Chapter 9 #2
She snorts while we get dressed, but her whole disposition’s lighter, somehow, so much so that it’s obvious. Whatever was worrying her seems to have faded.
And I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
After we’ve dressed, she reaches over to the bed and fluffs up the pillows, tugs the sheets to straighten them, then makes the bed.
“Babe, we’ve got staff that come and do all that.”
She shrugs. “I can earn my keep, can’t I?”
“Oh, honey. You have earned your fuckin’ keep.”
She rolls her eyes but can’t hide the little smile that tugs at her lips.
When we’re dressed and the house set back to rights, I hold her hand.
“Will they be expecting us?” she asks nervously.
“Aye. I texted Tate that we’d be coming up to the house. Tate’s my next older brother. Leith the eldest. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
“Everyone?”
She looks nervous again.
“Probably not my father, he rarely comes downstairs these days.” He takes his meals in bed and conducts minimal business in a makeshift office we’ve prepared in a guest room on the same floor.
“Is he very ill?” she asks with concern.
“Aye, he is, but he’ll be kicking around for a good long while. Too fucking stubborn to do anything less.”
She laughs. “Mac, you’re terrible.”
“Maybe, but I’m just being honest.”
Except when it comes to her.
“Oh, what a gorgeous day it is,” she says, sighing at the view of the mountains from the front porch, as we walk down the steps and head up toward the house.
I think maybe sometimes I take this view for granted. But at the sound of her voice, I pay attention and really, truly look.
The sun rose hours ago, so it's high in the sky with bright rays reflecting on the snow below.
From where we stand, we have an excellent view of the mountains.
I often like to sit on the porch with a hot cuppa tea, or a cold one in the summer.
I like to look out at the mountains. The mountain ranges here are nothing like the Alps of Switzerland.
I have a vague memory of traveling there when I was a wee lad, but all I remember is the fierce peaks of the mountains and how those snow-capped peaks were white even in the dead of summer.
“Aye, it’s somethin’, isn’t it?”
“You can see the mountains from where I live, but it’s nothing like this view,” she says softy. “They’re hidden, so it’s more like shadows and silhouettes. And they seem so far away. But here?” Her voice softens, as if she’s almost afraid to say what she feels. “They just seem closer, is all.”
“Never thought of it that way,” I say truthfully. “I think I’ve maybe taken them for granted.”
She shrugs, as we near the front door to the house. “I think it’s something we all do.”
“What?”
She pauses before she answers, still quiet and meditative. “Take things for granted.”
I don’t respond. Are there other things I take for granted as well? My family, maybe. My home. My safety, and the promise of tomorrow.
I’m lost in my thoughts as I open the door to go inside.
But I'm quickly jolted out of my thoughts.
The clanging of pans in the kitchen, the strong smell of coffee and baking scones, the jovial laughter and voices of my brothers and sisters in the kitchen shake me out of my momentary reverie.
I look to Bryn, whose eyes have gone wide and a little fearful.
“Leave it to me,” I tell her. “You said you trusted me.”
“I did,” she says, with a little pout. “But that was before I had to face the entire Cowen Clan.”
I roll my eyes. “Their bark is worse than their bite.”
It’s a lie, though. It isn’t true at all. I know exactly who my family is and exactly what they’re capable of.
The voices die down when we enter the kitchen. We have a large, formal dining room that we often use to dine with guests, especially those of high rank, but we take most of our meals in the kitchen.
The kitchen is one of my favorite places in this entire house, the very heart of our family.
We have staff that often cooks here, but my mum frequently makes meals herself.
She says she likes preparing things for her family to eat, knowing that she provided this one small thing for us.
When we were little, my father never allowed such a thing, but as we got older, he softened a bit. Only a wee bit.
There’s a large, sturdy farm table in the kitchen and a fire burning in the hearth.
“What a nice kitchen,” Bryn says shyly, admiring the copper pans that hang on the wall like rustic works of art, the flames in the fireplace providing warmth.
Though it’s spring, the fire helps dispel the slight chill in the air.
There are platters of scones, pastries, and the fragrant scent of scotch broth simmering in a huge stock pot on the stove.
Paisley’s standing by the oven, wearing oven mitts, and she freezes, the oven half-opened, when we walk in.
“Since when did you start cooking in here?” I ask.
She blinks rapidly a few times. “You startled me, Mac. Didn’t know you were coming. And I don’t cook, brother, but I have taken to a bit of baking.” I couldn’t tell you the difference.
She removes a muffin tin from the oven, and I walk over to inspect.
“Baking?”
Bryn follows me.
