The Bride Says Maybe (9 page)

“Like what?”

She searched the ground as if looking for an answer, then said, “Like love.”

Breccan almost wanted to laugh. “Love? Love is an excuse for bad behavior.”

“And why do say that?” she asked, acting disconcerted by his response.

“My father fell in ‘love’ with a woman from Glasgow. He didn’t hesitate to leave Wolfstone for her. Walked right away from his responsibilities here, and it ruined him. It almost ruined all of us.”

“What happened?”

A hard lump of resentment formed in Breccan’s chest. He did not like thinking about it, but Tara should hear it from him. “It turns out the woman was married. Her husband was a soldier who came home and discovered the affair. He shot my father in a rage of passion, and the law found the murder justified. It is not one of the best stories in the family, but when you want to mock people or make them feel belittled, it is a good one to trot out.”

“I’d not heard this tale,” Tara said, and her commiseration sounded genuine. “How terrible for your mother. The humiliation must have been painful.”

“It destroyed her. Few ever considered her feelings. She was not an attractive woman, but she was the best of mothers. My father’s taking up with another and abandoning his family broke something inside her. They blamed her. She blamed herself. I believe she thought if she were more good-looking, her husband might have strayed, but he wouldn’t have left. She became a recluse.”

Tara raised her hand and touched her chest over her heart. “I can understand.”

The note of empathy in her voice humbled him, an emotion Breccan did not trust. “It doesn’t matter now,” he said briskly. “She’s been dead ten years and more.” And he missed her wise counsel every day.

He sidled away. He kept those memories at bay for a reason.

But Tara was not done with him. “My mother died giving birth to me,” she said.

No one with any conscience could walk away from that statement. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded as if agreeing with him. The line of worry had returned between her brows. “I fear there are important things I should know that only a mother can tell you.” She glanced at him as if wanting confirmation.

“My mother was important to me.”

“I wonder what kind of mother I will be?”

Breccan took a step toward her. “Some things are instinct.”

“That’s what they say.” She hesitated, as if turning something over in her mind. “You said during the sacrament of marriage that you promised to be a good husband to me.”

“I did.”

“Thank you.” She let the words hang between them a moment before adding softly, “I pray your horse can run.”

“I do as well.”

And he had a sense that an agreement had been struck between them.

From the moment she’d ridden into his stables looking for Ruary Jamerson, she’d rarely been far from his thoughts.

However, in his dreams, she hadn’t talked, she hadn’t had opinions, or likes and dislikes. The Tara Davidson of his imagination had never challenged him or spoken of loss or expressed an understanding of what it meant.

No, the woman of his fantasies had just let him love her—wait, that wasn’t true either. The woman of his imaginings had let him roger her, and he’d rogered her well . . . something he now realized had been the musings and hopes of every suitor who had crossed her path.

He also caught another bit of insight—yes, he lusted for her, but the reason he’d really wanted to marry her was to prove
his
worth.

She’d been right. He didn’t know her. He’d promised himself to her . . . but had he truly wanted a wife? Or another way to prove to his Campbell brethren that the Black Campbells were every bit as good as they were?

And then she asked a question that wiped every conscious, sensible thought from his brain—

“Will the bed be repaired by tonight?”

The flood of excitement that rushed through Breccan dumbed him of speech.

She waited for his answer, and it was as if the sun shone down upon her head with a special ray of light. She was so lovely, so perfect, so everything she did not want to be.

And was it his imagination, or did this talk between them make her more intriguing?

Because now she wasn’t just the musings of his lustful mind. She’d taken on dimension—

“Laird,
Laird!
”

The demand for Breccan’s attention seemed to come from far away. He registered the voice, but it wasn’t until Tara stepped forward, and said, “There is a lad coming for you,” that he realized he was needed.

He turned and saw Davy Erroll running toward him. That is when he remembered he had been due at the mill close to an hour ago. There was a dispute between a tenant and Erroll, Davy’s father, that Breccan had promised to resolve.

He held up a hand. “I’ll be right there, Davy.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned to face Tara. He began walking backward, saying, “And I’ll have the bed repaired by tonight.” He’d see it done if he had to do it himself and use his own shirts.

