The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2) Page 25

  Her jaw dropped. Their conversation had taken a nasty turn. “Ye can’t take away my child.”

  “My child,” he said with an imperious arch of his brow. “And I won’t allow a child o’ mine to be raised in your savage uncle’s household.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. She didn’t want a child raised in her uncle’s household either. But she wasn’t about to let cocky Brochan Macintosh order her about as if he owned her now, just because they’d trysted once. “Ye won’t have any choice. Once ye get your coos, I’ll be free to go.”

  It was a foolish statement. She knew about the missive. Her uncle wasn’t going to ransom her.

  But rather than admit her threat was empty, she wheeled and stomped off toward the door.

  Just before she slammed it behind her, Brochan got in the last word. “He’s not goin’ to send any coos! He doesn’t want ye back!”

  Chapter 10

  Brochan grimaced, regretting his words the instant they left his lips. He hadn’t meant to blurt that out. The truth was he’d panicked. And it was the only thing he could think of that might keep her from leaving him.

  And then reality hit him. He was terrified of losing her.

  But why?

  When he realized the answer, he staggered back a step, shaken.

  God help him, he was in love with her. He was in love with Cristy Moffat.

  As impetuous and improbable as it was, he’d fallen in love with the outlaw lass who’d reived his coos.

  But then who wouldn’t love her? She was sweet and spirited, playful and passionate, lovely and loving, all any man could want.

  Why then was it so hard to admit that?

  Why had he given her every reason for marrying him but that one?

  Wrestling with his conscience, he turned, slogging back down the motte and toward the byre.

  It was his wife, he realized.

  He still felt he had to be faithful to his wife.

  Of course, he knew that was naïve. His wife wasn’t coming back. She’d left this world.

  Besides, as Mabel ceaselessly reminded him, she wouldn’t have wanted Brochan to be lonely. She would have wanted him to wed again.

  That might be true, he thought, but would she have wanted him to love again?

  He entered the dim byre, noting that the milk buckets were empty. The twins hadn’t done the second milking yet. He’d send them out after dinner. He studied the sagging thatch overhead that would need to be repaired before winter. And he wondered what his wife would have thought of Cristy.

  He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up his wife’s image. But it was difficult. And that troubled him. Her face should be etched indelibly in his conscience. And yet the longer she was gone, the more indistinct her features became. Soon, he feared, she’d be but a wisp of a memory.

  Yet maybe that was as it should be. Maybe life was kind that way, gently smoothing away the edges of a person’s face, like water polishing rock, until recalling her was less painful.

  Five years she’d been gone. Five years he’d been without a woman. And though his sons had kept him from despair, giving him something to live for, they hadn’t brought him the companionship he craved, the love of an adoring wife.

  He leaned back against the byre wall.

  He decided his wife would have liked Cristy. After all, her sons did. And Mabel and Rauf, who had been his wife’s most trusted servants, liked her as well.

  Maybe it was time.

  Maybe his wife would forgive him for loving another.

  As he pushed away from the wall and ambled back up to the tower house by the fading light of day, he felt at peace for the first time in years.

  Then he remembered the strange tavern wench and her prophecy.

  Maybe Brighde had been right.

  Maybe it was time to change his stars.

  As he entered the hall, however, he first had to attend to his clamoring sons, who rushed up the instant he arrived.

  “Da! I won! I won!” Cambel said.

  “Aye,” said Colin, “Cambel got here first.”

  “Colin would have won if he hadn’t tripped o’er a dry coo pat.”

  “I did trip o’er a coo pat,” Colin admitted with a shrug.

  “But we talked it o’er,” Cambel said.

  “And we both want the same story,” Colin said.

  Brochan put a hand on each of their heads. But his attention drifted to the beautiful lass standing by the fire to dry her skirts. He could hardly believe she was the same eager and passionate woman he’d made love to at the loch’s edge. She was staring silently into the flames. Her expression was distant and elusive.

  Colin tugged on his leine. “Don’t ye want to know what story we chose?”

