Seven
Brodie knew the moment Laurel arrived in the Great Hall. It wasn’t that heads turned in her direction because he didn’t notice. He sensed it. Some silent force drove him to look toward the doors the moment she entered. Her hair hung in long waves over her shoulders and down her back, far longer than he’d imagined earlier that day. And he had imagined it. As sparks flew from her blue-hazel eyes, he’d wondered what she would look like with her hair unbound and spread across their bed. He’d startled himself when he realized that he’d thought of any bed as theirs, a shared destination rather than just a piece of furniture.
After parting with Laurel, Brodie had returned to his chamber for a rest before dinner. He’d closed his eyes, not to doze, but to relive his walk with Laurel. He’d enjoyed their repartee as he accompanied her back to the castle, but he’d been awed by her beauty when he lifted back her veil. He hadn’t anticipated her clear alabaster skin and dazzling hazel eyes. Standing within arms’ reach, he realized that Laurel’s hair held a deeper tint of red than Monty’s, whose hair tended more toward blond. The fiery strands woven among the blond—seemingly matching her temper—peeked through when she moved in a particular way. Having his sporran covering the front of his plaid avoided Brodie embarrassing himself when his body once again took notice of Laurel’s elegant feature; despite her muck-covered kirtle, he’d recognized a fine figure beneath the gown.
But it had been her giggle that made his cock twitch. It was infectious and, he suspected, rare. As he reclined on his bed, he discovered he longed to run his fingers along her body, exploring where she might be ticklish. Once more, the image of her laying beneath him materialized before his eyes. But this time she giggled and kissed him while he tickled her. His imagination was so vivid it made him want to bang on her chamber door and make it real.
Now, as he stood watching her enter the enormous gathering hall, the sound of her teasing voice echoed in his head. Even her scathing rebuke about not being distressed made him smile. Catching himself lest he look like a loon, he pushed away from the wall. He observed as Laurel’s eyes widened a fraction when she spotted him. She glanced around, and Brodie wondered if she looked for her brother or a means to escape, perhaps both. But his long strides carried him toward her, people moving aside to avoid his broad shoulders from bumping into them.
“Lady Laurel,” Brodie said softly, his naturally deep voice huskier than usual. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you, Laird Campbell,” Laurel spoke equally quietly. She felt the heat entering her cheeks as Brodie’s eyes locked with hers, unrelenting, as though they looked into her soul. She feared all he would find was a black abyss. She swallowed, unsure what else to say and not understanding why he didn’t let her pass. Brodie’s hand moved of its own volition to reach for hers, but he caught himself before he embarrassed them both. He couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t spurn him and ridicule him, but part of him looked forward to the possibility. He was curious as to what she might say, even if it would put him on the receiving end of her barbs.
“Is that the fabric you purchased today?” Brodie wondered. He’d recognized it and knew the answer, but he thought it might encourage conversation. But he watched as Laurel withdrew, even though she didn’t move.
“Yes, my laird.”
“Your maid must be an excellent seamstress to finish your gown so quickly. And the embroidery. Well, I’d be cack-handed if I were to try such. I can stitch a wound but never aught so fine,” Brodie grinned. But he snapped his mouth shut when he realized Laurel looked markedly uncomfortable. “The gown is as lovely as you are.”
Laurel blinked, then smiled shyly. Brodie detected she was uncomfortable each time he paid her a compliment, but there was also something about discussing sewing that made her uneasy.
Mayhap I insulted her if she thought I meant her maid did the embroidery. That skill could only come from a lady.
“Did you stitch the Highland scene?” Brodie tried again. He’d recognized the small red birds as crossbills, a breed of finch indigenous to the Caledonian Forests.
“I did,” Laurel admitted.
“It must remind you of home,” Brodie grinned again, but Laurel looked away, finally breaking the connection.
“Stirling is my home. It doesn’t remind me of here.” Laurel wanted to flee. Standing before Brodie made her realize that a particular Highlander inspired the flora and fauna she’d created. Her heart sped.
