The Bride Says Maybe (16 page)

The time had come to test him.

B
reccan was in a private hell of his own making.

He missed Tara.

It was that simple. He’d liked having her company. And now he had her, but he didn’t. Owen’s words were a poison inside him. He did not trust his cousin . . . and yet, what if he was right?

Yes, Breccan had come to Tay with the marriage offer. He’d basically forced Tara to marry him to save her father from debtor’s prison, but that knowledge made this whole situation worse. The idea that Tay may have wanted to be rid of his daughter, that Breccan’s own lust had made him a laughingstock of those who knew of Jamerson and Tara’s illicit romance sickened him.

And yet Tara did not strike him as someone capable of such duplicity. She had impressed him with her forthrightness. Still, she was a woman. Men throughout history, starting with Adam, had been played false by them. Why should Breccan think himself different?

The suspicion also crossed his mind that Tara could possibly be carrying the horse master’s child, and once there, he could not shake it. What had she said the other night?
How are we going to have children if we don’t start doing what we must?

In his misery, he could imagine a scenario where his ogre of a self repulsed her. However, for the sake of her illegitimate child, she must consummate the marriage.

His saner mind would point out that, if such was the case, she would have let him have her on the wedding night or a dozen times after.

But doubt, once sown in a man’s mind, always took root.

The only way that he could prove her innocent was to wait. She’d be showing soon if she were pregnant.

Of course, the rest of the world would assume that the child was his. This wouldn’t be the first time one man’s child had been foisted on another. He decided he would not take out his anger and sense of betrayal on a child.

But what of the mother?

He’d not touch her.

This would be the price he would pay for marrying a woman without first knowing her true character. And this way was safer for him.

He’d always been accused of having a soft heart. He’d always been the one to forgive easily, only to be played for a fool by others’ dirty tricks.

However, Tara could hurt him in a way no one else could.

He’d fallen in love with her. He had only to look at her and his heart yearned for a world he feared did not exist.

But his dogs were poor company when compared to his wife.

He was thinking that one morning when he woke. He did not like his makeshift bed of chairs or sleeping in his breeches for modesty’s sake. After all, he didn’t want to be caught naked by one of the maids. Yet his pride would not let him move to another bedroom. He knew his uncles and his clansmen. They would be in his business in no time at all.

Of course, pretending to be in the bedroom with his wife was not easy. It put him in close proximity to her every morning.

So far, he’d been able to steal into their room before she woke. He felt he was adept at it, so he had no reason to suspect that she realized what he was doing—until the next time he went in, reached for his clothes on a peg, and turned to find his wife awake and blocking his way out of the room.

“Good morning, Breccan,” she said, her voice quiet. She wore her hair down. He ached to bury his hands in it.

“Morning,” he answered. He started to move past her, but she stepped in his way.

“It is Sunday, Breccan. We need to go to church.”

He frowned. “I don’t go to church.”

“You have before.”

To see her.
“I don’t go to church.”

She didn’t budge from where she stood, and he couldn’t ease his way around her without touching her, a dangerous proposition. “We must set an example,” she said. “Your clansmen, your tenants, they all need church. Besides, people will wonder what we are doing with our mornings if we don’t appear in church.”

He debated arguing with her. However, her hint that people would believe he spent his mornings rogering his wife, as desirable as that sounded, made him consider attending church this one Sunday. In fact, he might need the Reverend Kinnion’s support if an annulment was required.

“We may go to church,” he said.

“Good. Now sit in the chair over there by the basin and let me shave your face.”

“I don’t need a shave—” He’d raised a hand to his whiskers, feeling the roughness of his two days’ growth of beard.

“You look like a goat,” she interrupted him. “Now sit and don’t argue with me.”

There was a bite to her words. He could shave himself . . . and yet, a part of him wondered what she was about. A part of him appreciated and longed for her company.

Could he not indulge himself, just for a few minutes?

