The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2) Page 22

  Those sons flanked Cristy at the moment like knights standing guard, ready to defend their lady. The sight almost made him wish he could just forget about their disobedience. Almost.

  “Ye’ve all had time to consider your actions,” Brochan said with forced calm, closing the door behind him. “So tell me, which o’ ye deserves the punishment for this?”

  “I do, Da,” Cambel volunteered. “I should have been watchin’ o’er the lady so she wouldn’t get hurt by the coos.”

  “Nay, ‘twas my fault,” said Colin. “’Twas my idea to reive Eufemie.”

  “Nonsense,” Cristy said. “Ye’re only wee lads. ’Twas my fault for takin’ ye out to the coos without your Da’s consent.”

  Brochan tried not to smile. He was actually very proud that his sons were willing to take the blame. It proved they were men of character.

  And the fact that Cristy too was trying to protect them warmed his heart. He was glad he’d made the decision he had about her.

  “And what do ye think your punishment should be?” he asked.

  “Pickin’ up coo pats?” said Colin with a sigh.

  Cambel shuddered. “Cleanin’ out the garderobe?”

  Cristy glanced up and opened her mouth. No words came out. But he didn’t think he’d be able to understand them anyway. Seeing her rosy lips again heated his blood and scattered his thoughts.

  He cleared his throat. “I think ye all bear a wee bit o’ the blame. So here’s your punishment.” He didn’t tell them it was a task he’d intended for the lads all along. “The doocot is in need o’ repair. The cracks need patchin’ so the wind won’t get through. So on the morrow, I want ye to mix up a batch o’ clay, straw, and coo dung. Then ye’ll have to daub it into the chinks to seal the walls from the weather.”

  Watching his sons try to hide their excitement over their punishment was amusing. They loved to be helpful, and repairing the dovecot was a chore that appealed to their sense of worth and independence. For Colin, especially eager to get his own flock of chickens, it was all the lad could do to keep from jumping up and down with glee.

  Cristy, however, had a puzzled look on her face. “What news did the monk bring from my uncle?”

  He hesitated. Of course, she expected she’d be going home before the morrow.

  “M’lady doesn’t have to go home, does she, Da?” Cambel folded his hands in supplication.

  “She has to stay till the morrow,” Colin declared, “for her punishment.”

  His sons apparently liked having her here almost as much as he did.

  Cristy lifted her chin in challenge, but he could see her face had gone pale. “What did he say?”

  Brochan straightened. He was now positive he was doing the right thing. “Your uncle agreed to return the five coos today to ransom ye,” he lied.

  He saw her jaw tense.

  The lads wailed in protest.

  He held up his hand to stop them. “But I told him I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided five coos isn’t nearly enough for a lady o’ such quality.”

  “What?” Cristy was startled.

  “I told him the ransom was now thirty coos.”

  Thirty? Thirty?

  Cristy’s jaw went slack. She couldn’t believe Brochan had made such a demand. There was no way her uncle would pay such a price for her. That was over half of his herd.

  She wanted to tell him so. She wanted to tell him his price was too dear.

  But Brochan’s words didn’t escape her notice. He’d called her a lady of quality. That made her glow inside.

  While the twins cheered and leaped for joy around her, she couldn’t help but smile at Brochan. As hopeless as his demand was, it was immensely flattering.

  The secret smile he gave her in return took her breath away. Suddenly she imagined she was back in the byre, pressing her fevered lips to his, brazenly exploring him with her hands, tasting the hot, wet length of his tongue, and longing for more.

  Lust shadowed his eyes and flared his nostrils. He wanted her too.

  Unfortunately, there were wee lads dancing about them at the moment and a dozen tasks he probably had to finish before the day was done.

  If she helped, they’d go faster.

  Then maybe she’d steal another kiss before she broke the news to him that her uncle was never going to send him thirty cows.

  Beside her, Colin was counting on his fingers. “Thirty?” His eyes went round. “Are we goin’ to get thirty coos, Da?” Before Brochan could answer, Colin took his brother by the shoulders and shook him with joy. “Cambel, we’re goin’ to get thirty more coos!”

  Of course, the lads had overlooked the fact that they’d be trading Cristy for those cows. But her uncle wasn’t going to send that many anyway, so it didn’t matter.

