Four #4
The good girl scampered directly to Angus’s fancy black gelding, which brought Angus from his perch on a nearby stone wall, pipe in hand.
“Hugh, are we in a hurry?”
“Yes.”
Another red-haired fellow had emerged from a cow byre halfway up the hill, and he, too, was apparently in a hurry to reach the crofts.
“One of your brothers?”
“Dantry. Boy has a temper and a mortal dislike for sheep.”
And Angus was in a mood to sermonize. Michael nearly tripped over a loose stone at his feet, but didn’t stop to stack it back where it belonged.
“Tell me about your cousins.”
Brenna fussed as she tied a ribbon around the bottom of her braid, because this was not a topic she could have anticipated. “What do you want to know?”
Michael turned down the covers on their bed, sat on the edge, dusted the soles of his bare feet together, and scooted back to arrange himself against the pillows. He was again wearing only his drawstring breeches, which Brenna took for a measure of husbandly consideration.
“Do the MacLogans typically raise cattle? I know little about cows, though I enjoy a good cut of beef.”
He wanted to talk about cows, while Brenna wanted to talk about kissing.
Or the lack of it.
“My uncle Seamus MacLogan had a fold of handsome Highlands. Ferdie and Amos MacLogan emigrated to Pennsylvania, where the winters aren’t so harsh. They think the Aberdeenshire blacks will do well there.”
“Hugh plans to export cows?”
Brenna blew out her last candle and draped her night robe over the foot of the bed. “You must ask him about his precious cows when Angus isn’t on hand to scowl and fume and pace about.”
“I tried that. You’re leaving the window open?”
“It’s a soft night. I like the fresh air.” Needed it, in fact. Brenna climbed onto her side of the bed. “Hugh is shrewd. If he thinks there’s a market for cows, then you can bet he has a reason for it.”
Angus had reasons for criticizing anything Hugh or his brothers put their hands to, and Brenna did not want to discuss those reasons any more than she wanted to discuss cows.
“When did your cousins come into Brodie tenancies?”
“The spring after our marriage, as a condition of the settlements.” Brenna lay on her side, facing her husband, though she could not see him well.
He shifted about, making the bed heave and rock. “You read the settlements?”
“You didn’t?” In the pained silence following her question, Brenna realized she had insulted him without meaning to. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I know you read the settlements, because you signed them, as did I. I’ve had occasion to refer to them from time to time, while you could not.”
He was silent, and the darkness abruptly took on an oppressive quality. No breeze stirred in through the window; no moonlight illuminated the bedchamber.
“Brenna, if you had three wishes, would one of them be that you had never married me?” His tone was gentle, not accusing.
“Michael, you’ve not been home three days. What are you asking?”
His hand settled on her cheek, which caused her to flinch—but only flinch.
“You startle whenever I touch you. Even in sleep.” His fingers traced her jaw, bringing her a whiff of vetiver and despair. He could not have asked her that fanciful, brave question about wishes in the broad light of day.
“You surprised me, Husband, yesterday by the river. I’m not keen on surprises.” The way Michael had probably not been keen on French victories.
He withdrew his hand. “So if I tried to kiss you now, you might let me survive with my manhood intact?”
She could not guarantee that. “The conception of children doesn’t require kissing.”
“You’ve made a study of this?”
She had, in fact, to the extent that asking old women for specifics was a study, though worse than despair, she now heard mockery in Michael’s tone.
“Maybe I could kiss you.” Brenna’s suggestion was unplanned and not at all likely to succeed. “You mustn’t expect much. I haven’t the experience you do.”
Michael rolled across the mattress, so the warmth and bulk of him pressed against Brenna’s side.
“The vast majority of my experience was gained before I married you, Baroness, and I would not object had you no experience at all. I am available to be kissed at your earliest convenience.”
He was eager to mash his mouth against hers, eager to slobber all over her. “Maybe you should just swive me and have done with it.”
“Brenna Maureen, you would sound more enthusiastic about selling Boru to the English. I’ll kiss your cheek now, despite your woeful lack of interest.”
He kissed her cheek so quickly, Brenna barely had time to tense up in preparation—and then he rolled away.
“Good night, Wife. I will dream of your kisses.”
Brenna shifted to her side, so they were again back-to-back in the big bed. That kiss had been nothing. No slobbering, no enduring his tongue down her throat, no…nothing.
And he had warned her.
Brenna fell asleep wondering at Michael’s question: If he had three wishes, would one of them be that he hadn’t married her—or might he wish that his wife could someday kiss him with the enthusiasm any soldier home from the wars deserved from his lady?