Amber (Jewel Trilogy, Book 3) (23 page)

"Did you?" She couldn't imagine.

"Ochone!"
Trick sang, the word vibrating up to the beamed ceiling, and Niall laughed, breaking the tension.

"Come in," her husband said, closing the door behind his brother.

Niall aimed a glance at Trick's bare legs and then held out the length of red tartan. "I've brought you this."

Trick made no move to take it.

"I thought you might like to wear it to the burial."

"My father wasn't Scottish."

"Your mother was." Niall pushed the woolen fabric into Trick's arms, along with a wide leather belt. "Wear it in her honor. Just this once. She'd have been proud to see you in it."

A long silence stretched between them while Trick shifted the cloth in his hands, a range of conflicting emotions playing across his face. "I don't know how to wear it," he said at last.

His brother's smile managed to look sad, pleased, and relieved, all at the same time. "That I can help you with." He placed the belt on the floor and crouched beside it, his own kilt skimming the wooden planks as he folded the plaid into pleats and arranged it on top of the leather. "Lie down on this," he instructed.

Trick's lips quirked. "You're jesting."

"Nay. The only way to get it on properly is to lie down."

Kendra squelched a laugh as her husband looked askance at his brother, then sighed and lowered his big frame to the floor.

"Nay, move up," Niall said. "The belt must be at your waist." After Trick scooted higher, his brother went about wrapping the pleated material around him and belting it securely. "Now you can stand," he said, offering him a hand up.

Trick flexed his knees experimentally while Niall took the large expanse of fabric above the belt and tucked it into the front, crisscrossing it to make what was essentially two big pockets. Then he drew up the extra cloth in back and draped it over Trick's shoulders.

Trick took a few steps, watching the kilt sway around his knees.

"Feels odd," he said. "What is worn underneath?"

Niall glanced down at his own kilt. "Nothing is worn. Everything underneath is in good working order." He looked up with an engaging grin.

Kendra's gaze drifted over to her husband, who looked mildly scandalized. He also looked devastatingly handsome. Better even than he had in his black highwayman garb, or maybe it was just knowing there was nothing underneath.

The very thought of that brought heat to her cheeks.

"Well?" Niall asked, and she glanced up to find both men focused on her. "How does he look?"

She felt her cheeks burn even hotter. "F-fine," she managed.

"I cannot wait to get it off," Trick grumbled.

Neither could she.

Led by a piper with a black pennant tied to his pipes, Trick and Niall headed the eight bearers carrying their mother's coffin from the castle down to the little kirk. Behind them, family, friends, and castle staff followed along in a rather informal procession.

"Why aren't there more women?" Kendra asked in a low voice from where she walked beside Trick, modestly wrapped in a homely brown shawl she'd borrowed from Mrs. Ross. Her hair was constrained in a plaited bun.

"Most of the women usually remain at the home," Niall explained. "They'll be preparing for the return of the mourners. And keeping my father company. It's not customary for a husband to attend his wife's burial."

"And she was his wife in his heart, I'm sure of it."

Her romantic sigh set Trick's teeth on edge. "Hamish couldn't have come along, anyway. Not in his state of health."

"Well, it's nice to know his illness isn't keeping him from something he'd regret missing later." She leaned close to Trick. "Hardly anyone is wearing black," she observed beneath her breath.

"It's unnecessary to wear black in order to pay your respects," Niall said, obviously overhearing her. "Not everyone can afford special clothes for mourning."

After that, she kept quiet. The bagpipe music was loud, the notes sad and lingering. All too soon they were gathered in the small graveyard, and the solemn tune came to an end. The single wreath of heather was removed from atop the oak coffin, and the lid was lifted for one last time.

Stepping closer, Trick peered inside, trying to memorize his mother's features and reconcile them with his faded childhood memories. Had she been the warm woman he sometimes saw in his dreams, or the cold one his father had told him about? What had they said, those letters he'd never read? Had they been written out of duty, or had the pages been spattered with her tears?

Knowing this was his last chance, he reached to touch her.

Her body felt cold and unreal, and touching it did nothing to banish the ghosts of her from his mind, as Niall had said it was meant to do. A shiver ran through him. Their rocky past would always stand between him and what should be happy memories.

Others came forward to pay their respects and touch his mother, then two men moved to replace the lid. Trick bent down with it as it was lowered into place, catching a final glimpse of her face.

"Good-bye," he whispered, and Kendra squeezed his hand.

He hadn't even realized she'd been holding it.

A short service was read, but he didn't hear what was spoken. His mind was numb, the words filtered through a haze. He shuffled his feet on the soft green grass, his gaze wandering the gentle mounds that marked where bodies lay, many of their headstones rendered smooth and unreadable by the ravages of weather and time.

A bell was rung; then the mourners filed past the tree where it hung, dropping coins into the plate below as they went. Burial silver. For form's sake, he imagined—surely the Dowager Duchess of Amberley wouldn't need help to defray her funeral expenses.

Or would she? He admittedly knew nothing of his parents' financial arrangements. Upon his father's death, he'd clearly failed in his duty as a son. And now it was too late.

He cursed himself roundly, if silently.

The mournful whine of the bagpipes rose again, and people began drifting out of the little cemetery. As he turned to leave, Kendra came around to face him and took both his hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He shrugged. "It's not that I'll miss her, precisely."

"But you'll miss what could have been."

She was wise, his new wife. Her fingers tightened on his before she dropped his hands and turned to Niall. Without hesitation, Trick's brother walked into her arms and stayed there, his shoulders hitching while she murmured words of comfort.

