Tara sent a distracted glance toward the terrier. “Apparently,” she murmured. “She seems to have forgiven me.”
“For what?”
With a shake of her head, Tara changed the subject. “Which leg is bothering the horse?”
Breccan wanted to tell her that this was not her problem. He sighed. “The left.”
Tara bent over and lifted the hoof. “What’s his name?”
“Taurus.” He didn’t want her involved in this, but Tara was headstrong.
She let go of the hoof and straightened. “The problem isn’t in the leg,” she informed. “It is the hoof. I think you have a hot nail.”
“A what?” Breccan knew a little about shoeing, but he left that up to Ricks and the stable lads. It wasn’t that he didn’t pay attention to how his horses were trimmed, but this was a new endeavor for him, and there was much to learn.
“A hot nail,” Tara explained, “is when the shoe is nailed wrong. The nail goes into the soft part of the hoof instead of the hoof wall.”
“What do you do for it?”
“You take the shoe off.”
That was an easy solution, and one Breccan was surprised they hadn’t tried yet. What the devil was Ricks thinking?
Breccan moved to the box of tools for the shoe puller as she asked, “Who did his shoes?”
“Ricks. He says he likes to do his own.” Breccan picked up Taurus’s hoof, put it between his legs to hold it in place and pulled the shoe off. “Look at this. It is obvious where the nail had gone in wrong.”
“It happens,” Tara said. “Sometimes they shoe wrong. You will have to let the horse rest,” she advised, as Breccan pulled the other shoes off. “And keep your eye out for infection. It could get worse.”
“How long will it take to heal?”
“It could be a week. It could be months.”
“I can’t afford this,” Breccan said more to himself than to her. If it was months, even more than a week, he was in trouble. He threw the shoe puller into the box of tools, disgusted with himself for having made such a wager. “Are you certain it could take so long to heal?” he asked. “How do you know this information?”
“Mr. Jamerson.”
She said it curtly, as if it wasn’t a name she wanted to think about.
For his part, Jamerson’s name from her lips inspired a jagged jolt of jealousy. He focused on the horse.
“Do you have any idea how I can hurry the healing?”
Tara frowned, then said, “I wouldn’t use potatoes. Are those the ones you took off him?” She nodded to the corner, where the bandages taken off Taurus still were. “They smell.” As if agreeing with her, Daphne sneezed.
“Mr. Jamerson often used a salve made out of comfrey leaves,” Tara continued. “He put it on sores and cuts, almost anything.”
“Comfrey leaves,” Breccan repeated.
“Angus, the head groom at Annefield, may have some of the salve.”
“I hope so. And if not, there is the apothecary in Glasgow.”
“You would go that far? Perhaps you can find someone who knows herbs closer?” she asked.
“If there is, I will search him out,” Breccan vowed.
“Angus will advise you to soak the hoof in salted water. He recommends that as a remedy for everything.”
Salt water. It was a common cure. Breccan should have thought of that himself. “Thank you,” he said to her. “You may have saved my race.”
She smiled modestly and demurred, “It is in my own best interest.”
Aye, it was, and yet he liked the idea that she was willing to help him.
She took a step toward the stall door but then stopped. “Thank you for last night,” she whispered. She hurried away. Daphne went gamely after her.
Breccan wanted to chase after her as well. He wanted to walk her to the castle and spend the afternoon with her, but he had to see to finding comfrey leaves and to soaking Taurus’s foot. He prayed her advice bore fruit.
He started to call one of the stable lads to help when Jonas popped his head around the corner of the door. “ ‘Thank you for last night?’ ” he teased.
“Don’t you have anything else to do?” Breccan countered.
“Aye, but I’ve done it.” Jonas grinned. “
Och,
Breccan, you are a lusty lad. You ripped the gown form her body. I’m proud of you—”
“
What?
” Breccan almost backed into Taurus in horror.
Jonas laughed happily. “I knew you had it in you. I
knew
it. And I noticed today that the lass is more at peace. A happy wife is a well-plowed one.”
Breccan wanted to pick his uncle up and give him a shake. Instead, he used his formidable height to lord it over his diminutive uncle. “Say one word more about my wife and her pleasures, and I will pull the teeth from your head.” He enunciated each word so there would be no doubt in the irrepressible Jonas’s mind of his intent.
His uncle eyed him as if waiting for the laughter or a hint of a smile.