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, because she was all he’d ever let himself want and because
now,
finally he would have her, Breccan changed direction and instead of walking backward, he moved forward. He marched right up to her, placed his hands on her arms, and kissed her.

Yes, he kissed her.

It wasn’t a big kiss. He knew every man jack around the stables had been watching them from the moment they had walked away. Well, now they had something to chew on.

Nor was this a self-conscious kiss like the one he’d given her at the wedding. It was one born out of joy and anticipation. It was a hard buss but an enthusiastic one—and it sent a shot of desire straight through him. From the stables, he heard shouts of encouragement.

One of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life was to set her down. “Tonight,” he promised.
Yes, tonight.

He turned and walked to Davy before he lost all control of himself.

H
e’d picked her up and moved her.

Tara wasn’t a big woman, but she was bigger than a chair. He’d lifted her up as if she weighed nothing. He was that strong, that huge, that powerful.

All over.

He could split her in two.

No, she didn’t believe that, but she knew that consummating their marriage would be painful. She had been warned that it would be, and Tara already knew that Breccan was said to be larger than other men. If she hadn’t believed before, she was certainly convinced after how easily he had picked her up.

But she had to go through with it. Their bargain aside, she’d married the man. It was what was expected.

She raised her fingers to her lip. Even his kiss was hard. When he’d kissed her after the marriage ceremony, he’d barely brushed her lips; this time, he’d bruised them.

It had not been an unpleasant kiss, but it had promised an enthusiasm that churned her anxiety—

“Are you all right, my lady?” Lachlan’s voice asked her.

Tara turned to see that Breccan’s uncle had approached from the stables and eyed her with concern. “Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“The lad likes you,” he observed, referring to his nephew.

His comment confused her. “He seems to.”

Lachlan stepped closer. “No, I mean, he likes
you.
He’s a busy man. He has many projects going at all times, but don’t think he doesn’t consider you a priority.”

The problem was, she wouldn’t mind Breccan’s turning his attention elsewhere, at least until she could regain her equilibrium. “My life has changed so quickly,” she murmured, feeling the need to explain.

“Well,” Lachlan said, “sometimes fate plays tricks on us that way. We think we are going in one direction, then another presents itself.”

“And when it does, what do you do?” The question just burst out of her.

“You face it,” he said as if it was obvious. “You can’t live in fear.”

“Who says I’m afraid?”

His expression softened. “Lass, it’s etched all over your being. You remind me of a young doe, always ready to bolt. Look at you now. Your weight is on one foot, and you half turned from me as if you would run if you could.”

When he said this, Tara became aware of her stance. She
had
balanced herself so that if she wished to dash off, she could. Indeed, she realized, she was usually ready to be the first to leave. She’d learned that she could control situations better that way.

“I must protect myself,” she said, reasoning it out. “I don’t like it when people leave me.”

And yet, that was what had happened in her life. Her mother had left from the moment Tara had entered the world, and her father had stayed just long enough to bury his wife before leaving for London.

There had been a succession of nannies and governesses. They had moved to new positions when they tired of her father’s forgetting to pay their wages.

Aileen had been constant in the beginning, but then she’d had to leave because she had wanted her own life—and at some point, Tara had grown to understand that it was important to leave, and if one left first, there was no pain.

She shifted her weight, rooting herself to the ground with both feet. It felt odd . . . and slightly scary.

Lachlan gave her a gentle smile as if he understood. “I don’t know you well, yet, my lady. What I see, I like. You have spirit. You are not afraid to stand up for yourself, and that is unusual in women of your class. But I’m going to offer you a wee bit of advice— You can never build anything meaningful in your life if you are always ready to run from the challenges.” He took a step away. “Let me know if there is anything you need. We want you to be happy at Wolfstone.”

“And why is that?” she asked as he started to walk away.”

He didn’t break his stride but glanced back over his shoulder to say, “Because Breccan is happy.”

“And is that enough?” she asked.

Lachlan paused, gave her a grin, and said, “There is nothing more important.” He walked on.

Tara watched him leave, uncertain whether he was encouraging her or warning her? And she wasn’t certain she agreed with him about happiness being of any importance. She’d seen the wider world. There were many in London who would argue with him.

