Two
If Brenna had strayed during the years of Michael’s absence, she hadn’t wandered very far or very often. Judging from her excessive modesty, she’d done her frolicking in the dark of night under several blankets and without a single candle lit.
Which in one sense was a pity—virgins and their near equivalent were rumored to be a howling lot of work—and in another was a sweet, sweet relief.
“I think I’ll shave after all,” Michael said when he’d rendered himself cleaner than he’d been in days. “Perhaps you’d retrieve my kit for me?”
His wife left the room as if a squad of dragoons were galloping down on her, which allowed Michael time to climb out of the tub, towel off, and pin on the plain, dark work kilt.
The only assistance he’d asked of his wife was to rinse his hair when he’d made use of her soaps, and even this had provoked blushes from her.
And silence. Brenna had been a quiet girl; she was a silent woman.
“Thank you,” Michael said, taking his kit from her and moving to the window. Castle Brodie was in truth an Elizabethan manor with a stone keep anchoring its central wing, but in deference to Highland winters, the walls were thick throughout.
Michael unrolled grooming scissors, a razor, comb, whetstone, and shaving brush, the last of which he swished in the tub and lathered up using Brenna’s soap.
“You scent the soap with heather and what else?” he asked, because small talk seemed the safest undertaking with a wife who had reason enough to hate him.
“Lavender, a bit of rosemary, a drop of vetiver. I use what’s on hand, and what’s in season. The rose oil I save to make gifts.”
Michael wet the razor and lifted his chin. “What time should we muster the castle staff tomorrow? They’re impatient to inspect me, I’m sure.”
In the mirror, he saw that his wife had stopped tidying up in the vicinity of the tub—or stopped pretending to tidy up. He’d been careful not to splash a single drop on her floors. She instead watched him as he scraped whiskers off his throat.
“We’ll get that out of the way early. There’s work to do, and the weather should be fair.”
Early by Highland summer standards was not a sanguine thought for a man who’d traveled hundreds of miles on horseback. “Early it is. Is auld Maudie still keeping house for us?”
“She is.”
“And does Dabnich mind the tenants and farms?”
Brenna’s expression gave away nothing, which piqued Michael’s curiosity.
“Angus has taken on those responsibilities. Dabnich’s boys moved to Boston, and he and the missus followed.”
Michael considered this while tending to his upper lip. “Would you mind if I grew a beard?” He hated beards. They itched and made eating a fussier undertaking. He was becoming none too keen on conversation with his wife either.
“You must do as you please.”
“Have you time to trim my hair then?”
Because he was determined that she not spend their entire marriage across a room from him, and even as a very young lady, Brenna had not easily abided untidiness.
“I like your hair.”
He nicked himself on the jaw. “You like my hair?”
She opened the wardrobe to put away her scents and soaps. “Aye. There’s more red in it now. Two red-haired people usually have red-haired children.”
Because she might turn and see his face in the mirror, Michael did not smile, but she’d recalled the color of his hair when he’d departed years ago, and she contemplated procreation with him.
More progress, but like the damned French, she gave up ground only grudgingly.
“May I have that shirt?”
She had folded the clean shirt at least twice, but tossed it to him now. “That one might be a bit small on you. Hugh isn’t as broad through the shoulders.”
Michael’s baroness was not offering a compliment.
Hugh hadn’t access to the London tailors, said to be the best in the world. The shirt was clean and well made nonetheless. Michael left the top two buttons open to accommodate the more snug fit.
“I’m sure I have a clean cravat somewhere in my bag.” This time, rather than provide his lady with yet another excuse to depart from his presence, he crossed the corridor himself and retrieved his entire traveling bag.
As he stood before the mirror and wrapped his neckcloth around his throat, Michael caught sight of Brenna in the mirror, arms crossed, plaid shawl wrapped tight. “Why the frown, Wife?”
He wished she’d object to his moving his effects into what was clearly her bedroom. Wished she’d join battle, because an altercation of any sort required that two parties engage each other.
“Will you sashay about the castle barefoot?”
“Half the women in Edinburgh are barefoot as we speak, shoes being too precious to waste on summer wear.”
When he expected she’d inform him he was not a fishmonger’s wife plying her wares on the lowland docks, Brenna instead tossed his shaving water into the tub, wiped off his razor, threw his towel onto the stack of damp flannels on the floor, and started rolling up his kit.
“You would have made an excellent officer’s wife.”
