Seven #2
“You’re certainly not supposed to lark about the stables in your bare feet. Shall we sit?” Michael gestured to a worn bench in the sun outside the barn doors. “Taking a few minutes to show Maeve around is hospitality. We pride ourselves on our hospitality in this shire.”
The boy scuffed dirty toes in the stubby grass under their bench. “Maeve likes horses.” While Lachlan clearly liked Maeve, or liked having any child to associate with during his long day.
“She’s my sister,” Michael said, which earned him a curious glance. “You have a sister.”
“Our Annie. She has the same name as my ma did.”
“Why don’t you wear your boots if you’re sneaking into the stables?”
“Boots are for winter, and I don’t sneak.”
Michael knew that—about the boots—but he’d forgotten it. When every penny counted, something as dear as a pair of boots shouldn’t be wasted on summer weather. Soldiers were equally protective of their footwear, and a regiment’s cobbler was never allowed to volunteer for the most dangerous missions.
“A man who’s working around horses has to wear his boots whenever he’s in the stables. I don’t care what Herman says, or Angus, or your own father. I’m the laird, and these are my stables.”
Lachlan scuffed both feet. “Yes, Laird.”
Which in the dialect of little boys meant “Go bugger yourself.”
“Lachlan, if I ask your father to let you work in the stables, I’ll provide the boots as part of your pay, but I can’t have Brenna wroth with me for stealing her best kitchen help.”
Understanding dawned in Lachlan’s solemn blue eyes. “We none of us like to make Annie upset. When she cries is the worst. Only Uncle Neil can manage her when she cries.”
“Uncle Neil’s a good man.” Whom Michael would probably not recognize if he sat down with him at the same table in the pub. “We must not rush you from the kitchens, and I do need that shortbread recipe.”
“Aye.” The boy looked down, though a grin had appeared.
“Away with you, and don’t forget to wash your feet.”
Lachlan shot off the bench, but only as the boy reached the bailey did Michael realize he’d had an audience. The marmalade cat sat in the barn doorway, having a casual wash.
“You’ll not be tattling on me to my wife, cat, or I’ll tattle on you to all of yours.”
The cat paid him no mind. No mind whatsoever.
“Hold still.” Brenna spoke around a pair of pins.
“How long does it take to tuck up some damned wool?” Michael groused. “A man wants to find his bed at the end of the day, not serve as his wife’s pincushion.”
This was the fellow she was supposed to woo? “Turn a bit.”
He obliged, which meant Brenna had a fine view of the backs of his calves. Hairy, muscular, male…they were interesting, those calves. She took a pin from her mouth and fastened another few inches of hem.
“What did you find to do with yourself today, when you weren’t serving as my pincushion?”
“I made the acquaintance of our boot boy, Hugh’s son.
I also made the mistake of allowing Herman Brodie to accost me on a sunny afternoon, and nothing would do but I must introduce myself to every equine on the property, including all five foals born to us this spring.
Then, of course, we had to have a pint of summer ale, or two. ”
Or six. He’d sent word up from the village not to hold supper for him.
“Turn again.” She took the last pin from her mouth. “If you found Lachlan in the stables, the boy will hear about it from his da.” Though why hadn’t Brenna thought to look for Maeve in the stables? What girl raised in an Irish squire’s household wouldn’t be horse mad?
“Are you staring at my arse?”
“I will never, not if I live to be ninety-four years old, understand the male mind.” Though she might take up admiring her husband’s backside. She pushed the last pin through soft wool and sat back. “I am not staring at your blessed fundament. We’re done here. Take off your kilt and mind the pins.”
He stepped away. “You were taking overly long about that last part. If you did want to stare at my arse, I’d hardly be offended.”
Brenna made to rise, only to find her husband assisting her.
“You are tired from riding all over the shire with Herman, and you likely didn’t get a proper dinner at the pub. I am tired from trying to figure out when you’re teasing, when you’re flirting, and when you’re merely making conversation.”
He kissed her nose. “So stop trying to figure it out and talk to me. What occupied you this lovely day? I know you did not go riding with your husband.”
Out of habit, Brenna never lit many candles after dark, but one had to see clearly to deal with hems and measurements and such. Now that she was looking at Michael’s face rather than his knees, feet, or calves—all of which were interesting—she could see he was not happy.
“Was I supposed to go riding with you, Husband?”
“Yes, you were, but Herman kidnapped me, and I suspect Angus put him up to it. Ouch, damn it.”
