argue for an entire summer to pry Lachlan loose from them, and then only on certain terms.”
The silence took on a pained quality—a more pained quality. “Hugh has stopped bathing in the loch.”
“How am I to woo my dratted husband?”
Elspeth hurt for her friend, even as she wanted to pitch her over the parapet. “You start by listening to him.” As she had not listened to Hugh when he’d surprised her on the path. “You pay attention to him, and you’re good at paying attention, Brenna.”
Though a woman who could turn her back on the fine specimens on the beach without even a glance was not a woman with a natural advantage when it came to wooing a fellow.
“I can do that,” Brenna said. “I can also bake shortbread. I don’t recognize that coach.”
Because Brenna was not preoccupied with the bathers, she’d seen what Elspeth had not noticed. A heavy traveling coach, luggage lashed to the roof and the boot, was heading for the castle along the road from the east.
“Michael’s baggage?” Elspeth suggested.
“Maybe.”
The coach clattered over the drawbridge spanning the dry moat. Footmen and grooms came out to meet it, as did Michael and Angus.
“Is he spending more time at the castle?” Elspeth asked.
The breeze dislodged a strand of Brenna’s hair and whipped it against her mouth. “Yes. With Michael.”
The coach came to a halt, the sweat on the horses and dust on the carriage testifying to a long journey.
“Tell Angus he’s not welcome.”
“Angus is Michael’s family. I cannot tell my husband to refuse his uncle the castle. Michael would think me ridiculous.”
“You tell Angus. Tell him his every wicked deed will be laid at Michael’s feet if he doesn’t keep himself away from you and your husband.”
An older woman, plump and plain, climbed out of the coach. Michael hugged her, then Angus bowed over her hand.
“You told me, Elspeth, to listen to my husband, and I will certainly make the attempt, but what’s to say he would ever listen to me? He loves Angus, he trusts Angus, and Angus is making himself appear indispensable.”
Elspeth did not point out that all of those factors had applied between Angus and Michael’s father, too.
“You have company, Lady Strathdee. Best go welcome them.”
Brenna left, and when Elspeth resumed spying on the beach, the bathers were nowhere to be seen.
***
“I’m not coming out.”
An odd feeling skittered down Michael’s spine as he beheld his sisters’ old nurse standing in his very own bailey. “That is a child’s voice.”
A tired, unhappy child’s voice.
“So it is,” Prebish said, still beaming at him as if he were her long-lost son—which, in a sense, he was, or as good as. “Miss Maeve, come ye out and make a proper curtsy to your brother.”
The odd feeling curled more tightly around Michael’s vitals, despite the pleasant lilt of Prebish’s County Mayo brogue. “You brought Maeve?”
He was going to kill his sister Bridget, or the King’s mail, because either a critical letter had been lost, or Bridget hadn’t done him the courtesy of writing.
As Michael had neglected to write regularly to his own wife?
“I’m not coming out. Scotland is cold and bumpy, and all they have to eat here are scones, bannocks, and fish.”
And there was Angus, watching Michael with thinly veiled curiosity.
“Ye could haul the little blighter out by her heels. Begin as ye intend to go on, I always say. Children need to know who’s in authority.”
How would Angus, a confirmed bachelor, know what children needed?
Before Michael could raise that salient point, Brenna came down the castle steps, skirts swishing and no smile in evidence. Michael climbed into the coach.
“Hello.” His youngest sister was young indeed. He’d never met her, but she was the image of Erin at her age, all big blue eyes, freckles, and coppery braids. “I’m Michael.”
“I know. It’s your fault I had to leave Ireland.”
The
The silence took on a pained quality—a more pained quality. “Hugh has stopped bathing in the loch.”
“How am I to woo my dratted husband?”
Elspeth hurt for her friend, even as she wanted to pitch her over the parapet. “You start by listening to him.” As she had not listened to Hugh when he’d surprised her on the path. “You pay attention to him, and you’re good at paying attention, Brenna.”
Though a woman who could turn her back on the fine specimens on the beach without even a glance was not a woman with a natural advantage when it came to wooing a fellow.
“I can do that,” Brenna said. “I can also bake shortbread. I don’t recognize that coach.”
Because Brenna was not preoccupied with the bathers, she’d seen what Elspeth had not noticed. A heavy traveling coach, luggage lashed to the roof and the boot, was heading for the castle along the road from the east.
“Michael’s baggage?” Elspeth suggested.
“Maybe.”
The coach clattered over the drawbridge spanning the dry moat. Footmen and grooms came out to meet it, as did Michael and Angus.
“Is he spending more time at the castle?” Elspeth asked.
The breeze dislodged a strand of Brenna’s hair and whipped it against her mouth. “Yes. With Michael.”
The coach came to a halt, the sweat on the horses and dust on the carriage testifying to a long journey.
“Tell Angus he’s not welcome.”
“Angus is Michael’s family. I cannot tell my husband to refuse his uncle the castle. Michael would think me ridiculous.”
“You tell Angus. Tell him his every wicked deed will be laid at Michael’s feet if he doesn’t keep himself away from you and your husband.”
An older woman, plump and plain, climbed out of the coach. Michael hugged her, then Angus bowed over her hand.
“You told me, Elspeth, to listen to my husband, and I will certainly make the attempt, but what’s to say he would ever listen to me? He loves Angus, he trusts Angus, and Angus is making himself appear indispensable.”
Elspeth did not point out that all of those factors had applied between Angus and Michael’s father, too.
“You have company, Lady Strathdee. Best go welcome them.”
Brenna left, and when Elspeth resumed spying on the beach, the bathers were nowhere to be seen.
***
“I’m not coming out.”
An odd feeling skittered down Michael’s spine as he beheld his sisters’ old nurse standing in his very own bailey. “That is a child’s voice.”
A tired, unhappy child’s voice.
“So it is,” Prebish said, still beaming at him as if he were her long-lost son—which, in a sense, he was, or as good as. “Miss Maeve, come ye out and make a proper curtsy to your brother.”
The odd feeling curled more tightly around Michael’s vitals, despite the pleasant lilt of Prebish’s County Mayo brogue. “You brought Maeve?”
He was going to kill his sister Bridget, or the King’s mail, because either a critical letter had been lost, or Bridget hadn’t done him the courtesy of writing.
As Michael had neglected to write regularly to his own wife?
“I’m not coming out. Scotland is cold and bumpy, and all they have to eat here are scones, bannocks, and fish.”
And there was Angus, watching Michael with thinly veiled curiosity.
“Ye could haul the little blighter out by her heels. Begin as ye intend to go on, I always say. Children need to know who’s in authority.”
How would Angus, a confirmed bachelor, know what children needed?
Before Michael could raise that salient point, Brenna came down the castle steps, skirts swishing and no smile in evidence. Michael climbed into the coach.
“Hello.” His youngest sister was young indeed. He’d never met her, but she was the image of Erin at her age, all big blue eyes, freckles, and coppery braids. “I’m Michael.”
“I know. It’s your fault I had to leave Ireland.”
The
Similar Books