He sat in the chair next to the washbasin and close to the window, so she could use the early-morning light. He noticed that she had found draperies and hung them. Every day she brought something new to his home, small touches that made it more welcoming.

She mixed his shaving soap in a cup with a brush.

“Have you done this before?” he asked.

“No.” She turned to him, brush in hand. “But it can’t be hard.”

She started to lather his beard. He caught her wrist. Her bones were so fine, so elegant compared to his huge paws. “You wouldn’t want to cut my throat,” he cautioned.

Tara smiled. That lovely, lovely smile. A man could bask forever in the memory of it. “Be brave, Breccan. Live dangerously.”

“I am. I’m married, aren’t I?”

His response had come to his lips before he’d even thought of it. It was the sort of thing the men working with him would say a hundred times a day.

But it was not a wise thing to say now. Especially when a sadness came to Tara’s expressive eyes. “Aye you are,” she agreed, mimicking his brogue.

She picked up the straight-edge razor. “Hold still.”

And Breccan did as she said, for many reasons. Perhaps because it was early in the morning and what harm could be done? He sat in a chair; she stood.

She placed the blade against his skin and pulled it. He could feel the whiskers being neatly sheared off. She must have sharpened the razor.

Her body leaned over him. She was soft, warm. Her scent reminded him of midsummer roses. Again, and again she drew the razor blade across his skin.

The tricky parts were the places around his nose and close to his ears. She tickled him, and he couldn’t help but smile. He opened his eyes and saw she was smiling as well, as if she took great pleasure in her work.

“Tilt your head back,” she ordered.

He did, closing his eyes. It felt good to be pampered.

But he also waited for the first nick, first burn of being sliced. It didn’t come. She’d been careful—

She climbed onto his lap, her legs straddling his hips. Her lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath his jaw.

Breccan feared he dreamed.

He’d wanted this.
Dear God, how he’d wanted this
.

Her nightdress was hiked above her knees. He knew because he’d brought his hand down upon her thigh and felt bare skin. Her lips found his.

Breccan had been born to kiss this woman. He liked the taste of her. He adored her response to desire and willingness to take the kiss deeper, to make it meaningful.

Her body moved closer to him. Her sex was over his with only the material of his breeches separating them.

And she was hot, wet.

His errant manhood, which had always had a mind of its own and had been trying to rise to attention from the moment Breccan had first had a thought to enter the bedroom, now roared to life full force. The erection pressed against his breeches, a beast begging to be fulfilled.

Tara slid her arms around his neck, her kiss taking on urgency.

Did she know what she was doing to him?

Breccan couldn’t tell. There was an earnestness about her as well as a woman’s need. His hand rose to her breasts. Those sweet, sweet breasts that he’d only dreamed of touching. He’d yet to explore them. He wanted to taste them, to squeeze them, to celebrate them. Were her nipples pink or brown? Did she like his mouth upon them? All were questions he’d wondered.

She made the softest moue as his thumb circled the tip of her breast. They felt full, as if begging him to pleasure them.

Her hand came between them. He felt her trace the line of his breeches, searching for the button. She found it and twisted it free. First one, then a second.

Her head pushed toward him. The back of her fingers caressed him as they continued their quest to set him free.

Breccan wanted to help her. He wanted to pull the nightdress over her head and carry her naked to the bed. He wanted to lay her down upon the counterpane and plow into her over and over again—

And he realized what was happening.

He realized her hold over him. She bewitched him. She robbed of
reason
. Of
respect
. Of
honor.

It took more strength than he ever thought he had to grab her hands by the wrists and push her away.

Aye, he lifted her up, but it wasn’t to take her to the bed, but to set her aside. He was in such a hurry, he wasn’t careful, and she fell to the floor.

He didn’t offer to help her up, but ran from the room. God help him, he ran.

Chapter Sixteen

B
reccan had rejected her.

Worse, he had run from her.

