Page 10 of Marry the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #1)

CHAPTER 10

Conall scowled out the window of his study. For the third night running, he was feeling frustrated. Oliver was still angry and suspicious of his new bride. As a result, the conversation they’d had after retrieving the lasses from the market had been short, and rather sullen on his younger brother’s part. And as for his new betrothed…

Brigid seemed to be avoiding him. In fact, there was no ‘seemed’ about it—Brigid was definitely avoiding him. He was willing to concede that he’d spoken to her harshly—too harshly, perhaps—but he hadn’t expected the result of his hasty words, which was her refusal to attend supper in the Great Hall with him. He’d intended to offer her an apology and an explanation for his short-tempered actions, but now he had no idea what to do. How was he to apologize or explain when she wasn’t prepared to even talk to him?

And it wasn’t just the incident at the market Conall wanted to discuss with her. There were other things on his mind. Like her sisters’ attendance at the wedding, for instance—or the kisses they’d shared but had yet to talk about.

Conall huffed, then finished his drink. He knew himself well enough to know he’d get nothing done in his current state of mind. Perhaps a walk around the castle would do him good. He set his glass on the desk, then strode out of the room, only to stop short at the sight of his bride already in the corridor.

Brigid blushed, then ducked her head. “My Laird…”

“Conall.” For some reason, it stung to hear her address him so formally. “I told ye, ye’re to be my wife, and I’ll nae be called ‘My Laird’ by my wife.”

“Conall, then. If you will excuse me…”

“Brigid. Wait.”

She stopped, and Conall cursed himself inwardly for the tone he’d used. He was so used to snapping out orders, but he hadn’t meant to make it sound like that, especially not when he was supposed to be apologizing to her.

“I… Are ye all right?” he asked, painfully aware of how inadequate the question was, under the circumstances.

“Aye. I was just goin’ down to the kitchens for a bit of warm milk. I…” To his surprise, she flushed a deeper hue. “I… often drink a glass when I’m unable to sleep. I find it helps.”

“There’s naught wrong with that.” He often availed himself of whiskey or mulled wine in the winter. “I’ll accompany ye if ye dinnae mind the company.”

“I dinnae need to be followed or guided like a child,” Brigid replied, looking up at him with suspicion. “Unless ye still think me a spy?”

Conall grimaced. “I dinnae think ye a spy, Brigid. I would, however, like a chance to get to ken my betrothed a little better. I’ve seen precious little of ye since ye arrived.”

And nothing at all since ye returned from the market this eventide.

“Emily and I have been workin’ on my wardrobe, furnishin’ my room, and preparin’ my wedding dress, as well as puttin’ away my purchases from this afternoon,” Brigid said, not looking at him.

“Even so, ye’re avoidin’ me. And I’d like to ken why.” He moved closer and caught her chin, registering the stiffening of her shoulders and her spine. “Is it because I kissed ye?”

“Nay. It is only…” She hesitated as if trying to make up her mind about something.

“Aye?”

Something shattered, like a crystal breaking apart in her emerald gaze. “Ye said there was nothing to discuss of this wedding, or this marriage, save yer will as Laird and the rules ye choose to dictate. And ye proved it well this evening at the market. I wasnae so late that I needed ye to come and drag me back like an errant child, Conall. If that is to be my life with ye, then why would ye need to ken anything about me? It isnae as if ye wish to hear what I say or care for my feelings. It isnae as if ye care for me at all.”

“I never said there was nothing to discuss…” Conall trailed off, remembering how he had responded to her request to discuss the terms of the wedding in their very first conversation. “Aye. Well, I didnae mean it like that.”

“And how did ye mean it, then? Ye chose to offer me marriage rather than death, and yet…” Her voice cracked a little. “Am I to be separated forever from my home? Am I to be caged and leashed like a mare ye dinnae wish to let out of the paddock? Am I to stand alone on my wedding day, simply because ye will it?”

Conall frowned. “Yer letter left with my messenger within a candlemark of yer writin’ it. I’m a man of my word, Brigid. Ye can trust me to do as I’ve promised.”

