The Laird (Captive Hearts) (24 page)

“Wee Maeve, ye stay far away from Angus Brodie, ye hear me? He’s a cranky auld mon who has no patience for others, and thinks only of himself.”

Patrick looked like he wanted to say more, but Maeve was glad he didn’t. She liked Patrick, and she liked Uncle Angus.

Sort of.

“You shouldn’t say mean things. Nobody is supposed to say mean things.” And yet, everybody did.

“I’m saying a true thing, child, and this is also true. The laird is showing off his yearlings out back to the English lord. If ye get up to the castle straightaway, nobody will know ye came down to visit Preacher before brightening Cook’s day with a visit.”

Cook was nice, and Patrick was trying to be nice now too.

Maeve hopped off the trunk and left the barn, but the queerish feeling in her tummy wasn’t entirely hunger. Nobody wanted her here, nobody liked her, and where she might have felt at home—in the barn, with the horses and cats—she wasn’t supposed to go.

Preacher fell in step beside her, probably hoping to dart into the kitchens when Maeve slunk into the back hallway.

“I hate it here, and I’m planning to run away. You can come with me.”

Except Preacher seemed very much at home at Castle Brodie, as did everybody else except—in some way Maeve couldn’t put into words—Uncle Angus.

***

“Is all to your liking, Lady St. Clair?”

The Scottish baroness was the soul of civility as she sat plying her needle, though Milly had enjoyed warmer welcomes from her cat.

“Our rooms are very comfortable,” Milly replied. “Breakfast was lovely, and you have a beautiful home.” Though visiting the lady’s lovely home now might have been the stupidest decision Milly had ever made—or allowed Sebastian to make.

“You’re tired,” Lady Strathdee said, putting her hoop aside. “Travel can be wearying. Perhaps you’d like to take a nap?”

What Milly would like to do was find her husband and cling to him, though he would pester her with well-intended questions, and Sebastian was very good at getting answers to his questions.

“I am tired,” Milly said. “Sebastian and I haven’t been married long, and though his company is a delight, in the confines of a traveling coach for days…”

Her hostess’s smile bore the first hint of understanding. “Michael was gone for years, and though I am very pleased to have him home, he makes a deal of noise, tracks mud into Cook’s kitchen, and renders the beginning and ending of the day a busier undertaking altogether.”

“As does St. Clair,” Milly said, picking up the lady’s hoop and admiring a scene of a golden hart in clover. “I lived with my maiden aunts before joining the St. Clair household, and becoming Sebastian’s baroness is an adjustment in many ways.”

The solar was a lovely place, full of sun because of its location at the top of the keep, comfortably stuffed with pillows and cushioned chairs, and feminine in its green, cream, and gold color scheme.

“You weren’t—” Lady Strathdee fell silent and rose, crossing to a desk that sported a number of ledgers. “You didn’t
expect
to become a baroness?”

Milly suppressed a wince, while her hostess tidied up the ledgers, though they’d already been in two neat stacks.

“I still wake up every morning, having to recall that St. Clair has done me the honor of taking me to wife. Are you truly glad Michael has come home?”

The question might have provoked a retreat into Scottish reserve, which made the English variety look tropical by comparison, but instead, Lady Strathdee smiled.

“You used the word adjustment. I’d say it’s more like my entire life has been upended, though it badly needed upending in some ways.”

Another twinge hit Milly in a low, female place, but she’d been having queer pangs and twinges since she’d met her husband. “Shall we ring for tea?”

“Tea for you,” her ladyship said with a significant look at Milly’s raised waistline. “Michael said I’m to cosset you.”

She tugged a green-and-gold brocade bellpull and got a look in her eyes that put Milly in mind of Sebastian on the scent of some answers, so Milly went on the offensive.

“How has your life been upended?”

Her ladyship took the seat at the desk, looking elegant and confident. “Michael sent no word he was coming north, though we knew he’d returned to England and remained with his commanding officer in London. We heard all manner of rumors, none of them pleasant.”

