The Bride Says Maybe (14 page)

With the clarity she’d never experienced before, Tara saw that while she might have once cared deeply for Ruary, their connection had been actually a safe haven at a time when her world had been turned upside down.

And she’d never felt any deep emotion for any of her suitors, including the man she had almost married . . . because they had never engaged her in the manner Breccan had. They’d not captured her imagination or proven they could think of anyone’s needs over their own.

Breccan had worked to earn her trust at a cost a more selfish man would have refused to pay.

Certainly, she had never been in
wonder
of a man. Or admired one because of his kind, generous nature. She’d never even considered kindness a sought-after quality. Suddenly, she realized, nothing was more important.

So she kissed him. She kissed in thanksgiving that the beam had not crushed him, in gratitude that he could continue to be her life, and in humility that this person cared for her.

The kiss was like no other she had ever experienced. Their mouths fit perfectly together. Their lips melded, and she adored the taste and texture of him.

He smelled of the oilcloth he wore, of the sweat of his struggle to save the man’s life and of that which was uniquely him. He reminded her of leather and fresh air.

His whiskers were no deterrent. Their scratchiness told her that it was Breccan she kissed, good, strong-hearted Breccan.

He’d risen from the ground to stand on his two feet. His arms came around her. Their kiss deepened.

The world disappeared. In this moment, all that mattered to her was him—and she had no desire to let him go. Ever.

Had she been afraid of him?

What nonsense. One could never be afraid of a man as noble as this one.

His tongue stroked hers.

She’d never experienced that before. Her first inclination was to pull back, but then she couldn’t . . . because she liked it. She liked it very much.

So, she returned the favor, her tongue brushing his.

His hips immediately met hers. His body embraced hers, and she was in danger of losing all reasoned thought.

Breccan broke the kiss, but he did not let go of her. Instead, he rested his head against hers. The pins had fallen out of her hair. She did not have a care.

His breathing was ragged. Or was that hers?

“You both go on,” Lachlan said, his voice helping to return her to the moment. “We’ll clean everything up here.”

“Aye,” Jonas echoed.

Tara didn’t know if they had smirks on their faces or disapproval. Her attention was on her husband.

Breccan took her hand. “Come,” he said, sounding a bit shy. It made her smile.

They had only gone a step when a woman placed herself in front of Breccan. She took his free hand.

“Bless you,” she whispered. “Bless you, bless you.”

Her words seemed to release Breccan from a spell. “How is Ian, Mary?”

The man he had freed came over to stand by his wife. He limped, but he appeared fine. “My leg is sore but, miraculously, I don’t seem hurt. Lucky I am that you were there, Laird. Very lucky.”

“Rest,” Breccan advised. “Take care of yourself and your family.”

“Aye, Laird.”

Breccan still held her hand. Together, they walked down the road, the dogs happily chasing after them.

When they were away from prying ears, Tara said, “We are going to our bedroom, yes?”

“Absolutely.”

The desperate need in his voice summed up nicely what she was feeling.

“Are you worried?” he asked.

She thought of her fears, then pictured him lifting the beam off the man, and said, “No longer.”

Tara thought about telling him what she was feeling, but it was all too new. Later, when her head wasn’t dizzy with this insane desire to throw herself upon him and kiss him senseless in just the manner they had demonstrated, then maybe she would have the right words. Love was about trust.

Her pulse and her pace quickened as Wolfstone came into view. They were within twenty feet of the castle, when Breccan suddenly stopped. His whole manner changed.

“What is it?” she asked.

“We have a visitor.”

Only then did she notice the high-perch phaeton on the front drive. A tiger, the name for the grooms who rode on the platform behind the vehicle’s seat and attended the driver, was dressed in maroon-and-silver livery. He walked the horse with an air of self-importance.

“Who is it?” Tara asked.

“My cousin, Owen Campbell, the dirty bastard.” He said the last under his breath as if, in spite of her presence, he could not stop himself. Nor did he apologize.

“What does he want?”

“We shall ask him.” Still holding her hand, Breccan moved with the intent of a wolf guarding his lair toward the house.