There was none. Breccan could not imagine what would happen if Tara overheard such a conversation. “Do we understand each other?”
Jonas’s brows rose to his eyebrows. “Aye, Breccan.”
“
Good.
” There was a wealth of threat in that one word.
Feeling as if he had settled the matter, Breccan closed the stall door and started for the yard. He wanted to send some lads to help Tara in the house and one to soak Taurus’s hoof. He’d ride over to Annefield himself and confer with Angus. Angus Freeman. Indeed, he remembered the conversation he’d had with the groom the other night and Angus’s suggestion that he was not tied to Annefield. Perhaps the time had come for a new stable master at Wolfstone.
However, as Breccan was about to step outside, Jonas must have decided he had to have the last word. “Of course,” he threw out, “if gown ripping can bring one of those rowdy Davidsons to heel, we should have done it a long time ago—Whoa, wait, Breccan.
Breccan.
”
Jonas had not had a chance to finish whatever cleverness he had in mind. Breccan had spun on his heel and been upon his uncle in a thrice. He picked Jonas up by the scruff of his shirt and the seat of his pants and carried him out of the stables to the small pond. Ducks scattered as Largo, Tidbit, and Terrance returned from their rounds and excitedly followed him.
“Breccan? What are you doing?” Jonas protested. The stable lads now saw what was going on. Work came to a halt.
Breccan answered Jonas by stopping at the pond’s soft bank and tossing him into the murky water. Jonas’s shout was cut off by a loud splash.
The stable lads cheered. Jonas’s teasing could annoy everyone. Breccan had once heard his uncle described as the black fly of Wolfstone, and, today, he had bitten the wrong man.
Jonas shot up out of the water. “You’ve made your point, lad,” he said.
“About what?” Breccan challenged.
“Your wi—” Jonas started but then caught himself. “About my mouth.”
“Good,” Breccan answered, and climbed the bank. A short while later, he had donned neckcloth and jacket and was on his way to Annefield.
A
ngus had agreed to come to Wolfstone, but it had not been a simple discussion. He’d assured Breccan that he would need to consider the matter over a pint or two or five. The brew at the Kenmore Inn was potent. For all his advantage of size, Angus could have put him under the table.
In the end, Breccan had a small pot of the comfrey salve and a stable manager . . . a good one.
He noted that just as Tara had checked the shoe after hearing the vaguest description of Taurus’s lameness, Angus, too, had assumed the issue could have been a hot nail. So why hadn’t Ricks? The man who had shoed the horse?
After the third tankard, Breccan had said as much to Angus. “Here now, it happens,” the horseman had said. “Even the best of us have put a nail in wrong.”
Breccan wasn’t certain.
What he did know is, that once again, he was returning home later than he had planned. Not even his dogs were waiting up.
Once again, he ate alone in the kitchen from a plate Flora prepared. “Has all been good here?” he asked the maid.
“It has been busy. My lady found some furniture in the attic. She’s worked us hard today.”
“Did she?”
“Well, no harder than she has worked herself.”
That was good news. Breccan didn’t know what he would do if he’d had a lazy wife . . . and the thought reminded him of Tara’s warning that looks faded.
But what was left had to be valued.
Flora said, almost shyly, “She’s a worthy woman, sir. A fine mistress.”
“Thank you.” Thoughtfully, Breccan said his good night to Flora and made his way into the castle. Fortunately, he’d carried a candle because otherwise he would not have found his way in the dark. Tara had been busy.
The first room he entered no longer had the simple table and chairs. In their place was a table big enough for a banquet and seating for ten and more. There was even a carpet on the floor. He wondered what else she had changed.
Upstairs, he found his dogs sleeping outside his closed bedroom door. They all rose to greet him, tails wagging sheepishly as if they were guilty of defecting from him. Well, save for Daphne. Daphne expected her pat, unrepentant that she had spent her day following Tara and left him to fend for himself.
Women.
Breccan opened the door carefully. He didn’t want to disturb her if she was asleep—and yet, he hoped she was awake. He had a picture of her in his bed that was rarely far from his mind.
Of course, in his imaginings, she was naked, and he’d had yet to see that about her yet.
He was not going to see it tonight either. She was already asleep. She slept on the counterpane with the spread flipped up over her as it had been the night before. She was on her side, facing the door.
A candle had been left burning for him in the room. He blew his out and set the candlestick on the new table beside the bed.
