The Bride Says Maybe (17 page)

“Perhaps my vision is better than yours,” she returned evenly in a tone that would have made a duchess proud.

She was saved from more of this conversation by Reverend Kinnion’s approach. “My lady,” he said, “it is good to see you.” He took the hand she offered and scrutinized her a moment. “Marriage agrees with you,” he said.

Again, Tara plastered on her smile. “How nice of you to say so.”

“Seriously,” he emphasized, and took a step closer. “I had my doubts for you that night. I know the laird fairly well. I admire what he is doing.”

“As I do myself,” Tara agreed, hoping Sabrina and Uncle Richard were paying attention so that she would hear Breccan praised.

“But the largest difference is in yourself,” the Reverend Kinnion said. “There is a new maturity about you. This is good. I look for this in the brides I marry. It is a sign that the marriage agrees with you.”

It took all of Tara’s willpower to not burst into tears. “Thank you, sir,” she said, then excused herself. One of Wolfstone’s stable lads waited with the pony cart she’d driven over. She now climbed into it, gave a jaunty wave of her hand to no one in particular, and drove home.

Sunday would be a day of rest for most people, except Breccan. She heard that he was doing some work in a far field. For a second, she was tempted to go after him, but then decided she could not do that. She’d gone to him. She’d humbled herself to him—and he had rejected her.

This was her third rejection by a man in the last two months, but this one wrenched her heart. The famed Helen of London seemed to be a Scottish crone in the valley.

Tara promised herself that she would not wallow in self-pity. If Breccan wanted her, he was going to have to crawl on his knees. And until then, she was done with men. They had become too difficult to understand. They were mercurial creatures prone to lunacy.

That evening, she escaped to her room as soon as possible.

The light of a full moon poured in through the bedroom window. She thought about closing the drapes but decided she liked the room filled with silvery light. She climbed into bed, then, needing company, went to the door to fetch Daphne from the pile of dogs on the landing. If Breccan didn’t want to grace her bed, she would fill it one way or another.

But when she opened the door, she found Breccan there, preparing to knock.

For a long moment, they took each other’s measure, then Tara slammed the door in his face as hard as she could.

And it felt good. It gave her a bit of her own back. How
dare
he knock at her door? How dare he appear now after she’d spent the day doing nothing but thinking of him?

But then the handle turned, and her husband walked into the bedroom.

Chapter Seventeen

B
reccan stepped into the room and held up his hands as if to show her he meant no harm. He shut the door with his shoulder.

But Tara wasn’t feeling forgiving. “What? Do you need your clothes? Your shaving strop?” She crossed her arms tightly against her chest.

It was actually hard for her to speak. Her chest was tight with not just anger but also hurt, pain.

How did one overcome the sadness he’d brought to her?

And even though she tried to hold herself together, to keep her pride intact, what she was feeling must have shown on her face.

He raked his hair with one hand before saying, “Tara, I’m sorry.”

She nodded. Anything she might have said would have been cruel, mean. Now that he was here, she wanted to strike out.

Instead, she pivoted on her heel and walked across the room, placing the bed between them. “Go about your business and leave,” she said, sitting with her back to him. Indeed, it hurt to look at him. She wanted to detest him . . . but she didn’t.

She loved him.

He’d won her heart. He was all that was noble and brave.

Breccan had also changed her. London no longer held any appeal. At Wolfstone, she could see her that life had meaning.

She could feel him watching her. She doubled the hands in her lap into fists, her nails biting the palms. She wished he’d say something, then immediately feared what he might say. What if he had come to tell her to leave?

“I have a story,” he said.

To the devil with his stories
.

“This one is about a troll. Do you know what trolls are?”

Tara didn’t answer. Instead, she closed her eyes as if she could make herself stop hearing him.

“Well, they are ugly creatures,” he continued. “They come from the north. Some are small and some are tall. They aren’t handsome. Each of them might have a good heart, but first you’d have to look past their big noses and awkward bodies. And being that way, well, it causes them to be a bit defensive.”

“A bit?”
The words just snapped out of her.

There was a beat of silence where Tara could see him smile. “More than a bit.”

She nodded. That was better. She opened her eyes, focusing on the corner closest to her. When she’d first arrived here, there had been dog hair in the corner. She’d cleaned it with her bare hands. After all, this was their room. Their haven.

“This one troll,” he continued, “he was conscious, perhaps more than the others, of being unhandsome. He felt slighted, and it colored the way he saw others. He also admired things that were lovely to behold. He thought that if he had children, he didn’t want them to be trolls. He wanted to save them from being mocked.”

“You can’t save people from what others think,” Tara said tartly. “Small minds can niggle on any detail.”

