Highland Master (19 page)

 

 

Triona crossed her arms over her chest and studied the small thatched building that would serve as a bathing house for the garrison. It was well built and attractive, tucked up against the high wall, so she no longer worried about how it would fit into the area within the bailey. Brett had been right. Her garrison had developed a strong need to stay clean. The bailey had often been muddy from the water used to wash away the sweat and dirt from training. This should solve that problem, for inside was a well, a hearth, buckets, and tubs. The clever man who put the well in the cottage so that water could be drawn right there had also put in a drain that allowed the dirty water to be poured away, beyond the walls. Now if she could just find some way to make a shelter for the men who would slip outside of the tower in the dead of night to sleep in the open, she mused, feeling a pang of pity for the scars their long imprisonment had left them with.

There was little she could do to help them, and she knew it. Triona doubted the men would accept much help, anyway. The few attempts she had made to talk about what troubled them had been politely but firmly brushed aside. She knew they would shy away from sympathy because they would see the need of it as unmanly. They had each other, each one having shared that horror, and she had to hope that would aid in their healing.

Just looking at the bathing cottage again, as she thought to see that it did not need any more done to make it right, began to make her think of Brett and she almost cursed aloud. The man would not stay out of her head. She could go for hours, and then there he was, in her mind, causing her heart to pinch with pain. Her dreams at night were a constant torment, filled with all the memories of the passion they had shared. The mornings were spent struggling to still the aching need those dreams left her with. Being cured of Sir Brett Murray was taking far longer than she thought it ought to.

“Ye dinnae like it?” asked Joan from where she stood beside Triona, also studying the little house. “I thought it actually looked quite good.”

“It does,” Triona replied. “And I think it will work out verra weel and nay just for the garrison. This could work for when we have visitors. It will be much easier to send the men here to seek a wash than to carry the water to the rooms. I fear I just recalled who told me the men may need to be clean, more than they ever had before, and that roused my temper.”

“Ah, Sir Brett.”

“Aye, Sir Brett of the smile and the wave who barely left a trail of dust behind him as he rode away. I was but annoyed at how often the mon still comes to mind.”

Joan put her arm around Triona’s shoulders. “A mon like that is difficult to forget.”

“Weel, he shouldnae be, as I am fair sure he has forgotten about me.”

“Ye cannae be certain of that. I still feel there was more to that kiss than fareweel.”

“If there was, there should have been some word from him. I could, mayhap, believe he couldnae think of what to say when everyone waited for him to leave with them, but he has sent me nay one word since then. It shouldnae take a mon three months to compose a letter or e’en a wee tiny message.”

“He sent that wee carved cat to Ella.”

“Aye, to Ella. And nary a word to me when it was sent.”

Joan grimaced. “Aye, I thought that was badly done. I dinnae ken what to say. Despite his silence, I just cannae believe he means to ne’er return. He appeared to be so much more to ye, with ye, than a lover.”

Triona sighed. “I thought so, too, and mayhap we are both just fools. Ye havenae had all that much more experience with men than I have.”

“Nay, I havenae. I was waiting for my Aiden. Loved that mon since he was a lad with feet he kept tripping o’er. If it hadnae been for that, I may have had me a mon or two. But I kenned what I wanted and I wasnae going to settle for less.”

“I settled for Boyd. Not that I had much choice. My father wanted me to wed the mon. But do ye nay see? I was wrong about Boyd. I saw charm and kindness and thought he and I could have a verra good marriage. Instead, he turned out to be a mon as cold as a December night who but wanted a fat purse and a son. Sad to say, that was better than remaining under my father’s roof.

“Yet here I stand, wondering if I was mistaken in a mon again. I thought Brett was, weel, I thought he cared for me. I thought what we shared was more than just a lusting, e’en on his part. A mon who has a caring for a lass doesnae love her into exhaustion in the night and then ride off with naught but a smile and a wave, ne’er to be seen or heard from again.”