Milly heard the sound of cannon swiveling on well-greased hinges. “That must have been difficult.”

Her ladyship opened a ledger. “I was accustomed to his neglect by then. Michael was not a reliable correspondent.” She ran her finger down the page, fine russet eyebrows knit as if the tally puzzled her.

“But he’s back now, and not likely to leave anytime soon.” Another twinge came, this one worse than the last.

“He’s back,” her ladyship conceded. “Nine years is a long time to roam. Castle Brodie has changed in those nine years.”

Lady Strathdee—Sebastian said her name was Brenna—had changed in those years. Any woman would change between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five.

“Give it time,” Milly said. “I love my husband to distraction, but I still find some matters difficult to discuss with him.”

“My lady, are you well?”

Truly, Brenna Brodie had accurate aim. Milly was saved from an immediate reply by a knock on the door, heralding the arrival of the tea tray. Tea in Scotland apparently included scones, butter, strawberries, and honey, which—unlike the ham, bacon, and eggs at breakfast—had some appeal.

“I am—”

Milly’s hostess put the tray down on the low table before the settee and crossed her arms. She was a tall woman, and wrapped in her dark plaid shawl, she put Milly in mind of a widow or a maiden aunt who’d seen enough of sorrow to withstand a few inconvenient truths.

“I am afraid I’m losing this baby.” Mostly, Milly was afraid, afraid Sebastian would be upset, afraid this meant they’d never have a child, afraid this looming tragedy was her fault.

“Oh, my lady.” Her hostess unwrapped the plaid shawl and swirled it around Milly’s shoulders. The scents of heather and lavender came with it, soothing scents that eased the lingering upset caused by the smells at breakfast. “Shall we fetch his lordship?”

“No, please do not tell Sebastian.” Because Sebastian would blame himself, and God knew what that would do to their marital intimacies. “I’ve been somewhat uncomfortable since I learned I was carrying.”

Milly found a cup of hot, fragrant tea in her hands, with no idea how it had arrived there.

“Are you bleeding?”

Thank God for Scottish practicality. “Spotting. A little, but I didn’t bring any cloths.”

“Cloths we have. Spotting isn’t necessarily a fatal sign. I’ve read every pamphlet and treatise I could find on the subject. The French have some good books, and we’ve a very competent midwife in the village.”

The tea helped, and Lady Strathdee’s brisk pragmatism helped too. Milly suspected notifying Sebastian would not help at all, though withholding this from him hadn’t exactly been easy either.

“Can you send for the midwife and have her visit while the men are out riding?”

Her ladyship split a scone, applied butter and honey, and passed it to Milly on a plate adorned with porcelain roses. “I can send for her. Best I go fetch her myself.”

Though Milly wasn’t sure she even liked Brenna Brodie, she didn’t want to be left entirely alone either. She wanted Sebastian, and that would not do.

“She won’t heed a summons from you? Your husband is laird, isn’t he?” The scone was ambrosial, and yet Milly knew she must not bolt her grain.

“You shall call me Brenna. I know you English like your manners and such, and we’ve just met, but I’ve only ever been Brenna. This baroness business—”

“I’m Milly, and baronessing is quite a lot of uphill work, even when one is madly in love with one’s baron. Why won’t the midwife come?”

Old hurt flattened Brenna’s lovely mouth. She withdrew a silver flask from a skirt pocket and uncapped it. “Shall you?”

“No, thank you.” Though Milly’s estimation of Highland hospitality rose further.

“The midwife has reason to hate me, and in the seven years since that reason arose, has shown no sign of relenting in her ill will, nor is she alone in her lack of regard for the lord’s wife.”

Milly nibbled on her scone, and wondered what it must be like, to be lady of the manor, newly reconciled with your lord, honor bound to try for some heirs, and on the outs with the only midwife in the shire.

“Have some tea. Did you flirt with her husband? Dress her sons down for swearing in the churchyard?”

“I cost her her sons. She’s not likely to assist me in bringing mine into the world.”

