The Bride Says Maybe (2 page)

Chapter Two

T
hey rode through the mist with a purpose, three grim-faced men set on a mission, their hats pulled low over their brows against the weather.

In three hours, it would be darkest night.

In three hours, the tallest of them, Breccan Campbell, laird of the Black Campbells, would have a wife.

They reached the crossroad that would take them to Annefield, ancestral home of the Davidsons. Breccan started to turn his horse Jupiter up the road, but his uncle Jonas reined short. He was a spry man for his age and half Breccan’s height.

“There is time to turn back, nephew,” Jonas said.

“Turn back?” Breccan asked. “And do what?”

“Have a nice dinner and keg of ale,” Jonas answered stoutly, “in front of a roaring
hot
fire.” He smacked his lips in appreciation. Ahead of them, Breccan’s other uncle, Lachlan, turned his horse around to join them.

“And what of my word to the Davidson?” Breccan wondered. The Davidson was known as the earl of Tay. Breccan held to the old ways. Breccan himself would be considered an earl, but he was proud to be laird. Laird Breccan they called him to single him out from the other Campbells. He knew the title was not always a sign of respect. There were those who feared him and his kin, and with good cause.

“Burn his chits and let him be damned,” Jonas said, referring to Davidson’s debt vouchers Breccan now held in his possession. It had not taken him long to collect them. None of Davidson’s creditors had thought he would honor his debts and they’d been happy to sell them to Breccan for mere shillings on the pound. “There are other things you could have done with that money than to buy yourself a bride,” Jonas assured him. “Besides,
you
can have almost any other lass for free, and she would be more robust and bonnie. The Davidson lass is a whey-faced thing.”

Yes, Breccan was buying a wife, but he did not agree with Jonas’s description of Tara Davidson. She was no ordinary woman. ’Twas said that men in London lined the walk in front of her house for just one glimpse of her shining red hair and blue eyes. Breccan understood why. From the moment she had ridden onto his property, demanding to speak to his horse master with all the high-handedness of a queen, he’d been smitten.

He’d always thought tales of sirens claiming a man’s soul or bawdy women leading men to destruction to be nonsense. Men were created of sturdier stuff than that—and then he’d met Lady Tara.

She’d barely spared him a glance that day, but her presence had moved something deep in his soul, something he would have denied existed if he’d been asked.

Breccan wanted many things in life. He wasn’t afraid of hard work or making sacrifices, but in that moment of meeting, he’d never wanted anything more than he had her. He was obsessed with her. He’d even gone to the kirk so he could have another look at her.
Him!
A man who had always claimed the kirk walls would come tumbling down around him if he’d ever stepped foot in a sanctuary. But he had done so . . . for her.

And he knew himself well enough to realize he’d have no peace until he had her. Then, perhaps, he would be more himself again. Then he could pay attention to his accounts and his work and not lose hours in the day and night trying to recall the exact shade of blue in her eyes.

But Jonas and Lachlan did not know any of this. Indeed, he’d not mentioned her name until an hour ago when he’d announced he would marry.

Davidson had readily agreed to the marriage when Breccan had proposed the arrangement to him. Indeed, he’d happily sold his daughter if it meant Breccan wouldn’t throw him into a debtor’s prison. This far from London, the drunkard didn’t have any of his English friends to protect him. And here, in Scotland, a man paid his debts, or it was taken out of his hide.

Breccan looked to his younger uncle. “What do you think, Lachlan? Do you agree with Jonas?”

Lachlan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Does it make a difference what I think, Breccan? You’ve already made up your mind.”

Because of Lachlan’s years with the navy, his accent was not as thick as Breccan’s and Jonas’s . . . something that never seemed to bother Jonas but of which Breccan was painfully aware. Lady Tara had English manners, and her voice had just the melody of Scotland to it without the harshness.

“I would hear what you have to say,” Breccan said. “Let us clear the air.”