Tara pushed her hair back with a distracted hand. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. It had taken all her courage to be so bold. She’d been acting on instinct. She was surprised at how she’d seem to know what to do—and they had come very close to doing it. Even now, desire was heavy in the air.

She began shaking, whether from rage or some other emotion, she didn’t know.

It wasn’t right the way he was treating her. And she didn’t have to tolerate it. She didn’t.

A cold nose nudged her.

Tara looked over to see that Daphne had wandered into the room and sat on the floor with a worried look on her face.

“Why are you here?” Tara asked the dog. “You deserted me as well.”

Daphne stood but did not leave. She placed a paw on Tara’s thigh.

“I don’t know what to do,” Tara confessed. “And right now, I hate him. I don’t understand him.” A knot had formed in her stomach, one of fear and disappointment.

She placed her hand on Daphne. The dog moved closer as if apologizing for all that distressed Tara. “It’s all right. It will be all right.” She drew a breath, then confessed, “I never thought to fall in love. It is not what I thought it would be. I had believed love was where everything was perfect. But it isn’t, Daphne. It is about knowing that someone is hurting. I’ve hurt Breccan, and I don’t know what I’ve done.”

The admission rang with truth.

And it made sense. Her husband was big and strong. He had a warrior’s skill and courage . . . but he had a saint’s heart. This was a man who thought of other people before himself.

“He is afraid of me,” she told Daphne. “Does he believe I would hurt him?”

Daphne stared at her intently, as if trying to send a message to Tara. These dogs trusted Breccan. His people could trust him.

So why had he turned on Tara the way he had?

“Does he not trust me, Daphne?”

The dog didn’t say anything, but in her heart, Tara heard the echo of truth.

Breccan’s attitude toward her had switched dramatically. And yet, his response to her a moment ago had been very real.

So had hers. She’d been eager for them to consummate their union, but there had been something deeper driving her. She wanted to be as close as she could be to this man. And he’d wanted her. She’d never believe him if he denied it.

Indeed, from the moment they met on the road from Annefield, her awareness of him was far too keen for him to have just been a passing player in her life.

“He’s the one.” One life; one love . . . and if she wasn’t careful, she would lose him.

Tara came to her feet. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her face appeared pinched, tight. Her eyes were sad, and the sight brought out her fighting spirit.

Before he’d married her, Tara had not known what she wanted. She’d chosen to return to London because it was familiar.

But now she yearned for something more meaningful in her life.

Daphne sat on her haunches, watching Tara with anxious eyes, and that is when Tara had an insight.

“It was Owen Campbell. He said something.” Yes, of course, it made sense. Breccan had been anxious for her company until after his cousin’s visit. That is when Breccan changed. “I left them alone, and who knows what his cousin said against me.”

Tara doubled her fists. “I should have seen this sooner. This is the sort of intrigue society thrives on. Breccan doesn’t understand jealousy. Or mean-spiritedness.” Or perhaps he did too well. After all, she thought him very mean to her.

“Well, I shall teach him a lesson,” she vowed. She shook her finger at the dog. “He had better never shut me out again. I will let him have this one time, but he’s going to learn.” And with that vow, Tara began to dress. She wasn’t certain what form her lesson would take, but she was determined to ensure he never treated her this way again.

A
n idea had come to Breccan for an improvement to a bit of land that needed to be drained. It would not be a hard feat to perform.

The task also kept his mind off his wife.

She’d felt so good in his arms this morning. She’d filled them just right.

But he had to wonder at her change of heart. Before she had been shy about being with him. This morning, she was overeager, almost desperate. Perhaps because she needed his seed spilled to make him believe the baby was his—?

He threw down the pen he’d been using and pushed away from the desk. He was going mad.

The woman had him chasing himself with wild thoughts.

He didn’t want to believe this of her.

Largo and the foxhounds were spread out across the floor sleeping. When he stood, they rose, tails wagging. They moved forward for a pat. “I don’t want to feel this way about her,” he confided. “I bloody hate it. And I don’t know what I shall do if she is with child.”