“Back to claiming you’re not a Highlander, lass?” Brodie chuckled, struggling to lighten the mood once more.
“Excuse me please,” Laurel said, but she didn’t wait for a reply. She stepped past Brodie and wound through the crowd until she reached her table. She sat, taking a deep breath. She felt more unsettled than was reasonable for such a benign conversation. She struggled not to let tears slip from her eyes. She tried to reason through her reaction to Brodie’s comments. As she thought about everything they’d said to one another, she understood why she was on edge.
Brodie wasn’t the first man she found attractive, but he was one of the few who had more than handsome features to draw her attention. While she wondered what it would feel like to have his brawny arms wrapped around her, to feel his stubble abrade her cheeks and chin while they kissed, to have her breasts caught between them as she pressed herself against his muscled chest, she also wondered what it would be like to share a lifetime of banter with him. An emptiness that threatened to swallow her whole encircled her as she chided herself for being foolish. She couldn’t fathom a man such as Brodie wishing to spend a lifetime with her.
Mayhap he’s friendly merely because he and Monty are well acquainted. Or mayhap I’m too daft to realize he’s mocking me after this afternoon’s spectacle. He’s likely forgotten aboot me already.
Laurel shifted her gaze to find Monty, needing to speak to him after the meal. But when she found her brother, she also found Brodie staring back at her. A bolt of electricity seemed to crackle between them, and as his penetrating gaze locked once more with hers, it was a jolt that made her heart skip. There was interest in Brodie’s gaze; Laurel recognized it as such, but it had never been directed toward her before. She’d seen it as, one after another, her friends and fellow ladies-in-waiting met their soulmates and paired off. She worried that she would draw attention, but she couldn’t disengage. Eventually, someone spoke to Brodie, pulling his focus from her, but she caught him glancing at her several times throughout the rest of the meal.
* * *
Brodie spent the following three days finding reasons to encounter Laurel in the bailey and around the keep. The morning after their encounters in Stirling and at the evening meal, Brodie maneuvered himself into a seat behind Laurel for Mass. When the Pax Board reached Laurel, and she had to turn around to pass it to the pew behind her, she found Brodie standing behind her.
“Peace be with you,” Brodie murmured.
“And also with you,” Laurel replied, whipping back around as soon as the blessed piece of wood left her hands.
He timed his arrival and exit from the lists to coincide with when the ladies came and went from the flower gardens during the queen’s morning stroll. While he noticed other young women attempting to gain his attention, his greeting was only for Laurel. They danced twice each night, but Brodie found Laurel grew more subdued with each set. He wondered why, but he feared the answer if he asked. Instead, he delighted in the time spent with her, even if there was little more than small talk about the weather.
Laurel spent the fourth hiding in her chamber. She’d battled a nearly constant headache for three days, confused by Brodie’s persistent interest while the ladies continued their snide attacks about being forced to wait for Laurel to marry. She chided herself for thinking Brodie might consider her an eligible bride. He’d been pleasant, but he’d made no overtures toward her. But she couldn’t fathom why he would show interest in her without a purpose.
After a day of rest, Laurel emerged feeling more herself, but it all came crashing down during the morning meal. She arrived to break her fast later than she normally did, having gone back to her chamber to replace a bootlace. When she arrived at the Great Hall, she found the other ladies huddled together, laughing uproariously. She approached, curious about what had happened in the short time she was away. But her world came crashing down in the matter of a handful of words.
“Liam Oliphant and Nelson MacDougall wagered Laird Campbell one hundred pounds that he couldn’t woo the shrew,” Catherine MacFarlane announced. “Why else would he pay attention to her? He doesn’t want to be out one hundred pounds. He must make her fall in love with him and agree to marry him. I’d make my own wager that he doesn’t show up to his own wedding.”
“That explains why he’s paid attention to her,” Emelie Dunbar mused. “We’ve all wondered why.”
