The MacGregor Brides (23 page)

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Gwen barely slept. It had been nearly 3:00 a.m. before everyone stumbled off to bed. She had lain there, staring at the ceiling, willing the right answer to come. But she’d only been able to see Branson’s face.

And to yearn for him.

Just before dawn, she drifted off, but even that thin sleep was ragged with dreams. She saw him in the hospital corridor, his eyes focused on hers as he told her who he was and what he wanted. Now, smiling, that quick, charming grin as he shopped with her downtown. Holding her when she cried over the loss of a patient. Kissing her breathless at her front door. Carrying her to a bed strewn with rose petals.

And that dark and desperate look in his eyes when he’d told her he loved her.

Then the dream became less memory than wish. She saw herself smiling back at him, holding out her hands. Accepting, giving, embracing.

Pipes were playing as he swept her up, onto a gleaming white stallion. She felt not helpless, but powerful. Her laugh mixed with his as they thundered off, bagpipes singing high and bright.

She stirred, sighing with the dream, the romance, the lightness of it. And she was murmuring his name as she woke.

The pipes played still.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes clear. Bagpipes, she thought in confusion. And the steady beat of drums with it. She yawned, laughed and swung her legs off the bed. Grandpa, she thought, had cooked up something special for Christmas morning. Early Christmas morning, she noted with a glance at the clock.

It was barely eight.

She stumbled for her robe just as her door burst open.

Julia’s hair was wildly tousled, her feet bare and her eyes wide. “Look out the window. You won’t believe it until you see it.”

“I hear it,” Gwen said as voices sounded in the hall. Doors opened and closed, feet pounded. “Sounds like everyone else does, too. What’s Grandpa done?”

“Not Grandpa.” Taking the matter into her own hands, Julia grabbed Gwen’s arm and dragged her to the window. “It’s Bran.”

Stunned, Julia stared outside. There on the wide slope of lawn were ten burly men in kilts, leaping in a Scottish reel. “Ten lords a-leaping,” she managed.

“Lairds,” Julia corrected, grinning like an idiot. “Even better, there are eleven pipers piping, and twelve drummers drumming. I’d say that wraps it up, honey. Your true love didn’t miss a trick.”

“He …” She stared down at Branson. He stood in the midst of the melee, his hair flying in the wind. “He did all this for me.”

“He’s crazy,” Julia stated. “He’s in love. He’s amazing.”

“Yes. Yes.” Laughing, Gwen pressed a hand to her mouth. True love, she thought, her true love had no sense at all. And wasn’t that wonderful? “He’s all of that. He loves me. He really does. It’s not a mistake, it’s not too fast, it’s not a passing infatuation. It’s perfect. He’s perfect.”

“Then what are you doing up here, when he’s down there?”

“I’m going.” She slipped on a pair of boots, and with her robe flapping behind her, she raced for the stairs. Her family was already ahead of her, bundling into coats or boots or just streaming out the door in their robes. She saw her grandparents by the door, with Anna calmly buttoning Daniel’s overcoat.

“I don’t need it.”

“You do, it’s a cold wind. I won’t have you catching a chill. The pipers aren’t going anywhere.”

“And fine pipers they are.” He caught sight of Gwen speeding down the stairs and sent her a smug grin. “Well, that’s a lad, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She caught his bearded face in her hands and kissed him long and hard. “But I’m not thanking you for at least a week.” With that, she rushed outside into the cold and pushed her way through her family until she had a clear view.

“Be quiet,” she demanded. “I can’t hear.” But she might have been talking to the wind for all the good it did her.

Then it didn’t matter, they could talk and shout and laugh. She didn’t hear them. She only heard the pipes and drums as Branson started over the snowy lawn toward her.

She didn’t notice that her family actually became silent. She didn’t notice that tears shimmered cold on her cheeks. She only saw Branson’s face, and his heart was in his eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Gwendolyn.”

“Branson—”

“I love you,” he told her, lifting a hand to brush a tear from her lashes. “You’re everything I want. I admire your strength, your honesty, your compassion and your logic. I need you in my life. I’m promising you here, in front of the people who matter to you most, that I’ll never let you down.”

“That’s a lad!” Daniel boomed out, with tears in his voice. “I told you, by God, that’s a lad!”