Besides, what was happiness? Who could define it?

If she thought about it, she’d never known a moment when she had truly been happy—well, save for when she had believed Ruary had returned her love.

And she knew there
must
be more purpose to life than simple happiness. Lachlan sounded as if he didn’t think life was hard, and it seemed terribly hard, especially right now.

Nor did her attitude change as returned to the house and discovered that a workman was busy repairing the broken bed.

Chapter Nine

T
here was more to keep Breccan at the mill than a simple dispute. The pulley system he’d rigged for moving equipment had not been repaired properly. Breccan had been forced to reorder the whole thing himself.

Then there was concern over a drainage ditch that had collapsed. He’d worked with a few of his clansmen to rebuild the retaining wall. He sensed there was a better solution to the problem of redirecting springwater, but he couldn’t think of what it was.

Over the course of those events, he’d also checked on Taurus. He kept working over in his mind what could be the matter with the horse.

And, never far from his thoughts, was Tara.

God, he adored the sound of her name. It was like an embrace to the tongue and inspired his usually practical mind to couplets of poetry.

Of course, he received a good amount of ribbing from his clansman about his marriage. Ribald suggestions came from every quarter. Most had heard about the broken bed and reached their own conclusions, none of them based in fact. Thank God.

But tonight . . .
tonight,
Breccan would see the deed done.

It took all his willpower to stay at the task at hand. He was tempted to return to Wolfstone, throw her over his shoulder, and make mad love to her with a good release of seed. He’d have her with a bairn before Boxing Day and enjoy the process.

Yes, that is what he wanted. He wanted to stake his claim to her, to seal this holy sacrament between them with the joining of bodies and souls.

Breccan was not sorry for the conversation they’d had. It had given him the chance to know her a little better. He’d not realized her mother had died in childbirth. He’d known that the earl of Tay was widowed, but he hadn’t understood what that would mean to his wife. She’d sounded lost when she’d mentioned her mother, as if she longed for family.

Well, he was her family now. His clansmen would be loyal to her.

And when the time came for her to think about leaving Wolfstone to move to London, he was determined she would choose to stay with him. A woman who understood how important a mother was in a child’s life would not leave her bairn. Breccan would have staked everything he owned on that one fact.

It was well past dark by the time he was able to return to the castle, his dogs trailing behind him. The late hour was not unusual for him. His responsibilities were vast, and most of his own making. He’d designed pulleys and levers and cogs and wheels, and only he understood how they worked. They would break, or the equipment would stick, and he’d have to fix it. He enjoyed this role but not tonight.

Flora sat by the kitchen fire waiting for him. Breccan was a bit disappointed. In his fevered longings, he’d pictured that Tara would be the one waiting for him.

He wanted her to be the one.

As Flora placed a plate piled high with venison, bacon, peas and bread in front of him, Breccan asked, “Has everyone eaten and gone up to bed?”

“Aye, Laird,” the girl answered.

“They must have straggled in here and there,” Breccan suggested, tucking into his food. He felt bad that he wasn’t able to be there for Tara. He imagined her sitting at this table, lonely and eagerly waiting for him. He should have escaped from his duties sooner.

“No, they all ate together,” Flora informed.

“Who ‘all’ ate together?”

“My lady, Jonas and Lachlan.”

Breccan grunted a response. Of course, his uncles would share their meal with Tara. Jonas was such a scoundrel, he’d probably orchestrated eating his meal with her. Lachlan was a quiet, thoughtful one. He would follow Jonas’s lead—

“Lachlan and Jonas were here first,” Flora offered. “But then Lachlan went in search of my lady and asked her to join them.”

“Lachlan did that?” Breccan asked, uncertain if he’d understood her correctly.

“They had a fine time,” Flora assured him. “Jonas and Lachlan had her laughing.”

“And what did she laugh at?” He hadn’t made Tara laugh.

“They were telling her stories about when Jonas taught you to ride. Did you really loosen the saddle while you were on the horse, then end upside down? Is that true?”

Breccan failed to see the humor in that story. “I was a wee lad,” he informed her. “I wasn’t always brawny.”

