Thirteen #4
“Go to bed,” Milly said, kissing her cheek and enveloping her in a brief hug. “Things always look better in the morning. We’ll sew Sebastian a fine kilt and make a laird of the Western Isles of him.”
Things did not always look better in the morning. Sometimes, for years, things looked just as bad in the morning as they had the night before. Sometimes they looked worse, because sleep had been interrupted by an unwelcome visitor or bad memories.
Brenna resisted the inexplicable urge to hug Milly back desperately tight, and took herself off to prepare for battle with her husband.
Because the night was mild by Highland standards, she did not bother lighting the fire, but tended to her ablutions and then climbed into bed to await her spouse. He arrived quietly less than thirty minutes later, while Brenna feigned sleep and kept her face toward the wall.
The mattress dipped, the sound of two male feet rubbing together whispered in the darkness, and then Michael raised the blankets and climbed in beside her.
“You’re not asleep, Brenna Maureen. If you’re too upset to talk, we can have our discussion in the morning.”
He was brave, and he was braced for a fight.
“I do not want to argue with you in this bed.” She did not want to argue with him at all, but argue, she must.
“Not argue, discuss. We’re getting better at sorting things out together, you’ll recall. Maeve’s situation requires sorting out.” His tone made it plain that Brenna’s reaction to Maeve’s situation was what he intended to sort out.
And yet, beneath the covers, Michael’s hand sought Brenna’s. He linked their fingers, even as Brenna lay with her back to him.
“She cannot be kept safe here,” Brenna said. “If any harm befell that child, I would never forgive myself.” Michael wrapped himself around her, and while Brenna tried to find some resentment for his presumption, all she located was relief.
“She was picking flowers, Brenna, and teasing the cat. This hardly qualifies as courting disaster.”
Maeve had been picking flowers in the walled garden, a place Brenna avoided for the memories it held.
“She can pick flowers in Ireland. For all we knew, she might have gone down to the village or wandered to the river.”
“The river is about two feet deep in most places this time of year. I’ll teach the child to swim if that will ease your worries.”
Nothing would ease her worries. She turned so she faced Michael in the gloom. “You can’t teach her not to wander off, not to be curious. She has a solitary nature, and you can’t teach that out of her.”
“We’ll hire a governess.”
Brenna had had a governess, and even governesses had half days, and retired to their own chambers at night. “That’s an unnecessary expense.”
“We can afford it. The yearlings were prime horseflesh, and I’ve some funds too, you know.”
Brenna did not allow that shiny lure to distract her. “We’ll spend the yearling money entertaining the shire Friday next.”
Michael pulled her into his arms, where Brenna fit with an ease only recently gained.
“What is this about, Brenna? Will you deny us our marital pleasures because any child you bear might someday come to harm? Children do, you know. This one will fall from a pony. That one will come down with measles.”
Brenna was worried about measles and broken bones, but she was terrified of Angus. In her husband’s arms, the ramifications of Angus’s continued presence at the castle spread through her like symptoms of influenza.
Neither her daughters nor her sons would be safe. No tutors, governesses, or nannies would be vigilant enough, because the compulsion that drove Angus never slept, never paused in its desire for gratification.
And yet, she could not allow that beast to be unloosed on some unsuspecting community on the coast or farther away, where she’d be powerless to protect anybody.
Michael dipped his head to nuzzle her cheek. “Brenna, are you crying?”
“I am tired.” Weary unto death of coping, of managing, of holding inside fear and fatigue as well as a rage that would commit murder did she allow it to. “I am so tired.”
He gathered her closer. “Rest. We’ll talk more.”
“The child must leave, Michael.”
And thus did Angus win, again. Any dream Brenna had harbored of a happy married life dissipated in the darkness, because she would choose the safety of children she’d never meet above that dream.
How she would deny herself and her husband the pleasures they’d found in their marriage she did not know, but deny them, she must.
“Two governesses, then, and a nursery maid,” Michael murmured. “She shall be as a princess, never alone, wrapped in cotton wool every waking hour. Go to sleep.”
As Michael’s breathing became regular, and the scent of vetiver wafted through Brenna’s senses, a thought stole through her rage and sorrow—a radical, frightening, powerful thought.
What would keep the children safe, all the children, was the truth.
About Angus.
About Angus and Brenna.
If Michael believed her, then the truth would effectively hobble Angus, assuming Michael allowed his uncle to live.
If Michael did not believe her, then her marriage was over.
As it would be, quite possibly, if he did.