Page 9 of Marry the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #1)

CHAPTER 9

Brigid woke up the next morning to a knock on her door. She managed to shrug into a slightly too-small robe before Emily came in, her eyes bright with excitement for the day ahead.

“Come, get dressed,” she said, pulling open the thick drapes to let the sunlight stream into the room, which looked much more welcoming with the tapestries they’d found yesterday and the new chairs and table by the fire. “The market willnae last all day, and even if it did, Conall’s patience with the two of us bein’ outside the castle walls willnae.”

The reminder of what Conall had agreed to the night before sent Brigid scrambling for one of the dresses she and Emily had discovered the day before. It was dark blue, a little tight around the hips but comfortable around the bust, and it went well with the sash Emily had given her.

The two women joined the others in the Great Hall for the morning meal. Brigid gulped down a cup of hot, sweet tea, then enjoyed a bowl of porridge with honey and milk, along with some fresh bread spread thickly with fruit preserves.

She had to admit, the food served here was so delicious.

She was almost finished when a shadow fell over her chair, and she looked up to see Conall standing over her.

For one moment, her heart sank. She couldn’t help but think that he’d thought over his decision and changed his mind.

From the scowl on Oliver’s face, it was clear he did not approve of the plan—not that Oliver ever seemed to approve of anything concerning Brigid. Perhaps he’d convinced Conall not to let her go, after all.

Instead of forbidding her to leave the castle, however, all Conall did was pull a fat, jingling pouch from his sash and set it on the table before her. “Ye’ll need some coppers an’ silvers if ye wish to make any purchases at the market.”

It was all she could do not to gape at him like an idiot. Brigid had never seen so much money in one place at a time, not unless it was a treasure chest of her father’s, meant to be split between his men.

“Ye… Are ye certain…?”

She hadn’t even thought of how to pay for the goods she intended to buy at the market—an oversight that now made her blush as she realized Conall had been one step ahead of her.

“Aye. Whatever ye dinnae spend, ye can bring back.” To her surprise, the faintest of wry smiles tugged at his mouth for the space of a breath. “As ye pointed out last night, I dinnae ken what ye want for sketchin’ and the like, so I thought ‘twas as well to give ye the funds an’ let ye get whatever yer heart desires on yer own.”

“I… Thank ye, but…”

She hesitated, wondering if accepting his generosity was the right thing to do.

Conall’s eyes flicked to Emily for the briefest of moments. “A wise woman reminded me that it is a husband’s duty to provide for his wife. Considerin’ how I’ve done so far, this seems little enough.”

Brigid blushed as he sat beside her, and she picked up the pouch. Any objections she might have made faded at his words. She drank the last of her tea, then rose eagerly from her seat.

Before she could think about it too much, she leaned forward and kissed Conall on the cheek. He stiffened, as if startled, then smiled, his face softening. Brigid flushed and hurried to join Emily by the door.

What on earth made me do that? And why did it feel so natural?

The two women donned cloaks—Brigid wearing one she’d found in the storerooms the day before—then left the castle, Brigid holding her breath as they went through the main doors and the gates. She half expected the guards to stop her, but they nodded to Emily and otherwise ignored them.

Brigid breathed a sigh of relief and allowed herself to relax. Her shoulders and her death grip on the basket loosened.

Emily grinned. “Feelin’ better?”

“Aye. For a moment there, I thought…”

Emily chuckled. “I ken what ye thought. But I’m nay fool, and nay more is Conall. He kens to choose his battles wisely.” She looped her arm through Brigid’s and squeezed gently. “Now, let’s go and enjoy the market day.”

The village wasn’t far from the main gates of the castle. Brigid kept her steps light and quick, outwardly confident as she approached but inwardly apprehensive as she recalled her visits to the market nearest to her home.

What if they all scorn me as the villagers did? I ken Emily is here, and as the Laird’s kin, she might protect me, but I dinnae want to face more disdain and insults, especially nae in front of her.

The street was lively, the market full of bustling figures at different stalls. And there were far more stalls than Brigid was used to seeing—the market in this village was much larger than the isolated town nearest to her family’s cottage.

Her eyes darted from one place to another, trying to take in everything at once. There was the smithy, smoke curling up from the forge at the far end of the road. Several fruit, vegetable, grain, and flower sellers were interspersed between sellers of other goods. There was a cobbler, a leather worker, and…

“Och, there’s a bookseller!”

“Aye. He comes every other moon.” Emily grinned. “And if ye look at the other side of the lane, there’s a fortune teller.”

“A fortune teller?” Brigid stared at the woman with wide eyes. “Why, I’ve never met such a person.”

“Then we’ll have to stop at her booth, see if she can tell ye aught about yer future—that’s if ye want to ken. But in the meantime, there are the cloth and clothing merchants.” Emily pointed at some of the shops. “And we can stop at the cobbler’s to get ye some new boots.”

Brigid blushed. She’d been taken from her home in her old walking shoes, and they were very old and worn. “I…”

“Trust me, our cobbler is very skilled,” Emily told her. “Ye’ll never want anyone else to make ye another pair of boots after ye’ve worn his wares.”

