The Laird (Captive Hearts) (26 page)

“I’m not supposed to go to the stables without telling somebody.”

“I’m somebody,” Cook said, slapping the carrots gently into Maeve’s palm. “The laird and his lady are off for a ramble through the village. You might as well pass a little time with Bannock, aye? He strikes me as a lonely sort of horse, working all the time or alone in his stall with nobody to play with.”

Cook winked. Maeve did not know how to wink back, but Cook had a point: Bannock probably was lonely. Maybe Preacher had known that and had gone to visit him.

“I won’t be gone long,” Maeve said. “I’ll go right to the stables and come right back.”

“Sure you will, and maybe by then you’ll have an appetite for some shortbread.”

Probably not. Maeve headed for the stables at a fast trot, lest she run into Lachlan, who’d remind her she wasn’t to be in the stables at all. Preacher was nowhere to be found, but Bannock was in his stall, munching hay, which seemed to be what Bannock liked to do best.

“Wee Bannock!” Maeve called, which provoked one hairy, horsey ear to flick. “I’ve brought you a treat, Wee Bannock!”

The beast did not even look up, and why should he? Maeve wasn’t tall enough to reach through the bars of his stall and show him his treat.

“Bannockburn is a lucky lad,” said a male voice from behind her. Maeve was abruptly hoisted up to Uncle Angus’s hip. “He gets treats and a visit from a pretty lass.”

Angus smelled good—of horses and hay—and he hadn’t been asked to go to the village either.

“I brought carrots for Bannock, but I’m really only looking for Preacher.”

“And you found me instead.” Angus bussed her cheek, a tickly, scratchy sort of kiss that made some of Maeve’s anger slip from her grasp—some of her hurt. “Perhaps we need to get Bannock’s attention?”

“He’s eating. He won’t pay attention to anything until he’s done eating.” Michael was the same way, and Kevin had been fond of a good meal too.

“He’s a gelding,” Angus said, which Maeve knew meant the horse was tamer than a stallion. “We can’t blame him for his priorities, but neither will he mind if you want to perch for a moment on his back.”

To sit on Bannock? The tallest horse in the stables, maybe the tallest in the shire—
in
all
of
Scotland
? This was ever so much better than a visit to the village.

“He won’t mind?”

“He won’t even notice,” Angus said, opening the stall’s half door one-handed. “You must not pinch the poor lad with your legs or bounce about on him too hard. All that comes later.”

Angus’s smile was the sly smile of somebody who knows he might be getting in trouble but wasn’t too worried about it.

“I’ll sit quietly. Kevin used to take me up with him when he hacked out sometimes.” Maeve had forgotten that, probably because it was one more thing to miss about Ireland.

Bannock was even bigger up close than he appeared from several feet away. His withers were higher than the top of Uncle Angus’s head, his feet were…no wonder people wore boots in the stables.

“Up you go,” Angus said, hoisting Maeve upon the horse’s broad back. “Catch a bit of his mane to let him know you’re up there.”

The ceiling was much closer to the top of Maeve’s head, and the sense of being atop the world both scary and fine. She petted Bannock to let him know she appreciated the view, and because petting any animal was a cure for much that ailed a girl.

Kevin had said that too, and abruptly, the lump was back in Maeve’s throat.

“When you’re a bit bigger, perhaps you’d like to ride Bannock right through the middle of the village.” Angus took a carrot from her and passed it to the horse.

For a fellow like Bannock, a foot-long carrot was no more than a tea cake. He munched his treat and went right back to his hay without a pause in his chewing.

The horse honestly did not seem to know or care that Maeve was on his back. “May I get down now?”

A flash of orange streaked straight up one of the supports at a corner of Bannock’s stall. The great horse dodged right, toward Angus, and Maeve nearly slid off Bannock’s back. She clutched at his coarse mane for dear life until Angus’s arms came around her.