“Aye, that is true. But the troll did not know that. Trolls aren’t always wise. He looked at the world beyond his reach and wanted to be part of it. He wanted his children to feel as if they could go anywhere, do anything.”

The mattress gave as he sat down upon it.

She tried not to think of his coming closer. Then she would have a decision to make—whether or not to trust him. She might be better off alone. Loneness would save her from living with someone judging her and constantly finding her lacking.

“So, this troll dreamed of winning the hand of a beautiful—” He paused as if searching for a word.

“Selkie?” she suggested.

“Yes, a beautiful selkie with blue eyes.”

“What if her eyes were brown or green,” Tara challenged.

“Or red,” he acknowledged. “He just wanted her beauty. He also wanted everyone to see her on his arm; and then they wouldn’t think him a troll. They might believe he was a man of merit.”

Tara looked over her shoulder. Breccan was stretched out on his side, his hand propping his head up. “Shall I mention small minds again?” she asked.

Breccan waved a dismissive hand. “It wouldn’t matter. Trolls don’t think deeply.”

“Some do.”

“No, see that is where you are wrong,” he assured her. “They fool you into believing that they consider their words, but trolls can act in capricious ways.”

“This is unfortunate for them.”

“Aye. But trolls are not perfect. Sometimes they don’t think clearly.”

Tara studied the pattern of the counterpane in the silver moonlight before ordering, “Go on.”

“This troll tricked the selkie into marrying him. She had a father that did not take care of his debts, and the troll took advantage of that. He was willing to take advantage of many things because he wanted the selkie in a very bad way. Trolls can be selfish in that way. They can walk over anything for what they want. Even people.”

She pulled her knees up, her heels on the bed. She wrapped her hands around her legs, listening.

“However, this troll discovered that selkies have minds of their own. A pretty face doesn’t mean she can’t think.”

“Selkies aren’t perfect,” she pointed out.

“No,” he agreed. “But it makes it difficult for a troll when he realizes that what he married wasn’t some mythical creature but a human one. And then, he starts thinking about his own faults, his own pride. Trolls have great pride.”

“So do selkies.”

Breccan smiled. “Perhaps trolls and selkies have more in common than what they thought.”

“Perhaps.” She unfolded her legs and faced him. “I’m not going to make this easy for you, Breccan. If this is an apology, I want to hear it.”

The smile left his face. He sat up. She realized he was in his stocking feet. She wondered, distractedly, where his boots were. And then his hand tilted her chin up so she could meet his eye.

“You are right. This is one time a story can’t help. I felt a disappointment, Tara, and I took it out on you. I realize I was unfair.”

“What were you disappointed about?”

He searched her face, then said, “Nothing. It no longer matters.”

“But it did at one time.”

Breccan reached out and touched her hair. His hand rested on her shoulder. “Not really. The fear was in me.”

Tara hesitated, uncertain, yet she had to ask, “And what do you fear?”

“Being hurt. I was born to love you, lass, and I had to learn that it was all right if you hurt me.”

For a second, she couldn’t speak. “You love me?” Gratitude overwhelmed her. He cared. He
loved
her. This remarkable man had just, in his own way, declared himself to her.

He took her choked silence for disagreement. He pulled his hand away. “I know men far better than I have declared themselves to you. I know that I’m not worthy—”

She cut him off by throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him with all she had.

Whatever words he was going to say, she swallowed, climbing into his lap.

The kiss broke only when she was forced to take a breath. Their noses were inches from each other. And was it her imagination, or were his eyes shiny with the same tears of joy that escaped from hers?

“I love you, Breccan Campbell. I love you with all the passion and depth of my being. You hurt me terribly when you wouldn’t speak to me. You wouldn’t even tell me what I’d done wrong, so that I could make it right.”

“Tara, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was a bumble-headed fool.”

She nodded her agreement, but she wasn’t going to let it go. Not yet.

“I would never treat you in that manner. You must promise me, you will never injure me with silence again. Shout at me, rail against me, hiss at me how angry I’ve made you—but no silence.”

He gathered her in his arms. “No silence. Never again.” He leaned to kiss her, but she pulled back.

“And trust between us? Please, Breccan. Trust me?”

She could see this request was more difficult for him, and then he said, “Aye, I trust you. You are my wife, Tara. You are my heart.”

His words made her so happy, she felt she glowed with joy.

“Now,” he said, a new huskiness in his tone, “where did we leave off this morning?”

She slid on his lap so that her legs straddled his hips. “We were here,” she said.

He tilted back his head and laughed and she could feel that he was aroused. She was as well.

“You are such a brawny man,” she said, her body moving against him with a will of its own.

His answer was to pull the hem of her nightdress, which was riding her thighs, up and over her arms and head. He dropped it to the floor—and she was gloriously naked.