  “Aye,” he said. “What story?”

  They answered together. “The Mice in Council.”

  Brochan nodded his approval, but his mind was still on Cristy. He had to apologize to her. He should never have said such a hurtful thing. And somehow he had to convince her to stay. Most of all, he had to find a way to make her care for him the way he cared for her.

  But just then Mabel announced dinner. Soon he became distracted by salmon pottage and bannocks, the babbling of his lads, and the servants’ report of the day.

  Cristy sat quietly between the twins, stirring her pottage, as if naught was wrong.

  She wasn’t hungry. Indeed, she didn’t want to sit here at all. Part of her wanted to retreat somewhere to lick her wounds after Brochan’s cruel reminder that her uncle didn’t want her back. And part of her wanted to seize the stubborn laird by the front of his leine and demand that he admit to loving her.

  She didn’t dare do either. To leave would invite too many questions. Already, Mabel was eyeing her with suspicion because of her quiet mood. And Cristy didn’t wish to upset the twins. So she only picked at her bannock and stared at her pottage while dinner continued around her.

  “Da, can ye tell us the story now?” Cambel asked.

  “Aye, Da, tell us.” Colin tugged on Cristy’s sleeve, and she looked askance at him. “Have ye heard The Mice in Council before, m’lady?”

  She shook her head.

  Cambel told her, “’Tis all about bravery.”

  “Don’t spoil it, Cambel,” said Colin.

  “I won’t.”

  “Because ‘twill ruin the surprise.”

  “I know.”

  “Hush, lads,” Mabel chided. “Let your da tell the tale.”

  Brochan took a drink of ale, then cleared his throat and began. “Once there was a great family o’ mice that lived in the shadow of a very wicked cat.”

  Cristy tore off a chunk of bannock and dipped it into her pottage. She could tell by Brochan’s voice that he wasn’t in a storytelling mood. No doubt the disgruntled laird was unaccustomed to having his wedding proposals refused.

  “Now this cat had a powerful cravin’ for mouse meat. It seemed that every time a mouse crept out of its wee home, she was ready to spring out and snap it up in her claws.”

  “Da,” Colin interjected, “do ye think we could get a cat?”

  “Colin, don’t interrupt,” Cambel chided.

  “I’m just wonderin’.”

  “A cat?” Brochan considered. “I suppose, as long as ye look after it and keep it out o’ the doocot.”

  Colin cheered.

  “Now where was I?” Brochan asked.

  Cambel said, “Snappin’ up mice in her claws.”

  “Aye. ‘Twas so bad, all the mice were afraid to leave their homes. They decided to have a council…”

  “A mice council,” Colin gushed, as if the idea pleased him immensely. Cristy wondered if his opinion would change when his new cat started gifting him with dead mice.

  “In that mice council,” Brochan said, “they discussed the matter. One mouse suggested they kill the cat. But most o’ the mice disapproved o’ the idea. The cat, after all, couldn’t help her nature. Another mouse declared they should have watch-mi
ce set up at points along the wall to report when the cat was on the prowl. But then the youngest mouse—”

  “Did the youngest mouse have a name?” Cambel wanted to know.

  “A name? I suppose so. What do ye think ‘twas?”

  “Morris,” Cambel decided.

  “Right. His name was Morris the Mouse. So wee Morris stood up bravely before the others and said, ‘I have a plan.’ The older mice scoffed at him, for he was young and inexperienced in the ways o’ cats. But they let him speak anyway. He said, ‘Why don’t we hang a bell around the cat’s neck? That way, whene’er we hear the bell ringin’, we’ll know the cat is nigh.’”

  It actually was a good idea. In fact, if Colin got his cat, Cristy would have to give him a bell to put around its neck.

  Then she remembered…she might not be here when he got his cat.

  The thought saddened her. She truly wished to stay—to watch the lads grow up, to help take care of the tower house, to look after the hardworking laird of Macintosh. But Cristy had lived long enough with men who didn’t care for her. When she married, it would be to a man who loved her with all his heart.