“Ye might have sent the letter,” she replied, her voice trembling. “But how will my sisters believe it? Or think that I have written it of my own will? We were raised to be suspicious of such things, lest we become hostages—first for our father, then for each other. And the last my sisters saw of me, I was bein’ taken away at swordpoint—and under a false promise at that. Why would any of my sisters heed a letter tellin’ them I’m to be wed, let alone undertake the journey here when they cannae be sure of the truth of it?”

She turned to look at him, her eyes bright with emotion. “Tell me truly—as Laird MacKane or as Conall Barr—would ye heed such a letter, or trust it, under such circumstances? Because I ken I wouldnae.”

Conall reluctantly considered this.

Would he believe such a letter? He had accepted the letter declaring Devon a hostage and reacted to it. But he’d acted too carelessly, and without thought, certain that force would see his brother safe. If he considered it in that light, the answer was clear.

“Nay,” he said honestly. “Nay, I wouldnae. I would have to consider the matter carefully. I’d be likely to write to verify the truth, unless I had nay choice but to believe it.”

“And that is most likely what my sisters will do. They will send letters of their own, seekin’ to verify the truth. And I will answer, and then they may come. But they arenae likely to make the journey within seven days, particularly if they must hire a cart and horses to bring their belongings and mine to this castle.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but Conall had to agree that Brigid was right. Three days of the seven days had already passed. And, of course, the daughters of such a notorious man as Magnus Blackwood would need to be cautious. Even if they were to be persuaded that the letter Brigid had sent was the truth, the odds of them making it here in time for the wedding were low.

He couldn’t bring himself to change his mind so quickly, but, after hearing her argument, Conall thought he might be able to compromise.

“I cannae promise aught,” he said quietly. “But if yer sisters still havenae arrived the night afore the wedding, and we’ve had nay word from them, ye may ask me again.”

“Ye—”

“I’ll nae promise,” he interrupted. “But I’ll nae refuse ye outright, in that case.”

Brigid’s relief lit up her face in a way that warmed Conall’s heart. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased, making him feel lighter than he had in years.

“Thank ye, Conall,” she said simply.

“Ye are welcome.” He gestured to the quiet hall. “For now, mayhap we can get ye that milk. And, if ye’d like, I can show ye around the castle.”

He offered her his arm, and she took it, a smile still lighting up her face.

“I would like that,” she said, falling into step beside him.

Together, they made their way to the kitchen—a long, narrow room where a large, scrubbed wooden table took up most of the space and the low chatter of servants filled the air, even though supper was long since over.

Conall was surprised to see one of the scullery maids look up with a smile as they entered the room, Brigid’s arm still looped through his. The smile, however, faltered slightly at the sight of him, then rightened itself as Brigid released his arm and stepped forward.

“My Lady,” the girl said, bobbing a curtsey in their direction. “Ye’re lookin’ for yer usual, I expect?”

“Please, Martha.”

Brigid’s smile was warm and kind, and it was clear from the way the maid returned it that this had already become a familiar interaction between the two.

She even kens the lass’s name. Which is more than can be said for me.

The girl had seemed to relax while addressing Brigid, but she visibly stiffened again when Conall caught her eye.

“And ye, My Laird?” she asked nervously. “Is there aught I can get ye?”

“I dinnae need aught,” Conall replied, waving her off. “I’m simply accompanyin’ my betrothed. I’ll be waitin’ in the hall when ye are ready.”

He left the kitchens before he could change his mind, aware that his presence there was making everyone uncomfortable—himself included. The brief interaction had unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Why do I suddenly care what a scullery maid thinks of me? Or any of the servants?

Conall had always been a gruff man, stern and resolute like his father before him. It was necessary if he were to command the respect of everyone in the castle, if he were to keep them all safe. He had always known his servants feared him and were wary of his quick temper, but that was necessary too—or so he’d always told himself.

Loyalty and wariness were how the clan stayed safe, and he’d never cared if achieving that end made people think him fierce, or even difficult.

There were, however, some exceptions to his lack of interest in the feelings of those around him. Devon had been one of them, and Oliver another. Conall might not like to admit it, but he cared deeply about what his brothers thought of him, and when Oliver and Emily married, he’d quickly added Emily’s name to that list.

And now Brigid’s.