Chapter Fourteen

B
reccan could admire his cousin’s rig. Before going into the house, he had to stop and look at it, and the jealousy he felt was palatable.

What man wouldn’t want a phaeton with high yellow wheels and red spokes. The vehicle was so lightweight, it probably traveled on air. Of course, it would be a slow slog for a man as big as Breccan.

Owen’s horseflesh was good, too. The animal was a flashy gray in fittings trimmed out in silver.

Ah, yes, any man would covet such a rig, but Breccan did not admire his cousin. They had a history. Some of Breccan’s dislike stemmed from Owen’s almost casual little cruelties. The man liked finding a weak spot and using it for his own gain.

Of course, what he really wanted was land. Every Campbell did. It was in their blood. They equated land to power.

Even Breccan understood this. Why else would he be sinking so much of himself into Wolfstone. He was building a legacy for his children, little beings he planned on creating the moment after he tossed Owen off his property.

He turned away from the rig and walked toward his front door. Owen stepped outside.

Owen was two years Breccan’s senior and fancied himself part of the Corinthian set.

Some would think him handsome. He was lean and wore his graying hair in the windswept style, a silly affectation where the hair was combed forward over the brow and ears as if a great wind blew it from behind. The style also hid Owen’s growing baldness.

Of course, to a man like Breccan, his cousin was a pretentious fool—especially when he was dressed as he was now in some sort of military-styled jacket. There was meaningless braid and brass buttons from the top of his head to the gold tassels on his boots. The outfit was an affectation like everything else about him.

Owen didn’t have a title or position of his own. He’d built his fortune with the East India Company, and Breccan had heard of the methods the nabobs had used. They abused the natives for what they wanted. Breccan had no doubt Owen wasn’t at the head of the pack with his hand out.

His tenure in India had made Owen a wealthy man, but he was still a scoundrel. The worst of the lot.

“Hello,
cos,
” Owen drawled out in a voice that carried the flatness of London instead of the lilt of Scotland.

Breccan was about to growl that Owen could leave, but before he could speak, his cousin’s eyes widened. His mouth dropped open, and for one rare moment in Breccan’s acquaintance, Owen was speechless—and the reason was Tara.

When Owen had come out of the house, Breccan had instinctively put himself between his wife and his cousin. But Tara had stepped forward to stand beside Breccan.

Owen lifted a quizzing glass attached with gold ribbon to his jacket up to his eye. “Heavens,” he said, breathing the word like a pray. “I have never laid eyes on such an exquisite creature.”

“An exquisite creature who is
my
wife,” Breccan said. He placed a possessive hand on Tara’s arm.

“Well,” Owen said, “some things can’t be helped.” He then moved forward as if Breccan weren’t standing right there and made a pretty bow. “Let me present myself since my boor of a cousin is his usual clumsy self. I am Owen Campbell.”

Tara didn’t appear impressed, and Breccan was glad. He performed the introduction. “This is
my
lady Tara Campbell.” He liked the way her name sounded. It was a good name.

“Tara?” Owen questioned. “Lady Tara Davidson, by chance?”

To her credit, Tara looked to Breccan. She had obviously divined the tension between the two men. He answered for her, “Yes, she is.”

Owen actually rocked back on his highly polished boots with their silly little gold tassels. His brows stretched to his hairline before he said, “You are more lovely than any ever claimed.”

He was sincere in his compliment. Breccan couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride.

“Thank you,” Tara said, a becoming blush to her cheek. However, there was a reserve about her. She must have heard this effusive praise all the time in London.

Breccan was conscious that while he would tell his wife she was lovely, he didn’t gush over her as if she were an object.

Owen shook his head in amazement. “I’d always heard of you. They told me your beauty was extraordinary, but isn’t that a matter of taste?”

“I suppose so,” Tara murmured.

“
You
are
my
taste,” Owen answered, and moved forward as if he would jump into Tara’s arms.

Breccan surged forward, ready to wrap his hand around Owen’s neck. His cousin always pushed the boundaries.

Owen held up his gloved hands to ward him off. “I mean no offense, Breccan. She’s exquisite. Perfect. It is rare to meet a woman who is all they say about her.”

