your dirty rhymes, Hugh MacLogan.”
He took the place beside her, though a gentleman was supposed to ask.
“Dantry’s our poet, unless you’d like a few verses of old Rabbie Burns.” Who could, indeed, be naughty—brilliantly naughty. “Would Brenna tell you if her husband were making a nuisance of himself?”
“You mean if he’s pestering her in bed, and because she’s his wife, she has to allow it?”
Yes, he’d meant exactly that, among other things. “Aye. Brenna deserves more careful handling than that.”
Her posture lost some of its starch, as if, all odds to the contrary, Hugh might have stumbled upon a sentiment with which Elspeth agreed.
“Are you in love with your cousin, Hugh? Because if you are, that’s no help to her now. Brenna is loyal, and in some ways more proper than a duchess. If her husband exercises his privileges, then you’ve nothing to say to it—and neither does she.”
As Hugh watched a shaft of sunlight burnish Elspeth’s hair to the hues of a crackling fire, he realized several things: First, Elspeth was worried about Brenna too, and that was not good. Second, Elspeth completely mistook familial concern for something else. Third, nobody could see them as they enjoyed a moment of privacy in the woods.
“Elspeth Fraser, I have no amorous feelings toward my cousin and I never have. Brenna would gut me like a rabbit if I so much as winked at her wrong. You, however, are not my cousin, not married, and not armed with anything more than a sharp tongue.”
Elspeth’s brows had just drawn down in puzzlement when Hugh leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.
***
“No woman ever knew less or cared less about wooing a man than I do,” Brenna said, whipping around when she reached the end of the parapet. “I am married to a ridiculous man.”
Elspeth saw in Brenna the same tension she often saw in her employer. Many people thought bitterness drove Brenna—and some would concede she had good reason to be annoyed—but Elspeth suspected Brenna was haunted by a vast bewilderment about human interactions generally, and her marriage in particular.
“You are married to a clever man,” Elspeth said. Over at the loch, two red-haired kilted fellows were making their way down to a beach shielded on three sides by trees.
“I want none of this sentiment Michael seems hell-bent on introducing to our marriage. He’s the laird. Why can’t he harass the tenants, waste money in Aberdeen or Edinburgh, occupy himself with making and drinking whisky, and disappear to London for months at a time?”
The question was so plaintive, it distracted Elspeth from the men pulling their shirts over their heads a quarter mile to the east.
“You used to like your husband.”
Like a bird in flight dropped by an arrow, Brenna plopped onto the stone ledge that lined the interior side of the crenellations.
“I may still like him, but I cannot understand this affection he claims to hold for me.”
Dantry MacLogan was not as muscular as his older brothers, being the youngest, but Neil was a fine figure of a man. Not as fine as Hugh, though.
“You are not so hard to like, Brenna.”
Brenna rose and came over to stand next to Elspeth. “Where’s Hugh?”
Brenna did not see that the MacLogan brothers were shedding their clothing, only that they were missing a sibling.
“One of them always stays within shouting distance of Annie, or they take her with them if they have to leave the property.”
“Smart of them.” Brenna turned her back to the stone wall before any truly interesting male parts were in evidence. A silence spread, during which two kilts were draped upon the rocky beach and Elspeth watched naked men dive into a loch cold enough to wake the dead and kill the living.
“They could send Annie to you,” Elspeth said. Because how was Elspeth to further her acquaintance with a man when he spent most of his time hovering around home and hearth?
“No, they could not. I had to
He took the place beside her, though a gentleman was supposed to ask.
“Dantry’s our poet, unless you’d like a few verses of old Rabbie Burns.” Who could, indeed, be naughty—brilliantly naughty. “Would Brenna tell you if her husband were making a nuisance of himself?”
“You mean if he’s pestering her in bed, and because she’s his wife, she has to allow it?”
Yes, he’d meant exactly that, among other things. “Aye. Brenna deserves more careful handling than that.”
Her posture lost some of its starch, as if, all odds to the contrary, Hugh might have stumbled upon a sentiment with which Elspeth agreed.
“Are you in love with your cousin, Hugh? Because if you are, that’s no help to her now. Brenna is loyal, and in some ways more proper than a duchess. If her husband exercises his privileges, then you’ve nothing to say to it—and neither does she.”
As Hugh watched a shaft of sunlight burnish Elspeth’s hair to the hues of a crackling fire, he realized several things: First, Elspeth was worried about Brenna too, and that was not good. Second, Elspeth completely mistook familial concern for something else. Third, nobody could see them as they enjoyed a moment of privacy in the woods.
“Elspeth Fraser, I have no amorous feelings toward my cousin and I never have. Brenna would gut me like a rabbit if I so much as winked at her wrong. You, however, are not my cousin, not married, and not armed with anything more than a sharp tongue.”
Elspeth’s brows had just drawn down in puzzlement when Hugh leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.
***
“No woman ever knew less or cared less about wooing a man than I do,” Brenna said, whipping around when she reached the end of the parapet. “I am married to a ridiculous man.”
Elspeth saw in Brenna the same tension she often saw in her employer. Many people thought bitterness drove Brenna—and some would concede she had good reason to be annoyed—but Elspeth suspected Brenna was haunted by a vast bewilderment about human interactions generally, and her marriage in particular.
“You are married to a clever man,” Elspeth said. Over at the loch, two red-haired kilted fellows were making their way down to a beach shielded on three sides by trees.
“I want none of this sentiment Michael seems hell-bent on introducing to our marriage. He’s the laird. Why can’t he harass the tenants, waste money in Aberdeen or Edinburgh, occupy himself with making and drinking whisky, and disappear to London for months at a time?”
The question was so plaintive, it distracted Elspeth from the men pulling their shirts over their heads a quarter mile to the east.
“You used to like your husband.”
Like a bird in flight dropped by an arrow, Brenna plopped onto the stone ledge that lined the interior side of the crenellations.
“I may still like him, but I cannot understand this affection he claims to hold for me.”
Dantry MacLogan was not as muscular as his older brothers, being the youngest, but Neil was a fine figure of a man. Not as fine as Hugh, though.
“You are not so hard to like, Brenna.”
Brenna rose and came over to stand next to Elspeth. “Where’s Hugh?”
Brenna did not see that the MacLogan brothers were shedding their clothing, only that they were missing a sibling.
“One of them always stays within shouting distance of Annie, or they take her with them if they have to leave the property.”
“Smart of them.” Brenna turned her back to the stone wall before any truly interesting male parts were in evidence. A silence spread, during which two kilts were draped upon the rocky beach and Elspeth watched naked men dive into a loch cold enough to wake the dead and kill the living.
“They could send Annie to you,” Elspeth said. Because how was Elspeth to further her acquaintance with a man when he spent most of his time hovering around home and hearth?
“No, they could not. I had to
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