“Aye,” she says with a frown. “You act as if I just told you I took a trip across the moon for my morning cardio.” She rolls her eyes heavenward. “Are you feelin’ alright?”
I reach for one of the muffins, and she tries to slap my hand away. “You’ll burn your fingers off!”
She isn’t successful, though, and I manage to snag a piping hot muffin that’s faintly scented of cinnamon and sugar. I toss it from hand to hand and Bryn giggles, snatches a plate from a nearby stack, and hands it to me.
“Thanks very much,” I say, feeling every eye in the kitchen on the two of us. I’m not very hungry for a muffin, but I want to take their eyes off of Bryn.
It doesn’t work.
“Mornin’, Mac,” Leith says, sitting at the head of the table where he belongs. As Clan Captain, he’s the one in charge.
“Morning.”
It’s nearly lunchtime, but sometimes my family lingers in the warmth of the kitchen, especially when there’s baking brewing.
He looks sternly at Bryn, then his eyes come questioningly back to me. He looks curious, but will save any questions for later.
Bryn gives him a questioning look, as if she recognizes him. Then she looks to Tate, and back to me. What an odd thing to do. I wonder what it is that's on her mind, and decide I'll ask her at the first opportunity.
"Did you bring us a guest, then?"
“Aye,” I say, pulling a chair out for Bryn at the far end of the table, where Mum and Islan sit. They stare at us, wide-eyed and a little slack-jawed. Mum’s the first one to get her bearings.
She smiles in welcome at Bryn.
“This is Bryn, everyone. Paisley’s the one over there baking muffins. Tate’s the lad to Leith’s left and you met Leith’s wife Cairstina last night.”
“Hello,” Islan says, turning a warm smile on Bryn a split second before she glares at me.
I shrug my shoulders at her, and she shakes her head, rolling her eyes at me before Bryn sees.
“Hi, there,” Bryn says. She smiles at Islan and Mum, but I can see the way her hand trembles when she rests it in her lap.
“I might as well get this out in the open,” I say loudly. I don’t want Bryn to suspect my motives, and I want her at ease regarding who she is. “This is Bryn Aitkens. Most of you are familiar with the Aitkens family in Inverness.”
It isn’t most of them that are familiar. It’s all of them. They know exactly why I brought her here and suspect what I have planned. It's exactly why Islan’s glaring at me, since she knows my motives.
“Oh, aye,” Mum says with forced nonchalance. I can tell the way her eyes focus on me as she speaks that she has quite a few questions. “Your mum was ill last winter, wasn’t she?”
“Aye,” Bryn says. “She was.”
“How’s your mum now, lass?” Mum asks politely, and for a moment I wonder if she’s just trying to make Bryn feel at home the way I have, or if she’s genuinely curious.
She’s as loyal to our Clan as possible, the matriarch of all, but I wonder for a moment if there isn’t an unwritten rule that the matriarchs of the clans look out for each other.
I know Mum’s become good friends with Maeve, the McCarthy Clan matriarch from Ireland.
“She’s recovered, thank you,” Bryn says politely.
“Though I don’t quite know if she'll ever be exactly the same.
" She gives me a little look, saying with her eyes what she doesn't say out loud, and I know exactly what she's thinking.
She doesn't want her mum to return to being the woman she had been. I don't blame her.
“Cuppa tea, lass?” I ask, when Aisla, one of the younger members of our staff, comes to the table with a steaming teapot.
“Aye, please,” Bryn says, holding her cup up.
“Milk, no sugar,” I tell Aisla. I feel everyone’s eyes on me, silently questioning. I know the way the lass takes her bloody tea. What else do I know?
“Thanks for that.” Bryn takes her cup and sips it eagerly, as if she’s grateful she has something to do with herself.
There’s a sound of heavy footsteps behind us. Everyone goes still.
I jerk my head at the door and ignore the way everybody looks at me. I need to find out why she's gone so still, what exactly is on her mind. At the kitchen entrance, I hear Dad’s voice.
“Who the hell brought her here?”
His eyes are furious, his entire face mottled with rage.
For Christ’s sake. He was there when I decided that I was going to seek vengeance by going after a member of the Aitkens clan.
He knows this was part of the plan. He may not know that I was planning on bringing Bryn here, but he knew it was a possibility.
But his memory’s failing him, and he doesn't often remember details.
But he remembers how to give a verbal lashing. He remembers his biting tongue. And he may be older and frail, but it doesn't mean he still can't do irrevocable damage.
“I did,” I say to him, my voice loud and clear, carrying across the suddenly silent kitchen. “She’s my guest.”