“Then before we ride up that hill to take your wife, I would ask what your reasons are, lad?” Lachlan said. “You’ve not shown a particular preference for any one woman before—”

“Because he behaves like a monk,” Jonas interjected. “Which is a waste of a God-given gift. If I had what you had, Breccan, I’d be forking them all. The ladies would love me. Aye, that they would.”

Breccan could feel the heat rise to his skin, and he was grateful for the wool muffler around his neck. Jonas might think a man’s balls something to brag about, but Breccan felt anything but pride. He was painfully aware of his great size, and not just of his privates. He always stood a head taller than other men in the room. There was no way he could hide his presence or appear to be “amongst” the company instead of head and shoulders over it. His hands were the size of bear paws, and the cobbler always complained that his shoes required twice the amount of leather as a normal man.

A normal man.

A graceful one. A genteel one like his cousin Owen Campbell or any of the other of that side of the family. They all compared Breccan to a great ox and considered him as dumb as one. It was a grand joke amongst them. He would never be thought of as a gentleman or expected to cut a fine figure on the dance floor the way they did.

In truth, he was bloody tired of being mocked for his size. Aye, his great strength was good for chopping wood or for working his lands. There were few chores he could not do. Even the blacksmith would ask him to lift his anvil for him. But Breccan also had to watch his every move. If he was not mindful of his actions, he would swing his arm and put a dent in a plaster wall or knock over his chair if he moved too quickly.

And the worst was people’s believing he lacked intelligence. They talked to him as if he were slow.

But their opinions would change when they saw him with Lady Tara on his arm. A man was not only respected if he had a beautiful wife, people were jealous of him.

There was also another reason he wanted to marry her—the Black Campbells were not a handsome lot.

Breccan’s own mother had been a good woman but a homely one. And, for all his blather, Jonas didn’t have a lady. Lachlan had been married once, but he was alone now. The Black Campbells were harsh-looking men. They had strong noses and jaws that were too square. While the other side of the Campbells were fair of hair and skin, Breccan and his kin were swarthy, with the look of the Romany, an unfavorable comparison if ever there was one.

Lady Tara would change that. She would give Breccan’s children the fairness he lacked. His sons and daughters would be accepted. All doors would be open to them.

But these reasons were not ones Breccan wished to share with his uncles.

“I want her because I want her,” he replied to Lachlan.

His uncle gazed up the mist-covered road a moment before saying, “A wife is not like owning a dog, Breccan. They have a will of their own.”

“Aye, women can be pesky,” Jonas agreed. “Your mother was a saint, bless her soul, but she was the exception. Lasses like her are rare. Women, as a rule, are demanding. They can make a man’s life hell.”

“If that was the case, why do so many men marry?” Breccan returned.

“That’s a question every man has asked himself
after
the wedding,” Lachlan assured him in jest. Jonas laughed his agreement.

Breccan straightened his shoulders and lifted his reins. “I must marry to keep the line alive, or would you rather have Wolfstone fall into the hands of Breadalbane to be turned over to one such as Owen Campbell?”

“Of course you must marry,” Jonas said. “But not this woman.” He kicked his horse forward as if to block Breccan’s way. “I’ve seen her. She’s a lovely morsel, but a pasty thing. There are kelpies bigger than her. You would split her in half, lad. You need a woman with some meat on her bones. One with breasts the size of melons.” His eyes brightened with appreciation for the image he was conjuring.

Breccan didn’t share his joy. Once again, his size was mentioned; however, for a second, his certitude wavered.
Could
he hurt Lady Tara? He wanted bairns off of her, but he didn’t want to physically harm her to beget them.

Lachlan seemed to sense his indecision although he might not know its cause. “It’s your choice whether we go up that road or not, Laird,” he said quietly. “We’ll follow, Jonas complaining as we go. You know how he is.”

“I’m not complaining,” Jonas shot back. “I’m being sensible. You want a wife, we’ll find you one, Breccan. But this Davidson lass is not the one. Besides, nothing good comes of any Davidson. Do you not remember the tale of how Darius Davidson cheated our grandfather out of ten head of cattle—

He broke off at the sound of pounding hooves coming in their direction. All three men looked up the road to Annefield.