  “At first,” Brochan continued with the story, “none o’ the mice said a thing. Then, one by one, they saw the genius o’ the idea and started exclaimin’, ‘’Tis brilliant! How clever! What a bright wee mouse that Morris is!’ But while they were clappin’ Morris on the back and tellin’ him how lucky they were to have him in the mice council, the oldest, wisest, most respected mouse arose. Now whenever he spoke, the others paid heed, and this is what he said. ‘This plan that Morris has is very good. But let me ask ye one question. Who is goin’ to hang the bell around the cat’s neck?’ The mice were struck silent. And as ye can well imagine, none o’ them wanted the task.”

  Cambel giggled.

  “The moral, Da, the moral!” cried Colin.

  Brochan obliged him. “’Tis far easier to say a thing should be done than to do it.”

  Colin nudged her. “’Tis a good moral, aye?”

  She nodded.

  Cambel added, “Da says ‘tisn’t good enough to be a man o’ words. Ye must be a man o’ deeds.”

  “Speakin’ o’ deeds,” Brochan said, “ye lads haven’t milked the coos yet this eve.”

  “Come on, Colin,” Cambel said, jumping up from the table. “Let’s be men o’ deeds.”

  “Will ye come with us, m’lady?” Colin said. “We’ll show ye how we milk the coos.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she already knew how to milk cows. Then she reconsidered.

  There was one way she could find out if Brochan loved her. One thing that would prove beyond doubt that he wasn’t after a marriage of convenience. It would take great skill and great courage on her part, like belling a cat. But she had to try, because…sometimes it was necessary to be a woman of deeds.

  So she smiled and let the lads take her by the hand out of the hall. She pretended not to notice Brochan’s irritation with her for leaving before he had a chance to speak with her alone.

  After several minutes of letting the lads show her their milking skills, Cristy left them to their cows, making the excuse that she had to fetch her missing arisaid pin from the dovecot.

  Instead, with a backward glance, she stole quietly across the starlit slope, toward the burn that separated the Macintosh and Moffat properties.

  If she’d been aware that the lads had seen her leave and would follow her, she would never have gone. By the time she discovered them, she was past the burn, down the road, past the tavern, and deep into the fields of her uncle’s holding.

  By then it was too late.

  For the last mile, she’d had the queer sensation she was being watched. She’d quickly discarded the idea as nonsense. Nobody but her reiving cousins roamed the Moffat holding at this hour.

  But the feeling didn’t go away. When she heard distant footfalls behind her, she wheeled around, half expecting to see Archibald and the others.

  Instead, Cambel and Colin were thrashing through the weeds, trying to catch up with her.

  Her heart sank. What the devil were they doing? Why had they followed her?

  Before she could hold up a hand to stop him, Colin yelled out, “M’lady, wait for us!”

  Fearing discovery by her kin, she put a warning finger of silence to her lips and hurried to meet them.

  She crouched before them, whispering, “What are ye lads doin’?”

  “Where are ye goin’, m’lady?” Cambel whispered back.

  Colin’s face fell. “Were ye leavin’ us?”

  Her throat thickened at his sad expression. “Nay, I was only…” How could she explain? “I’m just bein’ a woman o’ deeds.”

  “What deeds?” Cambel wanted to know.

  She rubbed a hand across her lips. What was she going to do with the lads? She’d come too far to turn back now. And if Brochan discovered his sons had gone missing, another quarter hour would make little difference in their return anyway.

  She was tempted to make them wait in the woods while she did what she’d come to do. She knew if they swore on their honor to stay where she put them, she could rely upon their word.

  But if any of her clan found them in the forest, they’d turn the lads in to Douglas. And Douglas wouldn’t hesitate to use the Macintosh lads the way Macintosh had used Cristy—as hostages.

  “What deed, m’lady?” Colin repeated.

  There was only one thing to do.