  “Now, lads,” Brochan chided. “What is it Aesop said?”

  Cambel said, “Slow and steady wins the race?”

  “Well, aye,” Brochan said, “but I’m thinkin’ o’ the The Milkmaid and Her Pail.”

  “Och!” Colin cried. “Don’t count your chickens ere they’re hatched.”

  “That’s the one,” Brochan said.

  Cristy had no idea what they were talking about, although not counting chickens until they’re hatched seemed like a good suggestion.

  “Do ye like Aesop’s stories, m’lady?” Cambel asked.

  “I don’t know Aesop,” she said.

  “Da will tell ye some o’ his stories,” Colin confirmed. “Won’t ye, Da?”

  Cristy could see Brochan had a dozen things on his mind already. “Maybe later?” she suggested. “I fear your da is very busy today.”

  “I’ll make ye a bargain,” Brochan said. “Ye three come help me clean out the pantry ere Mabel gets home, and I’ll tell ye some of Aesop’s stories while we work.”

  Unlike the much smaller buttery that Mabel used daily, the pantry was deep, dark, and cool. When Brochan brought down a candle stand so they could see better, the lads discovered an abundance of cobwebs and mouse droppings. It seemed that parts of the storeroom hadn’t been touched by anything but vermin in years. Thick dust coated clay jars filled with unidentifiable substances that, when the corks were popped off, made the lads’ noses wrinkle in displeasure. A few earthenware vessels had fallen, and shards of pottery were scattered on the floor. Mushrooms had sprouted on a few of the shelves, and the sack of barley slumped against the corner had long ago been chewed at the bottom, strewing grain everywhere.

  Cristy would be surprised if anything was salvageable. Still, it had to be cleaned up to make room for the supplies Mabel was bringing home. So she pushed up the sleeves of her kirtle and grabbed the broom perched in the corner, determined to set the place to rights.

  Brochan hauled in a great bucket of water, along with rags so they could clean as they went. He took the items off of the uppermost shelves and set them in the middle of the pantry. It was Colin’s task to wipe away the dust and read the letters on the vessels to identify their contents. Cambel had the responsibility of peeking inside to determine if they were empty, rotten, or usable.

  “Da, ye said ye’d tell us a story,” Colin reminded him.

  “Which story do ye want to hear?”

  “The Lion and the Mouse!” Colin cried.

  “Aye, The Lion and the Mouse!” Cambel echoed. “Ye’ll like this one, m’lady.”

  While Cristy swept, Brochan told the story. “Once, a long while ago, a great lion was sleepin’ in the woods…”

  “Do ye know what a lion is, m’lady?” Cambel interrupted.

  She smiled at his concerned expression. “Aye.”

  “As I said, a great lion was sleepin’ in the woods. His enormous head was restin’ on his paws, and he was snorin’ as loud as…well, as loud as Rauf.”

  The lads giggled.

  “Meanwhile, a timid wee mouse, payin’ no heed to where she was goin’, came upon the dozin’ lion. In her hurry to get away from the dangerous beast, she accidentally ran straight ac
ross the lion’s nose.”

  Cambel gasped dramatically, mostly for Cristy’s benefit.

  “O’ course, the lion awoke at once, and, seein’ the mouse, raised his big paw, intendin’ to kill the wee beast that had disturbed his sleep.”

  The lads were enrapt and no longer toiling. Cristy, too, slowed her sweeping, transfixed both by the tale and by the sight of Brochan lifting heavy vessels off the top shelf, which made the impressive muscles of his back strain against the cloth of his leine.

  “But then the mouse cried, ‘Spare me, I beg ye!’ ‘Why should I spare ye?’ said the lion. ‘If ye spare me,’ said the mouse, ‘one day I shall repay ye for your kindness.’”

  Cristy bit back a grin at the wee voice he’d given the mouse and the loud boom of the lion. No wonder his sons like the tales. Brochan was a gifted storyteller.

  “Well, the lion didn’t believe the mouse for one moment. After all, how could such a wee creature ever help a big and powerful lion? Nevertheless, he was amused by the minx of a mouse, and so he let her go.”

  Colin was squirming with anticipation. “Wait till ye find out what happens, m’lady.”