Her ladyship—Brenna—showed no sign of making herself a cup of tea, so Milly fixed one for her. “You killed her sons? I find this difficult to believe.”

And yet, clearly, Brenna believed it, or something every bit as bad.

“It has to do with money,” Brenna said, accepting the cup of tea. “It all has to do with money. I was eighteen and trying to make the point that I was the laird’s wife, though Michael had been gone for two years. I asked my cousins to escort me into Aberdeen with the wool harvest.”

Aberdeen was a good sixty or seventy miles to the east and no easy journey.

“Drink your tea,” Milly said, finishing her scone and deciding that she’d share the next one with her hostess.

Brenna held the teacup before her, like a chalice or a serving of woe.

“We traveled to the coast easily enough—the weather held fair—and we got a fine price for the wool, because we’d so much to sell at once. I was very pleased.”

Milly set half a buttered scone on a plate, drizzled it with honey, and passed it over. “And then?”

“And then as I was riding home, I went ahead of my cousins. They were in want of one more pint to celebrate our success, while I sought to get home and brag on my bargaining abilities. Angus had scoffed at me, of course. I was too young, I was a woman, nobody would take me seriously, and the city was a dangerous place.”

“I do not like this Angus fellow. Who is he?” Milly liked Scottish scones though, liked them quite well.

“Nobody likes Angus except Michael. Angus is the devil incarnate, the self-appointed land steward for the Brodie holdings, and my husband’s only surviving male family.”

Brenna’s tone was defeated, and Milly’s dislike for Uncle Angus blossomed into loathing. “Eat your scone and tell me what happened.” Though Milly could guess all too easily.

“I was set upon by thieves, and every groat, every last coin, and my purse as well, were taken from me.” She tore the scone to sweet, buttery crumbs, then licked her thumbs and fingers. “I rage when I think about all the money stolen from our people, but I cry when I recall that purse. Michael gave it to me when I turned fifteen. He made it himself—nearly cut off a finger working the leather—and I don’t know how I’ll tell him I lost it.”

“You didn’t lose it. It was stolen from you.”

Wool was the lifeblood of the Highlands, though. Sebastian took a keen interest in agricultural trade, enough that Milly understood what the loss of a year’s revenue would do to an entire village.

Brenna dusted her hands together. “No, it was not stolen from me at all. Thievery is an odd crime. If nobody witnessed the theft, and you are one of those shifty MacLogans whose own husband hasn’t a care for her, then you
lose
the village’s livelihood. It is not stolen from you. In the space of a muttered aside at the tavern you are transformed from a victim to a victimizer.”

Milly set her teacup down with a bang. “They accused
you
of
stealing
the money?”

Brenna nodded, her gaze going to the tidy stacks of ledgers on the desk.

“I made it worse. I do not get on well with Angus, so I kept my books separate from his, and what extra I had from time to time—from selling piecework, Cook’s extra preserves, spices from the kitchen gardens, and so forth—I’ve used to help those in need. Guilt money, they call it in the village, and they’re not exactly wrong.”

“I still do not see how you’re responsible for the midwife’s difficulties.”

Though Milly already had a sense that Scottish logic was subject to the more compelling sway of clan loyalties and old hostilities.

“Mairead and her boys put everything they had into sheep, as Angus nigh insisted they do. Nobody here trusts the sheep, but raising sheep is all Angus knows. Sheep are easy, biddable, stupid, without defenses—”

Brenna stared off into space, as if an insight befell her that would require much study under solitudinous conditions.

“So the midwife’s family lost a lot of money,” Milly said, because all of the pieces of the puzzle were still not on the table.

Brenna rose and returned to the desk, where one ledger yet lay open. She was apparently one of those people who enjoyed numbers, something else Milly could like about her.

“I gave both of Mairead’s sons passage to Canada. They were hard, hard workers, and they deserved better than to slowly starve in Aberdeen, looking for work and finding none, while their mother did nothing but worry and grow old fretting over them.”

“You lost money too, I take it?”