She cursed and kicked at a small stone on the ground. “I must nay let my mind prey on the matter. He gave me no words of love and no promises. If I am unhappy that he is gone, then ’tis my own cursed fault. I hoped. I tried not to, but I did. He didnae ask me to, didnae encourage me, so it isnae his fault.”

“Nay, although I do wish I could curse him for telling ye lies or the like.”

Triona smiled. “It would be easier to root him out of my heart if that was the way of it, but it wasnae. My heart didnae care that there were no words of love or promises. It just kept filling itself up with need for him.”

Hooking her arm through Triona’s, Joan started toward the manor. “The heart does as the heart pleases.”

“Weel, my heart needs to be taken into a corner and slapped about until it regains its senses.” She smiled faintly when Joan laughed.

Triona spent the next few hours keeping herself as busy as possible, but for reasons she could not understand, Brett lingered in her thoughts. She finally went back inside the manor to the great hall to do some mending. Ella was so hard on her clothes that there was never a shortage of that somewhat tedious work to do.

She had barely finished mending one little shift and was reaching for another when she knew it was not going to work. Brett was not going to be dismissed from her thoughts so easily. The days when she could not shake him out of her thoughts had grown fewer, and she had begun to hope she would soon be left with only the night and her dreams to worry about.

Staring into the fire, she sighed. It was time to accept the sad fact that she might never be able to forget the man. He had burrowed his way so deeply into her heart and mind, there was no shaking free of him. She had the strong feeling that he had burrowed at least a part of him somewhere else as well.

Placing a hand over her belly, she suffered a feeling that was an uncomfortable mixture of excitement and terror. She had not bled since he rode away. It had taken her a while to realize that, for she had worked herself so hard that exhaustion drove her to her bed and those dreams she could not stop. She wanted the child she was now sure she carried, but she did not want to shame all the people of Banuilt by bearing a child when she had no husband.

What she needed was another man, she decided, and then cursed. There were no suitable men around Banuilt she could look to. If there had been, she might have found an attractive one and been with him before Brett had ever ridden inside her gates. Triona doubted there was a man at Gormfeurach who would suit, either. She was stuck with the one that lived in her mind and heart but obviously did not care to live with her in person. She would not try to trick a man into marrying in order to give a name to her child, either, and she sincerely doubted a man would willingly wed her to give his name to another man’s bairn. The mere thought of trying to find Brett to tell him about the child made her blood run cold, for she knew it would kill her to have him turn away from her—or worse, marry her out of a sense of duty.

It was difficult not to wonder what was wrong with her. Triona hated the doubts about herself that would creep into her mind at such times, yet there was no ridding herself of them permanently. She suspected every woman in her place would suffer from the same doubts, but thought she might have more right to them than most. Her father had cared nothing for her. Her husband had seen her as no more than a female to breed with. And Sir John had wanted nothing more from her than the land she held, had not even liked her and done nothing to hide that fact.

“Brett liked me,” she whispered, and then glanced around to make sure no one was near enough to have heard what even she thought sounded childish.

There was some truth in it, and she knew it. Liking and respect had been there. Triona was certain of it. It just had not been enough.

“M’lady! The new laird of Gormfeurach is at the gates!”

Pushing aside her mending, Triona looked at Angus, who was standing in the doorway to the great hall. The youth looked so excited she was surprised he was not shaking from the strength of it. She was not sure why the choice of a new laird for Gormfeurach should be of such import for him, however.

“Who is it, Angus? Anyone we ken?” she asked as she stood up and started toward the door.

“Ye must come and meet him.”

He was definitely excited, she thought as she reached him. “That is what I am about to do. Do ye mean to escort me out to the bailey?”

“Aye, ye shouldnae be going out to greet someone alone.”

At least he had finally learned that much, Triona mused as she watched him hurry off without waiting for her. Angus was trying to learn how to be a proper man-at-arms. Aiden had decided that until Angus was older, the youth should serve as her personal guard within the manor and village. Whatever was happening in the bailey, however, had apparently pushed most of the lessons Angus had so painstakingly learned right out of his head.