  “Many days later, the lion was chasin’ after his supper in the same woods when he was caught in the tangle of a hunter’s net. Unable to free himself from the ropes, no matter how much he twisted and turned, he let out a huge roar of anger.”

  “Do it, Da, do it!” Cambel cried.

  Brochan gave Cristy a wink. Then he emitted a loud roar that left her heart in her throat, so savage was the sound.

  The lads were giggling.

  “Don’t fret, m’lady,” Cambel said. “’Tis only Da, not a real lion.”

  “Miss Moffat’s not afraid o’ lions, are ye, Miss Moffat?” Brochan asked.

  If she was, she wasn’t about to admit it. She lifted the broom. “Not while I have my trusty lion spear by my side.”

  The lads went wild with laughter then, which made her laugh in turn. She suddenly felt more giddy with joy—in a dark storeroom, holding a broom like a weapon, telling stories with two wee lads, admiring their father’s hilarity and hindquarters—than she’d felt in years.

  “Go on, Da,” Colin said. “Tell m’lady what happens.”

  “Where was I? Och, aye, the roar. The mouse heard that roar and came at a run to find the lion strugglin’ in the net. So, bein’ a mouse o’ her word, she nibbled and nibbled at the ropes until the grateful lion was free.”

  Colin clapped.

  Brochan finished with, “The mouse said, ‘Ye see? Even a wee creature like me can be o’ help to a lion.’”

  “Did ye like it, m’lady?” Cambel asked.

  “Och, aye.” Cristy could take the story to heart. For much of her life, she’d been made to feel like a mouse—wee, insignificant, useless.

  “Now, lads, what’s the moral o’ the story?”

  The lads recited, “Kindness is ne’er wasted.”

  Cristy smiled. It was a good moral.

  “Tell us another, Da,” Colin begged.

  Brochan cocked an eye at them. “Ye finish those last few vessels, and then ye can start on the bottom shelves.”

  They hurried to do his bidding. Meanwhile, Cristy tied a damp rag around the handle end of the broom and swabbed away the cobwebs along the plaster ceiling.

  “Will ye tell the story o’ The North Wind and the Sun, Da?” Cambel asked when they started on the lower shelves.

  Colin pouted. “But it doesn’t have animals.”

  “’Tis a good story, though.”

  Colin shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “M’lady would like it.”

  “Would ye like it, m’lady?” Colin asked.

  Cristy thought she’d happily listen to Brochan reciting the hours of the day, so pleasant was his voice. She nodded.

  “Lady’s choice ‘tis,” Brochan declared as he wiped down the top shelf. “One day, long ago, the North wind and the sun were bickerin’, tryin’ to decide which was the strongest. While they were arguin’ in the road, a traveler happened to pass by.”

  Cambel gave his father a sly smile. “Did the traveler have a name?”

  Brochan returned the grin. “Aye, as a matter o’ fact, she did. Her name was Miss Moffat.”

  Cambel beamed. Apparently, it had been his plan all along to feature her in the story. She was enchanted.

  Brochan continued. “The sun said to the wind, ‘I know how we can settle this dispute. Whichever of us can strip the arisaid from that traveler—”

  “Miss Moffat,” Cambel interjected with a giggle.

  “Aye…‘from that traveler, Miss Moffat, will be the strongest.’ The North wind agreed and, all at once, blew a cold blast of air toward Miss Moffat.”

  “Do it, Da!” Cambel urged.

  With a sheepish smile, Brochan pretended to blow out a long blast of air toward her. Caught up in the spirit of the play, Cristy feigned being blown backward by his North wind, which delighted the lads and made even Brochan laugh. So she continued to act out his story.

  “Harder and harder the wind blew. One corner of the arisaid flew up, then the other. But Miss Moffat wrapped it close about her. The fiercer the wind blew, the tighter she held on to the arisaid. And finally the wind had to surrender.”

  Everyone was laughing at her antics. But it was Brochan’s grin that made her melt.

  He continued. “Then ‘twas the sun’s turn. The great yellow ball began to shine, very gently at first. Miss Moffat enjoyed the warmth after all the bitter cold o’ the North wind. In fact, ‘twas so pleasant that she unpinned her arisaid and loosened it a wee bit.”