A bay snorting fire charged out of the mist. Whoever the rider was, he was riding as if the devil were on his heels. The horse started to slow at the sight of the three Campbells, but then the man on his back kicked him hard and sent the horse flying past them, mud splattering up from his heels.

Breccan recognized the horse immediately. “That’s one of Davidson’s prime studs.” The Davidson racehorses were to be envied. Breccan didn’t just covet Lady Tara, he was well on his way to creating a stable to rival the earl of Tay’s. He knew those horses. He’d studied them with the goal of beating them.

“Who was on his back?” Lachlan asked.

“I don’t know,” Jonas said. “But that animal can run. I barely had a glimpse of the rider.”

“And there is no reason for the horse to be out on this road in the evening,” Breccan said. “Someone is stealing that stud.”

He didn’t wait for his uncles’ responses but set his own heels to Jupiter. The stallion bounded forward, anxious to prove his own mettle. He was young, strong and ambitious, much like Breccan himself. Given his head, he charged forward, gaining on the other horse in spite of Breccan’s weight on his back. All Breccan had to do was hold on.

Meanwhile, the other rider was having difficulty. Davidson’s horse knew something was wrong and didn’t want to leave his home. The horse tried to pull up, tossing his head and throwing off his stride. This gave Breccan the opportunity to catch them.

However, just as Jupiter approached, the stud decided to go flying again, giving a buck or two for his balance. His rider appeared to be no more than a lad in a filthy coat and a wide-brimmed hat. Those bucks proved to be too much for him. With a shout, he went tumbling off into the ditch on the side of the road. In a blink of an eye, the horse raced back to the safety of its stable, cutting across the road and disappearing into the forest.

The lad climbed out of the ditch on shaky feet. He looked up, saw Breccan, and decided to run, but Breccan was not going to let a thief escape.

He was a horse owner. He was outraged that the lad would help himself to horses, even if they were Davidson’s. He leaned in the saddle, scooped the lad up off the ground by the collar of his jacket and threw him across his pommel, knocking the wind out of him—

An unexpected softness brushed Breccan’s thigh.

Furthermore, the lad had a well-rounded and enticing bum.

For a second, Breccan was so startled by his reaction to the boy, he was tempted to dump him to the ground. He wasn’t one for lads.

But then the curve of the thief’s legs caught his notice. The boy wore boots that were too tall for him, but these were not the gangly legs of a young man.

Lachlan and Jonas rode up to join him. “You caught him,” Lachlan said. “Now, what shall you do with him?”

“Hang him,” Jonas said. “That’s what I say. Hang him now.”

Instead, Breccan lifted the lad by the scruff of the neck and held him out so that he could have a good look at him.

The boy was not happy. He flailed his arms, struggling to be free.

“Hold off,” Breccan barked . . . but all other words died in his throat as the lad’s hat fell off his head to release a braid of shining copper red hair. Large blue eyes, the color of the summer sky, turned their fury on him.

It was Jonas who summed up the situation with his usual aplomb. “You have caught yourself a wench, Breccan.”

“This is no wench,” Breccan said, speaking past a throat that had gone suddenly dry with desire. Now he understood the softness that had rested against his thigh. It had been the feel of firm and full breasts. “This is Lady Tara Davidson.”

Oh, yes, it was the beautiful Tara herself . . . dressed in lad’s clothes. Who could have known her legs were so long? Or so shapely?

What hot-blooded man wouldn’t find himself speechless at the sight? Breccan certainly was. Indeed, he couldn’t breathe.

He wasn’t the only one.

“God’s balls,” Jonas said with a whispered admiration.

“Aye,” Lachlan solemnly agreed.

For a second, Lady Tara hung helpless by Breccan’s hold on the back of her coat. She looked wild, adventurous, bold.

And then she surprised them all by doubling her fist and punching Breccan right in the nose. “Let go of me,” she commanded.