Blushing wildly, she thought to cover herself up but then caught herself. This was the man she loved. She could be vulnerable with him.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered. “More lovely than any selkie, especially in the moonlight.” He cupped her breasts. His hands were warm on her skin. “I have dreamed of these.”

His touch felt good. She felt herself relax, trusting him and allowing herself to enjoy the feeling of his hands on this most sensitive of skin. Deep within her, she experienced a tightening, a hunger, a need.

Tara covered his hands with her own. Her nipples were tight and hard against his palm. He had a man’s hands, knowledgeable ones. She bent forward and kissed him.

He weighed her breasts, then traced the curve of her waist to her hips. Her hair created a curtain around their kiss. Their tongues brushed. The kiss deepened, and suddenly they both tired of waiting.

Breccan sat up and started undressing. Tara helped him. It wasn’t the most efficient method. They managed to be in each other’s way, and the only negotiation was kisses . . . kisses and laughter.

B
reccan had not thought of combining the act of love with humor. And yet, with Tara that seemed a natural combination.

She was sweetly shy and ticklish. There was also his determination to touch every inch of her body.

Unbuttoning his breeches was a challenge. First, he was ready to burst. He needed release. His body begged for it. But she almost unmanned him when she began helping with those pesky buttons. If he could have ripped his breeches off his body, he would have.

As it was, Tara would undo a button, then be too charmed by the velvety soft hardness of his erection and forget her task. It was as if she’d never seen such a thing before. She laughed when he was finally free and she could run a hand up the length of him.

Her soft laughter had the sound of joy in it.

Breccan was suddenly humbled that this lovely woman would honor him with her love. He no longer questioned her motives. He never would again. There was an honesty about Tara that no man could challenge.

He leaned her back on the bed, her glorious hair spread across the pillow. He raised himself up over her. She smiled and opened her arms to him. She was ready for him. It had not taken much, and Breccan was tired of denying himself. With one smooth thrust, he entered her—

He did not register the barrier he’d broken until she flinched in pain and tried to move away from him. He immediately understood what had happened and cursed himself a hundred times.

What a fool he had been to believe Owen.

Breccan rolled onto his back, wrapping his arms around her and carrying her with him. He held her tight so that she could not run. Her heart was racing like that of snared rabbit.

“It’s all right,” he whispered into her hair. He was still inside her. He could feel the tension in her body, yet she embraced him deeply. “Just relax. You are fine,” he assured her.

She raised herself, her surprised eyes reflecting the moonlight from the window. “I don’t like that,” she said.

“I understand. It was a shock.”

“Is that it? Is it over?”

Breccan tightened his hold on both her and himself. He wanted to thrust, to go deeper, but first he had to help her.

He rolled her back to the bed. He was settled between her legs. He braced his weight with his arms. “Can you trust me?” he asked.

That line of worry that marred her brow was there, but she nodded. Her hands rested on his shoulders, but they were doubled into fists.

“Will you trust me?” he repeated.

She looked into his eyes and nodded reluctantly.

“The worst is over,” he promised.

“How do you know?”

His wife had the mind of a barrister. “I don’t,” he admitted. “But if it hurts, all you have to say is ‘Breccan, stop,’ and I will.”

He hoped he could.

Even now it was hard to hold himself back, yet she nodded, offering the trust he had requested.

She was so tight, so deliciously hot. He could feel her deep muscles start to accommodate him as she relaxed. He prayed he knew what he was doing.

Breccan was well endowed, but his wife seemed to adjust for him. He began moving, tentatively. He did not want to harm her again. He watched her eyes, those expressive eyes that mirrored every emotion she experienced.

Ah, but she felt good to him. People lauded his strength. Little would they know how much he had to use now to rein himself in.

Each movement took him a little deeper.

Her fists on his shoulders relaxed. She tilted her head back, changing the angle of her body to give him easier access. He kissed that neck. He lined it with kisses, then dared to bury himself to the hilt.

Tara gasped.

Breccan covered her lips with his, not wanting her to stop him. No woman had ever felt as good as Tara . . . and then she moaned softly, arching her hips, inviting him closer—and Breccan was lost.

He moved with intent now. Her precious body had no trouble accepting the length of him. It was as if she’d been made for him.

Too quickly, he reached the point where, if she’d said stop, he could not have, even if she’d shouted to the ceiling. He was driven to possess her. She was
his
. All of her.

And any child created this night would be his blood.

Tara responded to his thrusts, meeting him with a passion of her own.

Now it was Breccan who became the student. He wanted to learn how best to please her, to understand every nuance of her body and she was generous enough to teach him—

He felt her tighten. Her muscles grabbed him, pulled him.

She cried his name. Her arms were around his neck, and he held her as her body reached the pinnacle of desire. It ripped through her, tightening and moving in a way he’d never experienced from a woman before.