He cared what Brigid thought of him and how his actions made her feel. And he had not failed to notice that the maid wasn’t the only one whose smile had dimmed during their interaction. Brigid, too, had been disappointed to see the fear in the girl’s eyes at the sight of her Laird, and that disappointment was something Conall hated to see.

Brigid emerged, at last, holding a steaming mug of hot milk for herself and a tankard for him.

Conall smiled grimly, the scar tugging at his mouth as he did so. “Thank ye.” He gestured to the doors. “I was plannin’ to tak’ a stroll around the garden and the wall-top if ye’d care to join me.”

“I would like that very much,” Brigid replied, sipping her milk. “Emily has shown me around most of the rooms in the castle—especially the first day, when we went explorin’ to find things for my room—but I’ve yet to see much of the grounds.”

“Things for yer room?” Conall frowned.

He knew he’d had the servants furnish a chamber for her. Why, then, did she need to find ‘things’ for it?

“Aye. Just some furniture to make me feel more at home. Rugs and wall hangings to give the bare stone some color. And of course, clothing and the like. Emily was sure we’d be able to find some things that were more to my taste, and she was right.” Brigid glanced at him, and her voice faltered, suddenly uncertain. “Was she nae supposed to do that? I ken it was a bit forward of me to go rummagin’ through the supplies ye have in yer castle, even with yer sister-in-law. If I shouldnae have done so?—”

“Nay. ’Tis well enough.” Conall took a sip of his drink and made an effort to smooth away the anger—or whatever it was she must have seen on his face that had made her suddenly so uncertain.

In truth, he was angry at himself for not having thought of such things. Brigid was to be his wife, and he’d not even thought to see to her comfort adequately or to ask what she might need to make her comfortable.

What would ye have done, ye great fool, if Emily hadnae stepped in? A fine thing it would be if ye led yer wife to the altar in naught but rags and left her in a room that was more empty than the servants’ quarters!

Of course, Oliver would probably say she deserved no more consideration than that. But Conall was not Oliver, and Brigid had not done anything to warrant such treatment.

He took another swig of his mead. “Did ye find the things ye wanted, or is there anythin’ else ye need? Are ye comfortable?”

“Aye. We found a number of dresses and plenty of fabric. Emily is helpin’ me sew my wedding dress. An’ we found some lovely wall hangings, a table, some chairs… and most of the rest of what I needed we found at the market earlier today. I’m very comfortable now, thank ye.”

“’Tis good.” Conall offered her the smallest of smiles. It made his scar ache, but he offered it nonetheless as he held the door to the garden open. “This is yer home now, so ye can make use of anything ye want.”

“Thank ye.” Brigid’s voice was soft, but he saw a shadow of melancholy in her eyes.

Too late, he remembered that she’d been taken, as she said, from the only home she’d ever known.

But there was nothing to be done about that now. Instead, he nodded toward the grounds. “Come and see the garden and the stables.”

With that, he led her out into the evening air.

Brigid knew Conall was trying his best to be kind and considerate. He was certainly proud of his castle, and for good reason. It was well-built, sturdy and strong, the grounds well-tended and pleasing to the eye.

The stables housed many lovely horses—far more than she’d ever been around before, even in the nearby village. Her family had never had more than three or four, and all but one of those had been sold at some point after her mother’s death.

Her father had built a home that was large, comfortable, and easily defensible, but he’d never lavished much by way of goods on it, nor made it much bigger than it needed to be for their family. His home had always been the sea, and though he made life on land as comfortable as could be for his wife and children, he’d seen no reason to spend his money on those extra little touches that would have made it home for himself as well.

Conall, however, clearly loved the stones and the high walls of MacKane Castle with a passion. He was proud of the fortifications, the walls, the training yard, and the stables.

The garden, he admitted, he’d done very little with—gardens were not the province of a warrior—but he was clearly fond of the flowers his mother had once planted, and which Emily and the servants now tended.

It was a lovely garden, even more extensive than the one Lily had cultivated at home, which was filled with sweet-smelling herbs and other medicinal plants, with only a few decorative flowers near the house and around the edges of their lands to brighten the place.

