The Bride Says Maybe (11 page)

“So what did he do?” she asked.

“He did what a man in love would do. He went to the place where he’d hidden the sealskin and brought it out to her.”

“Did it make her happy?”

“It made her very happy. She gave him a kiss and whispered good-bye. Then she ran out the door to join her people.”

“She left the fisherman and her son for her people?”

“I’d asked that same question when my mother told me that story.”

“Did she have an answer?”

“She always had answers. She said we all must be who we are. The words carry a heavier importance than they did when I was a lad. In those days, I didn’t understand. Now, I know I can’t keep a person from feeling what she feels or wanting what she wants.”

“What happened to the fisherman?” Tara wanted to know.

“He was sad, dismal—especially when she didn’t come home that night or the next, or the next after that. He waited, but she was gone. Then several months later there was terrible storm, and the fisherman was out in his boat. His rudder broke and he was left at the mercy of the heavens. He feared he would not see his son again. He knew he would be lost. And in the middle of the storm, with the wind blowing and the rain slashing at him, he thought of his wife. He longed to see his wife and know that she was happy. In his unhappiness, he cried seven tears.”

“Seven tears?”

“Yes, which is magic to selkies. The moment his tears touched the sea, a great calm settled over the water. The wind stopped blowing, and the rain gave way to gentle mist. Up from the water came a seal, as fine and dainty as can be. She looked at the fisherman, and as he stared into her eyes, they turned the deepest blue—and he knew she was his wife. She had come for him.”

“Did she want to return home?”

“No, lass, but she loved him in the best way she could, and she knew their son needed him. She pushed his boat to safety; and then she returned to where she wanted to be.”

As he finished the story, he thought of Tara’s desire to go to London. Aye, there was a part of him that was not going to let her go. He assumed that a woman would stay with her children. That was one of the reasons why he had made the bargain he had. He’d thought he’d not have to pay the price.

Perhaps Tara was right. He was a gambler . . . and gamblers always lose. He knew that.

Breccan rolled onto his back, feeling a chill go through him. He had not thought of this story for a long time.

It was as if his mother had reached from beyond the grave to remind Breccan that few things in life were ever as we wanted them to be.

And there were some things that could break a person. His father’s defection and death had done that to her.

And now, here he was with memories of a story about a blue-eyed selkie. The
deepest
blue. That is what his mother had always said.

He turned his head toward Tara. Her eyes were closed in sleep. The tension was gone from her body. She no longer leaned away from him.

That was good.

Reaching over her, he picked up the far edge of the counterpane and pulled it over her body. She didn’t move but slept. For a second, he was tempted to touch her cheek. Her skin was so soft . . . and he was man who longed for her softness.

Breccan lay back on his side of the bed. He listened to her breathing, wondering how he would ever fall asleep with her this close to him, but he did.

A sense of peace fell over him. Tonight had been difficult, but they understood each other better. It would take time for them to be completely comfortable, but it would be time well spent.

He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

T
ara opened her eyes from feigning sleep.

Breccan filled the bed. There didn’t seem to be much room for her. At first, that had alarmed her, but his story and the calm deepness of his voice had settled her.

He could have forced her. The violence in him had frightened her, but then he’d pulled back. She’d been aware of the struggle inside him. His discipline had won.

Having lived with her father, she could admire that quality in a man. And she couldn’t remember one time when her father had been aware enough of her needs to have done something so simple and considerate as to see the covers were tucked in around her. She couldn’t even remember being carried in her father’s arms.

But where Breccan had surprised her is when he had told her a story. A beautiful story about a man who could love his wife enough to let her be who she was.

Had he calculated his use of the story? Or had it just been something out of his nature . . . his
kind
nature?

She had never thought of kindness as a particularly admirable quality in a man. Her standards had been set by others. A gentleman was accomplished if he came from a good family, had a fortune and was fair of face. The rest was ignored.

She’d known what to expect from her life in that society. She was important until she married. She was important in her marriage until she bred an heir. After that? She was nobody. She could host salons and preside over society, but that sort of life suddenly seemed aimless.

The selkie knew what she wanted. She’d returned to her people.

Tara had grown up in this valley and yet, her people—or at least the ones who saw her having any worth—were in London, weren’t they?

She watched him breathe a moment, his face relaxed in sleep, the glow from the fire in the hearth casting shadows.

His was a strong face. His beard was already beginning to form on his jaw. There was nothing soft about him. He was Highlander through and through, and she was not surprised his mother was from the north.

Tara snuggled deeper under her covers.

She had a secret of her own. When she’d had her eyes closed while he’d been over her, she’d peeked. She’d seen him—her first completely nude man who wasn’t carved from stone and wearing a discreet fig leaf.