She passed him his kit, the ties fastened in a tidy bow. “Some might say I am an officer’s wife.”
She would have made an excellent officer. Rather than lay himself open to another telling toss of her uxorial dagger, Michael focused on brushing his too-long hair back from his face.
“Angus will be expecting you,” Brenna reminded him. “Mind he doesn’t get you too drunk. The staff began inspecting you the moment you rode into the bailey. You were right about that.”
He set the shaving kit aside, determined to gain some concession from her. “If that’s so, I’ll sleep here tonight, Brenna Brodie. We are man and wife, and a baron needs an heir.”
She wrinkled her nose, which made her look young and not as formidable. “Any particular baron?”
Brenna sidestepped as nimbly as if swords had been crossed beneath her verbal feet.
“We are the Baron and Baroness Strathdee.” He liked the sound of it, even if their title did not impress his lady wife.
“We’ve good fishing in the River Dee. I’ll see you at dinner.”
She left the field, off to clean, tidy, polish, or otherwise organize some corner of the house, and yet, Michael did not have the sense he’d inspired his wife into a retreat.
A baron might need an heir, but a man married to Brenna Brodie needed his wife’s cooperation if any heirs were to be forthcoming.
On that daunting thought, Michael headed barefoot for the lower floors, and a wee dram—or two.
“I hate Scotland. The mountains are gray and mean, the roads are bumpy, and everybody talks funny.”
Maeve’s nursemaid might have been deaf for all the impact this litany had on her, so Maeve resorted to heavier artillery.
“I have to use the necessary.”
Prebish stopped gawking out the window and aimed a smile at her charge that did not fool Maeve for a moment.
“You used the necessary at the last posting inn, and if you’re about to tell me you’re famished to flinders and dying of thirst yet again, you know the basket is under the seat.”
“There’s nothing but scones in the basket, and they’re stale by now. The tea in the flask has gone all cold and nasty too.” Like Maeve’s life had gone cold and nasty.
“Best appreciate good food while you have it, child. Times are hard, and not every little girl is as fortunate as you.”
Prebish was a Papist, which Maeve took to mean she prayed frequently, was on a first-name basis with a lot of saints, and didn’t mind so much when people died.
When Maeve had been a truly little girl, she had heard many a good story perched on Prebish’s ample lap.
On the basis of that long association—and a certain tight feeling in her tummy—Maeve posed a question that had been plaguing her since they’d left Ireland.
“If I’m so fortunate, why did Bridget send me far, far away?”
Such a scary distance too. The Scottish roads were nothing compared to the pitching of the Irish Sea and the odd languages people spoke in Belfast and Glasgow. In the port towns, Prebish had held Maeve’s hand, and Maeve hadn’t protested.
“Your sister is expecting a child of her own, young Maeve, and your older brother is now a Scottish baron. He’s the head of your family, and the proper fellow to look after you now that all that nonsense is over with on the Continent.”
Nonsense was what Prebish called everything from a disagreement among the maids to war to Maeve’s very reasonable arguments against having her hair braided every single day.
“Tell me again what my brother looks like.”
Prebish’s smile shifted and became wistful—or sad?
“He’s a grand fellow, your brother Michael. As tall as Hamish Heckendorn, with green eyes and blond hair. He liked to laugh when I knew him, and your sisters adored him.”
“Does he still like to laugh?” Because what did it matter if a man was taller than the blacksmith in Darrow if that man was grumpy and sour all the time?
“He’s been long away to war, Maeve. That can take the laughter out of a man, but there’s nothing like a child to bring it back.”
Who was to bring back Maeve’s laughter?
The mountains never changed here. They took all day to get around, and the roads only got worse the farther the carriage traveled from the coast. In Aberdeen, Prebish had declared they needed a day to rest, but they’d also picked up baggage, the weight of which made the ride even rougher.
“Will my brother like me?”
Prebish was not ignoring this question. Maeve could see her old face was creased in thought. “He will love you, and you will love him, because that’s what family does.”
Maeve reached under the seat for the basket of scones—which were not stale—and took a bite, hoping to settle her stomach.
Prebish had told the truth—families loved each other, even families who sent their dearest little girl off to strange, cold, bumpy lands—but Prebish had also not answered the question Maeve had asked.
Would Michael, a brother she’d never met, like her?
Brenna had parted from her newly scrubbed husband at the first opportunity, needing activity to keep her from flying at him in a flat panic.