Brigid looked around. “Where shall we start?”

Emily smiled. “Och, ye wanted to speak to the bookseller, did ye nae? And ye wanted to see if he had tools for writin’ and drawing?”

“I did, but clothing is more important…” Brigid looked wistfully in the direction of the bookseller. Clothing might be more important, but books and journals were far more satisfying—at least to her. “And it takes longer, especially if we stop at the seamstress’s and give her my measurements.”

Emily laughed and dragged her toward the bookseller’s stall.

Together, Brigid and Emily browsed the wares. Brigid collected paper in various thicknesses, a fresh journal, ink in different colors, and a set of charcoal sticks and colors to be mixed with water or oils for painting.

The purchase was a fair-sized one, but Brigid still found herself tensing with trepidation as she approached the bookseller. For all that he was a stranger, she couldn’t help remembering the whispers that had followed her whenever she visited the market before.

“How much for this?”

“Three silvers, M’Lady.” The bookseller gave her a friendly smile that left her feeling as if she’d somehow stepped into a dream. “I can see ye’ve some interest in certain supplies. I’m back here every one to two seasons—shall I mark ye for an order on my next journey here, or are ye merely visitin’ Miss Emily?”

Brigid stared at him, still stunned.

It was Emily who rescued her, smiling brightly at the bookseller as she dropped a bag of herbs next to Brigid’s supplies. “Och, mark her down as a regular order, Marcus, for she lives at the castle now.”

“As ye will, Miss Emily.”

The bookseller wrapped both of their orders. Brigid paid for her supplies, then followed Emily into the street and down toward the nearest cloth sellers, still somewhat stunned by her interaction with the bookseller.

He didnae say a single unkind thing to me. Nae even when Emily said I lived at the castle. He didnae mention my build, my size… I ken he wouldnae ken who my father is, or my grandfather, but… he was kind. He was cheerful. He even seemed happy to speak to me.

“Come on. Maggie has some new designs in!” Emily dragged her into the seamstress’s shop.

Brigid swallowed hard, still half expecting a comment about her size—much more curvy and stout than many other lasses. To her surprise, the seamstress proved to be a rather rotund woman herself, with bright eyes and a cheerful smile. She took one look at her and said, “Och, now there’s a face I can dress in just about anything! Look at ye! Such a lovely, full figure on ye… What is yer name?”

“Brigid.” Brigid swallowed nervously.

“Ye have a lovely figure, Brigid. Nae that most lasses dinnae, but…” The seamstress gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I like workin’ with a lass who’s built a wee bit more like myself than Mistress Emily at times. It keeps my mind and my skills sharp. Now then, what do ye lasses need?”

That question resulted in a whirlwind of measurements—something Brigid was well used to after years of living with Valerie—then talk of fabrics, ribbons, and trimmings, which she was not used to.

Valerie usually made clothing from what she had available, and though it was always lovely and suited to each sister, she never really discussed it with them. She spoke more with those who commissioned her work in the village, of course, but at home, Brigid had long grown accustomed to wearing whatever her sister gave her, never questioning the choices Valerie made.

But now… Maggie had fabrics of several different kinds, in shades Brigid was positive had never been seen in their little village. Linens, silks, and even some satins and other fabrics from as far away as London. Brigid had seen the nicer fabrics before, from her father’s plunder, but they’d almost always been traded for more practical things.

Och, Valerie would love this place. More than that… she and Maggie would love workin’ together.

The seamstress of Clan MacKane was a jovial, friendly woman whom Brigid felt sure would have much in common with her older sister. And the stories Valerie could share…

Aye. She would love it. And Megan would love workin’ with the warriors and hunters—and the leather workers, I’ll wager. And Lily and Emily could work together, and a village wise-woman if there is one… All of us could be happy in a place like this.

Nay one looks twice at me. Nay one disdains me. Nay one whispers about Blackwood’s daughter here. Even my build doesnae result in much comment—nothing like the insults I used to hear.

The next stall was the fortune teller’s. The fortune teller proved to be an older woman with iron-gray hair and a strangely serene smile. She offered them tea and read the leaves with practiced ease.

Brigid made Emily go first.

The fortune teller looked at the cup. “Strife an’ peace in yer life, M’Lady, and destiny all a-tangle with the vagaries of life. But this much I can tell ye—if the fires that plague ye can be tamped, then ye’ll find more blessings in yer life.”

She took Brigid’s cup next and tsked at it. “Och, ye’ve a great choice to make, M’Lady. A hard one. Follow yer heart, or follow yer head… they’ll both lead ye to love. But one will bring grief, and the other will bring joy. An’ only ye can make the choice.”

As fortunes went, it seemed to Brigid to be an ominous one. Still, she paid the fortune teller the three coppers requested. By then, it was noon, so she and Emily retired to the tavern for lunch, before returning to their market exploration.

Time passed, and Brigid immersed herself in the pleasant experience of being able to browse the market without being sneered at. She was scarcely conscious of anything more than Emily’s presence and the delights of each new stall, until Emily sucked in a breath, startling her.