Lady Tara had a bit of strength in her arm. Her blow hurt. It was as if she’d discovered the one weak spot on his body.

Oh yes, the attack made him angry, along with the understanding that Tara Davidson was running away . . . and there was only one person from whom she could be fleeing—him.

She was attempting to escape marrying him. He’d heard rumors that she’d run from the last man she had promised to marry. And now she thought she could treat him with such disregard?

Breccan did as she bid. He let go.

Chapter Three

I
t was one thing to be tossed by a galloping horse but a completely different matter to be dropped—even when Tara had ordered the brute to do so.

On the horse, she had realized she was falling. She’d had trouble controlling the animal from the moment she’d climbed on his back. Choosing to steal her father’s prize stud for her escape had not been a wise choice. The beast was obviously better for breeding than riding, but Tara had been angry and wished to strike out at her father any way she could. She’d had a vague plan to sell the horse at some point, so that she could arrive in London with a certain amount of style. And then after that—?

Well, she would improvise something. She was very good at thinking quickly.

However, once she’d realized the horse was the most obstinate animal she’d ever ridden, and she had a very good seat, she knew she would have to bail.

When the stud had started bucking, she’d been able to swing herself down and had landed with some grace in the tall grass beside the road.

However, there was no time to be graceful with Laird Breccan. His was a commanding presence, an intimidating one. He held her as if she weighed nothing. She had struck out at him out of alarm and a need to gather her courage. It had been a reaction on her part and not a deliberate action.

But she hadn’t expected him to comply with her order to release her with such immediacy.

Tara’s bum hit the mud of the road with a thud.

For a second, she sat in surprise, her very brains feeling jarred and her bottom growing wet from the ground.

She wasn’t the only one shocked. “
Och,
Breccan, you dropped her,” one rider whispered. “You just dropped her.”

The other released his breath before saying in awed tones, “You have nerve, nevvy.”

“I was honoring my lady’s request,” was the deep, rumbling reply—and her temper took hold.

She jumped to her feet, proving no real damage had been done although she would be verily bruised in unmentionable places on the morrow. “How dare you treat me in such a rude, insulting manner.” Her words fairly sizzled out of her mouth.

His hat was pulled low over his brow. She could not make out his expression beyond the grim set of his unshaven jaw. He obviously did not like being spoken to in this manner. Good! She’d do more of it. He was a huge, brawny man on a horse that would tower over any in her father’s stables, but Tara had spirit. Her temper was usually slow to ignite, but when it did, she had the fearlessness of a dozen men his size, and she did not hold back on opinions.

“The idea that I would ever marry someone with your boorish manners is so beyond reason it is laughable,” she said, each word a whiplash. She’d reduced men to tears with fewer and gentler words than she now used on him. “I’ll
not
marry a Black Campbell. Not ever, do you hear me? No, no, and
no
.”

The men with him literally gasped aloud. She didn’t care. These were the sort who would agree to anything the Black Campbell said. Besides, it was medieval to have retainers to do one’s bidding. She wanted to scoff at him for riding around the countryside like some Highland chieftain of old.

However, instead of blustering or spouting out in pride, Laird Breccan lifted his reins and turned his horse around. With a tilt of his head, he indicated his men should follow, and he set off down the road—leaving her behind.

Tara stared in incomprehension.

He couldn’t be leaving her. Why, she was several miles from Annefield and all alone.

Furthermore, he’d dropped her in the mud. Did he really think she could walk back? Wasn’t he at least a bit concerned?

He kept riding.

“You are
no
gentleman, Campbell,” she shouted at him.

He stopped, kicked his horse round to face her although he kept his distance. “Aye, you are right,
Davidson.
”

Tara frowned. He didn’t act like most men did around her. He was far from fawning or compliant. She should let him keep riding . . .

“I thought you wished to marry me,” she heard herself say, sounding like a petulant child even to her own ears.

His horse pawed the ground, a sign he was anxious to be going. Laird Breccan held him quiet. “I had thought to do so. I’ve changed my mind.”

“Because I wish to run away?” she challenged. “To stand up for myself?”