Would he live the rest of his life this way?

He picked up his drawing and stomped out of the room. He didn’t know where Tara was. He’d not paid attention. He needed to work to release the impotent rage he felt.

A half hour later, he had a shovel in hand and was heading toward the land he needed to drain. His path crossed with Lachlan’s

“Where are you going?” his uncle asked.

“I want to see what happens if I dig a ditch by that bit of marsh. I wouldn’t mind having it dry.”

“Breccan, it is Sunday, a day of rest. Why are you not with your wife?”

For a second, he thought of telling his uncle. He’d fling out the anger he felt, release the bitterness and the bile—but the words stuck in his throat.

Breccan found he could not hurt her. God help him, she had the power to sting with a hundred darts, and he could not raise a hand against her . . . because he loved her. He bloody loved her. Something about her connected with something inside himself.

“She had other plans,” Breccan said, and would have moved on, except for his uncle’s hand on his arm.

“Wait,” Lachlan said. “I’ll come do some digging with you. Let me change my clothes. Fetch a shovel for me.”

Breccan could have said he would prefer to be alone, but his own company was making him miserable. “I’ll wait.”

Lachlan did not take long. He met Breccan by the edge of the far field, and the two went down to the stretch of marsh together.

It did not take long for Breccan to tell Lachlan his plan for the ditch. The two men set to work, and in a little time, the task was accomplished.

“Were you expecting this to fill with water?” Lachlan asked when they were almost done.

“In time.” Breccan climbed to the ground above the ditch to study it a moment. “There is a spring up there that has kept this ground wet. We’ll see if the ditch will drain it in this direction. It may also provide us with water.”

Lachlan shook his head. “All for a wee patch of land.”

“We have to use all we have,” Breccan assured him.

“You are always thinking. You are as far away in spirit from my brother as the moon is from the sun.”

The compliment pleased Breccan. He did not want to be compared to his father.

“Well,” Lachlan hedged, “except in one matter. Men can be selfish when they love.”

For a second, Breccan didn’t think he’d heard his uncle correctly. “I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of being selfish.”

Lachlan pushed some dirt with his shovel. “Aye, you are a good man, Breccan. A generous one . . . except to your wife.”

Breccan straightened. “This is not a conversation I want.”

“It is a conversation you are going to receive,” his uncle said. “Your father is gone, not that he would have anything to say. Jonas is the next oldest, and we all know he has no common sense so, it comes down to me.”

“And what do you have to say?”

“You aren’t being good to your wife.”

The accusation rankled.

“I don’t know that that is your business,” Breccan said.

“It has to be,” his uncle returned. “You are being a fool.”

“You don’t understand.” Breccan started to walk away. He did not have to listen to this.

“I know more than you think, lad,” Lachlan answered. “You are not being fair to her. You are punishing her, and it is clear for anyone to see.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes you are. And no one understands it, most of all your lady. You might as well beat those dogs.” Lachlan nodded to Largo and Terrance.

Tidbit was rooting through the brush. Daphne had a mind and will of her own and had taken back up with Tara. Breccan was not pleased with her defection. It was as if the terrier disapproved of him as well.

“Tara and I are not a love match,” Breccan heard himself admit. “We have an arrangement. A bargain. She’s planning on leaving for London as soon as she is able.”

“I did not have that impression of her,” Lachlan said.

“Well, then, that’s all you know.” Breccan set off for the house, but his uncle stepped in front of him.

“Don’t be a dunderhead, lad. Anyone with eyes can see the two of you are a match.”

Breccan didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want his thoughts directed this way. He would have walked off a second time, but Lachlan put a hand on his chest, a warning for him to halt.

“I will not let you be a fool, nephew. You are daft in love with your wife. From the moment you married, you have appeared like a man who has a priceless jewel and doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“I know what to do. I choose not.”

“
Och,
the way you talk. What has she done to earn your disdain?”