His words saved his neck.

Breccan tried not to be vain, but he wouldn’t have been a man if he wasn’t proud. He did have a lovely wife. Owen could have his fancy phaeton. Breccan was going to be taking Tara to bed. He would possess every square inch of her.

Who was the more fortunate cousin now?

“So what brings you here, Owen?” Breccan asked. He suspected Owen had driven over to flash himself around and see what he could learn about Taurus before the race. Owen was sneaky that way.

“We have a few details to discuss about the race,” Owen said easily.

“I thought Ricks would be talking to your man?” Breccan answered. “Let them work out the details.”

“It is a sizeable wager. Don’t you think we should be the ones discussing it?” Owen countered with that air of superiority Breccan could not stand. He could hear what Owen wasn’t saying, that Breccan was too provincial to know the ways of the world.

And then, because Breccan was busy fuming, Owen trumped him again by saying, “Should we not go inside? It could pour down rain at any moment, and I’m certain your lady would prefer to be under shelter if that happened.”

Breccan should have thought of Tara’s needs. He placed a hand on the small of her back. “Please, my dear,” he said, opening the door for her.

She gave him a peculiar look, probably because of the endearment. It had sounded odd on his tongue to him as well. But this wasn’t about talking to Tara. It was about ensuring that Owen knew she was his wife.

He would explain later about how his cousin always made him feel awkward and clumsy. Over the years, the two of them had been particularly hard on each other. Usually, Owen had started it. He had the ability to crawl under Breccan’s skin.

But now, Breccan had the upper hand. He had Tara, and his horse Taurus would recover and be triumphant over any nag Owen could muster.

And then, well, then the other half of the Campbells would have some respect for Breccan and his ilk. It would be a victory . . . and never again could they look down on him.

Inside the castle, Owen said, “You’ve made changes since I was last here, cousin.” He looked around the rooms with approval, and Breccan could see what he saw.

The arrangements of tables and chairs now filled rooms that had once been bare of comfort. The floors had been cleaned until they shone. Cobwebs and dust in the rafters had been swept away. There were other touches, too, women’s touches—the candlesticks and rugs that gave the home warmth. All the hearths had been cleaned as well, and Breccan had overheard Agnes grumbling that the new mistress wanted them cleaned daily.

His chest swelled with pride.

“You are a miracle worker, my lady,” Owen was saying.

Tara did not meet his eye. Breccan sensed she was uncomfortable. “Thank you, Mr. Campbell—”

“Owen, please. Call me Owen. We are cousins now.”

She smiled, but did not use his name, and Breccan could have danced a jig.

This
was what he had wanted. Respect, and it was sweet. Wait until Owen saw the children Breccan and Tara would have. They would be tall and brawny like himself but favor their mother’s good looks. Every door would be open to them, and they would not have to tolerate an ass like Owen in their lives.

“Would you care for refreshment?” Tara asked with the good manners of the lady of the house.

“I would,” Owen said. “Dougal makes a fine ale.”

“Let me have him pour one for you,” Tara said. She looked to Breccan. “Would you wish one?”

He shook his head no. He didn’t want to drink with Owen or show good manners. He wanted the man gone from his house, and he wanted to take his wife to bed.

Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face because a shy, secret smile appeared on hers. She excused herself and left.

Breccan wanted to follow her. He turned to see that his guest seemed to experience the same desire.

Owen met his eye and didn’t even bother to disguise his admiration. “Extraordinary. I’d heard of her, of course . . . but I had not believed the gossip about her until just now.”

Gossip? Breccan wondered what was said about his wife. He would not be human, or male, if he didn’t. However, he wasn’t about to ask Owen to explain.

Then again, he didn’t need to do so. Owen said, “She is a heartbreaker. Do you know how many men begged her for her hand? Important men.
Wealthy
ones.”

“What do you want to discuss about the race?” Breccan asked him.

Owen made a gesture with a wave of his hand. “Not anything in particular. Well, perhaps the rides. I was thinking that you and I should each ride our horses.”

“I would think the same thing if you were as big as I,” Breccan said. “We’ve already decided, the riders are of our choosing.” And he’d chosen his lightest-weight exercise boy.