She was not only wise, Trick amended, but compassionate. She would make a good mother for their children. If only he could gain her trust.

But secrets stood between them, and it wasn't yet time for the truth.

At long last Niall pulled away and gave Kendra a shaky smile. "Thank you."

"I'm your sister now," she said kindly. "And you've no one here, Niall. Your mother is gone, your father is ill, and your sister and brother—" She broke off. "I'm here for you."

"I'm here for you, too," Trick put in, surprised how good it felt to say that. To be needed by someone, and to need him as well. He hadn't had that in eighteen years, and he'd never thought he'd have it again.

Despite all his father's tales of his mother's treason and treachery, he looked at the stoic backs of the people walking toward Duncraven and knew that once upon a time he'd felt happy in this place. Even living in that forbidding gray keep at the top of the hill.

And now here was a brother, needing him. And a wife, if only he could break down the barriers between them.

Clouds were gathering again, and the air held that elusive scent that meant wet weather was on the way. He pulled the wool tartan around his shoulders as they began following the others.

"What happens now back at the castle?" Kendra asked.

"A
draidgie
," Niall said. "Entertainment, dancing, drinking, eating. Some tears and some merriment."

"More merriment?" She looked incredulous.

"To celebrate the life of the one who passed on. A time to wish the departed spirit a safe landing on the other side."

She nodded, apparently accepting what Trick was coming to realize: Things were different here. Not bad or wrong, just different.

Still, they were both surprised at Niall's next words to Trick.

"Are you ready for a good fight?"

Niall stomped into the great hall, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let loose a loud, piercing whistle that had every head snapping in his direction.

The jabbering tapered to an expectant silence.

He drew a deep breath and raised his voice. "It's a sad day when my mother is put into the ground and not even one blow is struck at her funeral!" And without another word, he turned and slapped the nearest man.

Instantly, the chamber erupted in a free-for-all. Colorful tartans whirled in a blur. Food and drink went flying, trestle tables were overturned, and chairs were tossed aside.

Along with the other women, Kendra backed against a wall, not caring that it was rough and probably grungy. She clutched Mrs. Ross's shawl to her chest, unable to believe her eyes. No fists were used, but the sounds of open-handed slaps rang in her ears as family and friends went at each other with enthusiasm.

She watched as Trick delivered a stinging slap to Duncan, who retaliated with a blow across the mouth that had her husband backhanding blood from his lips. But he flashed her a chipped-tooth grin, then pivoted on a heel and slapped a perfect stranger.

He looked to be enjoying himself immensely.

"Men," she muttered under her breath.

The woman beside her shook her head, her gray-brown plaits swishing along with it. "I'll never understand them."

"You want mine?" another woman asked.

A good ten minutes passed before Niall decided enough violence had been done to pay the proper respect to his mother, and finally called for a truce.

Still grinning, Trick made his way over to Kendra. "Could you believe that?"

"No," she said flatly.

"Me, neither. I've never seen anything like it. But it felt good, aye?" He paused for a satisfying breath. "I was angry. I've been angry since I got here. I didn't want to come in the first place, then my mother was dead—"

"But you discovered a brother."

He rolled right over that. "It felt good to whack some people. Cleansing."

With a wry smile, she shook her head, and he smiled back, then winced and put a hand to his mouth. "Are you hurting?" she asked.

"Not enough to care." As if to prove it, he dragged her close and pressed his lips to hers. She tasted the faint coppery tang of blood, and then, as he opened his mouth, the warm, sweet slickness that she was learning to think of as Trick.

Her hands went around him, sliding beneath the folds of his plaid to feel the planes of his back under his fine lawn shirt. He leaned into her, and she felt the clear evidence of his arousal through her skirts and the kilt. The kilt with nothing underneath.

The thought turned her legs to pudding, and she sagged in his arms. "Is something amiss?" he asked with a grin, setting her away. Her plaited bun was beginning to unravel, and he tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.

Mrs. Ross's shawl slipped from her shoulders to the floor. "Goodness." She pressed her hand to her racing heart as her gaze traced down his body. The red kilt seemed rather primitive apparel, and it awakened a matching primitiveness inside her. She'd never imagined a man's bare knees could be so exciting.

She knelt to reclaim the shawl, sneaking a peek beneath the tartan as she came back up, but it was too dark under there to see anything. On this cloudy day, the dozens of candles in the chandeliers overhead were all but useless against Duncraven's gloom.

Trick's lips quirked in a knowing smile as he took the shawl from her and settled it back in place. "I asked Niall what
leannan
means," he said.

"And?" She reached down, her fingers skimming the kilt's hem.

"Sweetheart." He rubbed a gentle thumb beneath her chin, then bent to brush a soft kiss across her lips. "It means sweetheart."

Something went melty inside her. "I want to reach under here," she whispered.

"Is that so?" Leaning closer to shield her from view, he traced a finger down her throat and into the low neckline of her very English dress. "We'll have to accommodate you, then. But not here."

At the word
here
, his expression sobered, as though he'd just remembered what had happened here today. He dropped his hand and smoothed down the front of his kilt. "Sweet Mary, I'm tired."

"You didn't get any sleep."

Her gaze followed his as he looked around the gathering. A few thoughtful souls were helping tidy the worst of the brawl's aftermath, but most folk were back to eating and downing spirits. Their chatter seemed to grow louder in proportion to the drink they consumed.

"I think maybe I'll lie down a spell," he said.

"Shall I come with you?"

"Nay." He scrubbed his palms over his face, avoiding her gaze. "I'm really tired."

She tried to ignore the rush of disappointment. "Perhaps I'll go sit with Hamish a while."