  Cristy saw where the story was headed. And, feeling the way she did at the moment—lusty and daring—if she were alone with the laird, she might be tempted to actually remove her clothes, layer by layer. She settled for miming the actions, which seemed to satisfy the lads.

  It also seemed to satisfy their father, whose eyes had taken on a shadowy cast.

  “Warmer and warmer the sun burned,” he said, “until Miss Moffat tossed back the hood o’ her arisaid and mopped her brow.”

  She complied, wiping her forearm across her brow.

  “The sun continued to blaze,” he said, his voice a bit hoarser. “Cristy loosened the arisaid until it hung from her shoulders.”

  As she pretended to loosen her arisaid, Cristy watched Brochan. He might have been reciting a story, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. He was gazing at her with the same hunger she’d glimpsed in his eyes before, a hunger that sent a thrill through her.

  “And then what, Da?” Colin urged.

  Brochan licked his lips, staring at Cristy. “Then…then she…cast the arisaid away, because…”

  From the level above came Mabel’s voice. “Are ye down there, m’laird?”

  Cristy clapped her hand to her bosom, as if she’d been caught disrobing.

  “Aye!” His voice came out on a squeak. He cleared his throat. “Aye! In the pantry.”

  “We’ve brought the goods,” she called down. “Can ye help Rauf unload them, m’laird?”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  “Da, ye have to finish the story,” Colin said.

  “Och, aye,” he said in a rush. “So she tossed her arisaid aside, which meant the sun won. Now ye lads help Miss Moffat finish up the pantry while I unload the cart.”

  “But the moral, Da,” Cambel reminded him.

  “Right. What’s the moral, lads?”

  They replied, “Persuasion is better than force.”

  Cristy sighed as Brochan disappeared up the steps, her gaze lingering on his snug trews. Persuasion? It wouldn’t take much to persuade her to kiss the irresistible laird again.

  Brochan was glad of the heavy physical work, because it helped to take his mind off the enchanting lass in the pantry.

  He was ashamed that he’d let lust take such control over him. For years, he’d kept it at bay, focusing on taking care of his sons, making a good life for his motherless
lads. He felt he had to honor their mother’s memory, and he’d never been tempted to look at another woman.

  It was bad enough that he was drawn by Cristy’s feminine lures—her lush black hair, her shining eyes, her succulent lips, her winsome figure. But now he was also attracted to her charming nature.

  She was most remarkable, a lass of fascinating contrasts. Her spirit had been damaged in some ways, yet there was a willing playfulness about her. On the one hand, she seemed as innocent as his sons, yet on the other, she was worldly and wise beyond her years. She could be frail and fearful at times, fierce and frisky at others.

  He liked her. It had been a long while since he’d said that about anyone. But he genuinely liked her.

  And hours later, as they all sat together under the light of the comet—Cristy happily cradling both lads’ sleepy heads in her lap—he wasn’t sure “like” was a strong enough word.

  Chapter 8

  “Does your da always punish ye like this, with chores?” Cristy asked the lads the next morn as they skipped hand-in-hand toward the dovecot. She still thought it was the most curious form of chastisement. Her uncle always backhanded her and her cousins when they did something wrong. But the lads seemed genuinely excited to do the work.

  “We haven’t done daub in a while,” Colin said.

  “Usually ‘tis chamber pots,” Cambel added.

  “Does he never clout ye?” she asked.

  The boys looked at her as if she were mad.

  “Why would he clout us?” Cambel asked.

  “That would be ungentlemanly,” Colin said.

  Cristy frowned. “But what’s to keep ye from disobeyin’ him again if ye’re not afraid to be clouted?”

  The lads looked at each other, pondering the question.

  “’Twould make Da unhappy,” Colin finally decided.

  “Aye, and ‘tis dishonorable,” Cambel added.

  “Da would never use force against us,” Colin assured her.

  “Aye, that’s it!” Cambel said. “’Tis like the story about the North wind and the sun.”

  Together the lads said, “Persuasion is better than force.”

  Cristy lifted her brows. Was that true? Had Brochan never clouted his sons? Had he managed to raise these two wee gentleman with their kind manners and courteous speech without raising his hand to them?