She stepped outside and looked at the men who had just ridden inside her gates, and shock made her tense, pushing all clear thought from her mind. The men were not the ones she had expected to see, not the Gormfeurach garrison. As they dismounted, she told herself she was seeing things, that her mind was still lost in memories. That could not be the tall, black-haired man that had haunted her dreams for over three months.

“Brett?”

Triona stared at the man striding toward her. Despite the hurt he had left her with when he had ridden away, longing still filled her abused heart whenever he came to mind. Which was far too often, she thought crossly as she looked him over, finding no signs of any horrible wounds that would explain why he had been gone for so long. That longing rushed through Triona now, so strongly she had to fight the urge to fling herself into his arms, and she firmly reminded herself that he had sent no word that he would return, given her no hope that he ever would. Even if he had changed his mind, had decided he wanted to stay with her, it should not have taken him so long.

“I was told that I was to meet the new laird of Gormfeurach,” she said, tensing against the rush of heat in her veins when he kissed her hand.

“And so ye have,” he said.

She frowned in confusion. Then she looked around him but saw only a grinning Harcourt. There was no stranger around, not even one of the men she might recognize from the rare times Sir Mollison had sent someone to Banuilt. And then the look of mischief on Brett’s face, one blended with a very large dose of pride, began to push aside her confusion.

“
Ye
are the new laird of Gormfeurach?” she asked, not surprised at how small her voice was as the realization sunk in—that the man she loved, the man who had left her with no more than a smile, a wave, and not even the tiniest hint of a promise, was now going to be living close at hand. It would be impossible to hide her secret from him.

“Aye,” he replied. “Once they were left with no laird, and none amongst them could clearly be named an heir and thus step up to be named laird, I thought I might have a chance to make a claim. It took far longer than I thought it would, for it appears the ones who built Gormfeurach were too arrogant to think they could be left with no heir at all. The Grants couldnae e’en make a true claim, for their close blood ties to the men of Gormfeurach were lost a long time ago. ’Tis a verra long tale, Triona.”

“I am certain it is, Sir Brett Murray,” she said, and nearly nodded in approval when she heard the courteous chill in her voice.

Brett nearly winced. He had had warmer greetings from complete strangers. It was foolish of him, but he had rarely considered the possibility that Triona would be furious with him, either for leaving as he had or for never sending her word of his plans. It was only recently, during talks with his family, that he had begun to think he would have to do a lot of soothing and explaining. He began to soothe his own unease with memories of their time together and the knowledge that Triona was not a fickle woman, nor one who gave her affection lightly, and would not swiftly and easily cast aside what she had felt for him.

“I would verra much like to tell ye all about it,” he said, smiling at her and ignoring the way she narrowed her eyes at him instead of smiling back.

Triona wanted him to go away. There was an urge within her to grab him, hurl him to the ground, and take what she wanted, that hot passion that had haunted her dreams every night since he had ridden away. At the moment it was an urge easily controlled by the anger she felt over how he had acted, but she did not trust herself to hold that anger up as a shield for too long, especially if he decided to be charming. She sternly reminded herself that she needed him but swore that she would not allow him back into her bed and her life unless she was absolutely sure that he wanted to be there.

Questions clamored in her mind so loudly that she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from giving voice to them. Why had he left without a word if he had always planned to return? Had he returned just for Gormfeurach, or for her? She had to clench her hand into a fist, hiding it in the folds of her skirt, to stop from rubbing her forehead in the vain hope of quieting her mind.

“Then mayhap ye can tell it all as we dine,” she said, refusing to be a bad host just because she wanted to throttle him. “The evening meal will begin soon.” She nodded toward Angus, who looked as if he was going to do a little dance of joy over Brett’s return, and that thoroughly irritated her. “Angus, please show our guests to a place where they can wash away the dust of their journey. I will see to the setting of extra places at the table.” And more food, she thought as she turned and walked back inside the manor, refusing to see it as a retreat.