He’d stomped over to the privacy screen, which made the kilt swish about his lordly knees, and likely impaled those same knees on a half-dozen pins.
“I’ll be back.” Brenna left him swearing in French and possibly Spanish behind the privacy screen, and took herself down to the kitchen. Bread, butter, cheese, and a few strawberries went onto a tray, along with a pitcher of cold lemonade.
When she returned to the laird’s chambers, Michael was in a dressing gown—thank heavens for small mercies—and standing near a branch of candles on the mantel.
“I’d forgotten you keep a journal,” he mused.
“Some years more than others.” Some years, not at all.
“You don’t seem concerned I might read it.”
Brenna set the tray on the desk near the windows.
“You’re a great one for conversation. Why would you read my journal when you might instead plague me with talk? Come eat.”
He set the little book on the mantel and took the seat at his desk. “Lemonade?”
“You favored it as a boy.” She pulled a chair up on the other side of the desk, when what she should have done was set the food out in their sitting room. “I can take the tray to the other room—”
Her husband regarded her with a smile that was both approving and male.
“You recalled that I enjoy lemonade. Please sit, Wife. The other room is bound to be chilly by now, while our bedroom is cozy. I hardly recognized anybody at the pub.”
Brenna took a seat, still trying to understand that smile, and what it meant when the laird didn’t recognize his tenants.
“Herman didn’t handle the introductions?”
Michael made himself a sandwich of buttered bread and cheese, the soldier in him apparently happy to eat with his fingers.
“It was odd. Nobody came over to greet us, though some tipped their hats or otherwise acknowledged us. Angus showed up and pointed out this tenant or that new bride.”
“Have some strawberries.”
Michael paused, his half-eaten sandwich in his hand. “You have some strawberries. What aren’t you telling me, Brenna Brodie?”
“Angus showed up. Do you think your tenants would barge in on a conversation between you and Angus?”
Another bite disappeared, though he chewed more slowly. “You’re saying my tenants avoid Angus.”
Everybody avoided Angus, but Brenna could hardly tell her husband that.
“He’s the steward, and he doesn’t usually come around unless trouble’s afoot or rents are due.” She stuffed a strawberry in her mouth rather than say more. The berry had appeared perfectly ripe, but turned out to be one of those fruits that looked much better than it tasted.
“Makes sense. You aren’t having a sandwich?”
“I had a decent meal.” With Maeve, who had tried hard not to let her disappointment at Michael’s absence show. Brenna appropriated a sip of Michael’s lemonade, the better to keep that sentiment silent as well.
“Herman says the yearlings are ready to take in to Aberdeen for sale. I’ve half a mind to go along.”
He wasn’t asking her permission to leave—or was he? “You must do as you see fit. Angus usually accompanies the livestock going to sale.”
Something flickered across Michael’s face, something a wife of nine years ought to be able to read.
“We’ll send Angus. A change of scenery will do him good, and he, at least, won’t be tempted to take ship for the New World.”
Brenna did not mutter if only he would, because Angus was the devil she knew, and inflicting him on others all unsuspecting wouldn’t be honorable.
“Will you have another sandwich?”
“I would have my wife feed me some strawberries.” He sat back, his blue dressing gown gaping open, a smile lurking in his eyes. “If she’s willing.”
The food had calmed him, or maybe the small talk had. Brenna chose a medium-sized berry and held it up to his lips.
“Whom did you recognize in the pub?”
He took the berry from her fingers with his teeth, carefully. “I know the old people, mostly. They were old when I left, and they’re ancient now. Vera MacDonald still holds court from the inglenook. Another berry, please?”
Brenna chose a larger specimen, though the largest berries were seldom the tastiest. “Who else?”
“William Campbell, Thomas Miller. A few others by sight, but not by name. These are good.”
“More lemonade?”
This time, he took the berry from her fingers then trapped her hand in his. “This is wooing, Brenna.” He kissed her knuckles, while a warmth that had nothing to do with the cozy fire spread up from Brenna’s middle.
“You’re not so hard to woo, then.”
Because Brenna was studying the empty plate, she wasn’t expecting it when her husband came half out of his chair, leaned across the desk, and gave her a strawberry-flavored kiss on the mouth.
“Neither are you. Let’s to bed, shall we?”
Brenna took a sip of the lemonade, set the last glass on the night table, and then put the tray in the corridor while Michael banked the fire.