Breccan had appeared powerful. And that which made him a man had alarmed her. His male bits. They
weren’t
bits.

But at the same time, she wasn’t repulsed. Indeed, she found herself curious. His male bits; her female bits. If it was such a painful, disgusting thing, then why did so many women willingly venture to a man’s bed. Was Breccan just different? Or could the maids Ellen and Myra have been silly?

Tara reached forward and tentatively placed her hand on his shoulder.

Breccan slept on, seemingly unaware of her presence.

His skin was warm and even relaxed, there was the hardness of muscle about him. Her husband was a strong man. In ancient times, he would have been considered a great and able warrior.

The thought made her smile because in this age, he was the harried chieftain of a small segment of a powerful clan—

He turned toward her and captured her hand. He tucked it in against his chest. With a sigh, he seemed to fall deeper into sleep.

Tara didn’t know what to do. She feared pulling her hand away. He might wake and misunderstand her curiosity, and then she would be babbling about selkies and other things that this all-too-perceptive man might draw out of her.

So, she let him hold her hand and soon found herself in a restful, relaxed sleep.

The next morning when she woke, she discovered that although Breccan was nowhere to be seen, his side of the bed was now occupied by a disgruntled Scottish terrier whose black, beady eyes were full of malice.

Chapter Eleven

T
ara blinked sleep-filled eyes, thinking the dog was a dream. The terrier lay on the bed, her paws in front of her but her hind legs positioned as if she could spring at any moment and snap at Tara’s nose.

Her hands on the mattress, Tara started to push herself up.

Daphne growled, her eyes brightening.

Tara paused, uncertain. Her hair fell over one shoulder. Keeping her eyes on the animal, she reached to set her foot on the floor on the opposite side of the bed.

The dog growled again, twitching her whiskers around her nose as if daring Tara to go one inch farther.

Breccan’s clothes from the day before hung on a peg, but his boots were gone. The door was open a crack. That must have been how the dog entered. She wondered how long Daphne had been watching her.

A part of Tara wanted to dismiss Daphne as just being a silly dog. But another part sensed that the terrier felt slighted. There was an air about her of a scorned female. Tara knew the type. She’d had more than her share of exchanges over the years from young women whose suitors had lost interest. The women assumed that Tara was the reason, and sometimes she was. But could Tara help when a gentleman decided to transfer his affections from one woman to her?

Apparently, Daphne thought she could.

“Where is Breccan?” Tara asked. “Shouldn’t you be with him?” She wondered what time it was and where he could be found?

Of course, Daphne didn’t answer, but her little body was tense with intent, and Tara knew it was up to her to escape this dog’s anger.

Carefully, she reached for the feather pillow.

Daphne glanced at her hand, then whipped her attention back to Tara as if worried about a frontal attack. She growled.

Tara halted her movement, forcing herself to wait. This dog was not a dumb animal. Daphne appeared to have more intelligence than most people Tara knew.

Attempting to smile, Tara said, “Nice dog.”

Daphne did not appear placated.

Tara took a deep breath, then moved as fast as she could. She flung the pillow at Daphne’s head, even as she jumped off the bed. There was a second where Tara’s foot caught in the counterpane, but, with a hop, she shook it loose. She dashed around the bed, heading toward the door.

Daphne snarled at the pillow and jumped toward the foot of the bed. Barking madly, she put her paws up on the footboard and appeared ready to leap viciously at Tara.

Tara gave a small cry of alarm. She couldn’t help herself. The terrier was after a piece of her. Tara stepped back. Her only escape was the door, and to reach it, she had to run by the dog.

However, at that moment, the partially open door opened wider. Flora came into the room. She didn’t see Tara at first but crossed to the bed to pick up the barking dog. “Daphne, what are you going on about? And what are you doing here anyway? The laird is at the stables—”

Her voice broke off as she turned and saw Tara standing in front of the hearth.

“My lady, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to come barging in.”

“It’s fine,” Tara assured her. “I don’t know what is the matter with the dog. She’s growling and acts as if she would like to chew me to pieces.”

“She’s jealous, my lady. Agnes and I were talking about that yesterday. Daphne is used to doing whatever she wants, but now she knows the laird has favored you.”

“Daphne is a dog,” Tara felt she had to say. “She can’t feel emotions, or least not human ones.”

“So you say,” Flora answered with some humor. “Then what do you believe she is doing now? Because it appears to me she has singled you out.”

She held Daphne up to prove her point. The terrier leaned forward, her front legs pawing the air as if she could fly through the air toward Tara. She showed her teeth and rolled her beady eyes.

“I think she doesn’t like me,” Tara could agree, sidling away from the dog.