“That is what my lady said,” Flora answered.

It mollified him that Tara would come to his defense. However, Flora spoiled that by informing him that his uncles also shared the story of how his mighty steed Jupiter had tossed him into Loch Tay.

Now that was a humorous story, but Breccan wanted to be the one to tell her.

He put down his fork.

“Is something wrong with your supper, Laird?”

“No, it’s fine.” He stood and walked over to the door. He began tossing the goodly amount left of his meal to his dogs, making certain the portions were equal according to their size. Daphne never agreed to this arrangement, but Largo thought it fine. “Have they all gone to bed?”

“Jonas and Lachlan went over to Alec Allen’s,” she said. Alec was an old friend of theirs, and the men spent many a night together telling stories and drinking.

That meant that he and Tara were alone.

Breccan handed his now-empty plate to Flora. “Good night, lass. I’m done for the evening.” This meant she could go home. He left the kitchen, moving with an intent purpose for his bedroom.

His dogs fell into step beside him. They followed him into the castle, climbing the turret steps with him, but at his bedroom door, he stopped. “I’m sorry, pups, you can’t come in here again tonight.”

Largo understood exactly what he meant. He circled as if looking for a place on the narrow landing to lay his huge carcass. The foxhounds had an inkling of the new circumstances of their lives. They sat on their haunches, tilting their heads as if asking if he was serious.

Daphne was oblivious. She trotted up to the door and stood there wagging her tail, ready to go in. When he didn’t open the door immediately, she scratched the door with her paw, her command for him to hurry and do her bidding.

“Not tonight, Daphne,” he apologized, and opened the door to the sitting room on this floor. Largo went in. The hounds followed him, their heads low as if they had done something wrong.

But Daphne stayed although her tail no longer wagged. She knew what was coming, and she was not pleased. He picked her up. She growled a protest.

“You can complain all you want,” Breccan told her, “but this is the way it must be for now.” He gently dropped Daphne inside the door and closed it.

Her reaction was immediate. She scratched on the door, an insistent command that she wanted it open—but Breccan had already turned his attention to his bedroom door.

And then he rubbed his jaw.

He needed to shave. Tara had told him so. He didn’t want to delay this evening with her, but he also wanted all to be good.

In truth, he’d meant to shave the day before, but he’d forgotten. He claimed he wasn’t a fussy man, but he’d been defiant in his habits. He liked to be clean, but shaving was a chore. It took time he felt he couldn’t spare.

Or could he?

In the corner of the kitchen was the washstand he and his uncles used for shaving. It was easier to do it there because it saved having to carry hot water up the steps.

Breccan returned to the kitchen.

Flora had already left, but there was water in the iron kettle. He poured it into the bowl and lathered up with shaving soap. His whiskers were as tough as thistles, so he sharpened the razor on the strop while he waited for the soap to do its work.

He applied the blade to his face. As he worked, he wished he hadn’t spent the day on his duties and responsibilities. It would have been good to have had dinner with Tara . . . and perhaps the time had come for him to change his ways.

Breccan liked to work, but he had a wife now, and he found he longed for the comfort of her company.

Finished shaving, he wiped his face with a linen towel hanging off the stand. He glanced in the mirror. He’d never be a handsome man, but, hopefully, he would find favor in his wife’s eyes.

He went back upstairs. Daphne still pawed at the door. She would not give up, but she had to understand that things had changed.

Breccan started to open his bedroom door, but then paused. His wife was gently raised. He needed to be considerate. He knocked on the door.

There was a moment’s pause, then a hesitant voice said, “Come in.”

Good, she was there.

He drew a deep breath. “Don’t ruin this,” he ordered himself and, ignoring Daphne’s still-persistent scratching at the door—that dog never gave up—he entered the bedroom.

There was a small fire in the hearth. His clothing chest had been pushed up to the bed to be used as a bedside table, and his books were stacked neatly there. He’d never thought of doing that. He used this room for sleep and little else, but he had a feeling he’d be spending a good deal more time in here now.

Slowly, savoring the anticipation, Breccan brought his gaze to the bed—

And frowned.