“Weel, at least she didnae have a weapon,” said Harcourt, “or I think I would be trying to get your blood off my boots right now.”

Brett glared at the MacFingals, standing behind Harcourt, but it did nothing to silence their laughter. “At least she didnae have me tossed outside the walls and the gates closed to me.” He sighed. “I was a fool nay to think that anger would be awaiting my return, especially considering the women in our family.”

“Aye, ye were. Ye have time now to think of how ye may soften it.”

It was not going to be easy to do, Brett thought as they followed Angus inside. There was a good chance that Triona would do her best to make certain they were never alone, and all his best ideas for soothing her anger required some privacy. Then he saw Ella coming toward him, her smile of welcome easing a little of the chill her mother had left behind. She was slow to come to him when he held his arms out to her, and he suddenly noticed that she was moving with an odd, shuffling gait. Brett walked up to her and crouched down in front of Ella, giving her a kiss on the cheek, idly wondering if that soft growling noise he heard was her stomach rumbling with hunger.

“Have ye hurt yourself, Ella?” he asked, leaning back a little to look at her feet.

“Nay, I have a kitten,” she said, and lifted her skirts up to her knees.

Between her plump little legs sat one of the kittens they had played with in the stables, although it was nearly full-grown now. Its markings were a swirl of black, brown, and copper with an occasional splash of white. It was also staring at him with eyes uncomfortably similar to Harcourt’s, its black tail with its white tip twitching back and forth. Then, still staring at him, it reached up with one paw that had far too many claw-tipped toes, caught the edge of Ella’s skirts, and tugged downward, causing the child to drop her skirts back down over the cat. Brett felt as if he had just been given the feline equivalent of a door slammed in his face, and the poorly smothered laughter of his companions told him he had not imagined it.

“He likes it under there,” said Ella as she leaned forward, put her arms around his neck, and gave him an awkward hug.

Brett was sure he had just heard a soft snarl from beneath her skirts. “What did ye name him?”

“Clyde,” she replied. “I like the sound. Clyde. ’Tis a fine name.”

“Aye, that it is.”

“Are ye going to stay with us now?”

“That is my plan.”

“Mother is a wee bit angry at you, I think. I will get ye some flowers to give her.”

“Thank ye, Ella. That would be verra helpful.” He watched her start to shuffle away. “Mayhap ye should try to teach Clyde to nay walk with you like that. Ye could fall.” This time he had no doubt that Clyde had just snarled at him.

“Nay, I am used to it, and he doesnae do it all the time. Sometimes he rides up on my shoulder.”

Brett stood up and watched her leave, catching the occasional glimpse of that white-tipped tail flicking out from beneath her skirts. He looked at Angus. “Are ye certain that Clyde is actually a cat?”

Angus sighed. “We are nay too sure some days. Come along, m’laird. It isnae much longer ere the food will be set out.”

 

 

Brett found the meal a torture. Triona was all that was courteous, the food was good, and everyone listened with gratifying interest to his tale of how he had become laird. When it came to Triona, however, he felt as if she had never been in his arms, had never cried out his name in the throes of passion. It had been difficult to even sit next to her, as she had obviously done her best to see that he did not. He supposed he ought to be pleased that she had underestimated his stubbornness.

It was not until the fruit and tarts were set out that he decided he had had enough. They needed to talk, and yet he did not want to lay out his heart in front of everyone. He knew they were all aware of why he was there, or had guessed—everyone except Triona—but that did not mean he wished to let them sit and hear everything he had to say to her.

“I would like to have a private word with ye, Triona,” he said, and nearly winced at the look she cast him, her anger not hidden well.

“I am nay sure what ye think we have to speak about, Sir Brett Murray,” she said.

If she called him that one more time he was going to say or do something that could embarrass them both, he decided, and leaned closer to her so that he could whisper in her ear. “Ye will come somewhere private with me now, lass, or I will pick ye up, toss ye o’er my shoulder, and carry ye to a place of my own choosing.”