“What are they doin’ here?”

Brigid looked up and realized with a start that the sun was low in the sky, near the horizon, and the light was coming from torches as well as the setting sun.

And there, at the head of the lane, both wearing wrathful expressions, were Conall and Oliver.

Brigid swallowed hard and shared a glance with Emily. “I think we might be late in returnin’ to the castle.”

Conall strode toward the market in a foul mood. His day had been a difficult one, between the council questioning—again—his decision to marry Brigid and Oliver’s blatant distrust, which never seemed to waver no matter how hard he tried to reason with him.

Oliver had been furious with him ever since he’d agreed to let Brigid accompany Emily to the village. All day long, Oliver had muttered and snarled, snapping like a dog with a thorn in its paw.

I ken he doesnae trust Brigid, but this was his wife’s idea, nae Brigid’s or mine—and surely he trusts her?

He’d been tempted to smack sense into his brother’s skull more than once that day and had only refrained because he’d not wanted to incur Emily’s wrath. It did not do to get on the bad side of the clan’s only healer.

But now both women were late in returning to the castle. He’d specifically told Brigid to come back before sunset, and the sun was clearly touching the horizon, almost disappearing beneath it. He knew quite well that one might argue it hadn’t fully set, but that wasn’t the point. She should be home by now.

“Return afore sundown an’ supper,” he’d told her, expecting her to know that meant in time to wash up and attend supper.

He spotted Brigid and Emily soon enough—they were both coming toward him with full baskets, and Brigid’s black hair was easy to see even in the dimming light. Conall strode forward to meet them, Oliver hot on his heels.

They met in front of the second set of stalls.

Brigid spoke first. “Conall…”

“I told ye to return afore sunset,” he snapped without allowing her to explain.

Brigid’s expression changed from apprehensive to stubborn in a moment. Her chin went up, and her shoulders went back, her eyes flashing with annoyance.

“The sun hasnae set yet. And we were on our way back.” Her voice was as sharp as his own.

“Didnae appear that way to me,” Oliver snarled, sounding just as annoyed as his brother. “And what were ye doin’ anyway—tryin’ to bleed the clan’s coffers dry?”

“I’ve scarcely spent more than half of what the Laird gave me.” Brigid’s cheeks flushed. “Nae that it’s any of yer business—yer brother gave the coins to me.”

Oliver opened his mouth again, ready to retort, but Emily intervened, stepping between the two and glowering at her husband. “Enough. ‘Tis nae Brigid’s fault we didnae return on time. I was gossipin’ with Maggie and talkin’ to a fortune teller. Ye ken well enough what I’m like on a good market day, Oliver, and this has been a fair one. Marcus the bookseller was back, too, and I was lookin’ for new herbs for a good long while.”

Conall huffed and folded his arms, addressing Brigid. “I gave ye a command, an’ ye didnae heed me. How am I supposed to let ye go out when I ken I cannae trust ye to do as I ask?”

Brigid tossed her hair back and raised an eyebrow. “Would ye have had me leave Emily wanderin’ the market by herself and return to the castle alone? Is that what ye would’ve preferred?”

“I’d have had ye remind her that I asked ye to return at a certain time.” A small crease appeared between Conall’s dark eyebrows.

Brigid glared at him a moment longer, then sighed and looked away. “I was enjoyin’ myself, and so was she. I’ll admit I wasnae heedin’ the time as much as I should have, but even so, I didnae ken ye meant to return the instant the sun touched the horizon!”

That much, Conall could admit, had been his fault. Sunset generally encompassed at least half a candlemark, from the first touch to the last sliver of light disappearing into the night. However, Oliver was still glaring at him as if he expected him to say more.

“And ye didnae think to ask what I did mean?” he said.

“Nay more than Emily did.” Brigid shrugged as if to suggest he was making a fuss about nothing. “Are ye always so strict?”

“Mayhap,” Conall replied before he could stop himself. “But even if I werenae, I dinnae ken ye, and if ye want to have my trust, then ye ought to pay better heed to my commands.”

A flash of hurt crossed Brigid’s face. Her jaw clenched, and even in the fading light, he could see the gleam of tears in her eyes. “I thought ye did trust me—at least a little. Ye trusted me enough to let me come here, didnae ye?”

“As if me or my brother would trust Laird Auchter’s grandchild.” Oliver’s retort cut through the air before Conall could stop him.

Brigid stiffened as if she’d been slapped across the face.

“If ye’ll excuse me, My Laird,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “‘Twas a lovely day, Emily, and I thank ye for it. But I am feelin’ rather tired, and of course, I have my purchases to put away. If ye’ll excuse me…”

With that, she hurried away without giving Conall a second glance, her shoulders tight and hunched inward with clear unhappiness.

“Och, Conall,” Emily said, her voice soft but filled with derision. “Could ye nae have pretended ye were concerned for the lass, rather than yer authority and yer rules?”

Then, she was gone, following Brigid to the castle and leaving Conall feeling like a complete and utter fool.