  “A deed that requires a special talent, which is why I’m so glad ye came.” She squeezed their shoulders. “I could use your help.”

  When Brochan walked into the byre, he expected to see the lads dawdling over the milking as they shared their skills with Cristy. Showing off was one thing, but they’d been out there for over an hour. It was past their bedtime, and he needed to find a moment alone with Cristy to see if he could repair the damage he’d done.

  What he did not expect to find were full, abandoned milk buckets.

  He frowned. Where had the wayward lads gone?

  His first thought was the comet. Maybe Cristy had taken them out to the field to get a better look at it.

  But he scoured the hillside, to no avail.

  Then he wondered if they’d gone to the dovecot. When he ducked inside, it was dark and empty.

  Exiting, he narrowed his eyes at the herd of cattle. Could they be out there with the cows?

  “Cambel!” he called out. “Colin!”

  There was no reply.

  A sickly fear prickled at the back of his neck.

  Where was Cristy?

  She’d been upset. Even at dinner, he could see she wasn’t eating. He’d said that stupid thing about her uncle not wanting her back. He couldn’t blame her for feeling hurt.

  Was she hurt enough to seek retribution?

  “Colin!” he shouted. “Cambel!”

  He told himself she wouldn’t do the lads any harm. They adored her, and she seemed to care for them.

  But then he remembered what else he’d said. He’d told Cristy that no child of his would be raised in her uncle’s household. He’d threatened to take her bairn away if she had one. And she’d been just as insistent that she wouldn’t let him.

  Was she upset enough to take his children?

  A twinge of alarm twisted his heart. If she wished to wound him, she’d pierced him in his softest spot. The lads were everything to him.

  He steeled his jaw. Normally, he was a peaceful man. But he’d once been a warrior. And when it came to his sons, he’d take on the entire Moffat clan for them.

  Unwilling to waste another moment, he strode with determined haste to the tower to fetch his blade.

  Once armed and ready, he stalked with purpose across his fields, past his cattle, and over the burn that divided the properties, his hand clenched around the hilt of his naked sword. Fear had no place in battle, so he pushed down the dread that threatened to unman him. As he covered the miles between the propert
ies, passing the tavern and leaving the road to trespass onto Moffat land, he thought only of his sons and the brute into whose hands they’d been delivered.

  Indeed, so intent was he on mustering his courage that he didn’t even see the lads until he was almost upon them. When he finally spied them cresting a distant brae, coming his way, he was so filled with relief that at first he was blind to everything except Colin and Cambel.

  With renewed hope, he sheathed his sword and bounded toward them.

  Then he saw Cristy. And the cows.

  Slowing his step, he frowned. What the devil was she up to?

  While he watched them, he saw Cristy guiding the lads, keeping a careful pace behind them as they herded one, two, three, four, five cows.

  Chapter 11

  Cristy spied the approaching figure before the lads did. How had Brochan arrived so fast? She’d hoped to have his sons home before he realized they were missing. God’s eyes, he was probably furious. She only prayed he’d have enough sense not to bellow at her while they were still on Moffat land.

  “Keep the coos movin’, lads,” she murmured. “Don’t look now, but your Da is comin’ this way. We can’t let him scare the cattle.”

  Colin whimpered. “Och, nay.”

  “He’ll be so vexed with us,” Cambel said.

  “He’ll be vexed at me,” Cristy assured them.

  “But he’ll be glad to have the coos back, aye?” Colin asked hopefully.

  She wondered. Once Brochan had his five cows, he’d no longer have an excuse to keep her. So if he wanted her to stay—and she was almost certain he did—he’d have to give her a good reason. And it would have to be more convincing than needing a mother for his sons, help for his housekeeper, or a last name for her bastard.

  The closer Brochan got, the more furious he looked. When he finally drew close enough to keep pace with them, his expression was tense, and his words were clipped. “Are these my coos?”

  “Aye.”

  Cambel said, “M’lady is bringin’ them back for ye, Da.”

  “I don’t want them back,” he ground out.