Triona turned her head slightly to look him in the eye. It had not been easy to sit next to him and maintain her air of calm and distance. Even the scent of the man had her stomach tied up in knots of desire too long unfed. Yet she did not know if she wished to speak alone with him. Without the shield of all the others, keeping her wanton urges at bay was going to be dangerously difficult. The look in his eyes, however, told her he would do exactly what he had threatened to.

“As ye wish, Sir Brett Murray,” she said, and could see in the way he narrowed his eyes how that angered him. “If ye would follow me, we will go to my ledger room.”

She stood up without waiting for him and started to walk away. Brett slowly stood up to follow. He could understand her anger and tried to battle his own. However, although he had not expected to be greeted with open arms, this coldness she was showing him was hard to bear. It made him afraid, which fed his growing anger.

“Shall we prepare some bandages?” asked Harcourt.

Brett grabbed a hunk of bread and tossed it at his brother’s head before following Triona out of the great hall. His mind busy struggling with what he would say, he looked around as he strode after her. The signs of improvement at Banuilt were obvious. The place had always been orderly and well cared for, but now it nearly shone, it was scrubbed so clean. He had to wonder why Triona had worked so hard when it had not really been necessary.

Once inside her small ledger room, she sat behind the worktable and stared at him. Brett wanted to grab her and make love to her right there. He clenched his hands at his sides and sat in the chair to face her across the table. Soothing her anger this way would require a skill with words he was not sure he possessed. He had hoped to use seduction to his advantage, but it was difficult to seduce an angry woman when one could not even touch her.

He leaned forward, rested his forearms on the table, and was pleased to see her tense. If his getting even that close made her look so defensive, he felt he had a chance. She was not feeling as cold as she pretended to be.

“Is there something ye wish to change about the customary arrangements between Banuilt and Gormfeurach?” she asked.

There was a slight tremor in her voice, and Triona silently cursed when she heard it. It was easier to hold that chill between them during a meal with other people around. Now there was nothing to divert her attention from the look in his eyes. She could not guess what he had to say, but he was obviously intent on talking about something, and she had the feeling it was not about his being an ally.

She bit her tongue against the urge to scream questions at him, to demand to know what game he was playing with her now. Triona prayed he was not about to suggest they be lovers again. She did not want that, now that he was back and would be staying at Gormfeurach. To be used like that would destroy her.

The problem was that she carried his child. It was not something she could hide, and yet she had no idea what to do. She did not want him at her side because he felt only some sense of responsibility for his child. She needed so much more from him.

“I am nay here to talk about the alliance between our lands,” he said. “I am here to discuss ye and me.”

“There is nay ye and me,” she said, and knew her ability to hide her anger and hurt was disappearing rapidly. “Ye left.”

“Aye, that I did, and I had good reason to do so.”

“Without a word that would imply ye might return.”

“Because I didnae ken when I would return. It may have been wrong, but I would offer no promise of returning when I didnae ken if I could get what I sought, or how long it would take. I needed something ere I came back, and if I didnae get what I first sought, I would have had to seek out something else. What was I to say? ‘I will be back when I can,’ which might be months, mayhap e’en longer?”

“Aye, unless ye didnae wish anyone to wait for ye.”

Brett sighed and dragged his hands through his hair. “I did wonder if I was mistaken in my plan. I just didnae wish ye to wonder why I was nay yet back as the weeks went by and I didnae return. It seemed better to just say nothing. I always meant to come back, Triona,” he said quietly, and reached out to clasp her hand in his, ignoring her attempt to pull it away. “Always. I but needed to get something before I did.”

“What? What could ye need to get if what ye wanted was here?”

“In a way, I sought a dower to bring ye.”

She stared at him and slowly blinked. That made no sense. A man did not need a dower. He sought one from the woman he chose. That was always the way. At best a man had to show he was a good match in blood and breeding, mayhap show he could defend his wife or provide her with a roof over her head, but all men expected the woman to bring a nice, fat dower to the marriage. For once she had been perfectly happy to have something a man might want—Banuilt being her very nice dower—and yet he went to find something else?