There were other changes in the room as well. There was another table, with a washbasin and pitcher on it. His shaving kit was laid out beside it.
Tara was a persistent woman.
He ran a hand over his rough whiskers but he was tired and still had the ale in his veins. Shaving could wait until the morrow. He did use the water in the pitcher to wash. A bar of scented soap was by the basin. The scent reminded him of his wife.
Breccan began undressing. A new chair in the corner afforded him a place to remove his boots. He liked the furniture. It was heavy oak and appealed to his masculine tastes. He set his boots aside, unbuttoned his waistcoat and hung it on a peg before tugging his shirt hem from his breeches—and that is when he noticed movement from the bed.
He studied her a moment. Her eyes appeared shut, but he had a sense she was not asleep.
And then he noticed the barest movement of her lashes.
Could she be watching him?
He decided on a test. He untied his neckcloth and pulled his shirt over his head.
There was no response from the bed. She seemed to be sleeping soundly—and yet he could not shake the suspicion that she was awake.
Breccan moved to the side of the bed. By now, his manhood was alive with a mind of its own. He could not have hidden if he tried, so he didn’t.
Instead, he freed the little beastie by unfastening the first button, and the second . . . knowing his instincts had not been wrong when a rush of the most becoming pink stained her cheeks—and the game was on.
O
f course
Tara had heard Breccan come in. She’d been waiting for him. He’d not been far
from her thoughts all day.
She’d organized the carrying of chairs and tables
from the attic with an eye of concern for what he would think. Would he be
pleased? Was she overstepping boundaries?
Tara found she liked the task. Many of the rooms
were bare, so she’d felt free to imagine what they could be.
Of course, such an endeavor had involved a good
number of servants, but many had offered to help. The stable lads Breccan had
sent to the castle had attracted the maids and other lasses working on different
parts of the estate.
They had been a merry group. Once they’d felt
comfortable with Tara, they had worked hard, but they had also teased each
other. In short order, she has discerned which couples were sweethearts and
which would like to be. There were even the disgruntled. The game was the same
whether it was played on London’s ballroom floors or in Scotland’s Highlands,
and she found herself, curiously, relieved to not be involved in it. She was
someone’s wife. The struggle, the need to prove herself acceptable was over.
Freedom was a sweet dish.
Lachlan had approved her changes. Jonas had been
uncharacteristically quiet over dinner, which they ate in the actual dining room
and not in the kitchen. Tara had asked Jonas if he felt well, and he’d answered,
“I’m guilty, feeling guilty.”
It was a cryptic response, but Lachlan had advised
her not to ask too many questions, and so, for once in her life, she hadn’t.
Indeed, she found herself relaxed and looking
forward to the morrow.
She no longer feared Breccan. Yes, he was a brawny
man, but she was beginning to respect him . . . something she
discovered she’d never felt for a man before.
Today, when she’d given her opinion on Taurus’s
injuries, he’d surprised her when he’d acted upon her advice. Another first in
her life. It was gratifying to have her opinion valued.
So, even though she was tired when she went to bed,
she listened for the sounds of his return.
Had she meant to pretend to be asleep?
Not at first. However, when she heard his voice in
the hall, she’d become nervous, and she wasn’t certain why, so she’d shut her
eyes—until she had heard him starting to undress.
Curiosity had always been one of her besetting
sins.
There had been times today when she had recalled
the sight of him naked. Her husband was a well-formed man. There was a part of
her that wanted to purr her interest like a cat.
However, although her fears of him had abated, she
was still cautious. She needed to hold on to her wits. She did have
reservations. She was more than a bit shy.
But was it wrong, since he seemed so nonchalant
about undressing, if she didn’t watch?
He actually seemed to be performing for her.
The candlelight highlighted the hard lines of his
chest. She did like the way his waist tapered. She could recall his weight upon
her last night. His actions had alarmed her, but the physicalness between them
had stirred her senses.
Breccan unbuttoned his breeches.
She stopped breathing as the rounded tip of his
manhood protruded. She wanted to open her eyes and stare. She’d couldn’t. She
wouldn’t.
Last night, she’d had a glimpse. In her mind,
everything the maids had said was true . . . expect this part of him
wasn’t always prominent. He’d be unable to wear his breeches if it was. She
wondered if he was like a horse and pulled it in and out?