A beautiful garden, strong fortifications, and a castle full of places to explore—it was something Brigid had dreamed about after listening to Valerie’s stories of some of the places she’d seen while traveling with their father.

But it wasn’t home. Or, at least, it wasn’t her home.

It wasn’t the familiar building where she could retrace every step in the dark. It was too large, too echoing, with too much noise. Too many people. Her home had rarely ever held more than her immediate family members. Just her parents and her sisters—sometimes members of her father’s crew, in between voyages. She was unused to the soft bustle of servants in the halls, the unfamiliar sounds, the strange people, the long confusing corridors, and the many sets of stairs, which she was certain she would never find her way around.

Conall and Emily were clearly trying to make her feel welcome, but there was nothing familiar here, and, to a woman who had never been parted from her home or family before, it was impossible not to feel lost and alone.

Now, Brigid had more dresses than she’d ever had before, all of them adorned with the colors of Clan MacKane—another thing she’d never even dared to imagine: a clan of her own!—but she missed the softness of Valerie’s homemade clothing and the ornaments she and her sisters made out of trinkets from their father’s voyages.

The only things that were familiar in MacKane Castle were the looks of wariness, and sometimes outright scorn and dislike, that she received from some of the castle inhabitants, who’d clearly heard her story and knew exactly who she was and where she came from. Those hostile glances made her stomach clench with a familiar sensation of hurt. Hurt and bafflement that she should be judged by the actions of a man she’d never even met.

“Brigid.” Conall’s voice drew her back to the present and the heather-scented air of the gardens. She looked up to find him studying her intently. “Ye look unhappy. Would ye rather I leave ye to wander on yer own?”

“Nay.” She shook her head. “I dinnae mind yer presence, Conall. ’Tis only… Until I came here, I’d never been farther from home than the village closest to our cottage. An’ never so long away from my sisters. Perhaps ye’d think it silly of me, but I miss my home. I miss my family.”

“I dinnae think it silly. I am certain anyone in yer position would feel the same. And ye must ken, Brigid, that I would permit ye to go to them if it were safe or if I could accompany ye.” Conall paused. “But I hope, in time, ye could come to find this a good home for ye—when ye’ve had more time to get used to it.”

“I am certain I shall,” Brigid replied, forcing a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “But I confess, a place without those ye love and who love ye… How could it ever be a home?”

“I’ve nay answer for ye,” Conall replied. “But ye have my promise, as well as I can make it. Ye’ll have yer sisters here if ’tis possible.” He paused again and then reached out and stroked her hair gently as if he were afraid he might startle her. “I ken ye dinnae feel comfortable here, Brigid. And I ken what ’tis like to miss yer siblings. But I hope…” he trailed off.

He tilted her chin up gently. Brigid’s lashes fluttered as he bent and pressed his lips to hers in a swift, gentle kiss.

“Dinnae think ye have nay one here who might care for ye.”

Brigid flushed. “Ye hardly ken aught about me.”

“I ken ye’ve been a good friend to Emily. And a brave lass, with a bright spirit. I ken ye’ve been kind to the servants, and ye’ve even tolerated my brother, who hasnae given ye much reason to like him. That’s a good start.”

Conall pressed another gentle kiss to her forehead, the smallest of smiles tugging at the scar on his face. Then, he drained the last of his mead and escorted her back inside.

The softness of the gesture, so at odds with the fierceness of his appearance, melted a little of the cold around Brigid’s heart. It was clear that Conall was making an effort to make her feel at home. He was doing his best to make her feel cared for, and it was scarcely his fault that she was unused to MacKane Castle, or that she yearned for the old, familiar walls within which she’d lived her whole life.

I suppose I can forgive him for how he spoke to me earlier. He loves his home, and he acts the way he does because of that love for his home and his clan. I daresay my sisters would be much the same if I were there—which makes Conall’s gruffness familiar too, if a little harsher than Lily’s scoldin’ ever was.

Conall escorted her through the halls to her rooms, but the air between them was no longer strained as it had been earlier. By the time they reached the door to her chambers, Brigid found she could smile easily at him, and she leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“Good night, Conall. I hope ye sleep well.”

She slipped into her rooms, but before she shut the door, she heard him reply, “Sleep well, Brigid.”