“Daphne is always the last one to be warm to a new person. Largo and the foxhounds are always adoring, but Daphne is like a great-aunt who has seen too much and has an opinion on everything.”

Flora’s words brought Tara’s aunt Lucille to mind. The woman wasn’t even a true relative. She was the aunt of her half sister Aileen’s mother and the dowager duchess of Benningham. During her first season, there had been many times when Tara could have used her assistance. However, the dowager did not like Tara. She seemed to take her suspicions about the earl of Tay and cast them on his youngest daughter. Tara understood the woman was free to dislike her, but when the dowager had actively been moved to use her influence in society to exclude Tara, then they had a disagreement.

Fortunately, by that time, Tara had made enough friends she survived. Also, the dowager’s power was not what it had once been, especially amongst the smart set.

That Tara connected Daphne to Great-Aunt Lucille did not bode well for the dog.

“She won’t bite,” Flora stated. “She always carries on, but she knows there is a line she’d better not cross. The laird would not tolerate her bad behavior.”

“Perhaps she believes I’ll keep my mouth closed about the matter,” Tara wondered.

Flora laughed. “She might—” Her laughter came to an abrupt stop. Her eyes opened in shock as she looked at Tara.

Crossing her arms protectively against her chest, Tara said, “What?” and then realized, to her horror that Flora was looking at her torn nightdress. Tara had been so caught up in the dog, she’d forgotten the seam was ripped from thigh to ankle.

She now lowered a hand to hold the edges together. She couldn’t imagine what the maid was thinking. At the same, the truth was not a wise thing to share. The truth would lead to even more questions.

“I tore it when the dog startled me, and I jumped out of bed. Silly of me,” Tara said. “I caught my toe in it.” She attempted to laugh at her own foolishness.

“Do you wish me to take the garment to Dougal’s wife? She is handy with a needle,” Flora offered.

“That might be good,” Tara said, feeling ridiculously guilty. After all, it was a small little tale and one that saved embarrassment.

But it did earn her some approval from Daphne.

The dog’s ears picked up. She stopped urgently pawing the air and gave Tara a knowing look, as if she knew the truth. And perhaps she did. Dogs had keen hearing. There was no doubt in Tara’s mind that Daphne had spent the night straining to hear whatever had been going on between her and Breccan.

“Very well, my lady. If you leave it on the bed, I’ll take care of it. And I’ll take Daphne downstairs with me.”

“Thank you,” Tara said, as Flora left the room with Daphne on her shoulder. The dog’s eyes never left Tara until the door was closed.

With a thankful sigh, Tara came around the bed and sat on the edge. She surveyed the damage to her gown. Needle and thread could not repair the thin lawn. Her other nightdress was made of heavier stuff, and perhaps, after last night, it would be wise to wear it.

She quickly dressed, folding the nightgown and placing it in the bottom of her trunk.

Now the question was, what should she do with her day? She thought of the selkie who had made a home for her husband. Tara knew there were a number of tasks she could perform to make Wolfstone more comfortable. She would be living here, and she needed to make the best of it.

With a sense of purpose, she left the room in search of the kitchen for her morning meal. As she circled down the staircase, Daphne’s head poked out the door of one of the side rooms. Flora had not taken the dog very far.

Tara moved over to the wall. Daphne watched her and let her pass without incident. Relieved, Tara was several steps down before she realized Daphne was following her.

Attempting to be calm, Tara pretended she didn’t notice the dog as she walked through the rooms to the back entrance. Daphne fell into step beside her. Together, the reached the kitchen. Daphne sat by the door and let Tara enter.

The door to the kitchen was usually open to release the heat form the cook fires.

“Ah, see, my lady,” Flora said in greeting. “Daphne has made a friend of you. She has decided you are fine after all.”

Dougal and Agnes both nodded, as if agreeing with her. Tara looked back at the dog. Sitting on her haunches, Daphne didn’t move her feet as she watched a fly circle around her. She snapped at it a few times, then grinned at Tara.

The dog
grinned.

That was astounding to Tara. Daphne had approved of her, and the only reason could be because Tara had not tattled on Breccan.

“I’m flattered to earn her approval,” Tara said as she nodded to Dougal’s silent offer of porridge for her breakfast. Agnes brought her fresh cream to go with it. “I just hope she isn’t fickle.”

The others in the kitchen laughed at her wee joke, and something tight and fearful inside of Tara began to unwind. She was finding a place for herself here.

T
aurus was more lame than ever.

Ricks had no explanation except to advise placing more slices of potato on the bottom of the horse’s hoof. “We haven’t drawn out whatever it is.”

“Is there not an ointment we can use?” Breccan asked. He wore his usual attire of breeches, shirt, and waistcoat. He did not have on a neckcloth. He’d thought about putting on one, but he’d woken late and had needed to hurry to see the morning rides.