That was a strange thought, and it almost made her
giggle.
And then he lay down upon the bed beside her.
Tara had assumed he would climb under the covers as
he had the night before. But no, he was right next to her on the counterpane.
Naked.
Now her whole body blushed. She didn’t know what to
do. They were so close together that if she rolled over, she’d bump into him,
especially
that
part of him.
So she continued to do what she was beginning to do
best—she feigned sleep—hoping it would come even though her senses were full of
him, of his scent, his warmth, his presence. The man didn’t just lie on a bed,
he overtook it—
“I know you are awake, Tara.”
No, he couldn’t have caught
her
. He didn’t have a clue last night.
“I know you watched me undress.” He turned on his
side toward her. “Now, look,” he cooed, “your whole body has turned as red as an
apple.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder. She tried not to
tense, but she failed. She opened her eyes and gave him a frown.
Breccan laughed. “My purpose is not to embarrass
you. But you don’t have to hide that you’d like a look at me. I’m yours, lass.”
He rolled on his back, presenting himself. “We are married, and what is mine is
yours.”
And as if agreeing, his male bits seemed to
nod.
Tara fought panic. This was so open. It was almost
too much. She concentrated on his face. He hadn’t shaved, but the attractive
dimple had shown itself again, giving him a roguish air.
She had never been attracted to the rakes. She had
too much common sense. However, that dimple made something inside of her all
fluttery. She had to guard herself against it . . . and she didn’t
understand why.
And if his goal was to make her feel more
comfortable with him, then it was working. Yes, she had some apprehension about
the marriage act, but that was fading. Her inquisitiveness was too lively to
keep her in fear.
So why did she resist?
It was a lack of trust. This man was not her
choice. She’d saddled herself with him, lured by the promise of his returning
her to where she had once been successful. Her return to the valley had not been
as she wished.
She must keep in mind that her future did not lie
with this man. She must protect herself and keep a respectable distance between
them.
“Would you please put yourself between the sheets?”
she asked primly.
His smiled widened until it appeared positively
wolfish. “No.”
“Then I shall sleep between the sheets,” she
announced. She climbed off the bed, lifted the covers and put herself between
the sheets.
“Then I shall use the counterpane,” he said, and
wrapped it around himself, pulling a portion off Tara. “There is a chill in the
air tonight, but I feel snug and warm here,” he said, wiggling his body as if he
would burrow into the mattress. “Of course, we could be warmer
. . .”
She knew what he suggested. She tried to ignore the
way her pulse picked up at the hint of proposition in his voice.
Only a matter of weeks ago, she’d vowed her undying
love for Ruary Jamerson. Now, her traitorous body reacted to Breccan with a
yearning so strong, it took all her willpower to not lean forward into his body
heat.
His appeal was the fact he was naked, she decided.
Humans were animals after all. That last statement had been the claim of one of
her London suitors, an obnoxious, pretentious man with aspirations for science.
He adored repeating the “animal” declaration as if he believed it made him sound
clever. But now, she considered there might be something to the statement.
If Breccan were wearing clothes, well, perhaps she
would not give him a second glance—but she knew that was no longer the case. The
men she had favored in the past might have been elegant of form, but she was
finding Breccan’s solid muscle enticing as well.
She was also becoming at ease with the part of him
that was so distinctly male. So obviously animal.
“Does it hurt?” she asked abruptly.
He came onto his side, propping his head up with
one hand. “Does what hurt?”
“You. Being the way you were.”
The light of a thousand devils danced in his eyes.
“Aroused?”
“Stop it,” she ordered.
“Stop what?”
“Words like that.”
“Like ‘aroused’?” he repeated.
“It is unsettling.”
Aroused.
It described how she felt. “I need to sleep,” she answered
him.
“Then sleep,” he replied.
“I will.” She closed her eyes, then opened them
again. “I can feel you watching me.”
“It keeps me aroused,” he answered.
Tara reached for her temper. It was a safe way to
keep distance between them. “I’m happy you find all of this so humorous.” She
flipped over to her other side, giving him her back. Unfortunately, she lay
wrong on her braid and had to lift herself up to free it from being pulled by
her own body weight. The gesture defused the drama she had planned.
For a moment, silence reigned between them.
She wondered if he’d fallen asleep. She couldn’t,
and she believed it was his fault. She’d been perfectly at rest before he’d
brought his naked self and plopped it into the bed.