He had expected a compliant, alluring Tara, wearing his sheets and little else. He’d imagined her smile.

Instead, she lay on top of the bed’s counterpane in her long nightdress, which covered her from neck to toe. She’d crossed her hands and rested them on her chest, and her eyes were closed as if she had been prepared for burial.

Her vibrant hair spread out across his pillow as the only color to this scene because her face was as ashen white as his sheets.

He was beside the bed in a blink. “Are you ill?”

“Do it,” she urged him, not bothering to open her eyes. “Please just do it, do it quick, and be done with it.”

“Do what?”

“Consummate the marriage.”

He frowned. She expected him to plow into her as she acted like a corpse? Was she refusing him any willingness?

Breccan’s temper rose.

This was an insult. She was making him feel like a pig because he
had
purchased her and he did want her.

He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe.

And then he began removing his clothes.

So, this was the marriage he had? Why should he have expected anything different?

He was an ugly ox who was receiving his just deserts. And it was his weakness as a male that he was going to take her. Aye, he would have her and hate himself for his weakness afterward.

She lay rigid, her face turned away. He considered blowing out the candle, then decided, damn her to hell, he would not hide behind darkness.

This was who he was.

A tear slid from the corner of her eye, but her lips were pressed together as if she’d promised herself she would not scream.

Breccan stood naked, his irrepressible manhood ready for his bride.

And he hated himself . . . because with her like this, it would be rape—and that was not what he wanted. He’d dreamed of something else between them. At the very least, he had hoped for a companionship that would be meaningful.

Instead, he faced rejection . . . by his own wife.

He could leave. He could walk away now, his pride intact.

Or he could give in to base desire.

She obviously didn’t reciprocate any feelings for him. She acted as if she feared him, and that, too, made him angry.

Breccan placed his knee on the bed. She didn’t flinch, but every muscle in her body seemed to be pulling away from him.

Grimly, he made himself stretch out beside her. His manhood had a mind of its own. It seemed guided toward her.

Her breathing had grown rapid and shallow.

He steeled himself against pity. This was his wife. He had a right to her. She’d taken the vows. And if he didn’t do this deed, if he did not make her his wife in more than name, then the marriage could be annulled.

When she’d threatened him earlier, he’d been angry. He’d been even angrier the night before when she’d denied him. Disappoint was a bitter pill.

Let it not be said that he could not make her his wife in more than name. They would laugh at him, and Breccan had worked too hard to the butt of jests any longer.

He thought about pulling on the drawstring of her gown around her neck and then asked himself why? He’d be torturing himself to reveal her flesh, knowing she abhorred his touch—because that was how she was acting. She behaved as if she’d shrivel if he placed a hand upon her.

The kiss he’d taken from her earlier had lifted his spirits all day. But now, in reflection, he’d been the one to kiss. She had as of yet to offer one morsel of feminine kindness.

And she’d made him keep his dogs out of his bedroom.

Damn, damn,
damn.

A new thought hit him. “Is there someone else, my lady? Is your heart attached?” He’d ground the words out, had loathed asking the question, because if she responded yes . . . he didn’t know what he would do. Jealousy could make him mean.

She gave a quick shake of her head, no, and he was relieved.

Then she whispered, “Please just do what you must. But do it quickly.”

Quickly?
His body was so ready, so needy, he’d explode in a second. And she would do nothing to help?

Bitterness filled him. He had come here searching for warmth, and instead faced the worst sort of rejection, one laced with his humiliation.

He reached down to pull her nightdress up. Her legs were pressed together tightly as if she would deny him admittance.

His response was to rip her gown. He dug his fingers into the material and pulled. The fine cloth tore easily, revealing the sweet curve of her hip and the secrets of her sex. Secrets, she would deny him if he let her.

Well, it was not going to come to that. She might despise him, but she was going to be his wife in more than name only.

Sourly, he rose up over her, positioning himself, ready to use force if necessary. A bead of his seed wept from him. He was so primed, the deed would be quickly done—but it was not how he wanted it.

He had dreamed of so much more, and yet this was all she offered.

And then the scales of outrage and insult fell away when he realized she was shaking. She was afraid.