“I’ve got you, child. The daft horse merely took a fright.” Maeve was wrapped around Uncle Angus, piggyback, but frontwise. She’d fallen off twice while hacking out with Kevin, but never from such a great height, and she clutched at her rescuer desperately.

“Preacher made him jump.”

“Preacher is a menace,” Angus said, holding Maeve very tightly, her legs about his waist. “But you’re safe. Bannock meant no harm, but he hasn’t claws or fangs like that cat. When he’s afeart or can’t puzzle things out, Bannock knows only to run and hide.”

Still Angus held her, tightly enough that Maeve could feel the rising and falling of his chest. This close, he smelled not of horse and hay, but of pipe smoke and wool.

“You can put me down now.”

“Soon.” Angus walked with her from the stall, closing and latching the door before striding down to the saddle room with Maeve plastered to his front. When he lowered himself to a bench, Maeve ended up straddling his lap.

She scrambled off, struggling a little to loosen his hold. When she stepped back, Angus was breathing a bit heavily and twitching at his kilt.

Maybe Bannock had spooked Uncle too?

“You’re wearing the hunting plaid,” Maeve said. The only other person she’d seen wearing it was Brenna. “The pattern makes it so nobody can see you in the woods.”

“The better to get closer to your prey. Are you all right then, wee Maeve?”

Angus was the only one to ask that question, though he was also the one who’d put Maeve on Bannock’s back.

“Maeve, the coach’s coming up the hill.” Lachlan stood in the door to the saddle room, his expression carefully blank. He should envy Maeve her freedom—though the boy was wearing a handsome pair of new boots.

“I’m coming,” Maeve said. “’Bye, Uncle Angus!”

Even though nobody was ever supposed to run in a stable no matter what, Maeve scrambled to Lachlan’s side and took his hand. “I went to find Preacher.”

“Of course ye did, ye daftie. Does Preacher eat carrots now?”

Maeve slowed and dropped Lachlan’s hand—they were clear of the stables, and the coach had to take a long way around the hill to get up to the keep. “The carrot is for me,” she said, breaking it in half. “And for you.”

Lachlan did not believe her, of course, but he was a friend—as much as a boy could be a friend—and so he munched his half without comment.

Bannock hadn’t cared that Maeve had brought him a carrot, hadn’t cared that she was sitting up on his back, and hadn’t made any effort to keep her safe when Preacher had gone streaking by.

Maeve took a bite of carrot and tried not to cry.

***

“I was trying to woo you,” Michael said, and from his tone, Brenna suspected he regarded the outing as a miserable failure, when the opposite was true.

“And you have,” Brenna said, pulling off a half boot. “You’ve shared your day and your friends with me, and you’ve bought me a brown velvet hair ribbon I shall treasure until my hair turns gray.” He’d also taken her by the hand and the arm, held doors for her, whispered to her in public, and kissed her in the churchyard—and none of it had been anything less than his honest enjoyment in her company.

Every woman deserved to be kissed in at least one churchyard, just as every woman deserved to be wooed, and thank heavens, her husband grasped this.

Michael settled beside her on the bed and took her half boot from her, his unhappy sigh suggesting he was not placated by her answer. Several doors down, the Baroness St. Clair was napping, and her husband offering whatever assistance with that endeavor a devoted—and worried—spouse might lend.

Brenna’s husband was worried too, and that she could not abide.

“This boot is worn at the heel, Brenna Maureen. Why can’t you allow yourself a decent pair of heels?”

Michael’s patience was worn at the heels too, and yet, Brenna had not yet decided how to answer the questions he was about to ask.

“I would have sent them to the cobbler before winter.” Where they would have sat, unless Brenna had Elspeth take them, and claim them as her boots.

Or perhaps not—not all the villagers swilled Angus’s poison.

Michael’s arm came around Brenna’s shoulders, as heavy and well fitted as an ox’s yoke.

“What happened in the village, Brenna? I had all I could do not to dump my ale over the heads of those vicious old biddies.”

Wouldn’t Brenna have enjoyed that sight—for about half a minute.