But her thoughts could not quiet.
Tara found herself wondering if he’d had lovers.
Most men had, or so she’d been told. It was all part of being male. But a
married woman could have lovers. Perhaps she would have lovers when she returned
to London. Slim, manageable lovers. Not big and brawny ones with a swollen sense
of themselves . . . and their arousal.
Of course, she and Breccan were not lovers, not
yet—
Her braid came over her shoulder. It just fell
across her face.
She rose up, mystified, until he explained, “It was
across my pillow. I didn’t like it there. You need to keep your hair to
yourself.”
Tara sat up. “Are you mad?”
He seemed to consider the matter. “Sometimes,
yes.”
His candor caught her off guard. She didn’t know
how to respond other than to lie back down, muttering about “Obnoxious,
ill-behaved boors—”
“That I must share my bed with,” he finished,
mocking her with his agreement.
Tara pulled the covers up as high over her head as
she could. She huddled down, arms crossed, legs tucked, and willed herself to go
to sleep . . . except what she was really doing was waiting.
And he did not disappoint.
“Would you like a story?”
“I’m sleeping,” she said.
He leaned close to her, his body almost cradling
hers. She could feel his knees in the indent of her own. His chest was against
her back.
She could not feel his arousal, but she knew he was
aroused.
“Do you have another story?” she suggested. It
might take her mind off him. It had worked last night.
“I have a good one.” He moved onto his back, once
again claiming more of the bed than he should. But she was learning not to
quibble. For all his great size, Breccan had a quick wit. He easily used her
complaints against her.
“Do you like bannocks?” he asked, referring to the
small round oatcakes. “They are my favorite when they are hot from the griddle
with some good butter.”
Tara frowned. She liked them as well. It was
dangerous to have something in common with him. It bought them closer.
Breccan launched into his story. It was one she’d
heard before, but she didn’t mind listening to it again.
“The crofter’s wife had made a big bowl of dough,”
he said, “and she shaped it into two round loaves. But then, she noticed she’d
left some dough in the bowl and so she made a wee bonnie bannock. Now, when the
bannocks finished baking, she saw that wee one, and she thought to herself, I’m
going to have a taste of that. But her husband had come in from working hard. He
saw the wee bannock as well, and he wanted it. They both reached for the bannock
at the same time—much like you and I seem to be pushing and pulling over who
will sleep where in the bed.”
Tara had been picturing the couple and the bannock.
His poke about the bed annoyed her. “Is our arguing over the covers part of the
story?” she demanded, coming over on her back.
He chuckled, the sound masculinely wicked. “I was
trying to make the story more personal.”
She had to struggle not to smile. “Shall we keep
the commentary out of it?”
“We can try.” He looked to the ceiling as if
placing his thoughts before saying, “Well, when two people argue, they upset
things.” He shot a side glance in her direction, questioning if she accepted
this.
Tara did not respond. She knew when she was being
baited.
“They upset the pan where the wee bannock was,”
Breccan continued. “The bannock did not want to be eaten, especially by greedy
folk. It started rolling away. He rolled out the door and was on his way down
the road, feeling very clever as he traveled. Now he passed a young girl who was
doing her knitting. She saw him, and she, too, said to herself, I would like to
eat that wee bannock, so she tried to grab our friend. But the bannock was
clever. He made circles around her and caught her in her own knitting and off he
went again.”
Breccan’s voice was lively. He was enjoying the
telling of the story.
Tara was enjoying the hearing. “Is the bannock ever
going to stop?”
He held up a finger, begging her to be patient. “He
traveled on until he passed a smithy. The blacksmith was a hungry man. He had
just been thinking that he’d like a wee bannock, and here one was. He dove for
the bannock. But the bannock was wise to him. The bannock went around in
circles, passing between his legs until the smith was dizzy and forgot about his
hunger. On the bannock rolled. On and on, until he spied two hungry children.
They were thin as posts and very sad. They had not had a meal in three
days.”
“Three days?” She turned on her side to face
him.
“Aye,” he assured her. “They were very hungry
children. The bannock said, I’m sure they would like a wee bannock, and so he
hopped into their basket. And then do you know what happened?”
Tara shook her head.
“They
ATE
him,” Breccan
said, leaping on her and giving her sides a tickle.
Tara shrieked her surprise, and Breccan fell back
laughing. She laughed as well.