“Because you have no honor.”

His words hit her with a force she’d not known before. “I have honor,” Tara said.

“Do you now?” He let his horse come forward, walking toward her. When they were within six feet of each other, he stopped. “Is it honorable to run away from your father’s promise?”

“It is
his
promise, not mine.”

“Are you not a Davidson daughter? Is his word not your own?”

Tara frowned. She wished he’d remove his hat so she could see his eyes. She knew what they looked like. They were gray, the color of ice on Loch Tay on a winter’s day. “I make my own promises,” she declared.

He considered that for a moment, shrugged his shoulders as if giving her the benefit of a doubt. “Be that as it may, you are willing to see your father thrown into a debtor’s gaol instead of honoring his word.”

Her father was penniless, as she was herself now. “I choose not to be sold into marriage.”

The lines of his mouth hardened. “Is your heart fixed upon another?”

Yes,
she could say,
she loved Ruary Jamerson,
then they’d be done with each other. She sensed it. She knew men; she understood them. Breccan Campbell was not one to share anything, especially a woman. It would not matter to him that Ruary no longer loved her. Campbell was telling her that he would expect her complete allegiance. What he claimed, he kept.

Instead of answering him, she said, “You could have set me on the ground. You didn’t need to drop me.”

“I was obeying my lady’s command.”

“You say ‘my lady’ as if it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.”

His horse stepped restlessly. Laird Breccan had straightened at her soft accusation. “I don’t stand on ceremony.”

“Oh, I believe you do, Laird. You accuse me of having no pride, but perhaps you have too much of the same quality?”

“I spoke of honor, my lady. There is a difference,” he returned.

Tara had met many men whose opinions of themselves were overinflated. Laird Breccan was not one of their number. He was no braggart. “Tell me,” she ordered quietly, speaking to him as if they were equals, “you pay off my father’s debts leaving him free to squander what money he has to his name again, but what is in this marriage for me? Why should
I
agree to this match?”

“Other than the dignity of being my wife?” His voice was laced with unpretentious irony.

“I could be the wife to at least a hundred different men,” she answered.

“You think highly of yourself, my lady.”

Tara shook her head. “I understand the vanity of your sex. It is my looks that have attracted you, Laird, plain and simple. You know nothing of me. We’ve only spoken once, and it was not a memorable conversation. At least, not of the sort that would indicate a man was interested in a woman. I was surprised when I learned you’d offered for me . . . and had gone to considerable trouble to do so.” She knew she was tweaking the bear’s nose. She had everything to lose if he walked away. Her father’s foolishness would be exposed. He would be ruined, and her humiliation would be complete.

Still, that realization didn’t stop her from adding, “So now who is the one who thinks highly of himself?”

The grim line of his lips tightened.

Tara was not one to be rude if she could save herself from it. However, something about this man challenged her. She remembered first meeting him, remembered being aware of his presence.

He was very still a moment, then he swung down from his horse. His men now started to ride up. They had kept their distance while she and the laird had been throwing words back and forth to each other.

Laird Breccan held up his hand, a silent command for them to stay back. They obeyed immediately.

He towered over Tara. It took all her courage to stand in her place. He believed she had no Davidson pride? She wanted to prove him wrong, and yet the urge to run was very strong inside her.

“You have a sharp tongue, my lady.”

“I do,” Tara admitted. “There is more to me than just my looks. I’ve a mind as well.” She’d never said such a thing before. In fact, she’d once believed that all she had to offer was the arrangement of two eyes, a nose and a mouth.

But suddenly she wanted someone, anyone to realize there was more to her. There had to be. There must be.

“What if all I want is your looks?” he asked, his voice so low only she could hear him.

“Then I would think you as shallow as all the others. And you would be doomed to disappointment. Looks do not last forever. Even a rose loses its beauty to age and time. Are you certain you wish to marry me?”

She could see his eyes now. She’d expected them to be hard, sharp, and there was a touch of anger in his curt answer. “Yes.”