“That is not a matter for you,” Breccan answered.

“No, you are right. It is not my business. However, I used to have a rage with my wife. Something would set me off. Usually, it had to do with the fact I was leaving, and it hurt so much every time I walked away from them. Aye, I was doing my duty, but that didn’t make it easier. Nursing some supposed slight or hurt, well, it made me feel justified for going off on one more voyage. I’d tell myself, she needed the time to do some thinking. Whenever I returned home, everything was forgiven. We would be at each other like rabbits.” Lachlan laughed at memories. The years fell away from him.

He looked to Breccan. “I loved her, man. I loved my children. But my children would leave someday. That is what they are born to do. My wife, she was my rock. She was the only person who wasn’t afraid to chastise me when I was wrong or laugh at me when I was foolish. It’s good to have someone who loves you and who is that honest. Now, I’m left with Jonas. It is a sorry sight.”

“I understand your sadness. I can’t imagine losing all—”

“That’s life, Breccan. None of us are meant to go on forever. What hurts, what weighs me down, is that I’d had one of these piques before I left on that last voyage. I thought I was teaching her a lesson by not talking to her, so she knew I was angry—”

The guilt of recognition whispered in Breccan’s ear.

“—I don’t know what we argued about. It no longer matters. I had hurt pride, and I was an ass. I looked at how she was behaving and didn’t pay enough attention to my own manner. When I sailed into the harbor homeward bound, I couldn’t wait to put my arms around her. I’d had an epiphany out at sea. I realized that I was causing pain to the most important person in my life. I was determined to change. I wanted to put my arms around her and promise I’d never behave that way again.”

Lachlan drew a deep breath and slowly released it. He raised eyes shiny with tears to meet Breccan’s gaze. “Don’t be an ass. I had years with my woman. I think she understood me. I know she forgave me. You don’t have that luxury, Breccan. You can destroy something good with your pride.”

He handed his shovel over to Breccan. “There, that is all I wanted to say. You are a man. You make your own decisions. But I pray you are wiser than I.” He turned and walked away.

Breccan watched his uncle cross the field. His shoulders were stooped. How many years had Lachlan kept that inside himself? It had to be almost twenty years since his family had died. And yet, the pain of losing his wife had been real and present.

It was a long time before Breccan left that place.

T
ara had gone to church.

There were always women, mostly widows, who sat alone. Tara was not excited about attending without her husband, but she was thankful she was there. Church always gave her a place where she could think.

Her cousin Sabrina and uncle Richard were there, and she sat with them. Her father was not present. Sabrina murmured that no one had heard anything about him.

Sabrina and Tara were not close. Her cousin was more Aileen’s confidante than Tara’s. She also had an annoying habit of acting as if she thought Tara was a brat. The brat in Tara was highly offended.

Sabrina was a brunette of medium height. There was just enough red in her hair that people could claim to see the family resemblance.

But today, Sabrina’s company provided a safe haven until her cousin said after services, “You are married?”

Tara could feel people around them pause in their conversations, waiting for her answer. She knew what to do. She put on her brightest smile. “Yes, I am, and happily so.”

“But was this not sudden?”

“Sometimes matters work in that direction,” Tara said.

“So, where is Laird Breccan?” Sabrina asked. “Why did he not accompany you to services?”

Tara vowed that the next time they were alone, she would scold her cousin on her lapse of manners. It was an awkward question. But then Tara realized the right answer was the truth. “The laird has many projects that will help the clan and the valley. He is working on one now.” That was the truth. If Breccan wasn’t seeing to the cottages, he would be with the horses or the mill or some new scheme hatching in his mind.

Her uncle looked down his nose at her. “Laird Breccan is an ugly man.”

“He is not,” Tara said. “He has strong features, but I find him the most remarkable of any man I know.” And she spoke the truth. Looking around those milling about after the service, she thought Breccan far more handsome than any man here. His face had character.

“You might need eye spectacles,” Uncle Richard replied.