“I’m glad you did not. They’re idle gossips and hold me accountable for you being gone so long.” And for their cousins emigrating, and for the wool harvest being thin some years, and the winter early. Angus was nothing if not tireless.

Michael kissed her temple and brought a hand up to massage Brenna’s nape. “You’ve put up with such gossip for years now, and it’s my fault.”

Though afternoon sun poured through the window, fatigue hit Brenna like a wet plaid. Fatigue of the body and of the spirit.

“That feels lovely.” She kissed his cheek for good measure.

“I will get to the bottom of this, Brenna.”

He probably would, and then this happy little mutual wooing of a marriage would be reduced to ashes. “Must you get to the bottom of it this minute? It’s idle gossip, nothing more.”

Idle gossip, veiled looks, subtle delays in service, and so much more that Michael, with his soldier’s instincts, would not miss. Desperation seeped through Brenna’s fatigue, and she cuddled closer to her husband.

“Why did the baker give you the smallest twelve muffins he could find?” Michael asked.

And no extra muffin or biscuit to curry goodwill—Michael would have noticed that too.

“Because the castle is well provisioned,” Brenna said. “Other households need the biggest muffins far more than we do. Are you inclined to nap with me, Husband, or will you natter on about a bunch of pinch-penny Highlanders?”

He wouldn’t natter on, he’d interrogate his wife until years of unfortunate history came tumbling out and Brenna was forced to defend herself and make explanations that could lead nowhere—or worse than nowhere. Angus would see to that.

Michael’s nose pressed gently against Brenna’s ear, and his vetiver scent wafted into her awareness. “Do you want to nap with me, Brenna?
In
the
broad
light
of
day?
”

The sunshine was soft, the bed beneath them was soft, and Michael’s tone was softer still. His questions now were not bent on uncovering old miserable truths, but rather, on inviting Brenna to share a future with him, to trust him as a wife trusts her husband on their wedding night.

Sorrow and
love
tangled up inside her. Love for the soldier who’d come home to her when he might have wandered endlessly, love for the man who’d announced his regard for her without any promise of reciprocity, love for the husband who’d ruin everything with his protectiveness and tenacity.

“I want to love you,” Brenna said, skirting an outright declaration like the coward she was. “It’s a beautiful afternoon, and I want to make love with my husband.”

Even as a slow wicked smile lit Michael’s features, Brenna knew she was borrowing joy against the day when truth intruded like a blight on a marriage that should have taken root years ago, and blossomed by now with many children and many shared memories.

“I want that too, Brenna Maureen,” Michael said, tugging at the laces of his boots. “I’ve wanted that forever.”

Based on Michael’s expression, the trouble in the village, the guests down the hall, the entire universe had left his awareness, save for his focus on Brenna and what would happen in their bed in the next hour.

Someday, he might look back on this hour and conclude Brenna had consummated their vows to distract him from the answers he wanted, and that was a pity, for it wasn’t the entire truth—but it wasn’t untrue, either.

***

Brenna would look back on this day and conclude her husband had manipulated her, but Michael could not bring himself to change course. She hated confrontations, suffered her way through each one, and Michael could gain permission to make love with his wife on this difficult afternoon because she dreaded explaining the situation in the village more than she dreaded his attentions.

Hang the bloody villagers, hang the nip-farthing crofters, hang everything—Michael would make such glorious, tender, ravenous love to his wife that she’d have no choice but to trust him with her secrets.

St. Clair, a former professional interrogator, might scoff at Michael’s tactics. The Baroness St. Clair would likely applaud, though.

Desiring Brenna was simply a gift; wooing her a delectable challenge. Getting the woman out of her clothes might be impossible.

When Michael was free of boots and stockings, he rose, which put the front of his kilt at about Brenna’s eye—and mouth—level.

“Shall you undress me, Wife?”

She set her footwear tidily beside the bed and scooted back against the pillows.

“I think not. A grown man can undress himself if he’s properly motivated.”