed in a cold heap in her belly.

“Michael has come home.” Nine years of waiting and worrying while the Corsican had wreaked havoc on the Continent, of not knowing what to wish for.

Her damned husband hadn’t even had the courtesy to warn her of his return.

Elspeth peered over the stone crenellations, her expression dubious. “If that’s the laird, you’d best go welcome him, though I don’t see much in the way of baggage. Perhaps, if you’re lucky, he’ll soon be off larking about on some new battlefield.”

“For shame, Elspeth Fraser.”

A woman ought not to talk that way about her laird, and a wife ought not to think that way about her husband. Brenna wound down through the castle and took herself out into the courtyard, both rage and gratitude speeding her along.

She’d had endless Highland winters to rehearse the speech Michael deserved, years to practice the dignified reserve she’d exhibit before him should he ever recall he had a home. Alas for her, the cobbles were wet from a recent scrubbing, so her dignified reserve more or less skidded to a halt before her husband.

Strong hands steadied her as she gazed up, and up some more, into green eyes both familiar and unknown.

“You’ve come home.” Not at all what she’d meant to say.

“That I have. If you would be so good, madam, as to allow the lady of the—
Brenna
?”

His hands fell away, and Brenna stepped back, wrapping her tartan shawl around her more closely.

“Welcome to Castle Brodie Michael.” Because somebody ought to say the words, she added, “Welcome home.”

“You used to be chubby.” He leveled this accusation as if put out that somebody had made off with that chubby girl.

“You used to be skinny.” Now he was all-over muscle. He’d gone away a tall, gangly fellow, and come back not simply a man, but a warrior. “Perhaps you’re hungry?”

She did not know what to do with a husband, much less
this
husband, who bore so little resemblance to the young man she’d married, but Brenna knew well what to do with a hungry man.

“I am…” His gaze traveled the courtyard the way a skilled gunner might swivel his sights on a moving target, making a circuit of the granite walls rising some thirty feet on three sides of the bailey. His expression suggested he was making sure the castle, at least, had remained where he’d left it. “I am famished.”

“Come along then.” Brenna turned and started for the entrance to the main hall, but Michael remained in the middle of the courtyard, still peering about. Potted geraniums were in riot, pink roses climbed trellises under the first-floor windows, and window boxes held all manner of blooms.

“You’ve planted flowers.”

Another near accusation, for nine years ago, the only flowers in the keep were stray shrubs of heather springing up in sheltered corners.

Brenna returned to her husband’s side, trying to see the courtyard from his perspective. “One must occupy oneself somehow while waiting for a husband to come home—or be killed.”

He needed to know that for nine years, despite anger, bewilderment, and even the occasional period of striving for indifference toward him and his fate, Brenna had gone to bed every night praying that death did not end his travels.

“One must, indeed, occupy oneself.” He offered her his arm, which underscored how long they’d been separated and how far he’d wandered.

The men of the castle and its tenancies knew to keep their hands to themselves where Brenna MacLogan Brodie was concerned. They did not hold her chair for her, did not assist her in and out of coaches, or on and off of her horse.

And yet, Michael stood there, a muscular arm winged at her, while the scent of slippery cobbles, blooming roses, and a whiff of vetiver filled the air.

“Brenna Maureen, every arrow slit and window of that castle is occupied by a servant or relation watching our reunion. I would like to walk into my home arm in arm with my wife. Will you permit me that courtesy?”

He’d been among the English, the
military
English, which might explain this fussing over appearances, but he hadn’t lost his Scottish common sense.

Michael had
asked
her to accommodate him. Brenna wrapped one hand around his thick forearm and allowed him to escort her to the castle.

***

He could bed his wife. The relief Michael Brodie felt at that sentiment eclipsed the relief of hearing again the languages of his childhood, Gaelic and Scots, both increasingly common as he’d traveled farther north.

To know he could feel desire for his wedded wife surpassed his relief at seeing the castle in good repair, and even eclipsed his relief that the woman didn’t indulge in strong hysterics at the sight of him.

For the wife he’d left behind had been more child than woman, the antithesis of this red-haired Celtic goddess wrapped in the clan’s hunting tartan and so much wounded dignity.

They reached the steps leading up to the great wooden door at the castle entrance. “I wrote to you.”

Brenna did not turn her head. “Perhaps your letters went astray.”

Such gracious indifference. He was capable of bedding his wife—any young man with red blood in his veins would desire the woman at Michael’s side—but clearly, ability did not guarantee he’d have the opportunity.

“I meant, I wrote from Edinburgh to let you know I was coming home.”

“Edinburgh is lovely in summer.”

All of Scotland was lovely in summer, and to a man who’d scorched his back raw under the Andalusian sun, lovely in deepest winter too. “I was in France, Brenna. The King’s post did not frequent Toulouse.”