When Branson smiled, Gwen felt her mother take her hand, squeeze it. In support, in approval, with love. Then Serena let it go.

“It’s not all the twelve days of Christmas,” Branson told her. “But it’s a start. Will you have me, Gwendolyn?”

Her heart brimmed over as she stepped forward, stood between him and her family, and took his hands. “I told you I wouldn’t be pressured, I wouldn’t be pushed.”

“Oh, give the guy a break, Gwen.”

Ignoring the order from her younger sister, Gwen kept her eyes on Branson’s. “And I won’t be. But I can’t resist being loved, or loving you back. So I’ll answer you in front of the people who matter to me most. Yes, I’ll have you, Branson, and you’ll have me.”

“Well, kiss the girl,” Daniel demanded.

Branson shot a look over Gwen’s head, met Daniel’s fiercely glinting eyes. “I think I can handle it from here,” he said.

And he kissed the girl.

From the Private Memoirs
of
Daniel Duncan MacGregor

It’s my pleasure to say that my choice of young Branson was better than even I anticipated. He’s a clever Irishman. We’re proud to have him as part of the family.

I watched his face when our Gwen started down the aisle toward him in her fairy princess gown and heirloom veil. There was love there for a lifetime, and more.

Anna and I, our hands linked, watched them take their vows. Life is a circle and love is what gilds it. In that church with the light streaming through the stained-glass windows in rainbows, my Gwen and her Branson began their own circle within those circles forged by all the generations before.

I take no credit for this—for to take it causes all manner of trouble. I’ll just enjoy it.

So another spring is here. Our Gwen is beginning this new life. Our Laura is round and healthy with the babe she carries. Julia now, she keeps herself busy as six beavers. She’s a sharp one, she is—takes after her grandfather.

She’s my jewel, and make no mistake I’ve outlined my strategy there even while settling her cousins. She’ll be a tough nut, but hah! There’s no tougher nut than Daniel Duncan MacGregor.

I’m planning on enlisting a little help with this arrangement. Had my eye on this boy for years—and so has Julia though she’d suffer the tortures of hell before she’d admit it. Stubborn lass, God bless her.

The two of them are perfect for each other. A pair of hotheads who snarl and snap at each other at every opportunity. They’ll make fine strong babies for me—for Anna, I mean. The poor woman pines for babies.

Anna’s already packed the MacGregor wedding veil away. I didn’t want to mention she’d be taking it out again before a year’s passed.

I give my word on it.

Part Three
Julia

There was no doubt in Julia’s mind—but then, there rarely was. The wall would have to go. She walked from the tiny parlor into the tiny library that abutted it. Definitely. And when the wall was gone, she would have one generous, airy room, rather than two cramped ones. She nodded firmly and continued her tour, her eyes observing, assessing.

All the glass would have to be replaced with thermal, and the trim and molding would need to be stripped down to the original walnut. Whoever had painted it blue should have been hanged.

She said as much into the minirecorder she carried. Her notes were always logged in this manner, and her commentaries were invariably pithy. Julia MacGregor not only had strong feelings, she strongly believed in expressing them.

She already had completed and labeled two tapes on the house on Beacon Hill—the house she had decided would be her home. She would make it uniquely hers. Every detail, down to the color of the grout in the first-floor powder room, would be decided upon and supervised by her.

The contractor and subs would be charmed or bullied—and she could do both—into providing her with exactly what she wanted. She had never been satisfied with anything less.

Julia would never have considered herself spoiled. She worked for what she wanted. She planned, she executed. And she could, if necessary, hang drywall, nail trim and grout windows. But she believed in hiring experts and professionals and paying them well.

She had been known to take advice, particularly when it agreed with her own point of view. And a project, once started, was never left undone.

She’d learned the value of planning, of working and of finishing, from her parents. Alan MacGregor had served two terms as president, with Shelby Campbell MacGregor beside him as a First Lady who did a great deal more than host parties and greet dignitaries.

The women in the MacGregor clan were not, and never had been, reflections of their husbands. A MacGregor woman was her own woman. So was Julia.