But Owen wasn’t attending to anything he said. Instead, he craned his neck to look down the hall for Tara to return. “Beautiful,” he whispered under his breath.

“I’m beginning to believe you didn’t have any reason to pay this call other than to ogle my wife,” Breccan said, letting a silky thread of threat linger in his words.

“I didn’t even know you had married,” Owen said, grinning. He had a sly cat of a smile. It was an expression no one would trust. “Does Breadalbane know?”

He referred to the earl of Breadalbane, Owen’s first cousin and Breccan’s second.

“Should he?”

“Oh, I would tell him. I would tell everyone. She is remarkable.”

“She is,” Breccan agreed. “And all is settled between us for the race. There are no loose details.”

“The race?” Owen repeated as if needing to be reminded. “Of course, of course, all is settled.” He had not let his eyes drift from watching down the hall for Tara.

“You know, Owen, I don’t want you here—” Breccan started, disgusted by this farce of a call. All the man wanted to do was fish for information, and Breccan was not going to give it to him, and he’d tired of this fawning over his wife.

However, Owen interrupted him by saying, “Do you think your wife and the horse master were paramours?”

The question caught Breccan off guard. “My wife?”

“Aye, and Ruary Jamerson. You remember him, don’t you? He worked for you.”

“Of course I remember him,” Breccan said.

“Your wife was his lover. I admit I am shocked to see that you have married her, but how else could you have captured such a lovely wife. Indeed, Breccan, I might have wanted to marry her myself. I don’t know that I would have. What with the gossip, Tay was going to have a terrible time marrying her off, and everyone had heard he’d wanted the deed done quickly. Makes one wonder why. But she is good here, isn’t she? After all, you aren’t discerning. No one cares what happens in the wilds of Scotland, and you don’t have a social position. Furthermore, Jamerson is a handsome man. If he has spawned a get off her, then you will be thought to be the father. Furthermore, you sleep with beauty every night.”

Breccan barely registered most of what Owen was saying. His mind had caught on the word, “lover.”

Jamerson and Tara had been lovers?

And who all knew this?

Suddenly, he realized why Owen was here. The bastard didn’t want to talk about the race. He’d known Breccan had married the Davidson chit.

What he’d wanted to do was churn the waters. Owen had probably wondered if Breccan had known the truth of his wife and was taking gleeful delight in his speculations.

Now Breccan understood why Tara had not wanted to let him make love to her. He’d know once he’d bedded her that she’d been had. He would have realized it, and then what? He’d be trapped.

Jamerson had run away with the blacksmith’s daughter. Everyone had said they’d been courting.

But what had Tara said just the day before, after someone had been around Mr. Jamerson as much as she had, they would have learned a thing or two about horses?

But he couldn’t let Owen see that his words had found their mark.

Or let the man mock his marriage.

Breccan reached out and grabbed Owen by the gold-braided front of his jacket. He lifted his cousin into the air. In all their dealings together, Breccan had never used his superior strength against the rat.

He did so now.

Looking into Owen’s piggish eyes, Breccan said, “You will not say a word against my wife.”

Owen’s face had gone pale, then red, as the collar Breccan held began to choke him. His feet moved in the air. Breccan didn’t care. The man had been a thorn in his side for most of Breccan’s life. Perhaps the time had come to remove it—

“Breccan,
what are you doing
?” Tara’s alarmed voice penetrated his anger.

He turned his head toward her. She had carried the tankards of ale in herself and had set them on the table as she’d rushed up to him. “You are
killing
him,” she warned. “Put him down.
Stop this.
”

Breccan released his hold, and Owen fell to the ground like one of her hard bannocks.

Tara leaned to help Owen up. His cousin was gasping for breath. Breccan surmised that his throat might hurt. A pity.

Fetching one of the tankards, Tara offered, “Here, have some ale.”

Owen waved it away. He no longer eyed Tara but directed venomous rage at Breccan. He pushed himself to his feet, the silly tassels on his boots and jacket swaying from his effort. His eyes still bulged, but they did so now out of anger.