To her surprise, her body reacted to that one word. Something deep in her very core tightened, and she found herself starting to lean forward.

She held herself back, startled by such a strange fancy. Tara might have been desired by many men, but other than Ruary, whom she loved passionately, no others had moved her.

Yet here it was, a twinge of yearning. And the focus of her desire? The laird of the Black Campbells.

He did not seem to notice the turmoil inside her. He stood as if he could have been carved from stone. “And what of you?” he challenged, his voice still quietly low. “What is it you want?”

No one had ever asked her that question before.

For a moment, she had no answer. She’d been taught her job was to please. Be pretty and pleasing, the watchword of every debutante presented in society.

And yet, she realized she was haunted by just that question. What
did
she want?

Why had she been running?

“I want to return to London,” she answered.

“London?” He snorted his opinion.

“Have you been there?”

“I don’t need to go. Everything I could ever want is here.”

“And how do you know? Have you never gone to Town?”

“I dinna wish to go,” he answered, his accent thicker, a sign she had touched a nerve.

But a new thought had crossed Tara’s mind. She took a step toward him, no longer intimated. “You asked me what I wanted. I told you. If I marry you, can you help me? Will you?”

He frowned as if she spoke gibberish, but she was seeing her way clear now. At last she realized here was her chance to make a bid for her own life.

She did not wish to rusticate in the wilds of Scotland. During her three years in London, she’d learned she had a taste for the sophisticated life of the city. She’d been happy to shed the Highlands from her voice and from her person. And she wanted to return to that life. She understood it, found it safe. A woman had more opportunity in London.

“A man’s wife should be by his side,” Laird Breccan said.

“That is not true. There are many couples, well-respected ones, who live separate lives. They are honest with themselves.” Yes, she could see that now. What had once seemed puzzling to her young mind, the idea that a man and woman could be married and rarely speak to each other, now appeared honest. “We are not a love match. We don’t know each other, and, truly, we are from two different worlds. You don’t even want
me.
You want my body.”

There it was, the basic negotiation between a man and a woman.

He released his breath with one long sound as if he didn’t know how to respond to her declaration.

The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken words. She sensed he wanted to deny her logic . . . but couldn’t. He did want her.

And he didn’t just dismiss her outright. He appeared to consider her words.

Few people did that. Most treated her lightly, as if she were a bauble without a thought in her head. As time had passed, she’d found it easier to be what they assumed—except for now. She wanted Laird Breccan to understand she had a will of her own.

“I want bairns,” he said at last.

Bairns
. Children. “How many?”

He pulled his hat off his head and raked gloved fingers through black hair that was overlong although clean. A haircut and a shave would do him a world of good. He was not as old as people supposed. Perhaps ten years or so older than her own one-and-twenty.

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” he muttered.

“Why? You talked to my father about money. Can you not do the same with me? After all, this arrangement involves my life. We should speak plainly between ourselves.” Aileen would be impressed. Aileen prided herself on her forthrightness and had criticized Tara for the lack of it. “So, how many children must I give you?”

“As many as I can have.”

“That is an unacceptable answer. I’ll never have the opportunity to return to London if that was the case.” She thought a moment. “One.”

“One? Are you daft?”

“No, sensible,” she replied a bit offended. “And watch your tongue. No one has ever accused me of loose brains before.”

“They must not have known you.”

His murmured comment almost startled a laugh out of her. “You are right. Few know me.” But they would in the future. She promised herself that. She pressed on. “One child. That is fair.”

He did not like the offer. For a moment, he stared off into the distance but then turned to her, a canny Scotsman ready to strike a deal. She braced herself.

“Aye, one child,” he surprised her by saying. “But he stays here with me. You’ll not be taking my bairn to London.”

Tara considered his counter. Leave the child here. The thought did not disturb her. She’d grown up without a mother, and most women she admired left their children in the care of nannies.

“What of funds for my London house?” she asked. “And I’ll expect a handsome allowance.”

“You are not concerned about leaving your child?” There was disapproval in his voice.