She headed up the gently curving stairs, a woman with rose-petal skin and curling, flame-colored hair. Her eyes were chocolate brown, focused sharply now to catch any minute detail or flaw she might have missed. Her mouth was wide and often mobile, her hands narrow and rarely still. Her curvy body was fueled with an inner energy that never seemed to be depleted.

Only the smitten would have called her beautiful, but even her detractors—and a strong woman who routinely voiced strong opinions had them—acknowledged her unique appeal.

One of the men she’d dated had called her “the Amazon queen.” And though it hadn’t been meant as a compliment at the time, the term suited. She was sturdy, self-sufficient and sexy.

And she was ruthless.

Tapping a finger on the subtle point of her chin, she studied the bedroom she’d been using for the past month. The delightful Adam fireplace needed to be unblocked. Its having been blocked off was
another black mark against the former owners, in Julia’s opinion.

She could imagine herself curled up in the wonderful teak sleigh bed she had in storage, pillows heaped around her, a pot of jasmine tea, a good book. And a fire crackling away in the hearth.

It was only late August, and summer still held Boston in a sweaty grip, but the image played for her. And would, she determined, be reality by Thanksgiving.

The house itself would shine by Christmas, and she would christen it with a huge and glittery New Year’s Eve party.

Ring in the new, Julia thought, and grinned.

On cue, the doorbell rang. Mr. Murdoch, she thought, and right on time. She had used his company as her head contractor for nearly six years. This wasn’t the first property Julia had purchased, or the first she had rehabbed, or the first she had lived in. Real estate was her passion. And her skill for wheeling deals came naturally, down through the blood.

Her grandfather had gone from pauper to millionaire on the qualities of a shrewd mind, a sharp eye and a gambler’s heart. Of all his children and grandchildren, it was Julia who most closely followed in the big man’s footprints.

She hurried downstairs, anxious to begin discussing plans and wrangling about fees with the crafty Scotsman. Daniel MacGregor himself had recommended Michael Murdoch and his company to her years before, and Julia blessed him for it. She felt she’d found a kindred spirit in those twinkling blue eyes and capable workingman’s hands.

So she was smiling when she opened the door. And scowling a pulse beat later.

It wasn’t Michael Murdoch, but his son. She considered Cullum Murdoch the only fly in the ointment of her excellent relationship with the contracting company.

“Where’s your father?” she demanded.

“He’s not feeling well.” Cullum didn’t waste smiles on women who irritated. So his cool green eyes, his full, sculpted mouth, remained sober. “I’m doing the run-through.”

“He’s sick?” The concern was instant and sincere, and had her reaching for Cullum’s hand. “What’s wrong with him? Has he seen a doctor?”

“It’s nothing serious, late-summer cold.” But he softened a bit. Her eyes were worried, her affection for his father was palpable. “He just needs to stay in bed and take it easy for a couple days.”

“Oh.” They stood where they were, on either side of the threshold, with the morning sun beating down. She released his hand and calculated. She didn’t care to work with Cullum, but neither did she care to delay the project.

He read her, and dark brows lifted over amused green eyes. “I can stand it if you can, MacGregor.”

Frowning, Julia studied him. Men who were as handsome as the devil rarely irritated her. And Cullum, with his sharp-boned, sculpted face, certainly qualified. There was the added appeal of the lion’s mane of bronze-tipped brown hair, the quick and crooked grin—not that he ever aimed it at her—and the long, lanky body that fit so nicely in denim.

But irritate her he did, continually. Their personalities crashed and clashed like honed swords on a battlefield.

Annoying or not, she thought, he was good at his work. And it was only a run-through.

“All right, Murdoch, let’s get started, then.”

He stepped onto the wide squares of rose-veined tiles in the foyer, gave the staircase a sweeping glance, took a considering look at the ornate plasterwork on the vaulted ceiling.

“How’s the foundation?”

“Solid as a rock.”

“I’ll check it out.”

There, she thought, gritting her teeth. That was just it. The man constantly questioned her judgment, argued with her opinions, sneered at her tastes. She drew in a breath. “I’ve taken notes,” she said, and took minicassettes from the pocket of her trim navy trousers.

“Yeah, the famous MacGregor tapes.” Sarcasm edged his voice as he took them, stuffed them in the back pocket of his jeans.