“Aye, we can try, but we don’t know what it is,” the horse master said.

Breccan had to turn away from the horse, swearing under his breath, words that died quickly when he saw his wife standing in the stall doorway.

She was a vision. Of course, he could never tire of looking at her. She wore her hair down. He had not realized it was as long as it was or had the curls. Her dress was a sensible loden green cambric and with her coloring, she reminded him of a wood sprite. His mother would have been amused.

Nor was he the only one impressed.

Ricks had removed his hat. The stable lads gazed at her in wonder, as if an angel had appeared amongst them. Jonas was there, and he was grinning from ear to ear like a monkey. He was probably spinning his own story.

“Breccan, do you have a moment?” she asked.

He gave Taurus’s neck a pat, then asked Ricks, “Are we done?”

“For today, Laird,” Ricks said. “The lads can wrap the hoof. I’m needed over at Annefield unless you have something else?”

Ricks had informed him only that morning that he would now be overseeing the training of the earl of Tay’s horses. Breccan wasn’t pleased. After all, he was the one who had found the man in Glasgow and invited him to come—and a pretty penny Ricks’s services were costing him, a goodly amount more than what Ruary Jamerson had charged.

Then again, Breccan didn’t feel he could complain. Ruary Jamerson had offered his services to many in the valley. It seemed only fair to let Ricks earn a living.

“Aye, we are done,” Breccan said, anxious to see why Tara had come to the stables this day. When last he’d seen her, she’d been snuggled in his bed. She snored. It was a soft, gentle sound, like a kitten sleeping hard, but it was a snore nonetheless, and something personal and unique to her. He cherished the information.

Ricks nodded to him and to his wife, put on his hat and left. Tara barely acknowledged the horseman. Instead, her attention seemed to center on Breccan.

Furthermore, the strain around her eyes appeared to have eased. There was an awareness of him, but it was without her earlier tension. She stepped into the stall and, to his surprise, Daphne was with her.

He’d wondered where the terrier had been. Sometimes, Daphne didn’t come to the stables with him. She didn’t like the walk; however, here she was.

“You made a friend,” he observed.

Tara smiled and, for a second, Breccan went light-headed. Out of all her lovely attributes, her smile was her best.

The stable lads acted as if this meeting between man and wife was also for their enjoyment. They openly watched.

Breccan reminded them of their duties by growling, “Don’t you all have something to do?”

They moved quickly, well, save for Jonas. His uncle took his time loitering around the tack room across from Taurus’s stall, picking out a bridle and carrying it down the aisle.

Tara didn’t seem anxious to discuss her purpose with others around. She reached up and scratched Taurus’s ear. The stallion groaned his pleasure. Breccan could understand why. He wanted his wife to do the equivalent to him, only he’d prefer if she would use her tongue.

He tried not to let any of that show when she faced him. They were alone now.

“You slept well?” Breccan asked.

“I did. And you?”

“I slept fine.” Damn it all. He was anxious for the day when he could claim he hadn’t received a wink of sleep.

“Dougal told me there was some furniture in the attic. Is it all right if I go though it?” she asked. “There might be some things we could use in the rooms downstairs.

“Most of it is old. My mother brought better furniture into the marriage and moved the other to the attic.”

“Where is your mother’s furniture?”

Breccan hesitated a moment before admitting, “I sold it for my stake to start the mill.”

“Oh.”

“You are welcome to use whatever you wish. I’ll send one of the lads to help you move it. I haven’t really worried about furnishings.”

She nodded, thoughtful a moment, and asked, “What’s wrong with the horse?” She had her hand upon Taurus’s mane, and the horse nuzzled her hand as if wanting more pats. Breccan knew how he felt.

“He’s come up lame. Ricks doesn’t know what it is. He has me padding the horse’s hooves with potatoes, but it could be in Taurus’s neck. It could be anywhere.” He shifted his weight, then confessed, “This is the horse I need to run against Owen Campbell.”

“Can he run?”

“It’s doubtful.”

She frowned. “What of your money?”

“The stake I’ve already put up?” Breccan took his time answering, stretching the tightness in his back. “If he doesn’t run, I lose it.”

“And no one in the stable has an idea of what the problem is?”

Breccan crossed his arms. These were all questions he’d chased in his head. “He was fine for the ride yesterday morning, then he pulled up lame. The lad doesn’t think he did anything. He noted Taurus had seemed a bit slow but still sound. I’m glad you came out to see me,” he said, wanting to change the subject. He was about to almost ruin himself. Money was hard-won at Wolfstone. He should not have been so foolish. If he could have hidden it all from her, he would have. “Daphne has warmed up to you.”